Classical Philology and Linguistics: Old Themes and New Perspectives 9783111272887, 9783111272740

Table of contents :
Preface
Contents
List of Figures and Diagrams
List of Tables
Abbreviations
By Way of an Introduction: “(Historical) Linguistics and/or (Classical) Philology”
Part I: Greek Language and Linguistics
Early Greek Poetry and Linguistics
Pindar’s Genius or Homeric Words? – The Interplay of Synchronic and Diachronic Analysis in Greek Philology and Linguistics
Homeric Enjambment (and Caesura): A Functional-Cognitive Approach
Old Morphology in Disguise: Homeric Episynaloephe, Ζῆν(α), and the Fate of IE Instrumentals
“Not According to our Usage…”: Linguistic Awareness in Hellenistic Editorial Practice on Homer
A Song of Milk and Honey: The Poetic Transformation of an Ancient Ritual Drink in Pindar
The Greek Augment: What this Amazingly Enduring Element Says about Continuity in Greek
At the Crossroads of Linguistics and Philology: The Tmesis-to-Univerbation Process in Ancient Greek
Syntax, Semantics and Pragmatics
Ideological Change and Syntactic Change in Ancient Greek: The Case of ἄτη and τύχη
Syntactic Markedness and Stylistic Refinement: ‘Proleptic’ and ‘Resultative’ in Ancient Greek
Girl, Υou’ll Be a Woman Soon: Grammatical Versus Semantic Agreement of Greek Hybrid Nouns of the Mädchen Type
The Expression of Authority and Solidarity: ἡμεῖς in Place of ἐγώ in the Iliad
A First Approach to Irony in Greek Oratory
Comparative, Diachronic and Lexicographical Studies
Greek Numeral System and Language Contacts in an Archaic Native Settlement of Southern Italy
Non-Attic Vocalism, Epichoric Forms, and Attic Poetic Traditions
Ἀμόργινος and ἀμοργίς: The Color of Olive Oil Lees and Aristophanes, Lysistrata 150 and 735, 737
Some Remarks on Ancient Epirote Glosses
Greek Papyri and Corpora
A Typology of Variations in the Ancient Greek Epistolary Frame (I–III AD)
Transposition of Nominal and Verbal Bound Morphemes: The Case of -ες and -ας in Greek Documentary Papyri
Some Aspects of Irrealis and the Usage of ἄν in Post-Classical Greek
Part II: Latin Language and Linguistics
Various Issues in Latin Linguistics
Varro’s Etymological Theory and Practice
An Interplay of Approaches in the Editing of a Late Latin Medical Translation
Towards a Unified Account of the ab urbe condita Construction in Latin and Ancient Greek
Latin Linguistics and Neronian Pastoral Revisited
Linguistics, Philology and Christian Latin
New Concepts in Ancient Languages: Greek and Latin (and beyond) in the First Christian Letters
Searching for Order in the Rule: The Contribution of Philology and Linguistics to the Study of Saint Benedict’s Latin
List of Contributors
General Index
Index Locorum

Citation preview

Classical Philology and Linguistics

Trends in Classics – Greek and Latin Linguistics

General Editors Franco Montanari and Antonios Rengakos Series Editors Albio Cesare Cassio, Georgios K. Giannakis and Michael L. Weiss Advisory Board Luz Conti, Emilio Crespo, Wolfgang de Melo, Panagiotis Filos, Giovanbattista Galdi, Giuseppe Pezzini, Olga Spevak, Olga Tribulato and Andreas Willi

Volume 1

Classical Philology and Linguistics Old Themes and New Perspectives Edited by Georgios K. Giannakis, Panagiotis Filos, Emilio Crespo and Jesús de la Villa

ISBN 978-3-11-127274-0 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-127288-7 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-127300-6 ISSN 2940-6374 Library of Congress Control Number: 2023942318 Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2023 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Cover image: littleclie / iStock / Getty Images Plus Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck www.degruyter.com

To the Memory of Raimo Aulis Anttila (1935–2023)

Preface The volume inaugurates the new series Trends in Classics – Greek & Latin Linguistics (TCGLL), which is part of the general cluster of Trends in Classics and focuses on the synchronic and diachronic linguistic study of Ancient Greek and Latin. The series publishes innovative work in the form of monographs, collective works, conference proceedings, and works on specific themes that concern the study of the two classical languages. The approach promoted by the series is a combination of traditional methods with advances of linguistic analysis of different theoretical strands, pertaining to various research fields that concern the structure and the history of Ancient Greek and Latin, and applying interdisciplinary methods and techniques that bridge the fields of classical philology and linguistics. The studies of the present volume derive mainly from the 14th Trends in Classics international conference held in Thessaloniki in March 2021 on the theme of the relation of classical philology with linguistics. The stimulus of the topic was the long debate over this relation and the renewed interest during the last decades, especially in view of new directions and trends that philological and linguistic studies have taken with the appearance of various new subfields and/or subdisciplines. In responding to this challenge, the attention was directed to exploring the ways and means the two traditional disciplines relate to one another, drawing on fields like syntactic theory, pragmatics, historical semantics and other issues of the historical language research, such as etymology, reconstruction, dialectology and other interdisciplinary approaches that function as hinges between classical philology and linguistic theory. The two philological and linguistic traditions are represented in the volume in a disproportionate manner, with Greek taking most of the space. This has not been a conscious decision or the intention of the conference organizers and the editors of the present collection, but rather the result of the response to the conference call and to the invitation to the volume: in the meeting there were only six papers on Latin as opposed to twenty-seven papers that discussed different aspects of Greek, a fact also reflected in the submitted — for publication in the proceedings — texts. Yet, the studies of the volume aspire to offer a first glance to a variety of issues which for their resolution require the combined attention of linguists and philologists, or to put it in a more interactive way, that require philologists to think and act like linguists and in their turn linguists to philologize. As was the intention of the meeting in the first place and emphasized in the introductory essay to this volume, one of the crucial issues in discussing this https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111272887-202

VIII  Preface topic is to determine the borders of the common ground, to set the terms of the collaboration between historical linguistics and philology and all other offshoots, and to exploit the results of this collaboration to the benefit of both fields. It is hoped that a small step in this direction has been made in the collective work, but we are aware that many issues have not been addressed at all, others remain open to be faced effectively in the future, and still others may require a lot more deep and serious thinking. The launching of the TCGLL series aspires to cover some of this ground. Finally, as editors of this volume we wish to thank Franco Montanari and Antonios Rengakos (General Editors of Trends in Classics), as well as Serena Pirrotta (Editorial Director, Classics and Philosophy), Carlo Vessella (Acquisitions Editor), and Anne Hiller (Content Editor) of Walter De Gruyter, for making this series possible and for entrusting its execution to us. Thessaloniki – Madrid – Ioannina, April 2023 The Editors

Contents Preface  VII List of Figures and Diagrams  XIII List of Tables  XV Abbreviations  XVII Georgios K. Giannakis By Way of an Introduction: “(Historical) Linguistics and/or (Classical) Philology”  1

Part I: Greek Language and Linguistics Early Greek Poetry and Linguistics Daniel Kölligan Pindar’s Genius or Homeric Words? – The Interplay of Synchronic and Diachronic Analysis in Greek Philology and Linguistics  51 Rutger J. Allan Homeric Enjambment (and Caesura): A Functional-Cognitive Approach  69 Albio Cesare Cassio Old Morphology in Disguise: Homeric Episynaloephe, Ζῆν(α), and the Fate of IE Instrumentals  107 Lara Pagani “Not According to our Usage…”: Linguistic Awareness in Hellenistic Editorial Practice on Homer  117 Eduard Meusel A Song of Milk and Honey: The Poetic Transformation of an Ancient Ritual Drink in Pindar  139 Brian D. Joseph The Greek Augment: What this Amazingly Enduring Element Says about Continuity in Greek  165

X  Contents Georgios K. Giannakis At the Crossroads of Linguistics and Philology: The Tmesis-to-Univerbation Process in Ancient Greek  175

Syntax, Semantics and Pragmatics Jesús de la Villa Ideological Change and Syntactic Change in Ancient Greek: The Case of ἄτη and τύχη  215 Marina Benedetti and Carla Bruno Syntactic Markedness and Stylistic Refinement: ‘Proleptic’ and ‘Resultative’ in Ancient Greek  245 Mark Janse “Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon”: Grammatical Versus Semantic Agreement of Greek Hybrid Nouns of the Mädchen Type  263 Luz Conti The Expression of Authority and Solidarity: ἡμεῖς in Place of ἐγώ in the Iliad  287 Raquel Fornieles A First Approach to Irony in Greek Oratory  301

Comparative, Diachronic and Lexicographical Studies Paolo Poccetti Greek Numeral System and Language Contacts in an Archaic Native Settlement of Southern Italy  319 Sara Kaczko Non-Attic Vocalism, Epichoric Forms, and Attic Poetic Traditions  347 Julián Méndez Dosuna Ἀμόργινος and ἀμοργίς: The Color of Olive Oil Lees and Aristophanes, Lysistrata 150 and 735, 737  369

Contents  XI

Panagiotis Filos Some Remarks on Ancient Epirote Glosses  401

Greek Papyri and Corpora Klaas Bentein A Typology of Variations in the Ancient Greek Epistolary Frame (I-III AD)  429 Marja Vierros Transposition of Nominal and Verbal Bound Morphemes: The Case of -ες and -ας in Greek Documentary Papyri  473 Giuseppina di Bartolo Some Aspects of Irrealis and the Usage of ἄν in Post-Classical Greek  495

Part II: Latin Language and Linguistics Various Issues in Latin Linguistics Wolfgang D.C. de Melo Varro’s Etymological Theory and Practice  527 David Langslow An Interplay of Approaches in the Editing of a Late Latin Medical Translation  547 Olga Spevak Towards a Unified Account of the ab urbe condita Construction in Latin and Ancient Greek  557 Evangelos Karakasis Latin Linguistics and Neronian Pastoral Revisited  573

Linguistics, Philology and Christian Latin Piera Molinelli New Concepts in Ancient Languages: Greek and Latin (and beyond) in the First Christian Letters  593

XII  Contents Giovanbattista Galdi Searching for Order in the Rule: The Contribution of Philology and Linguistics to the Study of Saint Benedict’s Latin  619 List of Contributors  647 General Index  653 Index Locorum  665

List of Figures and Diagrams Fig. 1: Fig. 2: Fig. 3: Fig. 4: Fig. 5: Fig. 6: Fig. 7: Fig. 8: Fig. 9: Fig. 10: Fig. 11: Fig. 12: Fig. 13: Fig. 14: Fig. 15: Fig. 16: Fig. 17: Fig. 18: Fig. 19: Fig. 20: Fig. 21: Fig. 22: Fig. 23: Fig. 24:

Prototype structure for Philology.  25 The relations between the various communication sciences.  28 Iliad 8.206 f. as laid out in ms. Venetus A.  112 Microscale and macroscale of the complex sentence in Indo-European.  191 On the flexible formula.  201 The process of univerbation (Hom. Od. 1.8–9).  206 The process of univerbation (Pind. fr. 171).  206 The univerbation process of figures 7 and 8 completed.  206 The site of Torre di Satriano and the Oenotrian area.  321 List of the attested alphabetic signs.  329 Main alphabetic areas of archaic Magna Graecia.  330 Series of ordinal numerals from ‘fifth’ to ‘eighth’.  332 Finite state represented of a bid-calling formula.  435 Discourse constituents in the opening.  441 Discourse constituents in the closing.  441 Structural elements in the prescript.  443 Optional structural elements in the opening.  443 Order of openings.  444 Order of closings.  445 Connectedness of discourse constituents in the opening.  446 Connectedness of discourse constituents in the closing.  446 Original α regularized into ε.  486 Original ε regularized into α.  486 Attestations of ending -ες instead of -ας according to the part-of-speech.  488

Diagram 1: Diagram 2:

The basic structure of the simple sentence in Indo-European (Gamkrelidze/ Ivanov 1995, 316).  189 The right-to-left movement of V (Gamkrelidze/Ivanov 1995, 319).  189

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List of Tables Tab. 1: Tab. 2: Tab. 3: Tab. 4: Tab. 5: Tab. 6: Tab. 7: Tab. 8: Tab. 9: Tab. 10: Tab. 11: Tab. 12: Tab. 13: Tab. 14:

Categorization of enjambment types: Parry, Kirk and Higbie (based on Higbie 1990, 29).  70 A typology of Homeric enjambment.  78 Hyperbata and metrical boundaries.  96 From Fränkel to functional.  102 Accent retraction in Serbo-Croatian dialects (Source: Hock 2021, 187).  184 The tmesis-to-univerbation process according to Pompei 2014.  203 ἄτη in Classical texts compared with the Epic.  225 τύχη in Attic drama.  232 τύχη in some authors of Classical prose.  237 List of the numerals evidenced by findings from Torre di Satriano.  324 The ordinal numerals from ‘fifth’ to ‘ninth’ in the Doric dialects of Southern Italy and Sicily.  334 Evolution of consonant clusters evidenced in Torre di Satriano.  341 Past tense personal endings in the active indicative.  476 The semantic field of “listen/obey” in the Greek text and the Latin translation.  609

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Abbreviations 1 Petr. AG ALEW Bailly BDAG BGU CDG CEG CEG2 CG CIL Clem. ad Cor. DDbDP DÉLG DGE DNO DVC

EDG Eph. GG GEW Gr. Gr. IED IG I3

ImIt Lat. Gr.

I epistula Petri. Ancient Greek. W. Hock et al. (eds.) (2015), Altlitauisches etymologisches Wörterbuch, 3 vols., Hamburg. A. Bailly (1963), Dictionnaire grec-français (26th ed.), Paris. F. Montanari (2015), The Brill Dictionary of Ancient Greek, Leiden. Aegyptische Urkunden aus d. Kgl. Museen zu Berlin. Griechische Urkunden, Berlin 1895–1926. J. Diggle et al. (2021), The Cambridge Dictionary of Greek, Cambridge. P.A. Hansen (1983), Carmina epigraphica graeca saeculorum VIII–V a. Chr. n., Berlin/New York. P.A. Hansen (1989), Carmina epigraphica graeca saeculi IV a. Chr. n., Berlin/ New York. Classical Greek. Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum, Berlin 1863-. Clementis epistula ad Corinthios. Duke Databank of Documentary Papyri. P. Chantraine et al. (2009), Dictionnaire étymologique de la langue grecque. Histoire des mots (2nd ed.), Paris. F. Rodriguez Adrados/J. Rodriguez Somolinos (eds.), Diccionario griegoespañol en línea, . K. Hallof et al. (eds.) (2014), Der Neue Overbeck. Die antiken Schriftquellen zu den bildenden Künsten der Griechen, I–V, Berlin/New York. S. Dakaris/I. Vokotopoulou/A.-F. Christidis (2013), Τα χρηστήρια ελάσματα της Δωδώνης των ανασκαφών του Δ. Ευαγγελίδη (ed. by S. Τselikas, indices by G. Papadopoulos), 2 vols., Athens. R.S.P. Beekes (2010), Etymological Dictionary of Greek I–II, Leiden. Pauli epistula ad Ephesios. G. Uhlig, Grammatici Graeci, Hildesheim/Zürich/New York, 1979. H. Frisk (1960), Griechisches etymologisches Wörterbuch, Heidelberg. E. Schwyzer (1939), Griechische Grammatik, Bd. I: Allgemeiner Teil, Lautlehre, Wortbildung, Flexion, Munich. S. Minon (2007), Les inscriptions éléennes dialectales (VIe–IIe siècles avant J.–C.), Geneva. Inscriptiones Graecae I: Inscriptiones Atticae Euclidis anno anteriores, 3rd ed. Fasc. I, D. Lewis (ed.), Decreta et tabulae magistratuum (nos. 1–500); fasc. II, D. Lewis/L.H. Jeffery (eds.), Dedicationes. Catalogi. Termini. Tituli sepulcrales. Varia. Tituli Attici extra Atticam reperti. Addenda (nos. 501– 1517), Berlin 1981–1994. M. Crawford et al. (eds.) (2011), Imagines Italicae, London. M. Leumann/J.B. Hofmann/A. Szantyr (1977), Lateinische Grammatik, Bd. I: Lateinische Laut- und Formenlehre, Munich. J.B. Hofmann/A. Szantyr (1972), Lateinische Grammatik, Bd. II: Lateinische Syntax und Stilistik, 2nd ed., Munich.

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XVIII  Abbreviations LfgrE LGPN LGPN III.A

LIV2 LSAG LSJ Luc. MP OCD OLD PG PMG RIC SEG TLL TM ΛΚΝ

B. Snell/E.-M. Voigt/M. Meier-Brügger (eds.) (1979–2010), Lexikon des frühgriechischen Epos, Göttingen. P.M. Fraser/E. Matthews/T. Corstern (1987–2010), A Lexicon of Greek Personal Names, I–Vb, Oxford. P.M. Fraser/E. Matthews (eds.) (1997), A Lexicon of the Greek Personal Names: Peloponnese. Western Greece, Sicily, and Magna Graecia, vol. III.A, Oxford. (LGPN online: https://www.lgpn.ox.ac.uk/). H. Rix et al. (eds.) (2001), Lexikon der indogermanischen Verben, 2nd rev. ed., Wiesbaden. L.H. Jeffery (1990), The Local Scripts of Archaic Greece (rev. edition), Oxford. H.G. Liddle/R. Scott/H.S. Jones (1940), A Greek-English Lexicon (9th ed.), Oxford. evangelium secundum Lucam. Modal Particle. S. Hornblower/A. Spawforth/E. Eidinow (eds.) (2012), The Oxford Classical Dictionary, 4th rev. ed., Oxford. P.G.W. Glare (1982), Oxford Latin Dictionary, Oxford. Post-Classical Greek. D.L. Page (1962), Poetae Melici Graeci, Oxford. Roman Imperial Coinage, online: http://numismatics.org/ocre/ Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum, Online: https://scholarlyeditions.brill.com/sego/ Thesaurus Linguae Latinae, online: https://thesaurus.badw.de/tll-digital/ tll-open-access.html Trismegistos, online: https://www.trismegistos.org/ Ινστιτούτο Νεοελληνικών Σπουδών (1998), Λεξικό της κοινής νεοελληνικής, Thessaloniki.

Georgios K. Giannakis

By Way of an Introduction: “(Historical) Linguistics and/or (Classical) Philology”  The topic The studies of the volume derive mainly from the Trends in Classics international conference held in Thessaloniki in March 2021 and focused on the relations of historical linguistics and classical philology. The stimulus of the topic was the long debate over this relation and the renewed interest during the last decades, especially in view of new directions and trends that philological and linguistic studies have taken with the appearance of various new subfields and/or subdisciplines. In an attempt to answer this challenge, it was decided to direct our attention to the ways and means the two traditional disciplines relate to one another, drawing on fields like syntactic theory, pragmatics, historical semantics and other issues of the historical language research, as well as etymology, reconstruction, dialectology and other interdisciplinary approaches that function as hinges between philology and linguistics, particularly with the prefixed determinatives ‘classical’ and ‘historical’ respectively for each of the two disciplines, a metaphor justifying in a way Pedersen’s characterization of philology as being ‘Janus-faced’. It has been argued that historical linguistics is the child of classical philology, yet the borders of the two disciplines have not always been so clearly defined or delineated, while their history testifies to a turbulent coexistence, sometimes demonstrating a cross-fertilizing collaboration and at other times taking centrifugal paths, but always moving along a ‘love-and-hate’ course. This kind of relation is best reflected in the 19th-century shift in the pronouncements by two of the most prominent protagonists of this association, Georg Curtius and Karl Brugmann, teacher and student respectively, with the symbolic reversal of the order of the two disciplines in the respective titles from “Philologie und Sprachwissenschaft” (1862) for the former to “Sprachwissenschaft und Philologie” (1885) for the latter. In both works (which represent the main tenets on the topic during this time), the basic constituents of the conjunction are the same, simply the emphasis seems to start shifting from philology to linguistics, at least for historical linguists. One can see the main tenets and at times turbulent but clearly pendulous course of the relation of historical linguistics and classical philology from the time of its inception in the 19th century to modern times. The debate is longhttps://doi.org/10.1515/9783111272887-001

  Georgios K. Giannakis standing and well alive today, and is reflected in a rather illuminating way in the series of chronologically ordered, converging or diverging statements by authorities made at different points of time in the past given below, which justify the (perhaps too) dilemmatic if not confusing phrasing of the title of this introductory essay: The discovery alone of the Indo-European language family is a fact of great significance for classical philologists as well. Curtius 1862, 9 As a matter of fact, no one has ever been able to draw a conceptual boundary between linguistics and philology whose untenability cannot easily be demonstrated (17), and we come to the conclusion that conceptually it is impossible to separate philology and comparative linguistics. Brugmann 1885, 25 [Philology] is neatly distinct from linguistics, in spite of the points of contact of the two sciences, and the mutual services that they make. Saussure 1979 [1916], 21 […] linguistics cannot be properly viewed as a subsidiary discipline to the study of literature, or paired with it as “the linguistic side” of philology. Bloomfield 1925, 4 Indo-European linguistics is a child of philology and general linguistics; although an amalgam of two others, this has a distinct and self-sustained entity. Debrunner 1930, 21 The provinces of the two disciplines are not exactly coterminous, their respective degrees of abstractness are incongruous, their appeals to imagination are unequal in intensity and in direction, their affinities to other lines of learning could not […] be less germane. But […] it still remains true that a radical, unhealable break between the two approaches cannot be seriously advocated. Malkiel 1964, 672 The methods of the philologists and the field worker may indeed differ, but their goals are the same. […] In most cases, an historical linguist will himself be a good philologist and/or field worker. […] Needless to say, the linguist who considers himself a philologist or field worker is also expected to have the highest standards of quality associated with these disciplines; he will be familiar with the scholarly literature, as well as the relevant facts of the cultural setting from which his data emanate. Arlotto 1972, 12 [...] linguistics provides the general theoretical framework for understanding language. Philologists and literary critics are usually data-oriented and text-oriented […]. But mean-

By Way of an Introduction  

ingful philology is impossible without the general. Linguistics represents the type and philology the token. Anttila 1975, 150 […] philology is the life-blood of historical linguistics. […] as diachronic linguistics requires theoretical support from synchronic linguistics, synchronic study would itself be crippled without the insights provided by a historical perspective. Posner 1990, 349 Philology is responsible for establishing the attributes of a text, many of which may be relevant for subsequent linguistic analysis. Hale 2007, 21 While text philology is too far removed from the concerns of linguistics proper to be part of a course in historical linguistics, linguists who use the data of recorded documents do need to master the philological details of the specific corpus they are dealing with. Ringe/Eska 2013, 281 In the use of philology for historical linguistic purposes, we are concerned with what linguistic information can be got from written documents, with how we can get it, and with what we can make of the information once we have it. Campbell 2021, 366

Admittedly, these quotations may be overwhelming for the reader, but this is not the purpose of their use here. Rather they are used to show the long and controversial history of the debate over the relation between historical linguistics and classical philology ever since the introduction of linguistics in the scientific discourse. The picture deriving from these statements (and many more similar ones) is one of a ‘marriage-divorce-remarriage’ type: while the mutual relation and useful cooperation between (historical) linguistics and (classical) philology are recognized and universally acknowledged, the divergent approaches, aims and methods are also evident and caught here by the disjunctive ‘or’ of the essay’s title. Thus, the mixed picture portrayed in the history of the converging or diverging routes of the two disciplines is also reflected in these statements: we have a sort of mosaic consisting of different pieces but treated differently and for different purposes by either discipline. However, the large picture seems to be common for both disciplines, namely the mosaic and its interpretation, that is language as the common thread permeating and transcending both. Yet unavoidably a series of questions are raised here, among them the following: How do the two pendants of the correlation (or the polarity for that matter) relate to each other (if they relate at all)? Is there a priority (temporal and/or epistemological) of the one over the other or are both independent and autonomous disciplines and on an equal footing? Or perhaps, do they stand

  Georgios K. Giannakis as complementary to one another? If so, where is the borderline between them to be drawn? How far can the comparison and association be pushed? A myriad of such puzzling questions is generated once one starts thinking about this conjunction. In fact, the title “(Historical) Linguistics and (Classical) Philology” headed another study that stands as the harbinger to this volume (Giannakis 2009; see also 2011), where the following comment is added: The title of the study suggests alternative readings, with both, none or either one of the determinatives and qualifying adjectives of the correlation. In all cases the kernel of the conjunction, i.e. ‘linguistics’ and ‘philology’, remains stable and unchanged, perhaps signaling the basic thesis of the writer that the two poles of the correlation should be seen together, and thus justify the undertaking. We assure the reader that this is no word play, but simply the alternative options in dealing with the topic, seeing it either from the broad perspective of the possible relation between linguistics and philology or from the narrower and more concrete vantage point of relating historical linguistics and classical philology. Furthermore, an issue may be taken with regard to the conjunction ‘and’, i.e. whether it can be read as additive or complexive. The answer to this question will turn out to be rather difficult but weighing more towards the latter solution. Giannakis 2009, 351–3521

Now we add a disjunction ‘or’ and read the correlation either as complexive (‘A and B’) or as disjunctive (‘either A or B’) or perhaps both (‘A and/or B’). The alternative readings of the correlations of the polar constituents of the relation of the two disciplines offers a plethora of possibilities that reflect all personal and intellectual strands of thought. This is no word play, but rather an essential issue that needs to be addressed anew. By way of clarifying this point (i.e. the differing views of the same problem by philologists and by linguists, especially nowadays), let us briefly cite one example that opens the relevant discussion by de Melo in his book on the Early Latin verb system. He states: […] Other archaic verb forms cannot simply be given classical equivalents. This is the case for forms like faxō (from facere ‘to do’), duim (from dare ‘to give’), or attigās (from attingere ‘to touch’). What all of these ‘extra-paradigmatic’ forms have in common is that they do not fit into the classical verbal paradigm based on two stems (īnfectum and perfectum) with three tenses each. Since most of them die out before the classical period (around 100 BC–AD 50), classicists tend to dismiss them as irrelevant archaisms. In doing so, they follow a time-honoured tradition […]. Philologists,2 by contrast, normally assert that such

 1 Cf. also Giannakis 2015, 222. 2 By ‘philologists’ is meant here historical linguists.

By Way of an Introduction  

forms are important. In practice, however, they all too often merely give them IndoEuropean labels like ‘s-desideratives’ without worrying about their synchronic meanings or their syntactic and semantic functions in the Archaic Latin and pre-Latin verbal systems. But these are the forms that can tell us whether the verbal system as such changed. Has Archaic Latin a system that differs in essential points from that of Classical Latin, or does it at least display traces of such an earlier system? (2007, 2; emphasis added)

Thus, to bridge this gap between the two ‘camps’ and overturn the dismissal of such linguistic features as those mentioned in the preceding passage “as irrelevant archaisms” but consider them as vivid witnesses to the history of the language, and therefore directly relevant for its study, in the present essay the focus will be on how historical and comparative linguists view the relationship of linguistics to philology, starting to draw a rough plan of the outline of what we call the ‘linguistics-cum-philology’ approach, and why this should matter to classical philologists. For historical reasons, we will limit our search in the confines of the cooperation of historical-comparative linguistics with classical philology. By ‘historical reasons’ we mean that ever since the issue arose in the 19th century, the debate was revolving around these two disciplines, with a change in the ‘primacy’ in the polar correlation depending on the predilections of the individual scholars or the overall climate of each period. As generally acknowledged, the decisive shift was made with the Neogrammarians in the last two decades of the 19th century, mainly with Brugmann, and soon after with Baudouin de Courtenay, a shift that functions as a premonition of what was to follow over the relevant debate (see also Giannakis 2015, 222 ff.).

 On the beginnings of the debate The 19th century has witnessed the birth of historical and comparative linguistics, primarily of the stock of Indo-European languages, with the effort being on the development of a sound method of proving the relations among the languages and their systematic study, a recurrent theme in linguistic studies throughout the rest of the century and thereafter. The nature of the method has also become a key-point in the debate over the relation of linguistics with philology, a debate still alive today. The question as to whether and to what extent is linguistics related to other scientific fields, particularly to philology seems to have found the best and most mature collaborative expression in the work and approach of the German classical philologist Georg Curtius in the second half of the 19th century. In a series of works, Curtius developed a quite different approach in the study of the Greek (and Latin) language within the comparative

  Georgios K. Giannakis framework of Indo-European, laying thus the foundations for the long and fruitful collaboration of historical linguistics and classical philology.3 Among these works the following occupy a prominent position: Grundzüge der griechischen Etymologie (1858–62, 5th ed. 1879), which applies the finds of historical linguistics and is in a way a work on the theory of etymology in general, and in this sense its contribution to the establishment of the science of etymology of the Greek language has been crucial. Another work that seems to be extremely innovative for its time is Das Verbum der griechischen Sprache (1873–76, 2nd ed. 1877–80), the first complete such work for the structure of the verbal system of Ancient Greek with the benefits of the finds of historical and comparative linguistics. In addition, Curtius edited the important series under the title Studien zur griechischen und lateinischen Grammatik (1868–78), with a rich collection of studies on various problems pertaining to the classical languages.4 Indicative for Curtius’ views is the topic of his aforementioned inaugural lecture in the Chair of Classical Philology at Leipzig University in 1862 under the title “Philologie und Sprachwissenschaft”. This study followed his treatise “Die Sprachvergleichung in ihrem Verhältnis zur klassischen Philologie” (1842, 2nd ed. 1848), in which he tried to demonstrate the usefulness of and profits from this collaboration, a thesis that he would steadfastly and vigorously maintain throughout his scholarly life. Curtius’ contribution to this discussion has been significant, as he was the first to introduce a number of concepts current in the linguistic lore but not yet familiar to classical philologists, especially in the treatment of the verbal system of the classical languages. Thus, no doubt under the influence of similar distinctions made by grammarians of the Slavic languages, in his discussion of the verbal system of Ancient Greek, Curtius introduced the distinction between ‘Zeitstufe’ (present, past, future) and ‘Zeitart’ (‘dauernde’ = present stem, ‘eintretende’ = aorist stem, ‘vollendete’ = perfect stem).5

 3 Curtius speaks mainly as a classical philologist who is convinced of this marriage, whereas, as we will see, his conflict will take place later not so much with the philologists but with the linguists of his own back yard. 4 After the breach of the collaboration of Curtius with Brugmann because of serious epistemological disagreements, the series stopped and was continued a few years later under a new name, this time as Leipziger Studien zur klassischen Philologie (1878–85), and under his exclusive supervision. 5 The term ‘Zeitart’ implies that Curtius still considered the values of the tense stems as temporal, in accordance with the traditional practice, which changes with the Neogrammarians, and only then does the term ‘Zeitart’ disappear from usage. Brugmann will coin the term ‘Aktionsart’, which together with ‘aspect’ (used in the French grammatical tradition by Meillet

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The tradition initiated by Curtius was continued a couple of decades later by his pupil Karl Brugmann who in his inaugural lecture at Freiburg in 1885 under the title “Sprachwissenschaft und Philologie” acknowledged the strong and complementary connection between the two branches of knowledge. For him, this complementarity constitutes a unity which “has to do not only with the subject matter but also with the methodology that is applied” (1885, 29). He concludes that it is wrong to believe that philology deals with the more advanced, literary forms of language use, while linguistics deals with its more primitive forms. In this spirit then, linguists are justified to also occupy themselves with operations that traditionally had been the task of philologists, such as textual criticism and editing, data collection, the study of dialects, metrics and textual analysis, etymology, lexicon and others (cf. also Adamson/AyresBennett 2011, 202). However, Brugmann made a step further by the symbolic reversal of the two terms of the conjunction placing first ‘linguistics’ and then ‘philology’, wishing in this way to signal the primacy of linguistics and at the same time to mark the passage from linguistics as an accessory of philology to linguistics as an autonomous and independent scientific field. This move may also have been a signal of the early seeds of a future discord over the matter. Of course, this thesis is justifiable given the general positivistic spirit of the period, something that could not leave linguistics untouched.6 The efforts now focus on the strengthening of the scientific basis of linguistics, which implies the use of a clear method. In full agreement with the philologists, Brugmann believed that linguistic analysis is not an end in and for itself but the vehicle by means of which we approach and interpret the texts. This new conception of language is also reflected in the idea that language is a system that is structured by means of rules and principles of universal or near-universal validity (see, for instance, the ‘regularity principle’ and other such proposals). The discovery of these rules will lead to the statement of the fundamental principles of historical linguistics, what has come to be known as the ‘Neogrammarian paradigm’. Brugmann made a methodologically and practically useful distinction between ‘linguistics’ (Sprachwissenschaft), ‘literature’ (Literaturwissenschaft),  and his followers for Slavic ‘vid’ and corresponding to the German term ‘Aktionsart’), have ever since become standard in the grammars of Indo-European. 6 The turn towards positivism was presented in a clear manner in Auguste Comte’s work Cours de philosophie positive (1830–1842). For linguistics the result was that a strictly scientific method began to be followed, gradually moving linguistics away from the general philosophical basis of the past and at the same time bringing it closer to an autonomous field of study freed from the traditional employment with grammar and the study of texts.

  Georgios K. Giannakis and ‘philology’ (Philologie), placing all three side by side and on the same level as complementary branches of knowledge. In all three, language is the common denominator as the vehicle for understanding and interpreting human culture. On the other hand, it is true that language can be examined either diachronically or synchronically as a closed system, a fact that the Neogrammarians seem to have ignored to note but soon to be remedied by de Saussure. According to Brugmann, philology is the common ground that connects all aspects of human language. He says on this: “Therefore, we call the linguists of the School of Bopp, albeit one-sidedly, ‘Indo-Europeanists’, but we cannot say that their investigations on both content and method are not philological” (1885, 17; cf. Jankowsky 1972, 98). The change of orientation marked by the Neogrammarians is largely due to the gradual shift of linguistic interest from the written to the oral language. In other words, we have a shift from the linguistics of the texts (mainly of classical antiquity) to the linguistics of living languages. This development created a new environment within which the phenomenon of language is tackled at least in theory, and this has been reflected more intensely in Saussure’s work and structural linguistics that was emerging at the same period. Saussure’s primacy of the linguistic system as the subject of linguistics could not be emphasized more than in his statement that “The linguist must take the study of linguistic structure as his primary concern, and relate all other manifestations of language to it” (1983, 9). Adopting the idea of the triple representation introduced by Brugmann but with slightly different conceptualization, the Romanist Hugo Schuchardt argues that the conjunction ‘linguistics and philology’ of the past ought to be replaced by the triptych ‘linguistics’ (Sprachwissenschaft), ‘literature’ (Literaturwissenschaft) and ‘study of culture’ (Kulturwissenschaft; cf. Schuchardt 1928, 85). For Schuchardt, these are three independent and autonomous scientific branches, but, like Brugmann, he too believed that they form a complementarity of fields and functions. Having studied under the guidance of Schleicher, the Polish linguist Jan Baudouin de Courtenay, became the founder of the so-called ‘Kazan School’, where together with his student Mikołaj Kruszewski he developed some views about language structure that are similar to those that two decades later will become known through Saussure’s Cours. On the relationship of linguistics and philology, Baudouin took the view that philology is a kind of encyclopedia which includes the histories of many different fields, such as “the history of philosophy; the history of literary and intellectual accomplishments; the history of society and socio-political struggles (i.e. general history and sociology); the

By Way of an Introduction  

history of legal organizations and legislation; the history of customs and morals, or ethology; the history of beliefs, or mythology; the history of language, or grammar in the broad sense of the word — in other words linguistics” (1972, 126–127). Baudouin continues saying that linguistics is a discipline with focus and concrete subject matter, namely the linguistic structure, whereas philology’s task is the reconstruction and reconstitution of all aspects of the life of a people. Thus, for him philology is a large amount of knowledge on a wide variety of subjects but cannot be considered a science in the strict sense of the term. In a similar vein is also August Boeckh’s views. He gives the following apophthegmatic definition of philology as “the knowledge of what is known” (1968, 9) (“das Erkennen … des Erkannten”), saying that it is a kind of ‘rereading’ (Greek ἀναγιγνώσκειν) and ‘re-cognition’, i.e. familiarization with the whole of knowledge so far accumulated from the past. In this sense, philology is parallel to history, and Boeckh aims at investigating the ways the text has been created and does not confine himself in its tradition alone. Thus, the philologist’s task is to search for the technique of the genesis of the text, something that is a prerequisite for its eventual historical understanding and interpretation. For Boeckh, philology does not and should not coincide with linguistics, although the latter is a prerequisite for the former: we cannot understand the written documents without prior understanding of the languages in which these documents are written.7 Boeckh’s definition of philology as knowledge of what is known is in complete agreement with his view that the philological analysis is based on the idea of ‘encyclopedia’ (Enzyclopädie), in other words the unity of knowledge required for the interpretation of a classical text. As stated by him, “When the idea of encyclopedic knowledge is used in connection with philology, however, the knowledge must be organized into a unity, because here the general knowledge common to all the sciences is very prominent. The particular here is bound up in the general” (1968, 31). For him this ‘encyclopedia’ is both a theoretical prerequisite and an epistemological principle for philological analysis. In this way,  7 In fact, Boeckh believes that the linguistic analysis is only one out of four fundamental methodological approaches of the texts. The others are the historical, the individual, and the generic interpretation. As we see, we enter here into a rather difficult philosophical and methodological issue which addresses the question of the nature of history and of historical explanation in general. Boeckh’s idea is only one out of many equally strong theories for studying the past. From the point of view of historical linguistics, excellent treatments of the matter are to be found in Anttila 1989, 1972 and Lass 1980 and 1997. From the historian’s point of view, the issue has been dealt with, among others, by Collingwood 1946, Gardiner 1961, Carr 1987, and Cannadine 2002.

  Georgios K. Giannakis philology sees and understands the mind of the past as present and makes familiar the strange (see also Gadamer 2004, 233). Despite the fragmentation of knowledge on account of overspecialization, the general frame of a holistic knowledge for philology as suggested by Boeckh is not only possible but necessary as well. In a similar vein is Hermann Paul’s thesis, the theoretician of the Neogrammarian movement. In his classic work Prinzipien zur Sprachgeschichte, and despite the apparent differences between linguistics and philology, he takes a supportive view on the relationship between them, saying: It is hence clear that philology and linguistic science must not define their several territories in such a way that the one might properly concern itself with merely the finished results of the other. The only tenable distinction between linguistic science and philological handling of language would be this, that the former deals with the general and permanent facts of speech, the latter with their individual application. Yet the work of an author cannot be properly estimated without a just view of the relation of his productions to the whole complex of his linguistic perceptions, and of the relation of this complex to general usage. And conversely, the modification of usage cannot be understood without a study of individual speech. quoted here from the English edition of 1891, 14, note

In a somewhat updated terminology, we could say that for Paul philology is a kind of applied linguistics, but at the same time a wider area of knowledge, something like the ‘encyclopedia’ propounded by Boeckh and Baudouin de Courtenay. According to Paul, one can see three types of linguists in the 19th century, most likely referring generally to the philologists: the first group consists of those whose work is text edition, i.e. text critics, then those who specialize in the interpretation of texts, i.e. the philologists proper, and finally those who study the formal features of the language, i.e. the linguists. As noted by Jankowsky 1972, 96–97, there is no cooperation among these three groups, but they each follow separate ways without even each knowing or trying to know what the other is doing. Paul’s categorization may be valid, at least in part and to a certain degree, but it is not true that there exists such an introversion and isolationism. As has already been referred to earlier, since the middle of the 19th century several comparative and historical linguists also dealt with purely philological problems of the languages of their specialization, a fact that helped the efforts of the ‘unionists’, so to say, to overcome any real or imagined obstacles that either camp may have raised.

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 Indo-European linguistics and philology An area where the philological and linguistic practices crosscut in a fruitful collaboration is in the field of Indo-European philology. The development of Indo-European studies has been closely associated with the development of the philology of the individual family branches. It would be impossible to claim that one could study an old language without having recourse to the texts of that language in all their form and type, literary, epigraphic or works of oral tradition. In this respect, historical Indo-European linguistics is the product of a combination of linguistic and philological methods in all philological traditions taken together. The first task was then the collection of the texts and their critical edition, and only after that followed their philological and linguistic analysis. To this end the practice of the classical languages and the methods of classical philology have been crucial, used as an example and to a large extent were applied by Indo-Europeanists in the study of their written sources. For instance, the works of the Indic branch, such as the Rigveda and other texts by Max Müller and other scholars (Indic philology), the Old Iranian and Old Persian texts (Iranian philology), the Hittite texts (Anatolian philology), the Old Italic texts, and similarly with the rest of the Indo-European languages set the basis for any comparative study thereof. The same model practiced in classical philology was also adopted by philologists (and secondarily) linguists of Indo-European in the study of mythological traditions, since the idea is that language, myth and culture are intertwined into a unified whole which is the subject of philological investigation at large. After all, when speaking of comparative Indo-European philology, myth constitutes one of its integral parts. Although the study of myth followed the general currents of each period, it has not shown a similar development as that of language and textual philology. This may be in part due to the nature of the material and in part in an erroneous conception of myth during the 19th century. The figure of Max Müller is predominant in this field in establishing the field of comparative Indo-European mythology. Unfortunately, many associations and interpretations of mythological motifs of Indo-European suggested by him were simplistic and to a certain degree naïve, as he considered them as expressions of astronomical and meteorological phenomena, and his entire theory revolved around this central conception. This ‘stellocentric’ approach was characterized by many interpretive exaggerations that resulted in a general disapproval and eventual downgrading of the field of comparative mythology, despite its acknowledged merits. With the advent of structuralism (mainly in France) the study of Indo-European comparative mythology was revitalized, particularly in

  Georgios K. Giannakis the works of Georges Dumézil and of other investigators, leading to the socalled new comparative mythology which is part of comparative philology in general.8 One area where linguistics and philology have traditionally met and collaborated since the mid-1850s in a very productive way is the study of the poetic language of the Indo-Europeans, especially in the form of archaic formulas and other such phrasal textual fragments. In such linguistic material we find preserved old features, both linguistic and cultural, of high importance for the study of the civilization and the cultural and institutional life of antiquity. Poetics may be studied as a separate object and be grounded on a purely formal(istic) basis aiming at the way linguistic material is organized into a system that conveys the message. Poetics can also be approached as the field of study where the linguistic message is seen as part of the interaction of language with society, culture, ritual, myth, etc., in plain words as part of a ‘glossophilological’ operation. The most successful and productive crop in larger than simple words reconstruction has been the poetic formulas. Historically the first such etymological equation on the phrasal level between two Indo-European languages was made in 1853 by Adalbert Kuhn and concerns the by now famous formula attested in Greek κλέϝος ἄφθιτον and in Vedic Sanskrit ákṣiti śrávas or śravas ákṣitam, both meaning ‘of unquenched renown’. Since Kuhn’s first observation there have been many studies on the topic with a wealth of results and a large number of such formulaic expressions that are characteristic of the traditional poetic language of Indo-European (see, among others, Schmitt 1967; cf. further Watkins 1995; Matasović 1996).

 A turning point The last quarter of the 19th century marks a shift of the interest from the written to the oral language. Language is now considered a system of relations among the different elements that give its form. Saussure’s contribution to this development is too well known, as is also known the distinction that he made between  8 For a critical assessment of Dumézil’s theories on the character and structure of IndoEuropean myth, see Littleton 1982 and Schlerath 1995 and 1996; for a general overview of the Indo-European mythological traditions, see Puhvel 1987, Gamkrelidze/Ivanov 1995, 679 ff., Sergent 1995, and West 2007.

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synchronic and diachronic description of the language. It was natural for Saussure to also have some thoughts on the matter under consideration here. For him philology is ‘the second phase’ of the history of linguistic science. He says: Next came philology... Linguistic structure, however, is not the central concern of philology. Philology seeks primarily to establish, interpret, and comment upon texts. This main preoccupation leads to a concern with literary history, customs, institutions, etc. In all these areas, philology applies its own method, which is that of criticism. Insofar as it touches upon linguistic questions, these arise principally in the comparison of texts of different periods, in establishing the language characteristic of each writer, and in deciphering and interpreting inscriptions couched in some archaic or problematic language. Such research undoubtedly paved the way for historical linguistics: Ritschl’s work on Plautus may be described as ‘linguistic’. But in this field philological criticism has one failing: it is too slavishly subservient to the written language, and so neglects the living language. Furthermore, its concern is almost exclusively with Greek and Roman antiquity. Saussure 1983, 1

The above excerpt offers quite a clear and accurate picture of Saussure’s thesis on the character and relation of the two disciplines. To this ‘second phase’ precedes the study of grammar, not as a linguistic exercise as we understand it today but as an implement of logic and philosophy, as becomes clear in his statement below: First of all came what was called ‘grammar’. This discipline, first instituted by the Greeks and continued mainly by the French, is based on logic. It offers no scientific or objective approach to a language as such. Grammar aims solely at providing rules which distinguish between correct and incorrect forms. It is a prescriptive discipline, far removed from any concern with impartial observation, and its outlook is inevitably a narrow one. Saussure 1983, 1

However, Saussure believed that, by its nature, philology was confined to the analysis of the texts of classical languages, Greek and Latin, a fact that prevents it from dealing with the living languages, although this does not seem to be entirely accurate (see, for instance, the works of oral tradition, which are not only poetic compositions that are constrained by a poetic and to some extent artificial language, but they are also narrative stories and other texts that are closer to the colloquial language). But his insistence on this definition of philology may be explained by the fact that he wished to make a contradistinction between philology and linguistics, more particularly synchronic linguistics whose sole aim is to discover the way the linguistic system is structured. It is apparent that Saussure’s approach is strictly glossocentric and systemic. The reason for this is not because he could not see the relationship of linguistics to other disciplines, but because he was convinced that if the study of language

  Georgios K. Giannakis was to be scientific it ought to define its study subject in a clear way and to develop a strictly scientific method for that. On the other hand, without denying the possibility for the historical study of language, Saussure insisted that linguistics should deal mainly with the synchronic description of language, the only, according to him, real aspect of language. Thus, everything that goes beyond the borders of the internal structure of the linguistic system constitutes the subject matter of other disciplines but not of linguistics. Philology is precisely such a discipline, and for this reason its relation to linguistics is minimal. Therefore, contrary to a general overriding view in the period, Saussure’s position is that there is very little in common between linguistics and philology since their subject matter and aims are different, and only occasionally one sees some chances for cooperation, although many linguists do have philological training and/or base their work on philology.9

 A terminological conundrum We reach a point where terminology seems to play a significant role in the debate under investigation. The term φιλολογία is first attested in Plato’s Theaetetus with the meaning ‘desire to discuss scientific matters’.10 In the beginning the word did not have the technical meaning it acquired later and still has today. In the modern meaning the term seems to have started its life in Alexandria, with the first to be called ‘philologist’ being Eratosthenes of Cyrene (ca. 275–194 BC).11 Earlier the word ‘philologist’ (φιλόλογος) had several uses: ‘he who loves speeches or conversation’, or even ‘philosopher’ (see Pl. Leg. 641e, Phdr. 236e, Resp. 582e; Aristot. Rh. 1398b14, etc.; cf. Pfeiffer 1968, 152 ff.; cf. further Böckh  9 Saussure believed that linguistics would become at some point part of the much larger and wider discipline of semiotics, i.e. the science of signs part of which is also philology (but see also Fig. 2 below). To achieve such an incorporation, linguistics ought to acquire a strict method and its limits and associations be defined within this wider perspective. The developments in linguistics thereafter responded and, to a large extent, satisfied this pronouncement of Saussure’s. 10 Cf. Pl. Tht. 146a: οὔ τί που, ὦ Θεόδωρε, ἐγὼ ὑπὸ φιλολογίας ἀγροικίζομαι, προθυμούμενος ἡμᾶς ποιῆσαι διαλέγεσθαι καὶ φίλους τε καὶ προσηγόρους ἀλλήλοις γίγνεσθαι; ‘I hope, Theodorus, that I am not led into rudeness by my love of conversation? I only want to make us talk and be friendly and sociable, aren’t I?’. 11 The Latin equivalent philologus was first used for the polymath Lucius Ateius, a 1st cent. BC prolific author of about 800 works, among them a liber glossematorum, a collection of rare and obsolete words (see OCD, s.v. and Considine 2008, 25).

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1968, 6 ff.; Kuch 1965; Nuchelmans 1950; Arbuckle 1970, the last with respect to the position espoused by Schleicher over the linguistics/philology dichotomy; cf. also Giannakis forth. c). In the Renaissance, the terms philology and philologist were used with more concrete meaning for those who busied themselves with Greek and Roman antiquity. However, gradually their use is extended to also comprise the knowledge needed to interpret the literature of any other language beside the classical languages. Today, several adjectival accompaniments are used for philology, such as ‘classical’ philology, ‘German’ philology, ‘English’ philology, ‘Romance’ philology, even ‘comparative’ philology (not in the old sense of historical linguistics but as the field of the co-examination of two or more literary traditions), etc. It should be noted here that the term philology does not make the same reference in all modern philological traditions. For instance, in Germany the term Philologie also refers to all information necessary for understanding the wider cultural milieu part of which is language, e.g. classical antiquity (Altertumswissenschaft).12 Similarly, narrower or wider usages are employed with the same term in England, France, the United States, and elsewhere.13 In his recommendation for the need of the establishment of the Linguistic Society of America, Bloomfield expresses his disappointment for the use in England of the term philology as a synonym to linguistics, arguing for the correct use in America where linguistics and philology are kept distinct. Bloomfield notes that in America the term philology is correctly used with reference to the study of culture by means of written documents, i.e. the texts (Bloomfield 1925). As mentioned already, sometimes there is a confusion, as in the different traditions various terms are employed for linguistics, philology, and related sciences, but not all agree on the content of these terms. For instance, in Bartsch/Vennemann 1973, the German term Linguistik is used for theoretical linguistics and Sprachwissenschaft for general (historical and comparative) linguistics (It. glottologia); in the English edition of this work (1975) these terms  12 This character is given to classical philology already by Fr. A. Wolf in 1807 in his study “Darstellung der Altertumswissenschaft nach Begriff, Umgang, Zweck und Werth” (Museum der Altertumswissenschaft 1, 30). Among the other branches that make up this approach to the study of antiquity are grammar, interpretation, text criticism, history, mythology, archaeology, epigraphy, numismatics, and others. All these scientific fields combine into a holistic method in the study of antiquity, and this, no matter how old-fashioned a practice may sound, continues to be a powerful tool in the new hermeneutical view required by this field in order to be given a new impetus and updating. 13 Cf. Bolling 1929. For a good practical and comprehensive introduction to the history of classical philology and its supportive sciences along with thematic bibliography, see Jäger 1990.

  Georgios K. Giannakis are translated as linguistics and language sciences, respectively.14 For linguistics there have been used in the past several other terms, like English glossology and glottology, and finally ‘linguistics’ by the end of the 19th century. In French, linguiste ‘linguist’ is attested in 1660 and linguistique ‘linguistics’ since the 19th century. In Germany, the term Sprachwissenschaft (lit. ‘science of language’) was used by J.G. Ansorge in 1721, whereas in 1698 J. Bödiker speaks of Wissenschaften der Sprachen ‘language sciences’.15 In the middle of the 19th century also the terms Glottik and Glottiker had been coined by Schleicher on Greek models (on the analogy to Mathematik and Mathematiker, etc.) for ‘linguistics’ and ‘linguist’ respectively, but they did not fare for very long.

 Linguistics or philology? Before proceeding, a brief account of the disciplinary identities of historical linguistics and classical philology is necessary so that also the terms and the limits of the relationship of the two fields are better defined. To this end we cite the definition of the term ‘philology’, which is contrasted to that of ‘linguistics’, as given in the Dictionnaire encyclopédique Quillet (1970, 5167) (see discussion and examples by Mańczak 1990, 261 ff.: [Philology is] the science of language or of a specific language, particularly of its history and grammar [...]. For the ancients, philology was the love of knowledge, of learning in the most extensive sense of the word. For Wolf it is the science of Antiquity. Then there was a tendency to include into this term the study of language, especially of grammar, lexicography, etymology, text interpretation and text-criticism. We could add here the study of old institutions and literary history in so far as they help us understand an author better, as well as of prosody and meter. We could as well add epigraphy, paleography, etc. Therefore, philology is portrayed not as a science but as a scholarly practice. Furthermore, the term ‘philology’, which had long dominated in academia, gradually lost ground in favor of the term ‘linguistics’. Linguistics, as established by Saussure, is claimed nowadays to be an exact science.

As already alluded to earlier, the history of the debate over the relationship between historical-comparative linguistics and classical philology is a typical  14 Foerster 1941, 3 makes the distinction between linguistic philology and literary philology: the former focuses on the linguistic phenomena as the reaction to historical and cultural stimuli, whereas with the latter approach the attention turns to the interpretation of literary texts by means of the linguistic history and structure of the text (cf. Carroll 1955, 65). 15 See Jankowsky 1972, 94 ff.; cf. Jäger 1987 and Belardi 1990, 8 ff.

By Way of an Introduction  

‘love-and-hate’ case, with many instances of fertile collaboration and equally long periods of division, separation and diverging courses. The views on the matter seem to divide specialists into two camps. On one side line up those who believe that there is (almost) no association between the two fields of study, since they each have a different mission, scope, and methodology. This seems to be the (probably) majority opinion espoused by theoretical linguists, for whom theory occupies a central position and their main aim is the description of the linguistic system of primarily oral language. On the other side stand many other linguists who opine that a sharp distinction and separation of linguistics and philology is rather impossible but, despite the differences, the two have much in common on both method and procedure working in a complementary way. In this group belong not only most of the historical and comparative linguists but also others who operate on the fringes and the borderline of linguistics with other fields like sociolinguistics, linguistic ethnography, anthropological linguistics, or even text linguistics, psycholinguistics, and other similar subfields of study. Anttila 1989, 22, 325 characterizes all these borderline fields ‘synchronic philologies’ which give back to linguistics its humanistic character that was endangered under the pressure of formalism and mechanistic views for language that were prevalent in the second half of the 20th century.16 In particular, anthropological linguistics seems to be very close to traditional philology, setting similar priorities and seeking ways not to confine linguistics to a mere description of the language, but moving beyond form and into the area that links language with human history and civilization,17 or, as remarked by Turner,  16 The issue has become the subject of debate among historical linguists and philologists, as documented by a series of studies and collective essays, conferences and other such activities, like the following: Bartsch/Vennemann 1973 (1975); Ahlqvist 1982, 394–466; Meid/Schmeja 1983; Eichner/Rix 1990; Fisiak 1990; Giannakis 2009; 2011; Logozzo/Poccetti 2017; Giannakis et al. 2021, and others; cf. also a number of studies published in the journal Gymnasium, e.g. vol. 80 (pp. 251–279) by Beyer/Cherubim, or in vol. 81 (pp. 67–89) by Latacz (with bibliography). Indicative of the interest that this issue has raised among historical linguists is also the main theme of the 13th conference of the Indogermanische Gesellschaft, which concerns the relationship between traditional (i.e. philology-oriented) Indo-European linguistics and modern linguistic theory, apparently an effort to bridge the gap between the two fields (see Krisch/ Lindner 2011). Recently, there is a renewed interest and activity in this matter, as also seen by the collection of studies in Hettrich 2002, Kulikov/Lavidas 2015, and others for the syntax of Indo-European. 17 Anttila describes the interdependence of language and society and the social aspect of language study in the following way: “Society needs linguistics and linguistics needs society. Ethnography without linguistics is unspeakable and linguistics without ethnography is mindless, unsociable” (1975, 151).

  Georgios K. Giannakis “anthropology presents perhaps the most tangled case of philological influence on a humanistic discipline” (2014, 329; see also comments in section 9 below). In this direction cultural linguistics (or, as commonly termed, linguistic anthropology), particularly cultural semantics, offers an important theoretical and methodological weaponry in addressing questions that constitute common ground for both philology and historical linguistics. Normally, in historical linguistics there is an inclination towards the second thesis, but one cannot overlook the differences and particularities that keep many contemporary linguistic approaches at a distance from the methods and aims of philology. With regards to the relationship between historical and comparative linguistics with classical philology we maintain that this is both necessary and self-evident. Especially for Indo-European linguistics, which is, by definition, a historical-comparative operation, and classical philology this connection becomes even stronger also because of the long tradition of cooperation between the two disciplines. As often emphasized, this association is better characterized as symbiotic and not simply complementary. According to Debrunner, Indo-European linguistics with its combination of general linguistics with classical philology proves this contention: the two fields constitute a dynamic unity in a new form. He says: “Indo-European linguistics is a child of philology and general linguistics; although an amalgam of two others, this has a distinct and self-sustained entity” (1930, 21; emphasis added). However, these are not the only ‘theories’ on the possible association of linguistics with philology. Fulk makes the following reference to the different viewpoints on the matter: A survey of linguists […] found widely divergent opinions, including the view that philology is the ancestor of linguistics, that it is a data source for linguistics, that the two interact mutually, that there is no relation, that philology is a branch of linguistics, and, conversely, that linguistics is a branch of philology. The survey also confirmed the impression which the authors gathered from the literature that contempt for philology is not uncommon among linguists, […]. Such animus may perhaps be explained in part by misconceptions about the nature of philological inquiry, as suggested by the disagreements just cited as to how philology and linguistics are related. Fulk 2016b, 11–1218

 18 On a somewhat humorous way, Wyatt makes the following parallelism of philology to a middle-aged lady of a bit estranged nature: “Philology may be imagined as a middle-aged but still handsome woman of stern visage but gentle demeanor who lives in an over-large house with insufficient electricity and plumbing in a decaying section of town. She is known familiarly as “Phil” by neighborhood urchins, and is regarded with a mused contempt. She is not ‘with it’”

By Way of an Introduction  

Elsewhere he adds a definition of philology saying that it is: […] an aggregate of the various modes of inquiry required for the editing of texts in extinct languages […], an endeavor that has for most of its history had as its chief aim recovering authorial versions of texts altered in the course of transmission […]. Philology may thus involve historical and comparative linguistics and the study of manuscripts (including paleography, codicology, the study of how manuscripts are related to one another, and scribal practices), orthographic systems (including orthoepy), poetic meter, rhyme, translators’ practices, and numismatics, among other concerns. Fulk 2016a, 95

On the other hand, there are cases where the texts of a language are such that they are not fit for philological analysis, or at least our philological knowledge is not expected to gain something new from their analysis. Yet, for historical and comparative linguists these texts are important sources (sometimes the sole sources) of information for the structure and the history of the language. This is the case of Gothic, which is attested in the New Testament translation in it from the original Greek (and Latin) made by bishop Ulfila in the 4th cent. AD. From the philological point of view these texts are almost uninteresting, yet they constitute the only testimonies for the study of the language. As is evident, the difference has to do with the different aims of each field: linguists are interested in language itself, in contrast to the philologists for whom the texts are philological testimonies and use language as the tool to unravel them. Philologists are also interested in the historical, social and cultural aspects of the texts, in other words in obtaining historical knowledge. The Gothic texts do not provide such information, and for this reason their philological value is rather low, in contrast to their extremely high linguistic value. Summarizing the contribution of philology in the diachronic study of language Campbell reaches the following conclusion: In the use of philology for historical linguistic purposes, we are concerned with what linguistic information can be got from written documents, with how we can get it, and with what we can make of the information once we have it. The philological investigation of

 (Wyatt 1983, 27). Does this imply an opposite description for linguistics and linguists? As an answer, we can add here a description of similar spirit of the two disciplines, philology and linguistics, as seen through possible characteristics of their practitioners, the philologists and the linguists, as given by Winters/Nathan, who quote one of the comments by a respondent to their questionnaire, saying: “Philology’s papers assume more background on the part of their readers […]. Linguistics’ usually spell such details out. Philologists are more likely to dress formally (tie, coat, vest) than linguists, who, in turn, are more likely to dress informally (denim, tee-shirt, “peasant” dress, etc.)” (1992, 359).

  Georgios K. Giannakis older written attestations can contribute in several ways, for example, by documenting sound changes, distinguishing inherited from borrowed material, dating changes and borrowings, and helping to understand the development and change in writing systems and orthographic conventions. Results of these studies can have implications for claims about scribal practice, subgrouping classification, causes of changes, the reconstruction of a protolanguage, borrowed changes and rules, the identification of extinct languages, and for the historical interpretation of many changes within the languages investigated in this way. Campbell 2021, 366

Fulk, on the other hand, summarizes his view of what philology really is in the following definition, which according to him is “a third view of the matter” (2016a, 95): “[T]he philological component of historical linguistic study may be regarded as the extralinguistic contexts of linguistic data, or the relation between contexts and data” (Fulk 2016a, 95), what seems to be a methodological rather than an epistemological point. And a little later he adds: “In historical language study, philology is thus deployed not in the service of textual editing but of mediating between the demands of linguistic methodology and the limitations that beset the records of prior states of the language available for linguistic analysis, since those records do not directly and unproblematically represent earlier linguistic stages” (2016a, 96).19 Phrased in a different way, what is meant by Fulk here is that philology gives the general framework (frame, canvas and background) of a picture with some of its components being the task of historical linguistics. A similar view is already found in Pedersen who referring to philology’s aims and its double nature as regards its relation to the contextual and the linguistic analysis of texts puts it in the following picturesque manner, saying that “[…] philology is Janus-faced and looks in two directions at once: toward the study of language and toward the study of history” (1962, 79). We could extend the same attribute to historical linguistics as being ‘Janusfaced’ in the sense that it looks at the same time to the theory of language structure and language change and to the written documentation of the history of language through the textual evidence provided by philology. We conclude then by saying that the answer to the dilemma ‘linguistics and/or philology?’ posited earlier is rather a pseudo-dilemma, and the conjunctive correlation of this subsection should be rephrased into ‘linguistics and philology’ or perhaps still better into ‘linguistics-cum-philology’, what we could term the ‘glossophilological approach’. This term does not amount to a mere addition of the two constituent parts of the compound, i.e. linguistics and philology next to each other

 19 Fulk has here in mind the history of English, but similar principles apply in other languages as well.

By Way of an Introduction  

or the one added to another; it should rather be interpreted as a new synthesis with shared features from the two disciplines but with a composite methodological technique and its own terms of study. For this reason, the ‘and’ in the above conjunction should be understood not as additive but rather as complexive, closer to ‘cum’ in the alternative phrasing.

 The ‘linguistics-cum-philology’ approach The approach suggested here is methodologically a synthesis, or better a fusion, of the techniques of historical linguistics and classical philology: it is not a matter of simple addition of the linguistic and philological methods, but the result of their combination into a new complexive synthesis and into a ‘new’ method. This method can be supported by a series of arguments and/or examples of application, among them the linguistic analysis of texts (the text-linguistic method), the critical edition of texts, the chronology of textual evidence and other similar documents, the placement of the philological documents within the general sociohistorical and cultural era of their genesis, linguistic geography and language variation, the possible relation of a particular philological document with a broader historical and/or comparative framework of genetically related traditions, and its ultimate projection back to a ‘proto-philological’ prototype; furthermore, the study of the traditional poetic language and its significance for linguistic and cultural reconstruction, the interdisciplinary study of classical texts with the assistance of contiguous fields and their methods (e.g. archaeology, mythology, ethnology, history, etc.) in the interpretative effort of antiquity, the study of myth in relation to language and culture, the contribution of archaeology to the study and reconstruction of prehistoric phases of the language, the use of linguistic material for the study of cultural and social institutions (linguistic paleontology), writing and the decipherment of unknown scripts where philological evidence and linguistic techniques are combined and collaborate (e.g. the cuneiform writing of the Near East, the Linear scripts of the Aegean, hieroglyphics, etc.), the contribution of historical linguistics to language teaching; perhaps, the best case exemplifying this method is etymology; last but not least, the new field of historical linguistics and molecular anthropology. This holistic interdisciplinary approach in the study of classical antiquity perhaps finds its best manifestation in the work of Ulrich von WilamowitzMoellendorff and his thesis for an Altertumswissenschaft which he promoted

  Georgios K. Giannakis and worked out. As noted by Hugh Lloyd-Jones in the Introduction to Wilamowitz-Moellendorff’s work History of Classical Scholarship, His conscious aim was to combine the tradition of literary scholarship typified by Hermann and his eminent pupils Ritschl and Lachmann with the literary scholarship joined with the study of religion, art and archaeology of Welcker and the historical scholarship joined with literary studies of Boeckh. All these disciplines were to find their place in a single developed concept of Altertumswissenschaft. Since philology could not be truly scientific unless seen as a part of this great whole, it was identified with the science of antiquity. Lloyd-Jones 1982, xiii–xiv

This statement reminds us of what Boeckh had much earlier defined as philology’s aim the “knowledge of what is known”.20 The whole matter is not simply an epistemological issue but rather and primarily an issue that concerns the substance and the meaning of historical linguistics. There are clearly distinctive and distinct borders between the two fields, but at the same time there is also a large common ground in which one can locate both the common path and the complementarity of the two disciplines. Some of the general features of this association are outlined and demonstrated in practice in the studies of the present volume. As is the case with pragmatics, philology too studies linguistic signs in context, which is usually termed by semioticians the indexical function of signs. In line with Benveniste’s concept of ethnosemantics, Watkins 1989 calls this approach ‘new comparative philology’, intending to highlight by the term the close link between historical and comparative linguistics with philology, on the analogy of, or, perhaps, in contradistinction to ‘comparative philology’ which had been used earlier for comparative linguistics. The main feature of this ‘new’ approach is its strong dependence on philological documentation since this provides the sole evidence for linguistic history. In this sense, the historian has no other choice but live with and rely on the texts, often attested in an incomplete and fragmentary form, and apply the historical method in evaluating and interpreting them in such a way that they turn into valid and adequate evidence. In this procedure, very often philological analysis is a type of microscopic  20 Gadamer’s definition of philology as the art of understanding with the help of the context (for instance, see 2004, 182 and passim) is also in line with these approaches but seeing the text from the hermeneutic side. As seen earlier, there is some variation among specialists on the precise definition and aims of philology (or of any other science for that matter), depending on the personal predilections, the background, and the intentions of the individual researcher. Cf. also Jäger 1990, 11–16.

By Way of an Introduction  

examination of various (frequently minute) details of the texts. Linguistics in its turn attempts, by way of a macroscopic approach, to re-compose and reconstruct the various sides of the philological analysis and sew them together into larger, more composite, and more coherent wholes that amount to the system of the language. In this way, linguistic investigation goes far beyond the particularities of a single text or of a group of texts, or even of a single language, acquiring thus a universal and generalizing character.21 Specifically, the schematic representation given in Fig. 2 of section 8 below provides an initial response to the dilemma posed in this section, ‘linguistics or philology?’ Philology is not just a major etymological or lexical enterprise. The ‘reading’ of written monuments of past civilizations presupposes knowledge of the social history and the history of ideas in the broad sense; it also requires the correct decoding of the linguistic code of the texts, i.e. their phonological organization, grammatical structure, syntax, and lexicon. In other words, it is necessary to interpret these works by decoding their symbolic content. Philology is primarily an analytical and interpretive science. The analytical and hermeneutic answers of philology are obtained through the previous re-cognition and ‘reading’ (ἀνάγνωσις) of the symbols and their function, the prime task of linguistics. These are the necessary — though not always sufficient — conditions and prerequisites to convert the text into a relevant subject, to achieve ‘the knowledge of what is known’ (Boeckh), to make the connection between the text and the reader and achieve the final interpretation.22 With its analytical nature, the linguistic analysis decomposes the composite linguistic signs (words, phrases, larger syntactic units, etc.) into their constituent elements (e.g. sounds, inflectional or derivational morphemes, lexical items, and lexical clusters), and then recomposes them to unearth the hidden meaning in them. This analysis-and-synthesis process is a necessary procedure for philology and is performed with the techniques and mechanisms of the linguistic study of texts. For philology, structures are viewed as sets, linguistics assembles the various components into these structures, or as put by Blockley,

 21 This paragraph derives from Giannakis 2009, 357. 22 In a rather extended sense, under ‘text’ we could also include other means of expression, e.g. works of art of all sorts. In fact, a work of art is also a ‘text’ in the sense that it is a valuable source of information for the study of culture. As philological and linguistic testimonies are studied synchronically and/or diachronically, so can works of art have a synchronic and a diachronic dimension, and like all texts they need to be ‘read’ and interpreted in a way that they become useful tools for the study of the past.

  Georgios K. Giannakis “Linguistics is the purity of the unseen, almost unseeable things for which texts are only the evidence. Philology is everything else” (Blockley 1999, 6).23 This may be said to be the general outline that framed the dialog between linguistics and philology till now. The dialog and debate continue extending into new areas of interest, also encompassing more philological traditions in the discussion and working out a theoretical framework that takes this dialog one step further. The fundamental features of this method are diachrony, synchrony and syncrisis (comparison). For historical and comparative linguistics especially, the two central issues are history and comparison, which are not immediately obvious to the classical philologist.24

 New trends, new or renewed paradigms Out of these, often conflicting views new syntheses arise, further fostered by the advent of structuralism and a fresh look at the relation of linguistic studies and philological documents. A new impetus to the interdisciplinary dialog between historical linguistics and philology at large comes from the area of cognitive linguistics. As noted by Winters/Nathan 1992, 359, this trend is stimulated by work within the paradigm of cognitive linguistics and the pragmatic framework of semantic determinations, particularly with respect to the ways the semantics of linguistic units are viewed (for a comprehensive treatment, see Lakoff 1987). According to this theory, the different senses that philology has assumed at different points of time and/or in different traditions are viewed as a case of a radial category, i.e. the various references are derivatives of a basic prototypical sense of the term ‘philology’, something like the spokes of a wheel in relation to

 23 Boeckh believes that the grammatical interpretation (“from the literal meaning of the words”, i.e. the linguistic analysis) of the text is one (the first) of the four fundamental methodological procedures for a correct philological analysis and interpretation. For him, the other three procedures are the historical (i.e. “from the meaning of the words in reference to the material relations and context of the work”), the individual (i.e. “from the subject itself”) and the generic (i.e. “from the subject in reference to subjective relations which lie in the aim and direction of the work”) (the quotes are from Boeckh 1968, 51). This quadruple distinction of Boeckh’s interpretive process is a somewhat more complete working of the triple distinction that had been proposed by Wolf into grammatical, historical, and philosophical, with the latter functioning as a unifying process for the other two. 24 For a rather lively and passionate yet documented with concrete examples assessment of the need of linguistic theory and practice in classical philology, see Katz 2007.

By Way of an Introduction  

the navel as the central point of the structure. Winters/Nathan describe this development as follows: From this prototypical understanding of ‘philology’ extend a series of less central meanings which emerge in three different directions, creating three further groups of meanings. In each case a different feature of the prototype (emphasis on written materials, on the cultural context, on language) becomes salient for that set of meanings. As a result, each extension can be seen as a kind of narrowing, a specialization of the term. […] The simplest extension, […], is the use of ‘philology’ as textual edition […]. The text has become central, so that one might actually talk of the salience of the physical document: what is now the task of philology is the decipherment of handwriting, writing system, syntax and vocabulary of the given document […]. Winters/Nathan 1992, 361

This structure of the prototypical sense of the term ‘philology’ and its derivative specializations are captured by Winters/Nathan by means of an interesting treelike diagram reproduced in Fig. 1 below. Here, the central position of philology as the study of written texts is rightly highlighted: its radial senses as a field studying the cultural aspects of a society (history, cultural studies, etc.), whereas the field of linguistics with its further subsidiaries of historical linguistics and general linguistics are also indicated as further development of the prototypical sense of philology.

Fig. 1: Prototype Structure for ‘Philology’. (Source: Winters/Nathan 1992, 360).

  Georgios K. Giannakis In this scheme, the prototypical meaning of ‘philology’ concerns the study of written texts and contains the following features: (a) it is based on written material, the texts; (b) the texts are linked to the culture that produced them and thus the language of the particular texts cannot be separated from this cultural context; (c) the first task of interpretation of the texts is the study of the linguistic code in which they are written, and then moving on to the historical and cultural interpretation of the texts themselves; (d) the language of these texts is usually filled with obscure features, and this needs to be taken care of first before doing anything else with the texts. These four points are the consecutive steps to follow in ‘reading’ and unraveling the meaning of the texts that constitute the subject matter of philology. As is apparent here, the linguistic component is of paramount importance for the philological analysis, proving that the two disciplines go hand in hand in this operation (see Winters/Nathan 1992, 360).25 However, it is also clear that dealing with texts is not really what historical linguistics does. What historical linguistics is concerned with is the linguistic code in which the texts are written, in other words the grammatical description of the language of the texts in their diachronic development. Texts, i.e. the philological concern, are the medium for the linguistic analysis and the constitution of the linguistic system and its evolution through time, an operation that is conducted only with linguistic means and procedures. In this sense, the connection and discrimination of the two disciplines can be maintained in as clear a way as possible, something that is reflected in the preceding discussion on the history of the two terms. Hale 2007, 19–26 argues that philology deals with a scholastic analysis of the texts (he calls them ‘historical artifacts’), but these artifacts are not really language but rather its partial and imperfect representations. He states that “Philology is responsible for establishing the attributes of a text, many of which may be relevant for subsequent linguistic analysis” (2007, 21), and a little later “[…] there are two goals, related to one another, of this enterprise: to understand the linguistic structures present in the text itself (let’s call this the ‘local’ goal) and to understand the structures, entities, and processes which made the grammar of the ‘composer’ of the text (let’s call this the ‘ultimate’ goal)” (2007, 23). But again, a regressive look back to the end of the

 25 This diagrammatic representation looks very close to that presented by Anttila 1989, 21 with regards to the so-called “Frames of reference for linguistics”, in which philology also occupies a central position. In a different methodological framework, this scheme also looks like the radial-like representation of semantic prototypes of the various meanings a word or word group assumes (a lexical field) in diachronic semantics (on which, see Clarke 2010).

By Way of an Introduction  

19th century shows that this seemingly new view is already presaged in Hermann Paul’s statement of long ago in a period when there is a general paradigm change, or so it seems: “No philologist should ever disregard the fact that what is written is not language itself; that speech rendered into writing always needs to be rendered back in speech before it can be dealt with” (1891 [1880], 433), a thesis which, somewhat rephrased, is also seen in Sweet’s formulation who fifteen years earlier makes the point that “The first requisite is a knowledge of phonetics, or the form of language. We must learn to regard language solely as consisting of groups of sounds, independently of the written symbols, which are always associated with all kinds of disturbing associations, chiefly historical” (1876, 471). The same idea is echoed in Bloomfield’s famous statement that “Writing is not language, but merely a way of recording language by means of visible marks” (1933, 21). The climate seems to have started to change even before Saussure’s sharp division between oral and written language as the subject of linguistic analysis, but again the course looks more like a meander than a straight line. The climate initiated by Saussure continued with many other linguists with minor differentiations or clarifications in some aspects of this relationship. Contrary to Saussure, Antoine Meillet finds a closer connection between the two fields, in some cases so strong that philology is a prerequisite for proper linguistic analysis. He says: To determine the linguistic states of the past, the linguist must make use of the most exact, the most precise philology; and each advance in philological precision permits a new advance for the linguist. The closer and closer contact which has fortunately been established between philologists and comparatists is necessary for the linguist to be able to utilize all the facts, sure data, and facts observed with the utmost precision. But by itself philology does not bring even a beginning of linguistic history. Meillet 1970, 23–24 = 1925, 11

What all this means is that philology and linguistics perform two quite different and distinct albeit complementary and confluent tasks: philology provides the raw material in the textual documentation of the language, while the work of linguists is the study of the linguistic code in which these documents are composed, in plain words the study of the linguistic system. The structuralist approach to language analysis that had gradually started with Kruszewski and culminated with Saussure found its best and perhaps the most effective supporter in the work of Roman Jakobson, one of the most prominent members of the Prague School of Linguistics. More than anybody else, Jakobson managed to combine linguistic theory with many other fields of humanistic studies, principally philology and literary analysis. His view is that

  Georgios K. Giannakis linguistics is a focused field of study with central position among other scientific fields like semiotics, social anthropology, sociology, and economics, as portrayed in Fig. 2 below. In this figure, there is no direct reference to philology, since Jakobson believes that it is intertwined with the rest as a synthesis of all of them, but it is apparent that his thought functions within the principle of interdisciplinarity, part of which is philology.

Fig. 2: The relations between the various communication sciences. (Source: R. Jakobson, On Language, Introduction by Waugh/Monville-Burston, Cambridge MA/London, 20).

Despite the differences, there is a strong tradition on the call for ‘more philology’ in linguistics, especially in interdisciplinary approaches. Such is the case of Yakov Malkiel, whose exemplary ‘glossophilological’ approach in the study of Romance languages has been notoriously effective. He recognizes that historical linguistics and philology are two distinct disciplines with different though interrelated methods, but their close association is so powerful that it would be futile to ignore, a position clearly and eloquently reflected in the following statement (with reference to Romance philology): The provinces of the two disciplines are not exactly coterminous, their respective degrees of abstractness are incongruous, their appeals to imagination are unequal in intensity and in direction, their affinities to other lines of learning could not […] be less germane. But granted this pervasive divergence between the two climates of research, it still remains true that a radical, unhealable break between the two approaches cannot be seriously advocated […]. Malkiel 1964, 672

By Way of an Introduction  

Raimo Anttila moves along similar lines. Over the years he has been one of the most outspoken advocates of this idea that culminates in his work on the etymological associations of the derivatives of the Indo-European root *aǵ- ‘lead’. Anttila’s position already in his earlier treatment of the relation of historical linguistics and philology (e.g. 1975 and 1989, 21–22, 323 ff.) is that despite their primary interest in language change historical linguists cannot and should not ignore philology, since their analysis and interpretation can benefit from the use of older or more recent philological suggestions. As in the past with Boeckh, Baudouin de Courtenay and others, Anttila argues that philology comprises the study of the entire cultural environment of language use and of the life of the linguistic community, like customs, moral values and beliefs, spiritual and technological achievements, institutions, social organization, etc. He writes: [...] linguistics provides the general theoretical framework for understanding language. Philologists and literary critics are usually data-oriented and text-oriented, and thus their interest in the general is usually subordinate to their preoccupation with the particular. But meaningful philology is impossible without the general. Linguistics represents the type and philology the token. This leads to the question of reciprocating the trading relation. Anttila 1975, 150

The subject matter of linguistics is language pure and simple, yet language’s social aspects are also its research matter. For philologists, language is the medium and the vehicle of analyzing and interpreting the texts. In contrast, for linguists, language is their sole target. On the other hand, by nature linguistics has also the possibility to make good descriptions, classifications, and systematic models of analysis. In fact, the real strength of linguistics lies in its descriptive power, which makes it into a paradigmatic descriptive science and a model for many other humanistic fields (Lass 1980, 126). Even modern linguists, who on account of their overspecialization seem to operate in an autonomous manner and independently from philology, have come to realize the need not to interrupt their ties with the historical and philological tradition. This realization results in the development of various interdisciplinary studies such as sociolinguistics, anthropological linguistics, ethnolinguistics, psycholinguistics, etc.26 As stated by Anttila, these fields are in a way “[...] synchronic philologies which have reintroduced the pragmatic side, the human aspect [...] into linguistics”

 26 As noted by Del Bello 2007, 11, “The relation to history does remain one of the major cruces of contemporary linguistics, torn between its quintessentially scientific, technical mission and the pressure of historical perspectives that break it up into multiple complementary branches: sociolinguistics, ethnolinguistics, psycholinguistics.”

  Georgios K. Giannakis (1975, 151).27 Literature, on the other hand, is very close with philology and its different sub-branches like stylistics, poetics, metrics, narratology, rhetoric, drama, etc. In conjunction with modern methodological approaches, linguistic theory can also offer useful information and significant services in didactics. Some of these interdisciplinary branches of collaboration between linguistics and philology are of special importance and are discussed in a forthcoming study (Giannakis forth. b), although our attention focuses on the relations of historical-comparative linguistics and classical philology rather than with philology in general.28 Linguists apply approaches and techniques like the above and others, such as lexicography, phonetics and phonology, semantics, mathematical or statistical techniques, etc. Their perspective varies, depending on the viewpoint from which they treat the data, the aims of the study and the methodology used. Thus, as put by Anttila, they may study a language in relation to other languages or language families (comparative linguistics), in the frame of regional and geographical areas (areal linguistics, linguistic geography, etc.), or in relation to the science of signs (semiotics). Yet, all these approaches or viewpoints revolve around the basic axis of hermeneutics, which is essentially a historical and philological enterprise. Anttila’s thesis and his insistence on the collaboration of linguistics and philology lead Koerner to make the prediction that “Data is no longer the ancillary of ‘theory’ but the basis of any sound linguistic argument, to the extent that Anttila’s ‘philologized linguistics’ may no longer be far away from normal scientific practice” (1989, 242). According to Anttila, the strong connection of linguistics to philology is reflected in what he calls ‘frames of reference for linguistics,’ i.e. the different approaches and the ways in which one collects and analyzes linguistic and philological data. In these ‘frames’ we can clearly see the network of relations

 27 Of these disciplines, anthropological linguistics seems to come closer to the cooperation between linguistics and philology, as its research object is tightly connected with text analysis and generally with discourse analysis. Hymes 1974, 84 remarks that such compound terms that relate linguistics with social sciences, especially with anthropology, began to appear in one way or another after the middle of the 19th century, e.g. ‘ethnographic philology’, ‘philological ethnology’, ‘linguistic anthropology’ and the like. In any case, the relevant terminology here diachronically reserves a prominent position for linguistics, also reflecting the interdisciplinary approaches for each field (cf. also section 9 below). 28 Cf. the comments by Beyer/Cherubim 1973 with relevant bibliography, for the relations between modern (theoretical) linguistics and philology on both the theoretical framework and with regards to the application of linguistic theory in the teaching of classical languages.

By Way of an Introduction  

and interactions between linguistics and philology, as shown in a complex and composite figure (see Anttila 1989, 21; see also our earlier comment on this). Calvert Watkins is another historical and comparative linguist (perhaps one would be right to use the ‘old-fashioned’ term ‘comparative philologist’ in his case) whose work takes a similar stand. He writes: It is a commonplace that the historical linguist deals first of all with a text, and his first task is the interpretation of the meaning of that text. Now there is a realm of meaning called “semantics”, and a realm of meaning nowadays called “pragmatics”. The latter, as Silverstein has succinctly put it in a recent study, “is the study of the meaning of language forms as these depend on the linkage of signs to the context in which they occur (we call this the “indexical” meaning of signs)” [1981]. Despite the relative novelty of the term pragmatics — and the evident utility of isolating what it denotes — the historical linguist has been dealing with all along; he just calls it philology. Watkins 1981, 238

What Watkins wishes to do here is to emphasize his steady thesis that philology and historical and comparative linguistics cannot go apart, no matter how different the area and methodology for each may be, an idea best exemplified in his seminal work on Indo-European poetic language (Watkins 1995).

 In search of more ‘allies’ As already mentioned, linguistics is related to many other scientific fields. At this point we will make only a brief reference to sociolinguistics, anthropological linguistics and the ethnography of language, as well as to the corpora and pragmatics, since with respect to the method and the aims there are similarities between these fields of study with philology and historical and comparative linguistics. In the first couple of decades of the 20th century and under the guidance of Franz Boas and his collaborators (among whom are Kroeber, Sapir and others) and later Whorf, Kluckhorn, and others, there developed a strong move towards the collaboration between linguistics and the emerging field of anthropology. The development of this field of study and of a special methodology originated in the urgent need to document in a scientific manner the linguistic and cultural treasures of the indigenous populations of the New World that were running the risk of complete extinction. In Europe too we had similar efforts with Malinowski and Firth in Great Britain, and Durkheim, Mauss, Dumézil and Lévi-Strauss in France. Despite their initial similarities, the two branches gradually were moving away from one another fueled mainly by the domination of behaviorism

  Georgios K. Giannakis in linguistics and relativism in anthropology. Yet, during the second half of the 20th century it seems that the two disciplines rediscover the common ground and a new period of fertile and productive collaboration begins, especially through the important work of Dell Hymes and other researchers in the areas of anthropological linguistics and linguistic ethnography. In all these efforts language and linguistic methods were the main tool of approaching and analyzing cultural and ethnographic material.29 The field of sociolinguistics seems to operate on a complementary and intersecting axis with dialectology. Its relationship to mainstream linguistics has not been trouble-free, but it made its way through a hostile minefield and developed into an important subfield of modern linguistics, whereas for philology it provided “a new explanatory paradigm congenially rooted in the sociocultural dimension of language” (Adamson/Ayres-Bennett 2011, 203). A catalyst in this effort has been the seminal study by Weinreich et al. 1968, which challenges the generativist concept of the ideal speaker-hearer language situation and promotes the notion of ‘orderly homogeneity’, which is based on a “model of language which accommodates the facts of variable usage and its social and stylistic determinants” (Weinreich et al. 1968, 99; cf. Adamson/Ayres-Bennett 2011, 203). This variationist conception of language opens new vistas in historical linguistics, what came to be known as ‘socio-historical linguistics’ (for its theoretical accommodation, see Romaine 1982). This new look brings historical linguistics and philology close again since language is viewed not in its form alone but within the context of its usage and with all its variant forms and applications. The word ‘philology’ is no longer avoided in handbooks of linguistics, whereas in those of historical linguistics there is normally one good section on writing and the philological documentation of texts. Philology has made a return to linguistic lore with no negative connotation or pejorative overtones.30 Related to writing and the philological analysis of texts is the creation of corpora and digital databanks that facilitate the historical investigation of the language. The corpora have always been a useful tool for both philology and historical linguistics, but with the use of digital technology new operations are available on a grand scale. The corpora are organized in different ways, e.g. on a

 29 For a brief account, see Teeter 1973. 30 Cf. Romaine’s characteristic statement: “[…] once it has been decided to deal with a problem of historical syntax, we have already moved outside the scope of sociolinguistics and into the realms of philology, textual analysis, or even stylistics, since we have no data to draw on apart from what exists in the extant written records of a language which is no longer spoken” (1982, 3).

By Way of an Introduction  

chronological basis, by author or by genre, by social and stylistic criteria, or in some other way. These databanks serve various purposes in diachronic studies, and historical linguistics takes advantage of them in running searches on a plethora of issues, preparing statistical counts, applying several quantitative methods in analyzing and interpreting large volumes of data, locating grammatical and lexical variants, and determining general tendencies in language change. In another study (see Giannakis forth. b), we discuss in some detail the use of corpora in historical linguistics and the challenges they pose to historical linguists. Here suffice it to say that in addition to the benefits, corpora run several risks as well, with the primary being “the risk of decreasing transparency in the relation between a linguistic form and its ‘social and stylistic determinants’” (Adamson/Ayres-Bennett 2011, 204), an issue nicely put by Rissanen as the ‘philologist’s dilemma’ in the following way (again quoted from Adamson/ Ayres-Bennett 2011): Particularly in the historical study of language, there is a risk that corpus work and computer-supported quantitative research methods will discourage the student from getting acquainted with original texts, from being on intimate terms with his material and thus acquiring a profound knowledge of the language form he is studying. In the extreme case, this might mean the wane of philologically oriented language studies. Rissanen 1989, 16

In any case, the crucial fact in all these research lines is the use of texts. Like philologists, historical linguists are obliged to work mainly with texts, and this raises a series of questions as to how accurately texts represent the actual speech of the time of their production, how much confidence can one put on the shape of texts as they have come to us, in a word how much we can rely on texts for studying language history. Given the significance of the texts, Adamson/ Ayres-Bennett wonder why there should be a competitive rather than a collaborative stance between philologists and historical linguists, saying that “[…] to many neutral observers it is baffling that the sister disciplines have been competitive rather than collaborative in their approaches to their shared object of study” (2011, 204). The fact is, however, that things are not as bad as some may believe they are, and hopefully this ‘new picture’ will be reestablished or further improved. The relation of linguistics with anthropology and ethnography is one area that seems to lead to what has been called a ‘rephilologization’ of historical studies, a relation that has had a clear impact on philology, especially classical philology. A good case in point is the work of Milman Parry and his student Albert Lord on the techniques of oral composition and the way Homeric epics

  Georgios K. Giannakis (and similar works from other traditions) were composed. Parry’s insightful analyses are based on the successful cooperation of the triptych philologylinguistics-anthropology/ethnography, whereas the results of this research proved especially effective for understanding the oral character of the Homeric epic compositions.31 Finally, one more recently (re)discovered area of common ground between historical linguistics and philology is that of pragmatics, more specifically of historical pragmatics, hence the compound neologism ‘pragmaphilology’. This approach places emphasis on “the contextual aspects of historical texts including the addressers and addressees, their social and personal relationship, the physical and social setting of text production and text reception, and the goal(s) of the text” (Jacobs/Jucker 1995, 11). Classical philology and ‘pragmaphilology’ are also connected by virtue of their practice of textual editing as a means of establishing critical editions of the texts through the comparison of their variants or manuscripts, a traditional endeavor of classical philology (cf. also Fulk 2016a, 105–106). Although in many ways these are old-sounding and familiar since long ago techniques, the ‘new’ or ‘renewed’ trends in studying language history in relation to its textual documentation open new paths in the renewal of the relation between historical linguistics and philology and in resetting the borderlines that delineate their differences and their common ground. This brief overview highlights the feelings, the practices and the methods of philologists and historical linguists on the relation between the two disciplines, which seems to be a combination of general epistemological factors and of individual dispositions. The history of the two fields of study and their interrelations constitutes a dynamic and a rather convoluted ‘love-and-hate’ story: despite the differences on method, subject matter and aims, there is a wide common ground with beneficial results for both disciplines. As noted by Carroll 1955, 65, philology is “the large middle ground” that operates between literature, linguistics, and other humanistic fields, with language being the common linking thread.

 31 Cf. Parry 1971, Lord 1960, and for a brief comprehensive presentation, see Foley 1988, 1–18.

By Way of an Introduction  

 The present volume The issues raised in any discussion of this topic are many and difficult to tackle, even worse to cover in a single volume as this. Yet, some of these issues have been touched upon in the different contributions and the benefits of the combined method of linguistics and philology have hopefully been highlighted. There is a disproportionate coverage of the two classical languages in this volume, with Greek taking most of the space, not due to a conscious decision by the organizers, but in reality the result of the response to the conference call: in the meeting there were only six papers on Latin as opposed to twenty-seven papers that discussed different aspects of Greek, a fact also reflected in the submitted — for publication in the proceedings — texts. Thus, a first division of the texts of this volume is on the basis of the philological and linguistic tradition covered, with six texts dealing with Latin and the rest, a total of nineteen dealing with Greek. Therefore, the texts are laid out in two parts: Part I for Greek philology and linguistics, with a subsection on early poetry (Homer and Pindar), morphosyntax and pragmatics, lexicon, and the use of Greek corpora; Part II is devoted to the discussion of various problems of Latin linguistics and philology, as well as of Christian Latin. The subsection on early Greek poetry comprises seven papers that discuss various diachronic, textual and interpretive issues, namely Kölligan’s presentation in which, on the basis of a number of ‘Homeric’ lexical items or combinations thereof, he discusses instances in which synchronic and diachronic analyses are independent (interpretatio ex graeco ipso), conflicting (etymologies or folk-etymologies?) or, in ideal cases, reinforcing one another. Allan’s study is a functional-cognitive linguistic approach in formulating criteria for determining caesura positions within the verse. Cassio discusses the phenomenon of episynaloephe in Homer, arguing that it must have been used elsewhere by rhapsodes in order to make archaic forms and meanings more palatable to a ‘recent’ Ionic linguistic environment. Pagani investigates the question whether the Hellenistic scholars took advantage of ideas and remarks made by Homeric scholiasts in their editorial practices and decisions. She shows that ancient philologists (and especially Aristarchus of Samothrace) maintained that some forms in the Homeric text were unacceptable or additions by interpolators, often challenging textual choices of their predecessors, based on their conviction that language had changed over time on all levels, semantics, morphology, syntactic and phraseological construction, in ways that Homeric linguistic usage had characteristics that made it different from the later one. Meusel discusses the poetic metaphor of song of milk and honey, which is used by Pindar, and on the basis

  Georgios K. Giannakis of comparative evidence, mainly from Old Indic and Old Iranian, he argues that this metaphor goes far beyond Greek poetic tradition and is projected back to hymnic prototypes of common Graeco-Arian tradition if not Indo-European itself. The morphological past-tense marker of augment exemplifies perhaps in the best possible manner the forces of change and continuity operating in the historical development of the Greek language. Some of the pertinent features of this marker (e.g. optionality in the early language, some seemingly anomalous cases in Classical Greek, etc.) are retained throughout the course of the language from Homeric (if not still earlier Mycenaean) to the modern language, and this teaches several lessons about linguistic change as a whole and of Greek in particular, a subject dealt with by Joseph. An old and much discussed question in many Indo-European languages has been the phenomenon of tmesis and its gradual transformation into compound structures or univerbation. This topic is prominent in early Greek, a fact that also lends its name to the phenomenon whereby a preverb stands separate from the verb with which it forms a semantic unit. Different explanations have been suggested by a host of scholars on this process along with different motivations and theoretical analyses. Giannakis’ study tackles this problem, exploring the possible connection of stress and intonation with syntactic problems, especially movement phenomena and more particularly the phenomena of tmesis and univerbation in ancient IndoEuropean languages, with particular emphasis on (Homeric) Greek. It is suggested that the transformation from tmesis (P...V) to univerbation (PV) relates to shifts in stress and intonation patterns in the language, along with other changes in syntax and morphology, an idea first alluded to by Brugmann 1913, 665 ff., but not since exploited properly. A number of studies deal with different syntactic and pragmatic problems of Ancient Greek linguistics to which interdisciplinary solutions are suggested. De la Villa explores the correlation of semantic-syntactic changes by examining the syntactic and semantic behavior of the terms ἄτη and τύχη in Ancient Greek literature. These terms demonstrate a shift in the function and usage from a personified entity that was their reference in Archaic Greek to a less ‘personalized’ and more abstract sense ‘ruin’, and ‘chance’ respectively, a change also reflected in the syntactic use of the terms. Such an approach further demonstrates the parallel shifts that take place on the semantic level and that of social and cultural beliefs in the different historical stages of the language, a fact that underlines the need to ‘read’ the meaning of the specific items in context for each period of the language and anchor the interpretation onto solid philological material. Over the last decades there is a renewed interest in the so-called ditransitive constructions, a common pattern in many Indo-European lan-

By Way of an Introduction  

guages, which present various interesting issues, such as the mechanisms of case assignment and the association in this of ditransitive verbs. This topic has been selected by Benedetti and Bruno who focus on the study of a typically ditransitive verb of Greek, διδάσκειν ‘teach’, as a case study. They show that the interaction of a linguistic and a philological approach provides new interesting insights and opens new avenues of research in this area. Pragmatics has always been one of the main characteristics of the philological approach, whereas over the last few decades it has become a ‘favorite’ of linguistic analysis as well. In particular, historical semantics and contextual considerations have helped us to formulate a combined method of applying the linguistic analysis of ancient texts to such an extent that a new interdisciplinary field of study has appeared the last few years, what is termed ‘pragmaphilology’. Janse discusses the interrelation between grammatical agreement and semantic agreement, specifically those cases in which the former is overruled by the latter, as exemplified with Greek hybrid nouns of the Mädchen type, i.e. nouns whose agreement varies according to the agreement target in accordance with Corbett’s Agreement Hierarchy, e.g. κοράσιον, as well as other diminutives referring to girls such as θυγάτριον and παιδίον. These nouns show different agreement patterns according to the parameters of distance, age, and womanhood. As noted by Conti, in the Indo-European languages, personal pronouns and verbal personal endings often change their deictic and referential values and develop different pragmatic meanings. Specifically, we forms seem to develop two quite opposite pragmatic meanings, namely either closeness or distance from the addressee. Conti’s paper is moving along these lines, analyzing the syntactic, semantic and pragmatic features of ἡμεῖς in Homeric poems in order to determine the factors that have triggered the development of new nuances, some of which are involved in (im)politeness strategies. Fornieles addresses the concept of irony in Greek oratory, exploring the ways and the means whereby it is expressed in the extant speeches of Aeschines and in two speeches of Demosthenes. Among the irony markers, are included the use of evidentials, diminutives, simplifications, repetitions, rhetorical questions, hyperbole, litotes, oxymoron or lexical-semantic markers, and all require a degree of shared knowledge between the speaker and the audience. The linguistic map of Southern Italy (and Sicily) in antiquity has been the subject of a number of studies showing interesting results as to how the languages interact with one another and how contact-induced changes affect all these languages. Poccetti examines one such case drawing on data concerning the first series of Greek ordinal numerals, found recently in inscriptions from a site in Southern Italy (Torre di Satriano in Lucania). Some of these numerals

  Georgios K. Giannakis show interesting variants, that can be explained by contact between the Doric speaking area (around Tarentum) and the local Sabellian languages. As stated by Poccetti, some of these variants could explain certain features of numerals attested later in the same region (especially Herakleia). Sociolinguistically, the numeral series employed in the construction of the building excavated in Lucania suggests that the builders were indigenous people who had learned Greek (probably in the neighboring Doric colony of Tarentum) in parallel with developing their building techniques. The study of dialects provides a very fertile ground for testing methodological and theoretical approaches of the collaboration of linguistics and philology. After all, the dialects offer an excellent corpus of heterogeneous material reflecting local, sociolinguistic, generic and other type of textual evidence, as well as material that at times approximates the spoken language, and as such are extremely important for the study of the development of the language over time. Four papers in our corpus touch upon such material, proving the beneficiary collaboration of historical linguistics with philology. In her study, Kaczko investigates the use of inherited /aː/ in poetic genres tied to Archaic and Classical Attica that goes beyond the traditional explanations focusing on selected forms in /aː/ in Attic epigrams. Méndez Dosuna investigates the meaning and etymology of the adjective ἀμόργινος which is attested in several inscriptional and literary texts, and which is applied to garments and fabrics. Of the different explanations offered in the literature, he opts for that which takes the word as meaning something made of purple, a meaning that seems to be both semantically and etymologically plausible, also shedding light on two jokes that figure in Aristophanes’ Lysistrata which, in his opinion, have been misunderstood by ancient and modern scholars. In his paper, Filos examines some ancient glosses pertaining to less well-known varieties of Greek, particularly (N)W Greek, which ancient lexicographers (e.g. Hesychius) and/or modern philologists (may) have considered genuine, however ‘odd’ for some reason, especially from a phonological or semantic point of view, like Epirote δάξα ‘sea’, δράμιξ ‘(type of) bread’, etc. As he states, his goal is twofold, namely, to reexamine the etymology and overall linguistic character of such ‘aberrant’ forms, but also to examine the type of arguments put forth modern philologists in determining the dialectal character of such dubious forms, in compliance with or deviation from their ancient counterparts. Both historical linguistics and classical philology are disciplines of the past and as such are wholly dependent on written evidence, i.e. textual testimonies of all types. The more heterogeneous these testimonies are the better for the historical study of the language: one has in his disposition a variety of textual

By Way of an Introduction  

evidence, from literary works to inscriptions and to all sorts of other subtypes. Thus, the main task of philology is the study of the written documents of a language, the texts, and the creation of language corpora with these textual testimonies. The corpus is also a fundamental procedure of historical and comparative linguistics, as the study of language history is exclusively based on information provided by these corpora. The corpus is the raw material and the starting point for both philology and historical linguistics either for a historical study of the language or for its synchronic study. Thus, historical linguists and philologists have as one of their first tasks the creation of such databanks for their scientific investigation. As put by Labov 1972, 100, “The great art of the historical linguist is to make the best of this bad data — ‘bad’ in the sense that it may be fragmentary, corrupted, or many times removed from the actual productions of native speakers”. Three of the contributions in this volume deal with such corpora, more specifically with the information gleaned out of ancient papyri. Bentein treats a corpus of norm-breaking practices in Roman-era letter writing (1st–3rd cent. AD), proposing a new methodological framework for describing the variations encountered in non-literary texts such as private letters (which traditionally are treated as constructions with formulaic structure without caring to account for any type of variation). He makes a typological classification of different letters into different types such as reformulations, expansions, omissions, repetitions, combinations, and displacements. As noted by the author, he has “…embedded [his] discussion of these procedures in an approach that is not only more quantitative than has been the case in previous research, but also more aware of the different levels that are involved in the description of epistolary patterns”. This approach leads to a new way of treating these types of texts and clarifies a number of related issues that hitherto remained vague or not treated properly. Vierros goes one step further in that she discusses some technical and methodological details of her project to construct a digital grammar of Greek papyri, the “Digital Grammar of Greek Documentary Papyri” and the aims of such a project. In this context, she also makes a point with respect to the role and contribution of digital technology in an age of Digital Humanities and corpus linguistics, and particularly in the study of the Greek language. Such projects are perhaps the best testimonies to the effectiveness of and need for the collaboration of (historical) linguistic methods and philological documentation and analysis of texts, with digital technology serving as the ‘super-tool’ of processing and calculating large volumes of data. Similarly, Di Bartolo addresses some aspects of the changes related to the encoding of irrealis, focusing on the usage of the modal particle ἄν in Post-Classical Greek and discussing evidence from documentary papyri. She

  Georgios K. Giannakis further considers alternative strategies to the usage of ἄν with secondary tenses in the apodoses of counterfactual conditionals as well as the usage of ἄν in combination with the negation οὐκ (i.e., in the cluster οὐκ ἄν) and with the particle δέ (i.e. in the cluster δάν) when occurring in a main clause. Latin linguistics is covered in the rest of the volume. De Melo reexamines the old dichotomy between analogy and anomaly using as a case study Varro’s treatment of the issue, and using advances made by modern language acquisition theory, but also from psycholinguistics, he concludes that the Roman grammarian can teach modern linguists many useful lessons. Historically, a turning point in the history of the collaboration of historical linguistics and classical philology during the early stages has been the task assumed by historical linguists in editing texts of the newly discovered sister languages of the Indo-European family. This move by the linguists brought their work to the attention of philologists who soon realized that the new field had something to contribute to their work as well (for a comprehensive narrative of this issue presented from the point of view of a linguist, see Morpurgo Davies 1998 [1992], and from a historian’s point of view, see Turner 2014, in addition to the standard works on the historiography of classical studies and philology in general). In this spirit, Langslow experiments on the interplay of philology and linguistics in the editing of a Late Latin medical translation, concluding that “What I read in colleagues’ linguistic work on variation and change in Latin — and in Romance and Greek, too — contributes vitally to the work of reconstructing this Late Latin medical translation-cum-compilation, and I hope that the emerging text may in turn contribute new material for the grammar books and the linguistic accounts of some less than completely understood phenomena including the -as/-os ‘nominatives’ and the ‘headless relatives’”. Spevak seeks to present a unified account of the Latin construction ab urbe condita for both classical languages, in Latin with the use of the ablative case and in Greek of the genitive. She discusses the various usages and functions of this contsruction in the two languages, categorizing them as (i) as arguments, especially as subject or object, and as attribute at the noun phrase level, or (ii) as satellites. She concludes that despite some observed ambiguities, “there are enough clear examples to show that this phenomenon is well represented both in Latin and Greek”. Karakasis explores the benefits from the collaboration of philology with historical linguistics by applying the linguistic methods on the Neronian pastoral literature. As he says, by considering archaic linguistic markers, standardized Classical and Post-Classical diction, he shows that various linguistic registers are part of the Neronian pastoral tools for producing meaning and

By Way of an Introduction  

characterization through evoking intertexts from the whole of the previous and contemporary literature. Epistolary is a productive genre of Greek and Latin philological traditions. Due to their diversity, letters provide interesting material for synchronic and diachronic study of the language involved, in addition to features of the popular language that approximates the real spoken language of the time and the place of their production. Molinelli offers one special type of such a text in her study on the First Epistle to the Corinthians written by Clement of Rome, one of the oldest Christian texts in the Roman world. The author focuses on the translation of the text into Latin, locating interesting linguistic and textual features that warrant its attention. As she explains, the specific characteristics of the text make it “… part of a genre that is halfway between orality and writing, between an instrument of communication and an exegetical and normative text”, whereas from the linguistic point of view, “… some features of the Latin version allow us to grasp both the innovative nature of the language and its relationship with the original Greek text”. Galdi’s contribution moves along similar lines as Langslow’s paper seeking to evaluate the benefits from a collaborative linguistic and philological approach in the study of Saint Benedict’s Latin. Three interrelated issues are addressed by the author: first, an assessment of the most authoritative manuscript (Sangallensis 914), second, the examination of the cases of variation in the text, where it is suggested that these can be attributed to the author himself, and thirdly, pointing out how the study of Benedict’s Latin can greatly benefit from the application of principles and criteria in historical linguistics work.

 A concluding note As alluded to in the first part of this introductory essay, one of the crucial issues in discussing the topic of this volume is to determine the borders of the common ground, to set the terms of the collaboration between historical linguistics and philology and all other offshoots, and to exploit the results of this collaboration to the benefit of both fields. It is hoped that a small step towards this direction has been made in the collective work, but we are sure that many issues remain open waiting to be faced effectively in the future. However, one thing is certain: the two pendants of the oft-posited (pseudo)dilemma ‘linguistics and/or philology?’ must be and are read coordinatively and conjunctively as ‘linguistics-cumphilology’, in a new synthesis and into a new(?) interdisciplinary field of study of language and its history.

  Georgios K. Giannakis

References Adamson, S./Ayres-Bennett, W. (2011), “Linguistics and philology in the twenty-first century: Introduction”, TPS 109.3, 201–206. Ahlqvist, A. (ed.) (1982), Papers from the 5th International Conference on Historical Linguistics, Amsterdam. Allan, R.J./Buijs, M. (eds.) (2007), The Language of Literature. Linguistic Approaches to Classical Texts, Leiden/Boston. Anttila, R. (1975), “Linguistics and philology”, in: R. Bartsch/Th. Vennemann (eds.), 145–155. Anttila, R. (1989) [1972], Historical and Comparative Linguistics, Amsterdam/Philadelphia. Anttila, R. (2000), Greek and Indo-European Etymology in Action. Proto-Indo-European *aǵ-, Amsterdam/Philadelphia. Arbuckle, J. (1970), “August Schleicher and the linguistics/philology dichotomy: A chapter in the history of linguistics”, Word, 26.1, 17–31. Bartsch, R./Vennemann, Th. (eds.) (1975), Linguistics and Neighboring Disciplines, Amsterdam/ Oxford (Germ. ed. 1973). Baudouin, J. de Courtenay (1972), A Baudouin de Courtenay Anthology (translated and edited by E. Stankiewicz), Bloomington/London. Belardi, W. (1990), Linguistica generale, filologia e critica dell’espressione, Rome. Benveniste, E. (1966 and 1974), Problèmes de linguistique générale, 2 vols., Paris. Benveniste, E. (1969), Le vocabulaire des institutions indo-européennes, 2 vols., Paris. Beyer, K./Cherubim, D. (1973), “Linguistik und alte Sprachen: eine Polemik?”, Gymnasium 80, 251–279. Blockley, M. (1999), “Philology, linguistics: Should you leave?”, in: J.B. Trahern, Jr. (ed.), Thirty Years more of the Year’s Work in Old English Studies, Kalamazoo, Michigan, 3–14. Bloomfield, L. (1925), “Why a Linguistic Society?”, Language 1, 1–5. Bloomfield, L. (1933), Language, New York. Boeckh, A. (1968), On Interpretation and Criticism, Norman. Bolling, G.M. (1929), “Linguistics and philology”, Language 5, 27–32. Bréal, M. (1878), “Sur les rapports de la linguistique et de la philologie”, Revue de Philologie, de Littérature et d’Histoire anciennes (2e série) 2, 1–10. Brugmann, K. (1885), “Sprachwissenschaft und Philologie”, in: Zum heutigen Stand der Sprachwissenschaft, Strassburg, 1–41. Brugmann, K. (1913), Griechische Grammatik, Munich. Campbell, L. (2021), Historical Linguistics. An Introduction, Cambridge, MA. Cannadine, D. (ed.) (2002), What is History now?, London. Carr, E.H. (1987), What is History?, London. Carroll, J.B. (1955), The Study of Language. A Survey of Linguistics and Related Disciplines in America, Cambridge, MA. Chapman, D./Moore, C./Wilcox, M. (eds.) (2016), Studies in the History of the English Language VII: Generalizing vs. Particularizing Methodologies in Historical Linguistic Analysis, Berlin. Christie, W.M., Jr. (1982), “On the relationship between philology and historical linguistics”, in: A. Ahlqvist (ed.), Papers from the 5th International Conference on Historical Linguistics, Amsterdam, 414–424. Clarke, M. (2010), “Semantics and vocabulary”, in: E.J. Bakker (ed.), A Companion to the Ancient Greek Language, Chichester, 120–133.

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Collingwood, R.G. (1946), The Idea of History, Oxford. Considine, J. (2007), Dictionaries in Early Modern Europe. Lexicography and the Making of Heritage, Cambridge. Coseriu, E. (1980), “Vom Primat der Geschichte”, Sprachwissenschaft 5, 125–145. Coseriu, E. (1988), “Humanwissenschaften und Geschichte. Der Gesichtpunkt eines Linguisten”, in: J. Albrecht (ed.), Energeia und Ergon I. Schriften von Eugenio Coseriu (1965–1987), Tübingen, 111–120. Curtius, G. (1845), Die Sprachwissenschaft in ihrem Verhältnis zur klassischen Philologie, Berlin. Curtius, G. (1886 [1862]), “Philologie und Sprachwissenschaft”, in: Kleine Schriften I: Ausgewählte Reden und Vorträge (ed. by E. Windisch), Leipzig, 132–150. Debrunner, A. (1930), “Sprachwissenschaft und klassische Philologie”, Indogermanische Forschungen 48, 1–25. Del Bello, D. (2007), Forgotten Paths. Etymology and the Allegorical Mindset, Washington, D.C. De Melo, W.D.C. (2007), The Early Latin Verb System. Archaic Forms in Plautus, Terence, and Beyond, Oxford/New York. Diller, H.-J. (1990), “Linguistic searchlights and philological buckets: A case study of their interdependence (the conceptual field of persuade/convince)”, in: Fisiak (ed.), 143–164. Dollinger, S. (2016), “On the regrettable dichotomy between philology and linguistics: Historical lexicography and historical linguistics as test cases”, in: D. Chapman et al. (eds.), 61–89. Eichner, H./Rix, H. (eds.) (1990), Sprachwissenschaft und Philologie. Jacob Wackernagel und die Indogermanistik heute. (Kolloquium der Indogermanischen Gesellschaft 13.–15. Oktober 1989 in Basel), Wiesbaden. Fisiak, J. (ed.). (1990), Historical Linguistics and Philology, Berlin/New York. Foley, J.M. (1988), The Theory of Oral Composition. History and Methodology, Bloomington/ Indianapolis. Foerster, N. (1941), “The study of letters”, in: N. Foerster/J.C. McCalliard/R. Wellek/A. Warren/ W.L. Schramm (eds.), Literary Scholarship. Its Aims and Methods, Chapel Hill, 1–32. Förster, K.G.J. (1851), Gesetz der deutschen Sprachentwicklung, oder: Die Philologie und die Sprachwissenschaft in ihren Beziehungen zu einander und zum deutschen Geiste, Berlin. Fulk, R.D. (2016a), “Philological methods”, in: M. Kytö/P. Pahta (eds.), The Cambridge Handbook of English Historical Linguistics, Cambridge, 95–107. Fulk, R.D. (2016b), “A philological tour of HEL”, in: Chapman et al. (eds.), 11–27. Gadamer, H.G. (2004) [1965], Truth and Method, London/New York. Gamkrelidze, T.V./Ivanov, V.V. (1995), Indo-European and the Indo-Europeans. Α Reconstruction and Historical Analysis of a Proto-language and a Protoculture, Berlin/New York. Gardiner, P. (1952), The Nature of Historical Explanation, Oxford. Giannakis, G.K. (1998), “Metaphors of death and dying in the language and culture of the IndoEuropeans”, in: W. Meid (ed.), Sprache und Kultur der Indogermanen. 10. Fachtagung der Indogermanischen Gesellschaft, Innsbruck, 22.-28. September 1996, Innsbruck, 581–600. Giannakis, G.K. (2005), “H (κλασική) φιλολογία από τη σκοπιά του (ιστορικοσυγκριτικού) γλωσσολόγου”, ΔΩΔΩNH - «Φιλολογία» 34, 239–267. Giannakis, G.K. (2009), “(Historical) linguistics and (classical) philology”, Journal of IndoEuropean Studies 37.3/4, 351–98. Giannakis, G.K. (2011), Ιστορική γλωσσολογία και φιλολογία, Thessaloniki. Giannakis, G.K. (2015), Oι Iνδοευρωπαίοι. Mέρος A: Γλώσσα και πολιτισμός, 2nd ed., Thessaloniki.

  Georgios K. Giannakis Giannakis, G.K. (forth. a), “Philology as the art of reading slowly: But how slowly and why?”, in: A. Rengakos/T.D. Papanghelis/G.K. Giannakis (eds.), The ‘Future of the Past’: Why Classical Studies still Matter, Berlin/Boston. Giannakis, G.K. (forth. b), Historical Linguistics and Classical Philology. Giannakis, G.K. (forth. c), “Κάρολος Δαρβίνος, Αύγουστος Σλάιχερ και η θεωρία της γλωσσικής αλλαγής”, in: A. Kalokerinos/I. Tsimpli (eds.), Γλώσσα και εξέλιξη: Βιογλωσσολογικές προοπτικές, Irakleion. Giannakis, G.K./Conti, L./de la Villa, J./Fornieles, R. (eds.) (2021), Synchrony and Diachrony of Ancient Greek: Language, Linguistics and Philology, Berlin/Boston. Gumbrecht, H.U. (2003), The Powers of Philology: Dynamics of Textual Scholarship, Urbana/ Chicago. Hale, M. (2007), Historical Linguistics. Theory and Method, Oxford. Hettrich, H. (2002), Indogermanische Syntax. Fragen und Perspektiven, Wiesbaden. Hildebrandt, R. (1975), “Linguistik contra Sprachwissenschaft”, in: Neuere Forschungen in Linguistik und Philologie: Aus dem Kreise seiner Schüler Ludwig Erich Schmitt zum 65. Geburtstag, Wiesbaden, 1–6. Hofmann, D. (1973), “Sprachimmanente Methodenorientierung – sprachtranszendente ‘Objektivierung’: Zum Unterschied zwischen Linguistik und Philologie”, Zeitschrift für Dialektologie und Linguistik 40, 295–310. Hymes, D.H. (1974), Foundations in Sociolinguistics. An Ethnographic Approach, Philadelphia. Jacobs, A./Jucker, A.H. (1995), “The historical perspective in pragmatics”, in: A.H. Jucker (ed.), Historical Pragmatics. Pragmatic Developments in the History of English, Amsterdam, 1–33. Jäger, G. (1987), “Philologie und Linguistik. Historische Notizen zu einem gestörten Verhältnis”, in: Schmitter (ed.), 198–223. Jäger, G. (1990), Einführung in die klassische Philologie, 3rd ed., Munich. Jakobson, R. (1960), “Closing statement: Linguistics and poetics”, in: T.A. Sebeok (ed.), Style in Language, Cambridge, MA, 350–377. Jakobson, R. (1987), “Poetry of grammar and grammar of poetry”, in: Language in Literature, Cambridge, MA/London, 121–144. Jakobson, R. (1990), On Language, Cambridge, MA/London. Jankowsky, K.R. (1972), The Neogrammarians, The Hague/Paris. Jankowsky, K.R. (1973), “Philologie – Linguistik – Literaturwissenschaft”, Lingua Posnaniensis 17, 21–35. Katz, J.T. (2007), “What linguists are good for”, The Classical World 100.2, 99–112. Koerner, E.F.K. (1989), “On the historical roots of the philology vs. linguistics controversy”, in: Practicing Linguistic Historiography. Selected Essays, Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 233–244. Krisch, T./Lindner, T. (eds.) (2011), Indogermanistik und Linguistik im Dialog. Akten der XIII. Fachtagung der Indogermanischen Gesellschaft, 21-27.9.2008, Salzburg, Wiesbaden. Kuch, H. (1965), Φιλόλογος. Untersuchung eines Wortes von seinem ersten Auftreten in der Tradition bis zur ersten überlieferten lexikalischen Festlegung (Schriften der Sektion für Altertumswissenschaft 48), Berlin. Kulikov, L./Lavidas, N. (eds.) (2015), Proto-Indo-European Syntax and its Development, Amsterdam/ Philadelphia. Labov, W. (1972), “Some principles of linguistic methodology”, Language in Society 1, 97–120. Lakoff, G. (1987), Women, Fire, and Dangerous Things. What Categories Reveal about the Mind, Chicago/London. Lass, R. (1980), On Explaining Language Change, Cambridge.

By Way of an Introduction  

Lass, R. (1997), Historical Linguistics and Language Change, Cambridge. Latacz, J. (1975), “Klassische Philologie und moderne Linguistik”, Gymnasium 81, 67–89. Littleton, C.S. (1982), The New Comparative Mythology, Berkeley/Los Angeles/London. Lloyd-Jones, H. (1982), “Introduction”, in: U. von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, History of Classical Scholarship, Baltimore, v–xxxii. Lord, A.B. (1960), The Singer of Tales, Cambridge, MA. Malkiel, Y. (1964), “Distinctive traits of Romance linguistics”, in: D. Hymes (ed.), Language in Culture and Society, New York/Evanston/London, 671–688. Malkiel, Y. (1968), Essays on Linguistic Themes, Berkeley/Los Angeles. Mańczak, W. (1990), “The object of philology and the object of linguistics”, in: Fisiak (ed.), 261–272. Martinet, A. (1987), “De la philologie à la linguistique”, La Linguistique 23.1, 3–12. Matasović, R. (1996), A Theory of Textual Reconstruction in Indo-European Linguistics, Frankfurt. Meid, W./Schmeja, H. (eds.) (1983), Philologie und Sprachwissenschaft. Akten der 10. Österreichischen Linguisten-Tagung, Innsbruck, 23.–26. Oktober 1982. (Innsbrucker Beiträge zur Sprachwissenschaft, Band 43), Innsbruck. Meillet, A. (1970 [1925]), The Comparative Method in Historical Linguistics, Paris. Morpurgo Davies, A. (1998), History of Linguistics, vol. iv: Nineteenth Century Linguistics (ed. by G. Lepschy), London/New York. Morpurgo Davies, A. (2011), “Philology and linguistics: When data meet theory: Two case studies. I: The case of hieroglyphic Luwian”, Transactions of the Philological Society 109.3, 207–219. Nuchelmans, G.R.F.M. (1950), Studien iiber φιλόλογος, φιλολογία, φιλολογεῖν, Diss. Nijmegen. Parry, M. (1971), The Making of the Homeric Verse (ed. by A. Parry), New York. Paul, H. (1891), Principles of the History of Language, London. Pedersen, H. (1962), The Discovery of Language, Bloomington. Pfeiffer, R. (1968), History of Classical Scholarship. From the Beginnings to the End of the Hellenistic Age, Oxford. Puhvel, J. (1987), Comparative Mythology, Baltimore/London. Reid, T.B.W. (1956) “Linguistics, structuralism, and philology”, Archivum Linguisticum 8, 28–37. Rissanen, M. (1989), “Three problems connected with the use of diachronic corpora”, ICAME Journal 13, 16–19. Rissanen, M. (1990), “On the happy reunion of English philology and historical linguistics”, in: Fisiak (ed.), 353–369. Romaine, S. (1982), Sociohistorical Linguistics, Cambridge. Saussure, F. de (1983), Course in General Linguistics, London. Schleicher, A. (1850), “Linguistik und Philologie”, in: Die Sprachen Europas in systematischer Uebersicht, Bonn, 1–5 (new ed. by E.F.K. Koerner, Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1983). Schlerath, B. (1995 & 1996), “Georges Dumézil und die Rekonstruktion der indogermanischen Kultur”, Kratylos 40, 1–48 & 41, 1–67. Schmitter, P. (ed.) (1987), Geschichte der Sprachtheorie. 1. Zur Theorie und Methode der Geschichtsschreibung der Linguistik, Tübingen. Schuchardt, H. (1928), Hugo Schuchardt-Brevier. Ein Vademekum der allgemeinen Sprachwissenschaft, ed. by L. Spitzer, Halle. Sergent, B. (1995), Les indo-européens. Histoire, langues, mythes, Paris. Silverstein, M. (1975), “Linguistics and anthropology”, in: R. Bartsch/Th. Vennemann (eds.), 157–170.

  Georgios K. Giannakis Stechow, A. von (1970), “Sprachwissenschaft vs. Linguistik: Kritische Bemerkungen zu Leo Weisgerbers ‘Hat das Wort “Muttersprache” ausgedient?”, Muttersprache 80, 396–99. Stuart-Smith, J. (2004), Phonetics and Philology. Sound Change in Italic, Oxford. Sturtevant, E.H./Kent, R.G. (1929), “Linguistic science and classical philology”, Classical Weekly 22, 9–13. Sweet, H. (1876), “Words, logic and grammar”, Transactions of the Philological Society 1875–6, 470–503. Teeter, K.V. (1973), “Linguistics and anthropology”, in: E. Haugen/M. Bloomfield (eds.), Language as a Human Problem, New York, 73–84. Traugott, E.C. (1982), “Concluding remarks”, in: Ahlqvist (ed.), 460–466. Turner, J. (2014), Philology. The Forgotten Origins of the Modern Humanities, Princeton/Oxford. Vendryes, J. (1925) [1914], Language. A Linguistic Introduction to History, London. Vendryes, J. (1951), “Linguistique et philologie”, Revue des études slaves (= Mélanges André Mazon) 27, 9–18. Watkins, C. (1970), “Studies in Indo-European legal language, institutions, and mythology”, in: G. Cardona/H.M. Hoenigswald/A. Senn (eds.), Indo-European and Indo-Europeans, Philadelphia, 321–354. Watkins, C. (1981), “Language, culture, or history?”, in: C.S. Masek et al. (eds.), Papers from the Parasession on Language and Behavior, Chicago, 238–248. Watkins, C. (1989), “New parameters in historical linguistics, philology, and culture history”, Language 65, 783–799. Watkins, C. (1990a), “Etymologies, equations, and comparanda: Types and values, and criteria for judgment”, in: Ph. Baldi (ed.), Linguistic Change and Reconstruction Methodology, Berlin, 289–303. Watkins, C. (1990b), “What is philology?”, in: J. Ziolkowski (ed.), 21–25. Watkins, C. (1992), “Culture history and historical linguistics”, in: W. Bright (ed.), International Encyclopedia of Linguistics, vol. 1, New York/Oxford, 318–322. Watkins, C. (1995), How to Kill a Dragon: Aspects of Indo-European Poetics, New York/Oxford. Weinreich, U./Labov, W./Herzog, M. (1968), “Empirical foundations for a theory of language change”, in: W.P. Lehmann/Y. Malkiel (eds.), Directions for Historical Linguistics, Austin, 95–195. West, M.L. (2007), Indo-European Poetry and Myth, Oxford. Winters, M.E./Nathan, G.S. (1992), “First he called her a philologist and then she insulted him”, in: D. Brentari/G.N. Larson/L.A. Macleod (eds.), The Joy of Grammar. A Festschrift in Honor of James D. McCawley, Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 351–367. Wyatt, W.F., Jr. (1983), “Philology ‘rediviva’”, The Classical World 77.1, 27–32. Ziolkowski, J. (ed.) (1990), On Philology, University Park/London.



Part I: Greek Language and Linguistics



Early Greek Poetry and Linguistics

Daniel Kölligan

Pindar’s Genius or Homeric Words? – The Interplay of Synchronic and Diachronic Analysis in Greek Philology and Linguistics Abstract: The relationship between Classical Philology and Historical Linguistics has been both fruitful and conflicting. It is argued that before proceeding to diachronic hypotheses a precise description of the synchronic facts is indispensable, i.e. the historical linguistics of Greek and Latin must base its arguments on sound philology. Vice versa, synchronically opaque data can be illuminated by diachronic research within the respective language (explanation e Graeco ipso, etc.) and by comparative evidence from other languages. Keywords: historical linguistics, classical philology, methodology, comparative method, etymology, phraseoloy, Oldenberg, Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, Stesichorus, Heracles, Homer, epic language, dissimilation

 Classical philology and historical linguistics In the spirit of the 14th Trends in Classics Conference dealing with the relationship between Historical Linguistics and Classical Philology it might be fitting to highlight some points in the both fruitful and at times conflicting relationship between these two disciplines. Since the early 19th century, comparative philology / historical linguistics has been a story of success, starting with Franz Bopp’s treatment of the verbal morphology of the languages that in the words of Sir William Jones in 1786, i.e. 30 years before the publication of Bopp’s book, had come to be regarded as having “sprung from some common source, which, perhaps, no longer exists.”1 The developing comparative method provided a tool for clear decisions on the relatedness of linguistic items, whereas before, in the words attributed to Voltaire, “L’étymologie, c’est une science où les voyelles ne sont rien, et les consonnes fort peu de chose.” Hence, it became demonstrable that despite formal  Unless indicated otherwise, translations of Greek texts are taken from the Loeb series (Harvard University Press).  1 Cf. Morpurgo Davies/Lepschy 2016, 65. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111272887-002

  Daniel Kölligan and semantic similarity Lat. deus is not related to Gk. θεός, while despite superficial dissimilarity Gk. κύκλος ‘wheel’ and NE wheel are cognates. The same method, studying phonology and morphology, now allowed decisions on the relatedness of languages: it could be shown that Armenian is not a branch of Iranian, despite their numerous similar lexical items; following the demonstration by Hübschmann in 1875, it became clear that these are Iranian loanwords in Armenian. In these heydays of historical linguistics, Karl Verner (see Verner 1877) showed that what in Grimm’s treatment of the Germanic sound-shift had remained a recalcitrant exception was in itself a rule-based process, viz. that the voiced or voiceless fricative outcome of Grimm’s Law (PIE *t > θ / ð, etc.) depended on the position of the accent, as e.g. in PIE *ph2tḗr (Gk. πατήρ, Skt. pitā́) > Gmc. *faðer- (Goth. fadar) vs PIE *bhréh2tēr (Gk. φρήτηρ, Skt. bhrā́tā) > Gmc. *brōþer(Goth. broþar). This in turn implied that at the time of the operation of this process, early Germanic had not yet fixed the accent on the first syllable of a word.

 Comparative mythology Τhe success of the comparative method in the areas of phonology and morphology was generally not disputed — if we leave aside the discussion about whether the dyad of “sound law and analogy” as postulated by the Neogrammarians could be deemed necessary and sufficient for the description of language change.2 In contrast to this, attempts at reconstructing phrasemes and mythemes met with fierce criticism from the very beginning, and in some cases the dividing line ran between academic disciplines. As a case in point one might take the dispute between the Indologist Hermann Oldenberg (1854–1920), award winner of the Bopp foundation along with Adalbert Bezzenberger in 1879, and the classicist Ulrich von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1848–1931) with regard to the former’s treatment of one of Heracles’ tasks, the stealing of the cows of Geryones as told e.g. in Hesiod’s Theogony and Stesichorus’ only fragmentarily preserved Geryoneis: Oldenberg (1894) claimed that the story of a god or a semidivine hero who stole (or retrieved) the red cows, taken by Oldenberg to represent dawn, from a sinister monster was a motif inherited from Proto-IndoEuropean and transformed in early Indic culture into the story of Indra beating Vr̥ tra, Vala or Viśvarūpa (literally the one ‘having all-shapes’), in Greek into one of Heracles’ tasks and in Roman myth into the story of Cacus slain by Hercules.

 2 Cf. e.g. one of their early critics Schuchardt 1885.

Pindar’s Genius or Homeric Words?  

In his edition and commentary of Euripides’ Heracles in 1895 WilamowitzMoellendorff strongly reacted against such comparisons, arming himself for defending, as he put it, the “Hellenic territory”.3 One may pass over some of the more dubious arguments in his backlash that sometimes operates with etymologies most scholars would not subscribe to nowadays, such as the derivation of φοῖνιξ ‘(blood-)red’ from φόνος ‘death’ which he takes as an argument against connecting the red cows with dawn (Eos),4 or the question of whether the difference between a three-headed Vedic monster and Geryones with three bodies may be deemed sufficient to deny any relationship between them. One should probably not pass over in silence his chauvinism denying Indic culture any historical depth and scientific endeavor.5 What is important for our purposes is that comparative mythology as a whole comes under attack, and homologies are deemed as sufficiently explained by reference to elementary parallels.6  3 “Thus, he enters Hellenic territory: I will defend its borders.” (“damit betritt er das hellenische gebiet: ich werde seine grenzen verteidigen”). 4 The cows are φοινικαῖ, “one may translate this as red, but what kind of red this is only a feeling for the Greek language will teach. φοῖνιξ stems from φόνος.” (“übersetzen mag man das mit rot, aber was für ein rot es ist, lehrt doch erst die griechische sprachempfindung. φοῖνιξ kommt von φόνος”). 5 “The Indians have no men, they do not know the gospel of the deed, they have no history.”, “But in the decisive hour the Hellenes were led on their path to science, to philosophy, just as it led them to the national free state. Therein lies their greatness that raises them above all peoples.” (“Die Inder haben eben keine männer, sie kennen das evangelium der tat nicht, sie haben keine geschichte.”, “Aber die Hellenen hat in der entscheidenden stunde ihr weg zur wissenschaft, zur philosophie geführt, wie er sie eben damals zum nationalen freien staate führte. darin liegt ihre grösse, das erhebt sie über alle völker”). This is reminiscent of Hegel’s statements about statehood as prerequisite for history, which would in Hegel’s view apply to Africa, since in his view this was a continent without states, cf. in the Vorlesungen über die Philosophie der Weltgeschichte (ed. Hoffmeister 1955, 216 f.): “In diesem Hauptteile von Afrika kann eigentlich keine Geschichte stattfinden. Es sind Zufälligkeiten, Überraschungen, die aufeinander folgen. Es ist kein Zweck, kein Staat da, den man verfolgen könnte.” “In this main part of Africa, no history can actually take place. There are only chance events, surprises that follow one other. There is no goal, no state to pursue.”, cf. Kimmerle 1993. 6 “Both peoples have told each other stories of gods or heroes fighting with hideous giants, and both peoples have had herds of cattle as a very desirable possession, quite veritable cattle.”, “So there can be no question of a comparison with the Indic and Persian myth.”, “But all this is not only not probable, all this is simply not true.”, “Greek religion simply belies the assertions of comparative mythology from which Oldenberg starts.” (“Beide völker haben sich geschichten erzählt von göttern oder helden die mit grässlichen riesen kämpfen, und beiden völkern sind rinderherden ein sehr begehrter besitz gewesen, ganz veritable rinder.”, “Also kann von einer vergleichung mit dem indischen und persischen mythos keine rede sein.”, “Aber das ist alles nicht nur nicht wahrscheinlich, das ist einfach alles nicht wahr.”, “Die

  Daniel Kölligan The debate continues up to the present, with scholars being divided on the question whether it is legitimate to reconstruct mythological and religious structures with variable fillings (Ersatzkontinuanten), e.g. a pantheon and its various members despite their different names in various traditions, such as the ‘divine twins’, the Vedic Aśvins and the Greek Διόσκουροι, or whether we should restrict ourselves to phonological and morphological word equations, since the putative inherited structures may be universals based e.g. on psychological archetypes in the sense of C.G. Jung.7 Without discussing more details, it seems worthwhile to point out (a) that if a structure is deemed universal or nearuniversal it may also apply to the speakers of a dead / reconstructed language — it may then not be a noteworthy, but a rather trivial fact, however — and (b) the more specific and numerous the homologies between two mythemes are the more likely it seems that they cannot be attributed to chance or universality: taking the example just quoted, the complex of divine twins related to horses, rescuing men from the dangers at sea, and connected to a maiden dawn, might be deemed sufficiently specific to exclude chance or elementary parallels.8

 Historical syntax and phraseology Beside doubts in the area of comparative mythology and religion, similar qualms subsist in comparative syntax and phraseology. While some features of PIE syntax such as the existence of Wackernagel clitics or the tendency to prepose relative clauses may have a considerable number of adherents, the reconstruction of concrete phrases or sentences is usually regarded as “a fruitless endeavor”.9 For most ‘philologists’, i.e. historical linguists, Adalbert Kuhn has gained himself ‘imperishable fame’ by his passing comment — in a paper on nasal presents — about the exact correspondence of Greek κλέος ἄφθιτον and  hellenische religion straft die behauptung der vergleichenden mythologie, von der Oldenberg ausgeht, einfach lügen.”). 7 Cf. the discussion between Oberlies and Zimmer in Oberlies 2000; Zimmer 2000. 8 Cf. e.g. the Maya Hero Twins Hunahpu and Xbalanque not showing such connections. One may add that formal matches alone can be fallacious, too, as Seebold’s example of the ProtoNorse term for ‘stamp’, reconstructable based on the equation of Swed. frimärke, Norw. frimerke and Dan. frimærke, may show, cf. Seebold 1981, 48 f. 9 Cf. Keydana 2018, 2195: “The only sentence that can be reconstructed with some plausibility is Watkins’ famous *egwhent ogwhim […] ‘[he] slew the dragon’ (Watkins 1995, 301) — hardly more than a VP […] No other formula can be reconstructed with the same probability (cf. Keydana 2001). Reconstructing PIE phrases or sentences, then, is a fruitless endeavor”.

Pindar’s Genius or Homeric Words?  

Vedic śravo akṣitam,10 thereby establishing the study of Indo-European poetic language (Dichtersprache). But neither this nor other equations such as — to justify the title of this paper — Pindar’s ἐπέων ... τέκτονες (Pyth. 3.112–14) ‘verses (which) craftsmen (constructed)’ equated with Ved. vā́cam takṣ- ‘to forge words’ and Av. vačas-tašti- ‘stanza’11 and discussed as part of this inherited linguistic register have remained undisputed and been claimed as the products of the Greek genius only. As for the former, the most prominent argumentation in favor of its being an inner-Homeric recent creation rather than a ‘Homeric formula’ in the sense of a fixed combination of lexemes inherited from the protolanguage has probably been put forward by M. Finkelberg in various publications,12 which aimed to show that the non-formulaic nature of the phrase occurring only once in ‘Homer’, in Il. 9.413 ὤλετο μέν μοι νόστος, ἀτὰρ κλέος ἄφθιτον ἔσται, rather speaks for a recent combination, despite the attempts of other scholars to show independent evidence for its antiquity, e.g. Nagy 1974 who discussed its occurrence in the lyric of Sappho fr. 44.4 (L-P) κλέος ἄφθιτον and in a 6th cent. BC inscription from Crisa (close to Delphi), SEG 351, with retained digammas (hōς καὶ κε̃ νος ἔχοι κλέϝος ἄπθιτον αἰϝεί) which seems to show its independence from the Homeric text as transmitted to us. As pointed out by Watkins 1995, we are probably dealing with a combination of three lexemes, the third being *h2oi̯u- ‘life, eternity’, continued in Gk. αἰών, αἰεί and Ved. ā́yu-, cf. Il. 9.415 ὤλετό μοι κλέος ἐσθλόν, ἐπὶ δηρὸν δέ μοι αἰὼν / ἔσσεται, and RV 1.9.7 sáṁ gómad indra vā́javad / asmé pr̥ thú śrávo br̥ hát / viśvā́yur dhehi ákṣitam “Place in us, o Indra, broad and lofty fame, accompanied by cattle and victory prizes, lifelong and imperishable” (Jamison/Brereton). As pointed out above, the more elements are at play in comparison, the chance of common inheritance increases. In addition, Risch 1987 remarked that ἄφθιτος is to be understood as ‘not having φθίσις, i.e. not wasting away, not running dry,’ cf. Lat. sitis ‘thirst’. He pointed out that Ved. akṣita- is also used of sources, water (útsa-), wells (avatá-), etc., a use probably also reflected in Hes. Theog. 805 Στυγὸς ἄφθιτον ὕδωρ. In this sense, the κλέος ἄφθιτον would be the ‘fame that never runs dry’, a transfer of an epithet describing water to the domain of hearing (PIE *ḱleu̯ -) — a metaphor  10 Kuhn 1853, 467: “Die richtigkeit von Benfeys vergleichung [i.e. of Ved. kṣiṇā́ti] mit φθίνω, ungeachtet der seltsamen lautwandlung, beweist mir das in den Veden häufige áxita unvergänglich neben ἄφθιτος, so wie xiti f. schwinden, vergänglichkeit neben griech. φθίσις, so z. b. im comp. áxiti çrávas (R. 1. 40. 4.) der vergänglichkeit nicht unterworfener ruhm, wofür auch eben so gut áxitam̃ crávas [sic] stehen könnte, das genau das homerische ἄφθιτον κλέος (Il. 9.413) wäre”. 11 Cf. Schmitt 1967, § 20, 602, 603. 12 Finkelberg 1986; 2019 (2007).

  Daniel Kölligan that, again, due to its boldness is probably neither trivial nor universal.13 Finally, a piece of evidence sometimes neglected in the discussion is the Mycenaean personal name a-qi-ti-ta /Akwhthitā/ (MY Oe 103, KN Ap 639.12). As seen first by Heubeck and Schmeja,14 ἄφθιτος is not used as an attribute of persons in early Greek, and a PN ‘the imperishable one’ seems out of the question, hence it is more likely that a-qi-ti-ta is the short form of a compound name based on the phrase under discussion, i.e., *Akwhthito-klewe(h)i̯a ‘the one who has imperishable fame’, cf. the similar case of the short form e-te-wa /Etewās/ (PY An 657.3) beside the patronymic e-te-wo-ke-re-we-i-jo /Etewoklewehiyos/ (PY An 654.8/9, Aq 64.15) which presupposes a PN *Etewoklewēs (alphabetic Gk. Ἐτεοκλῆς) ‘having real fame’ (cf. the similar PN yet with a different first member Ved. Satya-śravas- ‘having true fame’). If this interpretation is correct and the name a-qi-ti-ta presupposes the existence of a combination of ἄφθιτος with κλέος, it must have existed at least already in Mycenaean times and cannot be a later Homeric creation of the early 1st millennium BC.

 Explanations e graeco ipso: τηλύγετος The unease that reconstructions and claims about prehistoric states of affairs are met with may to some extent be based on a superficial analysis of synchronic facts and rash speculations about how they have come into existence. The quality of historical explanations depends on that of the synchronic analysis, since it is only by the latter that traces of earlier states of affairs can be detected, notably in the form of synchronically irregular forms that can be remnants of earlier regular processes which have ceased to operate, such as ablaut, types of word-formation, etc. A case in point may be the much-discussed epic adjective τηλύγετος, an epithet whose precise meaning was unclear already in classical antiquity. As it is used mostly with reference to young persons in the Homeric

 13 Cf. also Volk 2002 who stresses that both Gk. ἄφθιτον and Ved. akṣita- refer to concrete objects (θρόνον ἄφθιτον αἰεὶ, σκῆπτρον πατρώϊον ἄφθιτον αἰεί, ἴτυς ἄ., δόμος, δώματα, ἄμπελοι, but also 1× Il. 24.88 μήδεα). This need not imply, however, as V. proposes, that the Homeric use with reference to fame after death is an innovation, based on an inherited collocation. The notion of ‘fame that does not dry up’ may be complementary to that of the ‘(endless) flow of speech’, cf. Pi. Isthm. 7.17 ἀμνάμονες δὲ βροτοί, / ὅ τι μὴ σοφίας ἄωτον ἄκρον / κλυταῖς ἐπέων ῥοαῖσιν ἐξίκηται ζυγέν ‘Mortals forget what does not attain poetic wisdom’s choice pinnacle, yoked to glorious streams of verses’. 14 Cf. Risch 1987, 3, 9.

Pindar’s Genius or Homeric Words?  

poems, one common interpretation was ‘last-born’, as if it were a compound of τῆλε/τηλυ- or τέλος and °γετος understood as a form of γίγνομαι. Another frequent interpretation was ‘dear, beloved’, which seemed to fit contexts like the following: 1)

ὡς ὄφελεν θάνατός μοι ἁδεῖν κακὸς ὁππότε δεῦρο υἱέϊ σῷ ἑπόμην θάλαμον γνωτούς τε λιποῦσα παῖδά τε τηλυγέτην καὶ ὁμηλικίην ἐρατεινήν Il. 3.173 I wish that evil death had been pleasing to me when I followed your son here, and left my bridal chamber and my kinspeople and my daughter, well-beloved, and the lovely companions of my girlhood. (But note Schadewaldt’s translation “die spätgeborene”, ‘the late born one’).

Also most of the accounts in recent scholarship suppose τῆλε ‘far’ to be the first member of the compound. Janda 1988 compares λύγδην ‘wheeping, sobbing’ and proposes a meaning ‘sobbing in the distance’ (“in der Ferne schluchzend”), referring to the sons and daughters of the warriors fighting abroad. By a haplology similar to the one seen in κελαι[*νο]-νεφής *τηλε-λυγετος would have become τηλύγετος.15 Against this, Vine 1998, 64 objected that “one is reluctant to believe that the essential Homeric attribute of a beloved child is its propensity for ‘sobbing (when) at a distance (from parents)ʼ”, and proposed a compound based on a noun *λύγετος ‘pain, misery’ (cf. λυγρός ‘sad, full of sorrow’), i.e. ‘having misery/pain at a distance’, said of children and young warriors sheltered or protected from harm. Here, too, one may object that e.g. Telemachus, who is said to be τηλύγετος, has considerable hardships to bear and does not have ‘pain at a distance’. Blanc 2002, 179–181 points out that “in the clearest passages, τηλύγετος is used to refer to a child separated from its parents or from one of them for a very long time, that is who has grown up far from its parents” and therefore supposes that it originally meant ‘grown up in the distance’ and was composed with a second element *-υγετος from the PIE root *h2eu̯ g/h2u̯ eg‘to grow’ (cf. Lat. augēre, Goth. aukan, etc.). In this case, a caveat regarding the phonology is in order, since in Greek the root usually has initial α-, cf. ἀέξω and αὔξομαι, and it is not certain that in the context *-h2ug- the laryngeal was lost (cf. Ved. úkṣati which may be a formal match of αὔξο/ε-). A further alternative that might be considered is to suppose not τῆλε as the first member of the

 15 Regarding the word formation and words with similar meaning, Janda adduces κοπετός ‘beating (one’s breast), wailing’, τυπετός ‘id.’, σταγετός ‘dripping’ (στάζω).

  Daniel Kölligan compound, but the verbal root τλη- ‘lift, bear, suffer’, as e.g. in the PN Τληπτόλεμος which probably means something like ‘who bears (the hardships of) war’. This implies a dissimilation of an earlier *τλη-λύγετος ‘bearing suffering’, which, however, seems to be a rather regular process, cf. for the context ClV.(C)lV > CV.(C)lV- the cases of *ἔκπλαγλος > ἔκπαγλος ‘horrible’ (Hom.+) from ἐκπλήσσω ‘to frighten’ and παφλάζω ‘splash, bubble’ (Il. 13.798 κύματα παφλάζοντα) beside πλαφλάζω (POxy. 10.1234 Fr. 2 Col. II = Alc. 72.5 καὶ νύκτ[ι] πλαφλάζει [λάτ]αχθεν).16 As in ἔκπαγλος, the dissimilated form τηλύγετος was not changed back to one with two laterals, in the case of ἔκπαγλος even despite the synchronic co-existence of the corresponding verb ἐκπλήσσω, which might have triggered such a repair, a factor absent in τηλύγετος whose second member probably only occurred in this compound. Furthermore, compounds with τλη- are apparently late literary creations, cf. τληπαθέω (Hdn. Epim. 134, Hsch., Sever. Clyst. 7), τληπάθειαι· ὑπομοναί, ταλαιπωρίαι (Hsch.), τληπαθής ‘bearing suffering, miserable’ (Hsch. τληπαθής· ὑπομονητικός, Zos. 4.50, Sch.rec. Aesch. PV 231, Pers. 574, etc.), and τληπάθημα (Sch. rec. Aesch. PV 688). Hence, there was probably no model for such a repair at the time the dissimilation occurred. The allomorphs productive in earlier poetic language are ταλα(σι)- and τλησι-, cf. ταλασίφρων, the frequent epithet of Odysseus in Homer (14×), τλησικάρδιος (Aesch. PV 160 [lyr.], Ag. 430), ταλακάρδιος (Hes. [Sc.] 424+), τλησίπονος (Nonnus, Dion. 9.301, Opp. Cyn. 4.4, Hal. 1.35), and the PNs Τλασιμένης (IG VII 4236), Tλασίμαχος (Moretti, Olymp. 524-5) and Ταλασίας (IG IX (2) 567, 26). As for the meaning, one may refer to compounds with a similar meaning such as ταλαπενθής ‘bearing suffering’17 and ταλαεργός ‘bearing toil’ (H.+).18 A compound meaning ‘bearing suffering’ may semantically develop both into ‘brave’ and ‘miserable’, cf. τλήμων ‘brave, steadfast’ (Il. 10.231 ὁ τλήμων Ὀδυσεύς) and in post-Homeric literature also ‘miserable’ (Aesch. PV 614 τλῆμον Προμηθεῦ, τοῦ δίκην πάσχεις τάδε ‘Unhappy Prometheus [...] What are you undergoing this punishment for?’). In the latter meaning τηλύγετος may have been a fitting epithet for young persons who are either separated from their parents or die  16 For more details on dissimilations involving /l/, cf. Kölligan 2018. 17 E.g. Od. 5.222 τλήσομαι ἐν στήθεσσιν ἔχων ταλαπενθέα θυμόν, Bacchyl. Epin. 5.157 ταλαπενθέος πότμον οἰκτίροντα φωτός, Dith. 16.26 ἐπεὶ πύθετʼ ἀγγελίαν ταλαπενθέα, Hsch. ταλαπενθέα· ὑπομένοντα τὰ πένθη, Panuyassis fr. 12 [Kink.] ὑσμίνας διέπων ταλαπενθέας (5th cent. BC). 18 Cf. Hsch. ταλαεργοί· οἱ ὑπομένοντες τὰ ἔργα, τλητικοί, ταλαίπωροι, δυσπαθεῖς. The adj. ταλαίπωρος ‘miserableʼ is less certain, the second member might be related to πῆμα, cf. Hsch. πωρεῖν· κηδεύειν, πενθεῖν; πωρῆσαι· λυπῆσαι. καὶ τὰ ὅμοια; πωρητύς· ταλαιπωρία, πένθος, and outside Greek to Ved. pāmán-, Av. pāman- ‘[skin disease]’, PIE *peh1-?

Pindar’s Genius or Homeric Words?  

young in battle or become premature heirs due to their father’s death such as the τηλύγετοι Xanthos and Thoon dying as young warriors (Il. 5.152 ff.) or Orestes suffering due to his father’s murder (9.143, 285), etc.19

 Help from comparison? . The need for a comparative analysis is evident in cases of synchronically isolated lexemes, be it that comparative data provide both formal and semantic matches (as in Gk. πατήρ, Skt. pitar-, Lat. pater) or formal matches only as in Skt. deva‘god’ vs Av. daeuua- ‘demon’ or Germ. selig ‘blessed, happy’ vs NE silly from Gmc. *sæliga-. Ideally, semantic differences can be accounted for by historical information, in the first case by Zarathustra’s religious reform that banned the gods of the Indo-Iranian pantheon, in the second by the intermediate semantic shifts attested in historical texts by which an adjective meaning ‘happy’ developed the modern meaning of silly. The histoire de mot may thus lead to a direct formal and semantic match. In cases for which such information is lacking, it may be helpful for the analysis to look at the synchronic use pointing to syntagmatic preferences and restrictions that may be due to an earlier meaning (‘source determination’) and at presumably similar semantic developments attested in other languages. An example for this could be Greek ὄλβος ‘welfare, well-being, prosperity, riches’, for which, unlike in the case of τηλύγετος, no inner-Greek comparanda seem to be available.20 In contrast to the latter, the meaning of ὄλβος is relatively clear, in the Homeric poems it denotes wordly prosperity consisting in riches, offspring, etc., cf. its co-occurrence with πλοῦτος in the following two examples and the derivative ὄλβιος in ex. 4 beside πλοῦτος and υἱός in the same passage as in ex. 3: 2)

... ὃς Ἑλλάδι οἰκία ναίων ὄλβῳ τε πλούτῳ τε μετέπρεπε Μυρμιδόνεσσι Il. 16.596

 19 Cf. Nordheider’s remark in LfgrE IV.476 ff. that τ. is used like a juridical terminus technicus of the heir (“τ. funktioniert […] i.d.R. wie ein rechtl. t.t. für den Erben, Stammhalter.”). 20 Comparisons with look-alikes like λοβός ‘pod, husk’, λόβαι· χεῖρες (Hsch.) as proposed by Fick 1880, 171 f. or with ὄλπα· χόνδρου τις ἕψησις. ἔδεσμά τι ‘cooking of groats, kind of food’. ἤ ὄλβος (Hsch.) as favored by Furnée 1972, 155 and Beekes 2010, 1067 are uncertain.

  Daniel Kölligan (Bathycles, Chalcon’s dear son,) who had his abode in Hellas, and for wealth and substance was preeminent among the Myrmidons. 3)

πάντας γὰρ ἐπ’ ἀνθρώπους ἐκέκαστο ὄλβῳ τε πλούτῳ τε, ἄνασσε δὲ Μυρμιδόνεσσι Il. 24.536 (Peleus:) For he excelled all men in wealth and substance, and was king over the Myrmidons.

4)

καὶ σὲ γέρον τὸ πρὶν μὲν ἀκούομεν ὄλβιον εἶναι· ὅσσον Λέσβος ἄνω Μάκαρος ἕδος ἐντὸς ἐέργει καὶ Φρυγίη καθύπερθε καὶ Ἑλλήσποντος ἀπείρων, τῶν σε γέρον πλούτῳ τε καὶ υἱάσι φασὶ κεκάσθαι Il. 24.543 And of you, old sir, we hear that once you were happy; how of all that toward the sea Lesbos, the seat of Macar, encloses, and Phrygia in the upland, and the boundless Hellespont, over all these people, men say, you, old sir, were preeminent because of your wealth and your sons.

These blessings are bestowed upon mortals and taken away from them by the gods, cf. 5)

Ζεὺς δ’ αὐτὸς νέμει ὄλβον Ὀλύμπιος ἀνθρώποισιν Od. 6.188 It is Zeus himself, the Olympian, that gives happy fortune to men.

6)

Ζεὺς ὄλβον ἀπηύρα Od. 18.273 (whose) happiness Zeus has taken away.

In Pindar, ὄλβος co-occurs with verbs meaning ‘to irrigate; foster, cherish’, ‘plant’ and ‘blossom’. This might either be an ingenious metaphor (cf. (3) above) or a usage closer to the original, more concrete meaning of ὄλβος (cf. infra), cf. 7)

ἄρδω ‘give drink to, water, irrigate; metaph. foster, cherish’: ὑγίεντα δ’εἴ τις ὄλβον ἄρδει Pind. Ol. 5.23 if a man fosters a sound prosperity.

Pindar’s Genius or Homeric Words?  

8)

τὰ μέσα μακροτέρῳ ὄλβῳ τεθαλότα Pind. Pyth. 11.53 I find the middle estate flourishing with more enduring prosperity.

9)

σὺν θεῷ γάρ τοι φυτευθεὶς ὄλβος ἀνθρώποισι παρμονώτερος

Pind. Nem. 8.17

For truly, when it is planted with a god’s blessing, happiness lasts longer for men. 10) εὐανθεῖ σὺν ὄλβῳ

Pind. Isthm. 5.13

with blossoming prosperity.

Since PIE *b is extremely rare, Greek -β- is more likely to go back to the labiovelar *-gu̯ - or the cluster *-gu̯ -, hence possible input forms for Gk. ὄλβος could be *H/s/i̯/u̯ olgu̯ /gu̯ o-. Among the verbal roots reconstructed in LIV², *selǵ- ‘to let loose, send’ (Ved. sr̥ játi, etc.) seems a less promising candidate due its meaning than *u̯ elg- ‘be(-come) wet’ found e.g. in Lith. válgau, válgyti ‘to eat’, valg̃ is m. ‘food’, and OHG welc ‘wet’. A formation of the type CoC-u̯ ó- built to this root, i.e. *u̯ olgu̯ ó-, would meet the formal requirements for a possible protoform resulting in Gk. ὄλβος. This derivational pattern is productive in Greek, cf. 11) οὖρος ‘headwind’ < *h3oru̯ ó- ‘rising’ related to ὄρνυμαι ‘to rise’, aor. ὦρτο, PIE *h3er-; οὖρος ‘guardian’ < *soru̯ ó- : ὄρομαι ‘to watch, guard’, ὁράω, PIE *ser-; θοῦρος ‘wild, impetuous’ < ‘jumping (against the enemies)’ < *dhor(h3)u̯ ó- : aor. ἔθορον ‘jumped’ (*dherh3-), PIE *dherh3-; οὖλος ‘baneful, deadly’ < *h3olh1u̯ ó- : ὄλλυμι/-μαι ‘to destroy, perish’, aor. ὦλετο, PIE *h3elh1-.21

The Homeric data are ambiguous as to whether ὄλβος and its derivatives had a word-initial digamma originally. In the Iliad only two passages seem to speak against a form *u̯ olgu̯ o-, cf. 12) ὦ μάκαρ Ἀτρεΐδη μοιρηγενὲς ὀλβιόδαιμον

Il. 3.182

Ah, happy son of Atreus, child of fortune, blest of heaven

 21 Cf. for more details García Ramón 2016.

  Daniel Kölligan 13) καὶ σὲ γέρον τὸ πρὶν μὲν ἀκούομεν ὄλβιον εἶναι Il. 24.543 And of thee, old sire, we hear that of old thou wast blest.

However, both ὀλβιόδαιμον and μοιρηγενής are hapax legomena, hence the whole line might be a relatively young creation,22 and Il. 24.543 ὄλβιον εἶναι may be compared to Od. 17.354 ἐν ἀνδράσιν ὄλβιον εἶναι ‘(that Telemachus) may be blest among men’, which might cover an earlier *ἐν ἀνδράσι ϝόλβιον εἶναι. In the Iliad ὄλβος occurs only twice (16.596, 24.536, cf. exx. (2) and (3) above), both times in the phrase #ὄλβῳ τε πλούτῳ, which, under the hypothesis proposed here, would go back to *ϝόλβῳ τε πλούτῳ with a repetition of labial (w, p) and lateral (l) in the first syllable of each content word and a similar sequence of back vowels, which might be a feature of poetic diction. Of the nine occurrences in the Odyssey, two neglect digamma (3.208 θεοὶ ὄλβον#, 6.188 νέμει ὄλβον), one has movable ny (18.19 ὥς περ ἐγών, ὄλβον δὲ θεοὶ μέλλουσιν ὀπάζειν ‘even as I am; and as for happy fortune, it is the gods that are likely to give us that’, which could be a repair for *egō w- as e.g. in Il. 2.73 ἐγὼν ἔπεσιν), four are in verse initial position (4.208, 14.206, 18.123, 20.200) and two are ambiguous (18.273, 19.161, cf. exx. (5) and (6) above). Neglect of digamma is also seen in the repeated phrase ὄλβια δίδωμι ‘I give good fortune’, 7.148 θεοὶ ὄλβια δοῖεν ‘may the gods give fortune’, 8.413, 24.402 θεοὶ δέ τοι ὄλβια δοῖεν ‘id.’ and in 18.218 καί κέν τις φαίη γόνον ἔμμεναι ὀλβίου ἀνδρός ‘and wouldest be called a rich man’s son’, and only heavy tinkering with the line might produce an earlier version with digamma such as *ἔμμεν ϝολβιο’ ἀνδρός. Even though no Homeric line unambiguously speaks in favor of word-initial digamma, a protoform *u̯ olgu̯ omight still be possible if one supposes an early dissimilation of the two labials separated by a non-high nucleus, a labialized vowel in this case, i.e. the feature [labial] occurs in three segments of two adjacent syllables: *u̯ olgu̯ o- > *olgu̯ o-. A similar process has been assumed for ἀρτοκόπος ‘baker’ < *artokwopos < *artopokwos (PIE *peku̯ - ‘ripen’), and may have occurred in καπνός ‘smoke’ from *ku̯ apnos beside Lith. kvãpas ‘breath’ (cf. already Myc. ka-pi-ni-ja ‘chimney’, which might belong to this root, too), although in these cases the labial is not the only consonant in the syllable onset.23

 22 Cf. LfgrE, s.v. μοιρηγενής III.249 f. (Nordheider): “an Chorlyrik erinnernder Wortprunk”. 23 For more details, cf. Kölligan 2017, 42 f.

Pindar’s Genius or Homeric Words?  

. If, as hinted at above, the Pindaric use of ὄλβος with words meaning ‘water, irrigate’, etc. reflects something old, one might assume that the noun meaning originally ‘making wet, watering (plants, etc.)’ may have been used by metonymy also for the object, i.e. ‘watered plants, s.th. watered’, whence ‘something well nourished, growing, prospering’. A similar development seems to have taken place in Baltic and Slavic where besides Lith. vìlgyti ‘to make wet’ we find Russ. dial. vológa (f.) ‘liquid, water’ (Russ. vlága ‘moisture’) and ‘soup, liquid fat, food’ (cf. ALEW, s.v.). More generally, words meaning ‘rich in’ either water, juice or fat seem to allow a metaphorical use referring to riches, goods, etc. in general: Gk. πίων means both ‘fat’ and ‘rich’, cf. for the latter Od. 9.35 πίονα οἶκον ‘rich house’, Il. 2.549 πίονι νηῷ ‘rich temple’, Il. 12.283 ἀνδρῶν πίονα ἔργα ‘the prospering works of men’, etc. For ‘succulent, juicy’ one may compare Germ. saftig ‘sappy, juicy’ and ‘expensive’ as in eine saftige Geldstrafe ‘a hefty fine’, NE a juicy contract, Fr. un contrat juteux, Span. un contrato suculento ‘a financially rewarding contract’; Gk. ὄλβος (PIE *u̯ elg-) might belong here. For ‘overflowing’ riches cf. Gk. πλοῦτος (PIE *pleu̯ -, Gk. πλέω, Skt. plav- ‘float’), ῥυδόν (PIE *sreu̯ -, Gk. ῥέω, Skt. srav-),24 maybe ἄφενος if from PIE *h2ebh‘stream, water’ as per Willi 2004 (cf. Il. 1.171 ἄφενος καὶ πλοῦτον ἀφύξειν ‘draw thee thy fill of goods and wealth’), and Lat. affluō ‘to flow toward; to overflow, abound’, e.g. Lucr. 6.13 divitiis homines et honore et laude potentis / affluere ‘[He] saw how men were rolling in riches, mighty in honor and fame’.

. Further comparative data may now be helpful to support the assumption of a form *u̯ olgu̯ o- as underlying Gk. ὄλβος:

 24 Od. 15.426 κούρη δ’ εἴμ’ Ἀρύβαντος ἐγὼ ῥυδὸν ἀφνειοῖο ‘I’m the daughter of Arybas to whom wealth comes in streams.’ (tr. Huddleston). Lat. lucrum ‘gain, profit’ might be another instance of this development, if it continues *luh2tró- (with shortening by Dybo’s Law) from PIE *leh2-u- ‘to pour’ (Hitt. laḫu-). Lat. laetus ‘rich, fat, flourishing, happy’ could be a verbal adjective *lā-eto- ‘poured, flowing abundantly’ built to a present *lā-ē- ‘to be poured, to flow’ from the same root (cf. for this type of correlation tacēre : tacitus).

  Daniel Kölligan .. Beside the Gmc. adj. *wlakwa- attested in OE wlacu/wlæc ‘lukewarm’, ME wlak, MLG wlak, MHG vlac ‘id.’25 there are Mfr. glosses attesting two verbs Gl 2,20,75 ‘tepescere, mollire’ and ‘be warm’ Cst [= Gl 4,209,47] ‘tepere’,26 which seem to point to an underlying adjective Gmc. *walk(w)a-, transposed *u̯ olg(u̯ )o-. If these forms are related to the root PIE *u̯ elg-, might show the older sequence of vowel and liquid and Gmc. *wlakwa- might result from a metathesis of an earlier form *walkwa- corresponding to *u̯ olgu̯ o-, the putative predecessor of Gk. ὄλβος.27 The meaning ‘tepid, lukewarm’ is also attested for *walka-, cf. MHG wëlc(h) ‘madidus, tepidus’, e.g. in the MHG Apollonius of Tyre v. 3005 sie trinkent rüssîne milch peide kalt unde wilch ‘They drink mare’s milk both cold and warm.’28

.. The dis legomenon Hittite walku(w)a- has been interpreted in various ways, ranging from ‘bad omen, something boding ill’ (Otten 1973, 7, 16) to ‘dangerous’ by Lehrman 1989, who connected this and CLuw. walwa- ‘lion’ with Skt. ávr̥ ka‘safe’ from a hypothetical adjective *vr̥ ká ‘dangerous’.29 Various scholars have argued for a meaning ‘gang, horde, multitude’.30 The latter seems to fit both

 25 Cf. Kroonen 2013, 591. 26 Cf. Heidermanns 1993, 683 s.v. *wlak(w)a-. 27 The sequence -VR.CR- may also underly Gmc. *þwerha- ‘cross’ (Goth. þwaihrs ‘angry’, Germ. quer, etc.), if this goes back to *þerhwa- (PIE *terku̯ -), cf. Kroonen 2013, 556. In both cases, one might hypothesize that the proximity of two Rs in the neighboring syllables -VR1.CR2- was resolved by moving one of them to the onset of the first syllable, in the case of *þerhwa- R2. This was impossible in *walkwa-, as this would have produced an illicit geminate **wwalka-, hence R1 moved: *walkwa- > *wlakwa-. 28 Cf. Lexer, s.v. The meaning ‘lukewarm’ may have developed in contexts where *walk(w)awas used as an attribute of body liquids such as blood and milk (as in the ex. given above), cf. also Gk. λιαρός ‘lukewarm’ (Il. 11.477 αἷμα λιαρόν) for which Dieu 2014 assumes an earlier meaning ‘liquid’ and which he traces back to PIE *lei̯h2- ‘to pour’. 29 PIE *u̯ lḱ̥ u̯o- ‘wolf’ would then be a substantivization ‘the dangerous one’ as a replacement for a different word designating this animal; cf. also Höfler 2021. Against this connection Tischler and Neumann 1977–, IV.16 (W-Z), 270 f. 30 Cf. e.g. Hoffner 1980, 290; 1998, 81; Goedegebuure 2002, 11; Soysal 1999, 126 f. (arguing for a connection with Lat. volgus, -ī n. ‘crowd, people’, following a proposal by H.A. Hoffner;

Pindar’s Genius or Homeric Words?  

contexts of attestation, i.e., ‘What (kind of) plenty have I born?’ and ‘What (kind of) plenty do you ...?’,31 cf. (quoted after Kloekhorst 2008, 950 f.): 14) KBo 22.2 obv. (1) [MUNUS.LUGA]L URUKa-ni-iš 30 DUMUMEŠ 1EN MU-an-ti ḫa-a-aš-ta UM-MA ŠI=MA (2) [ki]-i=u̯ a ku-it u̯ a-al-ku-an ḫa-a-as-ḫu-un The Queen of Kaniš bore thirty sons within one year. She (speaks) thus: ‘What kind of u̯ . did I give birth to?’ 15) KBo 3.40b+ (15) ... ú-k=u-uš pu-nu-uš-ke-m[i ki-i=u̯ a? k]u-it u̯ a-al-ku-u̯ a-an (16) [ ] X [ -t]e?-ni UM-MA ŠU-NU=MA ERÍNMEŠ [Ḫur-r]i(?) ut-ni-i̯a ú-ez-zi I ask them: ‘What [kind of] u̯ . do you (pl.) [...]?’ They answer: ‘The [Hurr]ian army comes to the country’.

Under this hypothesis, the meaning of *u̯ olgu̯ o- would have shifted from ‘succulent, well nourished’ to ‘rich, plentiful’ in general and the corresponding substantive ‘plenty’. Of course, the uncertainty about the meaning of walku(w)a- in the only two contexts where it is attested so far does not allow any firm conclusions, but the equation with Greek ὄλβος and Germanic *walkwa- may be considered a hypothesis worth pursuing in further research.

 Summary The comparative method has stood the test of time in the areas of phonology and morphology and is an indispensable tool for historical linguistics. Matters become more complicated in areas lacking restricted sets of elements such as phonemes and morphemes, i.e. syntax and semantics, and, connected with the latter, comparative mythology, and religion. It is here that both new methods for diachronic studies need to be developed and the dialogue between disciplines overlapping in their objects of study must be strengthened.

 formally, Lat. volgus could be an aequabile of Gmc. *walka-, cf. 5.3.1), see also Holland/Zorman 2007. 31 Maybe ‘foresee’ or, as argued by Melchert 1986, 102 f. ‘sing’ ([iš-ha-m]a-i[š-te-]ni) who translates “What is this monstrosity you’re singing?”. On kī kwit, cf. Hackstein 2004.

  Daniel Kölligan

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Keydana, G. (2018), “The syntax of Proto-Indo-European”, in: J.S. Klein et al. (eds.), Handbook of Comparative and Historical Indo-European Linguistics, Berlin/New York, vol. 3, 2195– 2228. https://www.degruyter.com/view/title/528717 (last accessed 20/06/2023). Kimmerle, H. (1993), “Hegel und Afrika: das Glas zerspringt”, Hegel-Studien 28, 303–325. Kloekhorst, A. (2008), Etymological Dictionary of the Hittite Inherited Lexicon, Leiden. Kölligan, D. (2017), “Expressivität oder Lautgesetz? Drei griechische Etymologien”, International Journal of Diachronic Linguistics and Linguistic Reconstruction 14, 31–49. Kölligan, D. (2018), “Dissimilatorischer Schwund von /l/ im Griechischen”, Historische Sprachforschung 130, 42–62. Kroonen, G. (2013), Etymological Dictionary of Proto-Germanic, Leiden. Kuhn, A. (1853), “Ueber die durch Nasale erweiterten Verbalstämme”, Zeitschrift für Vergleichende Sprachforschung auf dem Gebiete des Deutschen, Griechischen und Lateinischen 2.6, 455–471. Lehrman, A. (1989), “Anatolian cognates of the Proto-Indo-European word for ‘wolf’”, Die Sprache 33.1, 13–18. Machek, V. (1948), “Graeco-Slavica”, Listy Filologické 72, 69–76. Melchert, H.C. (1986), “Hittite uwaš and congeners”, Indogermanische Forschungen 91, 102– 115. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110243338.102 (last accessed 20/06/2023). Morpurgo Davies, A./Lepschy, G.C. (2016), History of Linguistics, Volume IV: Nineteenth-century Linguistics, London. https://doi.org/10.4324/9781315538587 (last accessed 20/06/2023). Nagy, G. (1974), Comparative Studies in Greek and Indic Meter, Cambridge, MA. Oberlies, T. (2000), “Pūṣans Zahlücken und Hermes’ Vorliebe für Backwerk: ererbte Strukturen des Pantheons der r̥ gvedischen Religion”, in: B. Forssman/R. Plath (eds.), Indoarisch, Iranisch und die Indogermanistik: Arbeitstagung der Indogermanischen Gesellschaft vom 2. bis 5. Oktober 1997 in Erlangen, Wiesbaden, 369–387. Oldenberg, H. (1894), Die Religion des Veda, Stuttgart. Otten, H. (1973), Eine althethitische Erzählung um die Stadt Zalpa, Wiesbaden. Pisani, V. (1934), “Armeniaca”, Zeitschrift für vergleichende Sprachforschung auf dem Gebiete der indogermanischen Sprachen 61.3/4, 180–189. Risch, E. (1987), “Die ältesten Zeugnisse für κλέος ἄφϑιτον”, Zeitschrift für vergleichende Sprachforschung 100.1, 3–11. Schmitt, R. (1967), Dichtung und Dichtersprache in indogermanischer Zeit, Wiesbaden. Schuchardt, H. (1885), Ueber die Lautgesetze: gegen die Junggrammatiker, Berlin. Seebold, E. (1981), Etymologie: eine Einführung am Beispiel der Deutschen Sprache, Munich. Snell, B. (ed.) (1979), Lexikon des frühgriechischen Epos (LfgrE), Göttingen. Soysal, O. (1999), “Beiträge zur althethitischen Geschichte (I). Ergänzende Bemerkungen zur Pubanu-Chronik und zum Menschenfresser-Text”, Hethitica 14, 109–145. Tischler, J./Neumann, G. (1977), Hethitisches etymologisches Glossar, Innsbruck. Verner, K. (1877), “Eine Ausnahme der ersten Lautverschiebung”, Kuhns Zeitschrift 23, 97–130. Vine, B. (1998), Aeolic ὄρπετον and deverbative *-etó- in Greek and Indo-European, Innsbruck. Volk, K. (2002), “Κλέος ἄφθιτον revisited”, Classical Philology 97.1, 61–68. https://doi.org/10. 1086/449567 (last accessed 20/06/2023). Watkins, C. (1995), How to Kill a Dragon: Aspects of Indo-European Poetics, New York. Willi, A. (2004), “Flowing riches: Greek ἄφενος and Indo-European streams”, in: J.H.W. Penney (ed.), Indo-European Perspectives: Studies in Honour of Anna Morpurgo Davies, Oxford, 323–337.

  Daniel Kölligan von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, U. (1895), Euripides, Herakles, Cambridge. https://doi.org/ 10.1017/CBO9780511708497 (last accessed 20/06/2023). Zimmer, S. (2000), “Nachbemerkung zum Beitrag von Thomas Oberlies”, in: B. Forssman/ R. Platz (eds.), Indoarisch, Iranisch und die Indogermanistik: Arbeitstagung der Indogermanischen Gesellschaft vom 2. bis 5. Oktober 1997 in Erlangen, Wiesbaden, 389–391.

Rutger J. Allan

Homeric Enjambment (and Caesura): A Functional-Cognitive Approach Abstract: In Homeric epic, approximately half of the grammatical sentences do not stop at verse end but run over into the next line, a phenomenon commonly referred to as enjambment. Scholars such as Parry, Kirk and Higbie have proposed various typologies of enjambment crucially based on the criterion of whether the syntactic unit is completed at verse end or not. This chapter approaches enjambment in terms of its functional and cognitive linguistic properties. Enjambments are considered as boundaries between Intonation Units, which are by default expressions of Discourse Acts. This approach leads to a new typology of Homeric enjambment, on the basis of which it can be argued that verse end not only constitutes a metrical boundary, but also coincides with a functional-cognitive boundary. A brief application of the proposed typology based on functional and cognitive principles suggests that the typology is also able to analyze verse-internal caesura positions and their discourse-pragmatic functions. Keywords: discourse acts, enjambment, epic language, functional-cognitive linguistics, Homer, intonation units, typology

 Introduction In Homeric epic, approximately half of the grammatical sentences do not stop at verse end but run over into the next line. This phenomenon, which is known as enjambment, has attracted the interest of many generations of scholars. Common definitions of enjambment are as follows: ‘Enjambment occurs when sentence end and verse end do not coincide’ (Higbie 1990, 28), or ‘[enjambment is] the mismatch between verse-end and sentence end’ (Bakker 1997, 302).1 One of the strategies of Homeric scholars to get to grips with this intriguing but elusive feature of Homeric discourse is to set up a classification of different types of enjambment. A classification often used by Homeric scholars is that of

 1 A good introduction to previous scholarship on Homeric enjambment is given by Higbie 1990, 4–28 and Bertrand 2011, 275–500. See also Clark 1994, 1–5; Blankenborg 2017; 2018. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111272887-003

  Rutger J. Allan Parry 1929, 253, which has been expanded successively by Kirk 1966, 1985 and by Higbie 1990. Tab. 1: Categorization of enjambment types: Parry, Kirk and Higbie (based on Higbie 1990, 29). Parry 

Kirk 

Higbie 

None

 None

 None

Unperiodic

 Progressive

a Adding internal

Necessary

 Periodic

b Adding external a Clausal internal b Clausal external  Integral

 Necessary

 Violent

 Violent

Unperiodic (Parry) or progressive (Kirk) enjambment relates to those cases in which the sentence could have ended grammatically at verse end but did not. If the enjambed expansion forms a single clause with elements of the preceding line, Higbie calls it adding internal enjambment; if it contains a separate clause, it is an adding external enjambment in Higbie’s terminology. If the sentence is grammatically incomplete at verse end, it is a case of Parry’s necessary enjambment, which is divided by Kirk into three different subtypes: periodic enjambment (Parry’s ‘necessary’ type 1), which involves a subordinate clause in the first verse, followed by the main clause in the second verse; integral enjambment (Parry’s ‘necessary’ type 2), in which verse end does not coincide with the end of a separate phrase or clause; and violent enjambment, which is not very clearly distinguished from integral enjambment (Kirk 1966, 110: “the distinction ... is to some extent subjective”), but seems to typically involve the location of verse end within a syntactic phrase (for example, adjective ‖ noun). This way of approaching Homeric enjambment remains unsatisfactory for several reasons. The first objection one may raise is that the distinctions made are only based on syntactic categories; more specifically, on whether a grammatical unit is completed at verse end or not. This syntactic framework is a problem in itself, given that Homeric discourse does not crucially hinge on clear-cut syntactic units, as has been demonstrated most convincingly by Egbert Bakker and many scholars in his wake. This means that enjambment is in fact not analyzed with the proper tools. The outcome of these syntax-based classifi-

Homeric Enjambment (and Caesura)  

cations therefore remains unsatisfactory, as enjambments can occur anywhere in the syntactic organization: they may occur between clauses, between noun phrases, but also within phrases, separating an adjective from its head noun, or a verb from its subject or direct object. In other words, syntactic classifications are not able to predict at which points in the flow of the discourse verse end may not occur; that is, they fall short of explanatory power.2 Second, these classifications are purely descriptive in character. Instances of enjambments are merely classified according to one of the (syntactically based) labels. We are left in the dark as to what these distinctions can teach us about the meaning or rhetorical effect of enjambment. The third objection to this way of classifying enjambments is that it is based on ad hoc terminology, specifically developed for the analysis of enjambments, and only indirectly related to other linguistic categories. The ad hoc character of these typologies creates the impression that enjambment is a phenomenon sui generis, isolated from other aspects of Homeric discourse structure, only to be studied on its own terms. This narrow view makes it very difficult to study enjambment in connection with other essential elements of Homeric discourse such as caesura, hyperbaton, and word order. Fourth, it seems difficult to establish the right degree of specificity in the number of types and subtypes to be distinguished. Parry distinguished two types, unperiodic and necessary (or perhaps three, if we include ‘necessary type 1’ and ‘necessary type 2’); Kirk distinguished four types, and Higbie argued for six types of enjambment. Every generation of scholars seems to introduce a more refined typology, and there does not seem to be a principled limitation to the number of subtypes that could be posited. As already mentioned, a major drawback of these traditional typologies is that they do not consider Bakker’s important general insight that syntax is not the key organizing principle in Homeric discourse, and, more specifically, that enjambment should be seen as marking a boundary between idea units. The importance of Bakker’s work on the special character of Homeric discourse can hardly be overestimated. One of the central points of Bakker’s view of Homeric discourse is the idea that the sentence should not serve any longer as the basic  2 Higbie’s observation that “[t]he primary factor determining enjambment is the degree of expectation of or grammatical need for what follows the verse” (Higbie 1990, 29) is not very helpful in understanding the nature of enjambment since enjambment may not only follow upon a line that is grammatically complete but also upon a line that is grammatically incomplete. This means that the question whether or not a line is grammatically complete is in fact not “the primary determining factor” since it does not predict in any way whether or not enjambment is possible.

  Rutger J. Allan unit of analysis but that we should look at Homeric discourse as a structured sequence of idea units, a concept he derived from the work of Wallace Chafe.3 In Bakker’s own words, “The oral basis (of Homeric style) consists in abandoning ... the concept of ‘sentence’ in favor of an approach in terms of ‘idea units’ reflecting the cognitive processes of the narrator” (Bakker 1990, 19). Another important point made by Bakker is that the often-observed coincidence of metrical cola and semantic units should be reinterpreted in the light of the cognitive linguistic observation that spoken language is fundamentally organized around idea units (or Intonation Units).4 For an analysis of Homeric discourse into units this insight has the following consequence: 1)

(...) the content of phrases can be used as a criterion for division ― in fact, this is the very reason of being for intonation units in Chafe's analysis: each unit represents a single focus of consciousness. In an analysis of the Homeric text, this semantic criterion is to a certain extent arbitrary, but in practice the often-observed coincidence of metrical units and semantic units in Homer can guide us, each metrical colon being the verbalization of a single idea in a satisfyingly large number of cases. Bakker 1997a, 50

According to Bakker, a metrical colon is typically (“in a satisfyingly large number of cases”) a verbalization of one single idea. What this means in relation to enjambment can be seen, for example, in Bakker’s observation that some of the cases of enjambment called ‘integral’ by Kirk are in fact instances of Left or Right-dislocation (of the type: ‘Your brother, he’s a nice chap!’ or ‘He’s a nice chap, your brother!’). Bakker 1990, 14 cites an example (also cited by Ruijgh 1996, 644 [= 1990, 230]) from the Odyssey: 2)

τοῖσι δὲ Κίρκη πάρ ῥ᾽ ἄκυλον βάλανόν τε βάλεν καρπόν τε κρανείης

Od. 10.241–242

And to them Circe, oak and ilex acorns she threw and cornel fruit

In this case, the prosodic boundary after τοῖσι δὲ Κίρκη is not only marked by verse end, but also by the placement of the enclitic particle ῥ᾽(α) on second posi 3 A synthesis of Chafe’s ideas on discourse is given in Chafe 1994. For Bakker’s application of Chafe’s work on Homer, see e.g. Bakker 1990; 1997a; 1997b. 4 The terms idea unit and Intonation Unit may be seen as referring to two sides of the same coin: the term idea unit relates to the conceptual content, while Intonation Unit (at least in origin) refers to its phonological realization.

Homeric Enjambment (and Caesura)  

tion in the Intonation Unit, in accordance with Wackernagel’s Law. Since there is an actual cognitive boundary between clause and Left- or Right-dislocated constituents, Bakker prefers not to speak of enjambment in these cases. For the sake of terminological clarity, however, I prefer to retain the traditional definition of enjambment as a mismatch between sentence end and verse end. Furthermore, I will argue (especially in section 6) that it is possible to discern cognitive-functional boundaries in more cases of enjambment than Bakker seems to allow for. On Bakker’s narrow definition of enjambment, these cases would have to be denied enjambment-status, which would leave only very few instances — if any at all — of actual enjambment in Homeric epic. Although Bakker’s ground-breaking cognitive approach has fundamentally changed the way we look at Homeric discourse, it remains unsatisfactory in one respect: Bakker does not consistently define the linguistic criteria by which he determines the boundary between two idea units. Therefore, Bakker’s identification of cognitive units in a particular passage does not seem to differ much from the relatively intuitive and subjective method by which Fränkel 19683 (1926) and Kirk 1966, 1985 in their influential studies of Homeric colometry identify senseunits. Bakker, incidentally, is the first to admit this himself ― note his ‘this semantic criterion is to a certain extent arbitrary’ in the citation above. In other words, what is still needed is a set of more concrete linguistic criteria to distinguish one idea unit from another; criteria by which we can, on firmer grounds, identify cognitive and discourse-functional boundaries in the flow of Homeric discourse. What I will argue in this chapter is that a number of recent developments in cognitive-functional linguistics can help us find more specific analytical criteria to analyze enjambment and, more generally, to come to a better understanding of Homeric discourse structure. The main aim of this chapter is to propose a new typology of enjambment, a typology based on insights drawn from cognitive and functional linguistic theory and research. This chapter is structured as follows: in section (2), I present a brief overview of the major linguistic insights regarding Intonation Units which are relevant to my approach. Section (3) introduces a number of theoretical concepts from Functional (Discourse) Grammar (Dik 1997; Hengeveld/Mackenzie 2008) which are helpful to analyze the pragmatic function of Intonation Units. The core of my argument is section (4), in which I will propose a typology of enjambement based on cognitive and functional linguistic principles and notions. The viability of the typology is tested on a Homeric textual corpus. In section (5) and (6), I will discuss two issues related to enjambment. Section (5) contains a digression on the relationship between metrical boundary and hyperbaton. In

  Rutger J. Allan (6), I will address the issue of Bakker’s ‘antimetry’, the alleged mismatch between the flow of cognitive units and the hexameter as a metrical unit. In section (7), I will present a small exercise suggesting how the criteria used to analyze enjambment may also be used to determine caesura positions and analyze the discourse-pragmatic function of metrical cola.

 Intonation units: form and function In phonological research, Intonation Units are associated with the following phonological features, which are assumed to be universal across languages in the world:5 – a single coherent pitch contour – an initial pitch reset: high onset, final lowering – an initial acceleration (anacrusis) and final deceleration – final change in voice quality – optional pauses, preceding and following the IU. There is evidence that a number of these universal features of Intonation Units are also present in Homeric prosody, as shown by prosodic phenomena associated with verse end and caesurae. First, there is evidence that verse end was marked by a lowering of the pitch towards the end of the verse, and a reset to a higher pitch at the start of the subsequent verse.6 Second, Homeric verse-final brevis in longo can be interpreted as a stylized reflection of final deceleration as found in everyday spoken language (Devine/Stephens 1994, 426). As for pauses, the evidence is less straightforward, and there may have been a difference between verse end and caesurae.7 Contrary to what is often thought, in everyday spoken language Intonation Units may, but need not, be separated from one another by a pause (in the narrow sense of a brief silence, an interruption of phonation). Since elision never occurs at verse end and hiatus is not avoided there, it is plausible that hexameters were followed by a brief pause (Daitz 1991, 151–152). On the other hand, verse-internal caesurae did not  5 Cf. Chafe 1994, 53–60; Cruttenden 1997, 35; Gussenhoven 2004, 97–122; Scheppers 2011 18–35; Barth-Weingarten 2017. For Ancient Greek, see Devine/Stephens 1994, 409–455; for Homer, Hagel 1994; Danek/Hagel 1995. 6 Daitz 1991, 156; Devine/Stephens 1994, 429–445; Hagel 1994; Danek/Hagel 1995, 9. 7 An extensive discussion of (the literature on) performative pauses is given in Blankenborg 2018.

Homeric Enjambment (and Caesura)  

necessarily coincide with a pause, as suggested by the fact that caesurae can be combined with elision (West 1982, 36; 1997, 223), with epic correption and with synapheia, and that caesurae as a rule do not license hiatus (Fränkel 1968³, 149; Daitz 1991, 155). The main prosodic feature through which caesurae were marked is therefore not an actual pause, but rather an initial pitch reset and a global tonal downtrend: cola started at a relatively high pitch which lowered towards the end of the colon.8 In (discourse-pragmatic) linguistic studies, a number of further characteristic cognitive and discourse-functional properties of IUs have also been identified: – An IU is a “focus of consciousness”, “verbalization of the speaker’s consciousness at that moment” (Chafe 1994, 63); a “window of attention” or “attentional frame” (Langacker 2008, 481–482). – One New Idea Constraint: IUs tend to express no more than one new idea (Chafe 1994, 108–119).9 – IUs often (in about 40 % of the cases) coincide with grammatical units, more specifically clauses (“speakers aim at verbalizing a focus of consciousness in the format of a clause”, Chafe 1994, 66), but they may also be fragmentary, syntactically incomplete (Chafe 1994; Cruttenden 1997, 68; Croft 1995, 2007) – IUs tend to express one basic discourse unit (Discourse Act), cf. Hannay/ Kroon 2005; Hengeveld/Mackenzie 2008) – Segmentation into IUs depends on overall speech rate (Croft 1995; Bakker 1997, Ch. 6; Leech/Svartvik 2002, 205) – Segmentation into IUs can also be used to effect emphasis or suspense (Cruttenden 1997, 68; Leech and Svartvik 2002, 205; Hengeveld/MacKenzie 2008, 426; Selting 2010, Patt 2013). It is also important to mention three specific principles determining IU segmentation, observed by Croft in two cross-linguistic studies of the interplay between grammar and IUs (Croft 1995, 2007).

 8 For strong evidence of pitch reset and a subsequent global tonal downtrend in Intonation Units in Ancient Greek, see Devine/Stephens 1994, 435–355; for Homer, see Hagel 1995; Danek/ Hagel 1995. One might also speculate that caesurae were occasionally also marked by a pause and/or by final lengthening of the preceding syllable, on the basis of the observation that caesurae incidentally coincide with hiatus, brevis in longo, or the negligence of epic correption. For extensive data on verse-internal hiatus, brevis in longo and absence of epic correption, see Tsopanakis 1983, 119–149. 9 Similar hypotheses are Givón’s (2001 II, 222–223) One Chunk per Clause Principle and Du Bois’s (1987, 826) One New Argument Constraint and One Lexical Argument Constraint.

  Rutger J. Allan 1)

The Principle of Parallelism: parallel syntactic structures (e.g. coordination, apposition) are broken into separate IUs;10 2) The Principle of Complexity: a more complex syntactic structure is more likely to be broken into IUs (e.g. lexical NPs with modifiers); 3) The Principle of Distance: syntactically more distant constituents (e.g. satellites vs. arguments) are more likely to appear in separate IUs.

 Functional discourse grammar: intonation units as discourse acts A theoretical model that has already shown its considerable explanatory power, both in Greek and in Latin linguistics, is that of Simon Dik’s Functional Grammar (Dik 1997), a framework that more recently evolved into Functional Discourse Grammar (Hengeveld/Mackenzie 2008). In Functional Discourse Grammar, the basic building block of discourse is the Discourse act, which is “the smallest identifiable unit of communicative behavior” (Kroon 1995, 65). A Discourse Act is typically expressed by an Intonation Unit.11 Discourse Acts may be expressed by fully-fledged clauses, but they may also be fragmentary, or consist of a single noun phrase. Discourse Acts in connected discourse can be of equal communicative status, but there can also be a relation of dependence between two or more Discourse Acts. In the latter case, one Discourse Act is the Nuclear Discourse Act: “the most important act in view of the speaker’s intentions and goals” (Kroon 1995, 66); the other is the Subsidiary Discourse Act. Subsidiary Discourse Acts are less central to the speaker’s goals, contain supportive material, and depend for their proper interpretation on a Nuclear Discourse Act. In spoken language, so-called Extra-Clausal Constituents (ECCs) are a very common type of non-clausal, subsidiary Discourse Act.12 Simon Dik defines ECCs in the following way:

 10 This a very strong tendency. According to Croft 1995, 854 and 2007, 16, in English about 98% of the coordinated and appositive noun phrases are broken up into different IUs. This principle can be seen as a more specific manifestation of Chafe’s One New Idea Constraint. 11 Hengeveld/Mackenzie 2008, 62. For Discourse Acts in Greek, see e.g. Allan 2009; 2019; Bonifazi/Drummen/De Kreij 2016 II, 2. 12 For various types of ECCs in Homeric Greek, see also Slings 1992; 1999; Allan 2009; 2014; 2019; Bertrand 2011, 254–309.

Homeric Enjambment (and Caesura)  

3)

a. Especially in spoken discourse [...] we often produce a variety of expressions which can be analysed neither as clauses nor as fragments of clauses. These expressions may stand on their own, or precede, follow, and even interrupt a clause (...) Dik 1997 II, 379 b. ECCs are not part of the clause proper, but more loosely associated with it in ways which can most adequately be described in terms of pragmatic functionality Dik 1997 I, 310

There are various types of ECCs, but for the analysis of Homeric discourse two types are most relevant: preclausal Orientations and postclausal or intraclausal (in the sense of clause-interrupting) Elaborations. Both Orientations and Elaborations are separate IUs: they are separated from the clause or noun phrase on which they depend by means of an intonational break, which is typically represented orthographically by a comma. The discourse function of Orientations is to prepare the Addressee for the following Discourse Act. Typical examples are (a) Left-dislocated Topics (called Themes in Functional Discourse Grammar) and (b) Settings: 4)

Preclausal ECCs: Orientations and vocatives a. The cat, it is in the garden. (Left-dislocated Topic/Theme) b. In the garden, there is a cat. (Setting)

Functional Discourse Grammar also distinguishes a number of postclausal and clause-interrupting ECCs, which are called Tails (Dik 1997) or Elaborations (e.g. Hannay/Kroon 2005).13 Here I will use the latter term as it more clearly indicates its discourse function: to elaborate on preceding information. They “present information meant to clarify or modify (some constituent contained in) the unit to which they are adjoined” (Dik 1997, 401). There are several subtypes of Elaborations: (a) right-dislocated Topics, (b) appositions, and (c) additional specifying modifiers. 5) Postclausal or intraclausal ECCs: Elaborations a. It is in the garden, the cat. (Right-dislocated Topic) b. The cat is in the garden, the red one. (Apposition) c. I have seen the cat, in the garden. (Additional specifying modifier)

 13 In FDG literature we also find the terms Clarification and Aside (Hengeveld/Mackenzie 2008). For Elaboration as a coherence relation in Greek, see also Scheppers (2011, 304–306). The function of a discourse act as an Elaboration can also be explicitly marked by lexical items such as ‘namely’, ‘that is’ or ‘to wit’ in English.

  Rutger J. Allan These discourse-pragmatic functions ― Orientations, Elaborations and their subtypes ― are of crucial importance to understand enjambment and, as I will argue in section (7), also to caesura. Enjambment and caesura can be analyzed as boundary markers between Intonation Units or cola, and each of these Intonation Units expresses a Discourse Act. A Discourse Act may coincide with a complete clause, but it may also be an Extra-Clausal Constituent.

 A cognitive-functional approach to enjambment In the preceding section, a number of insights drawn from cognitive and functional linguistic theories were introduced that are fundamental to my approach to Homeric enjambment. Based on these insights, I would like to propose the following typology of enjambment Table 2: Tab. 2: A typology of Homeric enjambment. Enjambment Type

Number

. Clausal

Discourse Acts: main, subordinate, participle, or infinitive clauses

. Coordinated NPs

Coordinated Topics or Foci

. Orientations

– Left-dislocated topics (Themes) – Settings – Preclausal vocatives

. Elaborations

– Right-dislocated topics – Appositions – Additional specifying modifiers – Postclausal and intraclausal vocatives

. Emphatic Chunking

– Focal word(s)

. Otherwise Total

 (%)  (%)  (%)

 (%)

 (%)  (%)  (%)

The numbers in the right column are based on the examination of a sample of 600 lines, containing 328 instances of enjambment.14 In the following sections

 14 This means that, in my sample, 55% of the lines were enjambed. The sample consisted of the first 100 lines of Il. and Od. books 1, 12, and 24.

Homeric Enjambment (and Caesura)  

(4.1– 4.5), I will present in more detail the 5 proposed categories of enjambment: clausal enjambment, coordinated NPs, Orientations, Elaborations, emphatic chunking. In 3.6, the 6 problematic cases from my corpus are discussed.15

. Clausal enjambment The first category are the clausal enjambments, which constitute the most frequent type of enjambment (36% in my sample). In this type of enjambment, verse end marks a boundary between two clauses: two coordinated clauses or a main and a subordinate, participial or infinitival clause. This high number is in alignment with robust cross-linguistic findings that roughly half of the Intonation Units in spoken language are complete clauses. The high frequency of coincidence between IUs and clauses can be explained both in cognitive and in discourse-pragmatic terms: from a cognitive point of view, clauses can be thought of as expressions of “mental propositions” and as “the basic unit of mental information storage” (Givón 1990, 896; Chafe 1994, 181). As Langacker 2008, 482 put it: “the content of a clause fits naturally in a single window of attention”. Discourse-pragmatically, clauses can be seen as “the default expressions of Discourse Acts and SoAs [= States of Affairs, RJA]” (Keizer 2015, 300). Examples of clausal enjambment (with a subordinate, an infinitival, and two participial clauses, respectively) in my sample are the following: 6)

a. ὀλέκοντο δὲ λαοί, οὕνεκα τὸν Χρύσην ἠτίμασεν ἀρητῆρα Il. 1.10–11 and the people were dying because he had dishonored Chryses, the priest b. ἔνθ᾽ ἄλλοι μὲν πάντες ἐπευφήμησαν Ἀχαιοὶ αἰδεῖσθαί θ᾽ ἱερῆα

Il. 1.22–23

Then all the other Achaeans shouted in agreement, to respect the priest  15 To give an impression of my analysis of the sample, these are the 47 instances in Iliad book 1.1–100: (1) Clausal enjambment: line 5, 9, 10, 12, 13, 18, 20, 22, 26, 30, 44, 46, 51, 59, 60, 63, 64, 65, 69, 76, 87, 88, 90, 97; (2) Coordinated NPs: line 4, 37, 62; (3) Orientations: line 17; (4) Elaborations: line 1, 3, 6, 11, 14, 29, 35, 38, 40, 68, 71, 82, 86, 89, 98, 99; (5) Emphatic Chunking: 74, 78; (6) Otherwise: line 66.

  Rutger J. Allan c. ὃ γὰρ βασιλῆϊ χολωθεὶς νοῦσον ἀνὰ στρατὸν ὄρσε κακήν Il. 1.9–10 For he, in anger at the king, raised a vile plague throughout the army d. ὃ γὰρ ἦλθε θοὰς ἐπὶ νῆας Ἀχαιῶν λυσόμενός τε θύγατρα

Il. 1.12–13

For he came to the fast ships of the Achaeans, to gain release for his daughter

. Coordinated noun phrases The second type of enjambments are the coordinated NPs, constituting about 6% of my sample. 7)

αὐτοὺς δὲ ἑλώρια τεῦχε κύνεσσιν οἰωνοῖσί τε πᾶσι Il. 1.4–5 and he gave their bodies as a feasting to the dogs, and to all the birds

That coordinated noun phrases are separated into two Intonation Units is in accordance with Croft’s Principle of Parallelism (see section 2), which states that parallel syntactic structures (e.g. coordination, apposition) are broken into separate IUs. This principle can, in turn, be explained by Chafe’s more general One New Idea Constraint, since usually every new coordinated item refers to a new entity in the discourse.16

 16 It should be stressed that the Principle of Parallelism is no more than a principle, that is, deviations may also occur, e.g. in (formulaic) coordinated noun phrases such as πόλεμοί τε μάχαι τε or ὀλίγον τε φίλον τε that fill a complete IU/colon, after the 4a (hephthemimeral) caesura. Because these coordinated nouns/adjectives can be seen as a single conceptual unit (i.e. ‘one new idea’), they are placed in one IU. See also Janse 2020, 25 on the status of μήτηρ ἠδὲ πατήρ (Od. 9.367) as a single unit.

Homeric Enjambment (and Caesura)  

. Orientations: left-dislocated topics and settings The third type are preclausal ECCs, which comprise 17% of my sample: Orientations (Left-dislocated Topics, Settings) and preclausal vocatives. First, an example of a Left-dislocated Topic: 8)

αὐτὰρ Ἀχαιοὶ οὐ μενέουσ’ εἰ δή σφιν ὀλέθρου πείρατ’ ἐφῆπται. Il. 12.78–79 The Achaeans, they will not stand our attack, if indeed they are fastened now in the threads of death.

In Homer, Left-dislocated Topics are the typical device to bring about a Topic shift; more specifically, to reactivate an already known referent as the central discourse topic.17 Left-dislocated Topics facilitate the processing of information by ensuring that the task of identifying the Topic referent is performed independently from processing the content of the subsequent clause. This is in accordance with Lambrecht’s Principle of Separation of Reference and Role: “Do not introduce a referent and talk about it in the same clause” (Lambrecht 1994, 184–191). Left-dislocated Topics, expressing a New or Resumed Topic, may also be combined into one IU with the anaphoric pronoun ὅ referring to a Given Topic, as in example (2) τοῖσι δὲ Κίρκη above.18 Another subtype of Orientation are Settings: preclausal constituents specifying the spatio-temporal or circumstantial background in which the following clause is anchored.19 Some examples: 9)

a. πὰρ δ’ ἄρ’ ὄχεσφιν ἄλλον Κεβριόναο χερείονα κάλλιπεν Ἕκτωρ. Il. 12.91–92 By the chariot, Hector had left another man, lesser than Kebriones.

 17 For Left-dislocated Topics (Themes) and enjambement, see also Bakker 1990; 1997, 100; Slings 1992; 1999; Devine/Stephens 2000, 143–144. Left-dislocated Topics are called Themes in Functional (Discourse) Grammar. 18 Other examples are: Il. 24.18, Od. 10.241. 19 “[...] the time and place coordinates defined explicitly or implicitly in the discourse” (Dik 1997, 397). “Each subsequent contribution to the discourse must be anchored in the Setting [...]” (Dik 1997, 396).

  Rutger J. Allan b. ἑπτὰ δὲ καὶ δέκα μέν σε ὁμῶς νύκτας τε καὶ ἦμαρ κλαίομεν ἀθάνατοί τε θεοὶ θνητοί τ’ ἄνθρωποι· Od. 24.63–64 For seventeen days and nights alike, we wept for you, both immortal gods and mortal men.

Also the following example, called ‘violent’ by Higbie 1990, 111, is better explained as a Setting. 10)

αὐτὰρ ἔπειτα εὖ συναγειρόμενοι δαίνυντ’ ἐρικυδέα δαῖτα Il. 24.801–802 And thereafter, they assembled in a fair gathering and held a glorious meal

Higbie’s syntactic approach forces her to analyze such cases of enjambment unnecessarily as ‘violent’ as they seem to split a grammatical clause into two parts. On a discourse-pragmatic approach, however, this enjambment makes perfect sense since there is in fact a functional-cognitive boundary after ἔπειτα (note the comma in the English translation), separating the Setting from the clause proper. Another type of preclausal ECCs that are often enjambed are preclausal vocatives. These are functionally highly similar to Orientations in that they also prepare the addressee for the ensuing Discourse Act: they are, after all, used to gain the addressee’s attention. 11) Ἀτρεΐδαι τε καὶ ἄλλοι ἐϋκνήμιδες Ἀχαιοί, ὑμῖν μὲν θεοὶ δοῖεν Ὀλύμπια δώματ’ ἔχοντες [...] Il. 1.17–18 Sons of Atreus and other well-greaved Achaeans, may the god who live on Olympus grant you [...]

Less frequently, enjambment involves postclausal vocatives, which will be discussed in the following section.

Homeric Enjambment (and Caesura)  

. Elaborations: right-dislocated topics, appositions, specifying modifiers The fourth type are the postclausal or clause-interrupting ECCs with an Elaboration function. This type constitutes 31% of my sample. The high frequency of this type is not surprising in view of the oral nature of Homeric discourse, which is commonly characterized as an “adding style” (Parry), a style in which apposition plays a central structuring role.20 The most frequent types of Elaborations are Right-dislocated Topics, appositions, and specifying modifiers. Examples of a Right-dislocated Topics in enjambment are the following:21 12) a. ἐξ οὗ δὴ τὰ πρῶτα διαστήτην ἐρίσαντε Ἀτρεΐδης τε ἄναξ ἀνδρῶν καὶ δῖος Ἀχιλλεύς. Il. 1.6–7 from the first time they were divided by conflict, Atreus’ son, the lord of men, and godlike Achilleus b. ὀλέκοντο δὲ λαοί, οὕνεκα τὸν Χρύσην ἠτίμασεν ἀρητῆρα Ἀτρεΐδης Il. 1.9–11 and the people were dying because he had dishonoured Chryses, the priest, Atreus’ son.

Typically, Right-dislocated Topics refer to participants that have already been introduced in the discourse (i.e. Given Topics or Resumed Topics). In some cases, however, they are used to introduce New Topics into the discourse.22 For example, 13)

τοῖσι δ’ ἀνέστη Κάλχας |1c Θεστορίδης |3a οἰωνοπόλων ὄχ’ ἄριστος

Il. 1.68–69

 20 The fundamentally appositional character of Homeric discourse is often stressed; see e.g. Chantraine 1953, 12; Kirk 1976, 152; 1985, 34–37 (who speaks of Homer’s “cumulative technique”); Bakker 1997a, 39–40, 89–97, 144–145 (“close-up and addition”); 1997b, 293–294; Bertrand 2011, 475–476. 21 For Right-dislocated Topics in Homer, see also Bakker 1990; 1997a, 94, 100; they often feature in what Bakker calls “staging formulas” (Bakker 1997a, 162–206). 22 For the pragmatic function of New Topic, see Dik 1997 I, 315–318.

  Rutger J. Allan And among them stood up: Calchas, Son of Thestor, far the best of the bird interpreters

This type of segmentation of information can readily be explained in terms of Chafe’s One New Idea Constraint: both the action of standing up and the person standing up are pieces of new information: the first, preparative, IU τοῖσι δ’ ἀνέστη informs us that the next event is that someone stood up among the Achaeans, the second IU identifies that person as Calchas, who has the function of New Topic. His name is then followed by two appositive IUs (marked by a 1c and a 3a caesura, respectively) serving as Elaborations: Θεστορίδης and οἰωνοπόλων ὄχ’ ἄριστος.23 Examples of postclausal modifiers and appositions are the following: 14) a. Μῆνιν ἄειδε θεὰ Πηληϊάδεω Ἀχιλῆος οὐλομένην Il. 1.1–2 Sing of the anger, goddess, of Peleus’ son Achilleus, the accursed one b. στέμματ’ ἔχων ἐν χερσὶν ἑκηβόλου Ἀπόλλωνος χρυσέῳ ἀνὰ σκήπτρῳ

Il. 1.13–14

holding the sacred woollen bands of Apollo in his hands, on a golden staff c. οἳ δὲ μάχοντο Ἀργεῖοι καὶ Τρῶες |3b ὁμιλαδόν Il. 12.2–3 And they fought, Argives and Trojans, in massed battle

The adjective οὐλομένην, the adverbial phrase χρυσέῳ ἀνὰ σκήπτρῳ, and the apposition Ἀργεῖοι καὶ Τρῶες add new information to the preceding clause.24 In accordance with the One New Idea Constraint (cf. section 2), this new piece of information is expressed by a separate Intonation Unit.  23 I use Janse’s (2014; 2021) notation of caesura positions, which is based on the following schema: 1 ― 1a ◡ 1b ◡ 1c 2 ― 2a ◡ 2b ◡ 2c 3 ― 3a ◡ 3b ◡ 3c 4 ― 4a ◡ 4b ◡ 4c 5 ― 5a ◡ 5b ◡ 5c 6 ― 6a ― 6c. 24 Note that these Elaborations are also separated from their subsequent IUs (usually also Elaborations) by means of caesurae.

Homeric Enjambment (and Caesura)  

Contrary to what scholars such as Kirk 1985, 53 and Edwards 2002, 8 claim, the mere fact that οὐλομένην is a runover-word does not automatically make it emphatic.25 In fact, run-over adjectives in Homer very often lack any sense of emphasis, as they merely serve to add descriptive detail to a noun phrase mentioned in the preceding line.26 15) a. θεῶν δ’ ἀέκητι τέτυκτο ἀθανάτων Il. 12.8–9 It was built in spite of the gods, the immortal ones b. χρυσείῃ

περὶ δ’ αἰγίδι πάντα κάλυπτε Il. 24.20–21

And he hid him all under the aigis, the golden one

In many cases, the runover adjective (even if placed in hyperbaton) is rather predictable and omissible, as in θεῶν ... ‖ ἀθανάτων and αἰγίδι ... ‖ χρυσείῃ in the examples above. The perceived forcefulness ― or sense of emphasis ― associated with the use of the word οὐλομένην should therefore not be ascribed to the fact that it is a runover-word, nor to the hyperbaton, but rather to its heavily emotionally laden lexical meaning. That is not to say, however, that there is no special effect of placing a single word in enjambment. The perceived effect can indeed easily be confused with emphasis, but it should in fact be interpreted differently. That the word is expressed in a separate IU should be seen as a verbal gesture with which the performer brings a single word into the audience’s focus of attention, thereby enabling the audience to dwell (if only for a brief moment) exclusively on the new conceptual content designated by the word.27 Presenting every additional piece of new information in separate consecutive chunks is not only more easy for the performer, it also allows the audience to process detailed information in a cognitively structured and effortless fashion.

 25 Making a strong case against an alleged emphatic effect of runover words is Bassett 1926; see also more recently Blankenborg 2017. 26 For the descriptive function of runover-adjectives, see Bertrand 2011, 495–500. 27 A similar effect can be observed when isolated words fill a metrical colon between two caesurae, see Rossi 1965, 120–121.

  Rutger J. Allan Now, while placing a single word in a separate Intonation Unit does not necessarily entail emphasis, the reverse relation seems to be ― at least partly ― valid: there is indeed a marked tendency for emphatic words (or Foci in general) to be placed in a separate Intonation Unit. I will return to this issue in my discussion of emphatic chunking (4.5) and hyperbaton (5) below. Elaborations are not the only type of postclausal or intraclausal ECC that is relevant to Homeric enjambment. There are also — very few — postclausal vocatives that are separated from the clause by verse end. Examples (from outside my sample) include the following: 16) a. ἀρητὸν δὲ τοκεῦσι γόον καὶ πένθος ἔθηκας Ἕκτορ Il. 24.741–742 And you left for your parents unspeakable sorrow and pain, Hector b. Ἔνθα τίνα πρῶτον τίνα δ’ ὕστατον ἐξενάριξας Πατρόκλεις

Il. 16.692–693

Then who was the first, and who the last that you killed, Patroclus?

The extreme rarity of clause-internal and postclausal enjambed vocatives in Homer suggests that they are normally prosodically postpositive; that is, they show a strong tendency to be integrated into one Intonation Unit with the preceding constituent(s). Examples are the first lines of Iliad and Odyssey: 17) a. Μῆνιν ἄειδε, θεά, |3a Πηληϊάδεω |5a? Ἀχιλῆος b. Ἄνδρα μοι ἔννεπε, Μοῦσα, |3b πολύτροπον, |4c ὃς μάλα πολλὰ

The absence of caesura before the vocatives ― caesurae at positions 2b (‘Meyer’s First Law’) and 2c are avoided ― suggests that these postposed vocatives form one prosodic unit with the preceding constituent(s).28 The commas preceding vocatives in some of our text editions, such as those of Allen, van Thiel and West, follow modern orthographic conventions and do not necessarily reflect any prosodic reality (such as a pause or an intonational  28 Note that, if we indeed take the vocatives in Il. and Od. 1.1 as postpositives, constituting a prosodic unit with the preceding word, there is in fact no violation of Meyer’s Law(s), as is sometimes thought (see e.g. Nünlist 2000, 113).

Homeric Enjambment (and Caesura)  

boundary).29 That vocatives may be prosodically postpositive has already been suggested by Schwyzer (1950, 60) and Janse (2014, 26; 2021, 21–22). 30 Examples such as (16), however, show that there are exceptions to the rule that intraclausal and postclausal vocatives are prosodically postpositive: since these vocatives occur verse-initially they cannot be postpositive words.

. Emphatic chunking The fifth type of enjambment to be distinguished concerns a form of what I would like to call emphatic chunking, constituting about 7% of the cases of enjambment in my sample. It has often been observed that enjambment may also split closely cohering syntactical phrases such as noun phrases (e.g. adjective ‖ noun).31 Kirk calls this type of enjambment ‘violent’. What I would like to argue here is that this type of enjambment should not be thought of as an anomaly (as the term ‘violent’ seems to suggest), but as a conscious exploitation of what segmentation into IUs fundamentally is: a way to distribute the listener’s attention over subsequent pieces of information. The communicative effect of subsequently directing the listener’s attention to each of the lexical items (instead of lumping them together into one Intonation Unit) is to draw special attention to one or both of the adjacent chunked units. It is certainly no coincidence that emphatic chunking typically involves lexemes that are inherently contrastive or otherwise Focus-attracting,32  29 For the inaccuracy of punctation in our printed texts, see also Daitz 1991. 30 The behavior of vocatives with respect to intonation appears to be by and large identical to the situation in English. While there is a tendency for vocatives placed in initial position to be pronounced in a separate Intonation Unit, and medial and final vocatives to form one Intonation Unit with the preceding element (be it a single constituent or an entire clause), there are also cases in which final vocatives are intonationally separated from the preceding clause (see Quirk et al. 1985, 773, 1358). Functionally, preclausal vocatives tend to be used to draw the addressee’s attention, while intraclausal and postclausal serve to reconfirm the contact with the addressee (for Homer, see Janse 2020, 22). While the former type shows a functional similarity to Left-dislocated Topics, the latter type is functionally related to Right-dislocated Topics (see Lambrecht 1996). 31 More examples of adjective-noun enjambment can be found in Edwards 1966; Higbie 1990, 55–56, 115–116; Devine/Stephens 2000, 197–198; Allan 2009, 144; Bertrand 2011, 412–413. 32 Note that the term focus can be used in two different ways: first, in the cognitive psychological sense of focus of attention or focus of consciousness, as it is used by Chafe; second, in the information-structural sense as referring to that lexical item that provides a piece of new information (i.e. Focus, written with capital F). The terms do not necessarily coincide; also, topical referents may be placed in the addressee’s focus of attention, for example through Left or Right-dislocated Topic constructions.

  Rutger J. Allan such as ἄλλος, αὐτός, θαμύς, οἶος, πᾶς, πολύς, ἕκαστος, negations, comparatives, superlatives, numerals, (emphatic) personal and possessive pronouns.33 Some examples are the following: 18) a. Ἄνδρα μοι ἔννεπε, Μοῦσα, πολύτροπον, ὃς μάλα πολλὰ πλάγχθη

Od. 1.1–2

Tell me of the man, Muse, a man of much resource, who very far and long was made to wander b. ἀντίον ἵστανται καὶ ἀκοντίζουσι θαμειὰς αἰχμὰς ἐκ χειρῶν Il. 12.44–45 they stand face to him and throw a massive number of spears from their hands c. νῆσον ἐς Ὠγυγίην ὀτρύνομεν, ὄφρα τάχιστα νύμφῃ ἐϋπλοκάμῳ εἴπῃ νημερτέα βουλήν Od. 1.85–86 let us send him [Hermes] to the island of Ogygia, to tell, as soon as possible, the lovely-haired nymph of our infallible decree d. σήμαιν’

μὴ γὰρ ἔμοιγε Il. 1.295–296

Do not command me!

In highly exceptional cases, adjectives that are not inherently Focus-attracting can be separated from their head nouns. The adjective καλός is found in this position three times. An example is the following: 19) φάντες ἀριστῆα πρόμον ἔμμεναι, οὕνεκα καλὸν εἶδος ἔπ’ Il. 3.44. saying that the prince [Paris] is their champion, because of his beautiful appearance34  33 Note that it is unnecessary (and unsatisfactory at that) to explain such cases of enjambment away as being the fruit of “a chance interplay of formulas”, as Parry 1929, 264 has it. 34 The other instances are καλὴν ‖ ἀξίνην (Il. 13.611–612) and καλὸν ‖ φάσγανον (Il. 16.338–339).

Homeric Enjambment (and Caesura)  

Even though καλός is not a lexical item that is inclined to be the Focus of the clause more than average, these cases of enjambment can still be interpreted as a form of emphatic chunking. By placing καλός in an IU separate from its noun its importance is highlighted, in this particular context with a sarcastic undertone: Paris has been chosen as the Trojans’ champion because of his smashing looks! An example discussed by Kirk 1966, 110 and 1985, 33–34 as a case of ‘violent’ enjambment is: 20)

δεινὴν δὲ περὶ κροτάφοισι φαεινὴ πήληξ βαλλομένη καναχὴν ἔχε

Il. 16.104–105

Around his temples the shining helmet kept up a fearful clatter as it was hit.

The composition of these lines is remarkable for another reason, too: the fronted position of δεινήν (in hyperbaton), which is picked up by its noun καναχήν only in the second half of the next line. This rather strained composition of the line led Edwards 1966, 130 to regard it “as a fine example of inadequate technique or as an outstanding instance of intentional breaking of the rules for special poetic effect”. Regarding the special position of δεινήν and φαεινή Edwards goes on to note that “the poet has twice broken through the limits on enjambement to stress the force of the adjectives, for δεινήν is stressed by its initial position in the sentence and φαεινή claims attention by its complete isolation from noun or article.”35 Edwards’ interpretation comes very close to how I would interpret the enjambment, as a case of emphatic chunking. The effect of splitting the noun phrase φαεινὴ πήληξ into two IUs is to highlight the impressive gleaming brightness. Another case of “violent enjambment” mentioned by Kirk 1966, 110 is ἀλλὰ μεσηγὺ ‖ νηῶν καὶ ποταμοῦ, where νηῶν καὶ ποταμοῦ can be better analyzed as a loosely added further specification (i.e. an Elaboration) of μεσηγύ: “but in between, (namely) between the ships and the river”. Kirk himself in fact seems to hint at a similar interpretation, suggesting that 397 might be an “afterthought, which converts μεσηγύ from adverb to preposition [emphasis mine]”. Whether or not ‘violent’ enjambment actually involves an interruption of some sort is not made very clear by Kirk. According to Kirk, ‘violent’ enjamb 35 Edward’s “complete isolation” is too strong: adjective and noun, though separated by verse-end, are still adjacent — there is no hyperbaton.

  Rutger J. Allan ment does not involve a “possible punctuation”, as in periodic or progressive enjambment, nor is it a “minimal interruption” as effected by integral enjambment. Kirk speculates, in rather unspecific terms, that in cases of violent enjambment the normal interruption at verse end is “almost completely obliterated” (Kirk 1985, 33). So, it seems that Kirk still (note his “almost”) assumes an interruption of some sort, albeit a slight one. Bakker is more explicit in his interpretation of cases of enjambment “with a strong mutual cohesion of the linguistic material on either side of the rhetorical boundary” (i.e. necessary of violent enjambment); he denies that there is an IU boundary at verse end: “a unit, usually beginning at the bucolic dieresis, may continue across the verse-boundary into the next verse”.36 I will argue here that, in spite of the syntactic continuation, verse end still marks a prosodic boundary between IUs. Verse end serves to split the information into two separate IUs, thereby drawing special attention to, and emphasizing the content of the two chunks separately. This emphatic effect of chunking is brought about by the fact that IUs are, in their very essence, attentionregulating devices: they serve to direct the addressee’s attention to some piece of information. Chunking a string of information into multiple Intonation Units ensures that attention is focused on each of the chunks separately, assigning to each individual chunk a high informational significance. The exploitation of the rhetorical potential of chunking is a common phenomenon also observed in English (and other modern languages), as for example in the campaign slogans of two former presidents of the United States of America, in which every word is expressed as a separate IU, with an emphatic effect (in writing indicated by full stops between the words):37 21) a. Read. My. Lips: No. New. Taxes! George H.W. Bush, Republican National Convention, August 18, 198838

b. We. Will make. America. Great. Again! Donald J. Trump, Inaugural speech, January 20, 201739

 36 Bakker 1997a, 153; 1997b, 302. 37 For this type of emphatic segmentation, see also Patt 2013, 241–245. A nice leçon par l’exemple is the title of an article in the Washington Post by Jeff Guo (16 June 2013): “Stop. Using. Periods. Period.”, which deals with the pragmatic effect of punctuation in text messages. Hengeveld/MacKenzie 2008, 426 explain this type of division of a clause into several Intonation Units as a way to attribute a separate exclamative operator to every Subact. 38 Cf. www.youtube.com/watch?v=AdVSqSNHhVo (at 0:38) (last accessed 20/06/2023).

Homeric Enjambment (and Caesura)  

In Classical Greek, there is strong evidence for a more specific form of emphatic chunking called emphatic fronting (Scheppers 2011, 206–208) or focus preposing (Goldstein 2015, 174–217). As in the Homeric enjambment type, emphatic fronting in Classical Greek involves (often evaluative or affective) lexical items that inherently tend to attract focus such as negations, comparatives and superlatives. Similar to the Homeric enjambment type, the focal constituent is separated from the following part of the noun phrase or clause by a prosodic boundary. The following examples are from Herodotus (cited by Goldstein 2015): 22) a. ... προλέγουσαι ... | μεγάληνFOCUS | ἀρχήν μιν καταλύσειν Hdt. 1.53.3 ... foretelling ... that he will destroy a great empire b. καὶ ἄμεινονFOCUS | σὺ ἂν ἤκουες.

Hdt. 2.173.2

and you would have a better reputation c. καὶ οὐδεὶςFOCUS | ἐφαίνετό σφι ἐπαναγόμενος Hdt. 9.98.2 and no one was seen to put out against them.

The placement of the clitics (underlined) in accordance with Wackernagel’s Law shows unequivocally that there is a prosodic break before their respective hosts, and that the fronted focal constituents (bold) have their own Intonation Unit, detached from the rest of the clause. Assuming, contra Kirk and Bakker, that there is an actual prosodic boundary at verse end in cases of violent enjambment is also in accordance with Occam’s Razor, as it does not require a distinction between two different types of enjambments: one that does coincide with a prosodic boundary and one that (by way of exception) does not. In the approach proposed here, enjambment always coincides with a prosodic as well as a cognitive-functional boundary. As we have seen in section 3, there is good reason to view verse end as a prosodic boundary since there is never elision at verse end, there is brevis in longo, and verses never begin with a postpositive word (particles, unaccented pronouns, etc.).

 39 Cf. www.youtube.com/watch?v=XZn8tFbISpo (at 1:40) (last accessed 20/06/2023).

  Rutger J. Allan

. Problematic cases As is usual in any study of Homeric language, there is a residue of cases that at first glance seem to defy a straightforward classification. Since this residual set only contains 7 instances (that is, 2% of the sample), we may still conclude that a discourse-pragmatic approach to enjambment, as proposed here, is able to account for the lion’s share of the cases. 23) a. αἴ κέν πως ἀρνῶν κνίσης αἰγῶν τε τελείων βούλεται ἀντιάσας ἡμῖν ἀπὸ λοιγὸν ἀμῦναι. Il. 1.66–67 if in any way he is willing to accept the smoke of lambs and perfect goats and ward off destruction from us b. ἤλασαν

ἀμφὶ δὲ τάφρον Il. 12.5–6

And around it, they drove a ditch c. ὅς τ’ ἐπεὶ ἂρ μεγάλῃ τε βίῃ καὶ ἀγήνορι θυμῷ εἴξας εἶσ’ ἐπὶ μῆλα βροτῶν ἵνα δαῖτα λάβῃσιν Il. 24.42–43 [like a lion] who, having given way to his great strength and proud heart, goes to the flocks of men to make his meal. d. Ἀτρεΐδη, περὶ μέν σε φάμεν Διὶ τερπικεραύνῳ ἀνδρῶν ἡρώων φίλον ἔμμεναι ἤματα πάντα Od. 24.24–25 Son of Atreus, we thought that you beyond all heroes are dearest to Zeus, for all your days e. δῶκε δὲ μήτηρ χρύσεον ἀμφιφορῆα· Od. 24.73–74 And your mother gave a golden amphora f. ἀμφ’ αὐτοῖσι δ’ ἔπειτα μέγαν καὶ ἀμύμονα τύμβον χεύαμεν Od. 24.80–81 And then over these bones we piled a great and noble grave-mound

Homeric Enjambment (and Caesura)  

In these cases, a complement (usually a direct object) is separated from its verbal predicate. One possible explanation for these exceptional instances is that they are the result of an imperfect integration of formulas.40 In (a), αἰγῶν τε τελείων is a verse-final formula that also occurs in Il. 24.24; in (c.) Διὶ τερπικεραύνῳ is the complement of φίλον in the next line, and ἀνδρῶν ἡρώων is the complement of περί in the preceding line. Verse end thus seems to separate two complements cruelly from their heads. Two factors appear to play a role in this remarkable case of enjambment. First, the syntactic relation between περί and ἀνδρῶν ἡρώων can be compared to that of μεσηγὺ ‖ νηῶν καὶ ποταμοῦ discussed earlier: περί is an adverbially used preposition, which is then secondarily complemented by a genitive of comparison ἀνδρῶν ἡρώων as a sort of loosely added afterthought: ‘we thought that you were exceedingly dear to Zeus, (namely) beyond the heroes’.41 This loose syntactic connection between περί and ἀνδρῶν ἡρώων makes the enjambment more natural than it seemed to be at first sight. A second important factor that the composition of these lines is somewhat strained may be due to a less than optimal integration of several formulas. Διὶ τερπικεραύνῳ occurs 7 times in Iliad and Odyssey, always at verse end; the lineinitial formula ἀνδρῶν ἡρώων occurs 4 times in the Odyssey; in Iliad and Odyssey, the formula ἤματα πάντα appears 26 times after the Bucolic dieresis. The other examples may still be tentatively explained in terms of general cognitive and discourse-pragmatic notions. In (b.), ἀμφὶ δὲ τάφρον may be analyzed as a Left-Dislocated Topic: ‘A ditch, they had driven around it.’ (The ditch is already Topic as it had been mentioned just before in line 4). Ἀμφί can be interpreted as a preverb in tmesis to be connected to ἤλασαν, or as an adverbially used preposition, in which case it can be analyzed as a Setting: ‘and around (it) a ditch, they had driven it. Combining Left-dislocated Topics with Settings into one, enjambed, IU is also found elsewhere, e.g. ἀμφὶ δέ τ’ ἄλλαι ‖ εἵαθ’ ὁμηγερέες ‘and around (her) all others, they sat gathered’ (Il. 24.62) and νῶϊ δ’ ἔπειτα ‖ στῆμεν ἐνὶ προθύροισι ‘and we then ― we stood in the forecourt’ (Il. 11.776–7).42

 40 Parry 1971, 264 speaks of unusual cases of enjambment that are “due to a chance interplay of formulae”. The example cited by Parry ὅς κεν ἀρίστην ‖ βουλὴν βουλεύσῃ (Il. 9.74–75) is, however, readily explained as an instance of emphatic chunking (cf. the superlative ἀρίστην). For an insightful discussion of linguistic irregularity and peripheral instances in Homeric language in general, see Bakker 1988, 239–265. 41 For the syntax of these lines, cf. Ameis-Hentze ad loc. 42 Higbie has more examples of this type, which she unnecessarily labels as “violent enjambment”. Again, a traditional syntactic approach to enjambment such as Higbie’s is unsatisfacto-

  Rutger J. Allan Cases (a), (c.) and (f.) can tentatively be explained by means of the Principle of Complexity mentioned in section (2) above; that is, the syntactic complexity of the verbal complement, containing two coordinated noun phrases or adjectives (ἀρνῶν κνίσης αἰγῶν τε τελείων, μεγάλῃ τε βίῃ καὶ ἀγήνορι θυμῷ and μέγαν καὶ ἀμύμονα τύμβον), facilitates that the complement is expressed in an IU separate from the governing verb. Example (e.) can be explained according to Chafe’s One New Idea Constraint and more specifically, to Du Bois’s (1987) One New Argument Constraint and One Lexical Argument Constraint, which predict that a clause (typically coinciding with an IU) can contain no more than one noun phrase referring to new information and no more than one lexical noun phrase. A related tendency has also been observed for Japanese conversational discourse by Matsumoto 2003, who reformulates them as the “one new NP per IU constraint” and the “one overt NP per IU constraint”. In (e.), both μήτηρ and χρύσεον ἀμφιφορῆα are new to the discourse, and they are both lexical (rather than pronominal) noun phrases.43 One may also speculate about an additional rhetorical effect of drawing attention to the golden amphora by mentioning it in a separate IU (cf. the use of a colon in English): ‘And your mother gave: a golden amphora.’44

 A digression on hyperbaton, enjambment and caesura Many cases of Homeric enjambment are also cases of hyperbaton. How does enjambment relate to different types of hyperbaton? Or, more specifically, at

 ry as it regards instances of enjambment ‘violent’ which are in fact perfectly natural (i.e. ‘nonviolent’) from a discourse-pragmatic point of view. 43 There are indications that the constraints as formulated by Du Bois and Matsumoto are also highly relevant for Homeric discourse segmentation in general. For Homeric Greek, these constraints would imply that a metrical colon preferably does not contain more than one new noun phrase or more than one lexical noun phrase. 44 Some of the cases of separation of verb and direct object such as μυθήσασθαι ‖ μῆνιν ‘to explain — the wrath’ (Il. 1.74) and Ποσειδάων δὲ μεθήσει ‖ ὃν χόλον ‘Poseidon will let go of — his anger’ (Od. 1.77) I would also interpret as forms of emphatic chunking, rhetorically highlighting the dramatic role of the anger in both passages. In the former case, also the (intentional) echo of Il. 1.1, both with verse-initial μῆνιν, may play a role. A similar emphatic effect seems to be aimed at in αὐτίκα δ’ ἔγνω ‖ Παλλάδ’ Ἀθηναίην ‘And immediately he recognized — Pallas Athene!’ (Il. 1.199–200).

Homeric Enjambment (and Caesura)  

which structural position within the hyperbaton does verse end fall? In the literature on (Homeric) hyperbaton, it is common to distinguish two main types, depending on the position of the modifying word or phrase with respect to the intervening constituent(s) and with respect to its syntactic head: (i) preposed modifier hyperbaton, which can be represented by the formula ModifierFOCUS – X – HeadTOPIC

In this type, the modifier is placed before the intervening word(s) X (often including the governing verb), while the head follows it. From the perspective of information structure, the preposed modifier is highly focal (new, contrastive or otherwise salient information). The head, on the other hand, typically is a Topic.45 (ii) postposed modifier hyperbaton, which can be represented by the formula: HeadFOCUS/TOPIC– X ‒ ModifierFOCUS/PRESUPPOSED

This type shows more information-structural variability: the preposed Head may be either Topic or Focus; the postposed Modifier may be a Focus or it may provide presupposed or otherwise inferable information. There is no complete variability: either the Head or the Modifier, or both of them, should be Focus. As examples may serve the earlier mentioned μῆνιν ἄειδε ... ‖ οὐλομένην (Il. 1.1–2), in which the modifier οὐλομένην is new information (as well as its head μῆνιν, placed in the clause-internal preverbal Narrow Focus position), and θεῶν δ᾽ ἀέκητι τέτυκτο ‖ ἀθανάτων (Il. 12.8–9), where the modifier gives presupposed information. In Homer, the two main hyperbaton types appear to behave differently with respect to metrical boundaries, such as verse end and caesura. This can be observed from the numbers in the following table.46

 45 This type is called Y1 hyperbaton by Devine/Stephens 2000 and Bertrand 2011, while my postposed modifier hyperbaton is called Y2 hyperbaton. My description of both types owes much to that of Bertrand 2011, 388–415. 46 M = Modifier, H = Head, X = intervening words (typically including the governing verb), | = caesura or verse end. The sample consists of the first 100 cases of hyperbaton in the Iliad. To determine the caesura positions I followed Fränkel’s (1926) colometric model, in which regular caesuras may appear at 1a, 1b, 1c, 2a (which Fränkel respectively labels as A1, A2, A3, A4), at 3a and 3b (Fränkel’s B1 and B2 caesuras), and at 4a and 4c (Fränkel’s C1 and C2 caesuras). Schematically: ― A1 ◡ A2 ◡ A3 ― A4 ◡ ◡ ― B1 ◡ B2 ◡ ― C1 ◡ ◡ C2 ― ◡ ◡ ― ―

  Rutger J. Allan Tab. 3: Hyperbata and metrical boundaries. Word order and metrical boundary Type 

Type 

M | XH



MX | H



M |X |H



MXH



HX | M



H | XM



H |X |M



HXM



Total



From the table a number of observations can be made. First, if one assumes that there is no correlation between hyperbaton and metrical boundaries, there is no a priori reason to expect a difference in frequency between these 8 patterns. However, the table clearly shows that some of the patterns are preferred, while others are avoided, suggesting that there is indeed a relation between hyperbaton and metrical boundaries. Another observation to be made is that modifier and head show a strong tendency to be split into separate metrical cola. Only in 4 cases, modifier and head seem to be lumped together into one colon (i.e. MXH and HMX in the table). However, even these exceptions disappear if one assumes a caesura at position 5a.47 This general tendency can be explained well on the basis of the One New Idea Constraint: both head and modifier tend to express new information and are therefore preferably split into two Intonations Units. (The verb usually provides less salient information and therefore does not require its own Intonation Unit.)

 47 These are Il. 1.36, 1.266, 1.493, 2.19. These cases all involve a caesura at position 5a (‘ennehemimeres’), e.g. τὸν ἠΰκομος |5a τέκε Λητώ ‖. This position is not recognized as a regular caesura position by Fränkel 19683, but he allows for cases in which the regular C–caesura is ‘verschoben’ to position 5a (ibid., 111–113). If one does accept the ennehemimeres as a possible caesura, these 4 examples would in fact be completely regular since they would all fall in category M | XH, the most frequent type (35 cases) in the sample. For the ennehemimeres as a possible caesura position, see also Porter 1951 and Ruijgh 1995, 9. Higbie 1990, 122, 132, 138– 139 provides data on internal clause and sentence breaks at position 5a; for an overview of the debate on caesura positions, see also Kahane 1994, 17–42 and recently Janse 2020.

Homeric Enjambment (and Caesura)  

The third observation is that there is a strong tendency to place the modifier in its own colon, while the head ends up in the same colon as the intervening material (typically the governing verb). In the preposed modifier type, this tendency is strongest: In 45 instances, the pattern M | XH is found, while MX | H occurs in only two instances. The rationale behind this highly skewed distribution may be that, in terms of information structure, the preposed modifier type shows a stronger asymmetry than the postposed type: the preposed modifier is usually highly focal, while the following head is usually topical. The strong focality of the preposed modifier makes that it is expressed in its own Intonation Unit, thus — briefly — directing the listener’s undivided attention on the modifier. In the postposed modifier type, the tendency is indeed less strong: in 23 cases we find HX | M while we find H | XM in 13.48 In the context of enjambment, postposed modifier hyperbaton is especially frequent, usually showing the pattern HX | M. A well-known example of an adjective in hyperbaton is, again, μῆνιν ἄειδε ... ‖ οὐλομένην (Il. 1.1–2). Other examples are θεῶν δ᾽ ἀέκητι τέτυκτο ‖ ἀθανάτων (Il. 12.8–9) and περὶ δ᾽ αἰγίδι πάντα κάλυπτε ‖ χρυσείῃ (Il. 24.20–21). Genitive modifiers behave according to the same pattern: ψυχὰς Ἄϊδι προΐαψεν ‖ ἡρώων (Il. 1.3–4); μηρί᾽ ἔκηα ‖ ταύρων ἠδ᾽ αἰγῶν (Il. 1.40–41). These postposed enjambed modifiers can be analyzed as Elaborations (see 4.4). The other hyperbaton type, involving preposed modifiers, is much less frequent at verse end: in my sample this type did not occur. An example is the following: 24)

ἦ μάλα λυγρῆς πεύσεαι ἀγγελίης Il. 18.18–19 You will hear a very ghastly message

 48 The analysis of the relation between hyperbaton and caesure is based on Fränkel’s four– colon system. It should be noted, however, that the three tendencies mentioned here can also be observed if only verse end and main caesura are taken into account and the secondary caesurae (i.e. Fränkel’s A en C caesurae) are not counted. Disregarding the secondary caesurae, the figures are as follows: M|XH: 13; MX|H: 4; M|X|H: 0; MXH: 31; HX|M: 23; H|XM: 14; H|X|M: 2; HXM: 13. Even if the secondary caesurae are not counted, a slight preference can still be observed for M and H to be separated from one another either by verse end or by the main caesura: in 44 instances the M and H are lumped together into one verse half (i.e. patterns MXH and HXM), while M and H are split in 56 instances. The tendency for M to be separated from HX or XH is also observable: in 36 cases, M is separated from HX or XH (i.e. patterns M|XH and HX|M), while in 18 cases H is separated from MX or XM (i,e. patterns H|XM and MX|H).

  Rutger J. Allan This is indeed a “harsh enjambment (...), which may be thought especially effective” (Edwards 1991 ad loc.). Still, this special case of enjambment should not be seen as a violation of linguistic rules but rather as an effective rhetorical exploitation of these rules. As we have seen in the preposed modifier type, the internal prosodic boundary shows an overwhelming tendency to fall between the preposed modifier and the intervening X (typically the governing verb), while the head together with the X constitute one Intonation Unit (i.e. pattern M | XH). Examples of this pattern with internal caesura are: Διὸς δ’ |4a ἐτελείετο βουλή (Il. 1.5) and καὶ ἀγλαὰ |4c δέχθαι ἄποινα (Il. 1.23). This pattern also predicts that there is a regular main 3b (trochaic) caesura between preposed modifier μυρί’ and the intervening element (X) Ἀχαιοῖς in Il. 1.2 ἣ μυρί’ |3b Ἀχαιοῖς ἄλγε’ ἔθηκε.49 In the statistics above, hyperbata dependent on, and split by, a governing preposition were not included, because they show only two patterns: M | XPREP H and H | XPREP M. These patterns are different from the verb-governed type since the preposition, being prosodically prepositive, necessarily forms a unit together with the following constituent, regardless of whether it is the head or the modifier. Examples are: θοὰς |4a ἐπὶ νῆας Ἀχαιῶν (hephthemimeres: Fränkel’s C1 caesura); χρυσέῳ |1b ἀνὰ σκήπτρῳ (Il. 1.15) (Fränkel’s A2 caesura); ἡμετέρῳ |2a ἐνὶ οἴκῳ (Il. 1.30) (Fränkel’s A4 caesura); ᾗσιν |3b ἐνὶ φρεσὶ (Il. 1.333), ὅπλοισιν |3b ἐνὶ δεινοῖσιν (Il. 10.254), χείρεσσιν |3b ὑφ’ ἡμετέρῃσι (Il. 10.397) (trochaic: Fränkel’s B2 caesura). The pragmatic factors behind the two dominant patterns in which Head, Modifier and intervening element are split into two Intonation Units are relatively straightforward. In the type involving a postposed modifier, the modifier can be seen as an Elaboration, that is, an additional specification of the preceding clause. As for the preposed modifier type, the location of the intonational break between the strongly focal modifier and the intervening element is perhaps more surprising at first glance. Yet, this pattern can be explained well in the light of the One New Idea Constraint: the cognitive principle that each new idea is preferably expressed by its own Intonation Unit (see section 2). In this respect, the intonational behavior of preposed modifiers in hyperbaton shows a strong similarity to the phenomenon of emphatic chunking as I have described it in section (4.5).

 49 Pace Bakker 1997b, 297, 299, who has to assume that this line has no regular main caesura. Also in lines 1.5, 1.10 and 1.20 the patterns as proposed here predict regular main caesuras remarkably ignored by Bakker.

Homeric Enjambment (and Caesura)  

 Verse end as cognitive-functional boundary: against ‘antimetry’ As we have seen, a central claim in my approach to Homeric enjambment is the idea that verse end, as a boundary between IUs, always constitutes a functionalcognitive boundary of some sort. This idea stands in contradiction to the phenomenon called ‘antimetry’ by Bakker, the alleged mismatch between the flow of cognitive units and the hexameter as a metrical unit. 25) But sometimes the cognitive units are at variance, not with the default rhythm within the period, but with the movement across two or more periods. [...] To bring out the dynamic character of these rhetorically charged moments, we might speak of antimetry to characterize the secondary rhythm that is temporarily set up against the movement of the hexametric period. Bakker 1997a, 153

In this section, I will argue that ‘antimetry’ is a highly problematic notion, and I will do so by showing that it is possible to discern a functional-cognitive boundary in every example of ‘antimetry’ discussed by Bakker. Let us take a closer look at a passages that features in two publications by Bakker as an example of ‘antimetry’ (Bakker 1997a, 154 and Bakker 1997b, 303): 26) αἰδοίης ἑκυρῆς ὀπὸς ἔκλυον, ἐν δ᾽ ἐμοὶ αὐτῇ στήθεσι πάλλεται ἦτορ ἀνὰ στόμα, νέρθε δὲ γοῦνα πήγνυται· ἐγγὺς δή τι κακὸν Πριάμοιο τέκεσσιν. αἲ γὰρ ἀπ᾽ οὔατος εἴη ἐμεῦ ἔπος· ἀλλὰ μάλ᾽ αἰνῶς δείδω Il. 22.451–455 Of my honored husband’s mother, I heard the voice. Within myself, in my breast, my heart is leaping, up to my mouth. My legs below, they are freezing. Something terrible is close, for Priam’s children. May it be far from my ears, my word, but terribly I fear [...]

At three points in this passage, according to Bakker, a cognitive unit starting at the bucolic dieresis continues into the next line (printed in bold).50 On the basis of my typology of enjambment, however, it is possible to analyze verse end as a

 50 Cf. Bakker’s claim, already cited in (4.5), that “a unit, usually beginning at the bucolic dieresis, may continue across the verse-boundary into the next verse” (Bakker 1997b, 302–303).

  Rutger J. Allan functional-cognitive boundary in each of these three cases. The first enjambment, ἐν δ᾽ ἐμοὶ αὐτῇ ‖ στήθεσι ‘in myself, in my breast’, can accounted for in two (non-mutually exclusive) ways: one the one hand, ἐν δ᾽ ἐμοὶ αὐτῇ is an Orientation, providing a spatial Setting to the clause in the following line; on the other hand, στήθεσι in the next line is an apposition (and therefore an Elaboration), providing additional specifying information to ἐν δ᾽ ἐμοὶ αὐτῇ.51 The second enjambment, νέρθε δὲ γοῦνα ‖ πήγνυται ‘my legs below, they are freezing’ can also be analyzed as an Orientation: νέρθε δὲ γοῦνα is a combination of a Left-dislocated Topic with a Setting adverb. The third enjambment, ἀλλὰ μάλ᾽ αἰνῶς ‖ δείδω, is an example of emphatic chunking. The focal element μάλ᾽ αἰνῶς receives its own IU, thereby drawing the listener’s attention to the adverbial modifier and highlighting its significance. A similar analysis can be applied to another passage cited by Bakker as an example of ‘antimetry’ (Bakker 1997a, 153–154): 27)

οὐδέ τις ἔτλη ἕζεσθαι· πάντας γὰρ ἔχε τρόμος, οὕνεκ᾽ Ἀχιλλεὺς ἐξεφάνη Il. 18.246–248

The division of οὐδέ τις ἔτλη and ἕζεσθαι is completely regular: infinitival complement clauses are normally placed in a colon/IU separate from the colon containing the main verb (see also section 4.1); οὕνεκ᾽ Ἀχιλλεὺς ‖ ἐξεφάνη is a very common Left-dislocated Topic, used to reactivate Achilleus as a Topic in the discourse: ‘since Achilleus ― he had appeared’. We may conclude that ‘antimetry’ turns out to be a rather problematic notion. As I have tried to show, it is possible to detect cognitive-functional boundaries at verse in every instance where Bakker assumes that the cognitive unit continues across verse end to the next line. Contrary to Bakker’s claim, verse end not only constitutes a metrical boundary but always also a cognitivefunctional (IU) boundary.

 51 The phrase ἐν δ᾽ ἐμοὶ αὐτῇ ‖ στήθεσι is of course also an instance of what is traditionally called a σχῆμα καθ’ ὅλον καὶ κατὰ μέρος; cf. ἐν δέ οἱ ἦτορ ‖ στήθεσσιν (Il. 1.188–189), where a Setting (ἐν δέ οἱ) is combined with a Left-dislocated Topic (ἦτορ) in one colon/IU.

Homeric Enjambment (and Caesura)  

 From enjambment to caesura: a brief exercise in localizing caesurae In the sections 4.1–4.4, 5 types of enjambment were distinguished defined on the basis of discourse-pragmatic criteria: clausal enjambments, coordinated noun phrases, Orientations, Elaborations, and emphatic chunking. In this final section I will give a brief impression of how these discourse pragmatic categories can also be used as criteria to localize caesuras within the verse, and to ascribe discourse-pragmatic functions to the resulting cola. To illustrate how this works I will analyze the passage from Iliad 22 (ex. 27) discussed in the previous section (6). In the following Table, I have segmented the text into metrical cola on the basis of Hermann Fränkel’s colometric system, which recognizes caesurae at positions 1a, 1b, 1c, 2a (referred to by Fränkel as A1, A2, A3, A4 respectively), 3a, 3b (Fränkel’s B1 and B2 caesurae), and 4a and 4c (Fränkel’s C1 and C2 caesurae.) What I wish to show with this exercise is that metrical cola à la Fränkel can be identified with Intonation Units, which are, in turn, (nuclear or subsidiary) Discourse Acts. We have seen that ἐν δ᾽ ἐμοὶ αὐτῇ in 451 is a Setting; the following στήθεσι is an apposition; πάλλεται ἦτορ is the clause proper and the main Discourse Act; ἀνὰ στόμα is an Elaboration, a postclausal specifying modifier; νέρθε δὲ γοῦνα is a Setting plus Left-dislocated Topic; πήγνυται is the clause, ἐγγὺς δή τι κακὸν is a new clause;52 Πριάμοιο τέκεσσιν is an Elaboration; αἲ γὰρ ἀπ᾽ οὔατος εἴη is a new clause; ἐμεῦ ἔπος is an Elaboration combining ἐμεῦ (in hyperbaton, modifying οὔατος) with a Right-dislocated Topic ἔπος; and ἀλλὰ μάλ᾽ αἰνῶς ‖ δείδω is, as we have seen, a case of emphatic chunking. This brief exercise suggests is that caesurae can indeed be seen as “Sinneseinschnitte”, as Hermann Fränkel claimed, provided one understands the term “Sinneseinschnitt” more specifically as a discourse-pragmatic boundary.53

 52 An alternative analysis, which respects the trochaic caesura, would be to take ἐγγὺς δή τι as a separate IU, serving as an Orientation combining the function of Setting and Topic: ‘something close — it is terrible. 53 In Allan 2009 and 2019, I present similar analyses of Homeric passages, in which I approach Fränkel’s metrical cola from a Functional (Discourse) Grammar point of view. My approach to Homeric colometry is very similar to that of Janse 2014 and 2020.







 

ἐν δ᾽ ἐμοὶ αὐτῇ στήθεσι πάλλεται ἦτορ ἀνὰ στόμα, νέρθε δὲ γοῦνα πήγνυται ἐγγὺς δή τι κακὸν Πριάμοιο τέκεσσιν. αἲ γὰρ ἀπ᾽ οὔατος εἴη ἐμεῦ ἔπος· ἀλλὰ μάλ᾽ αἰνῶς δείδω

Colon/Intonation Unit

Within myself, in my breast, my heart is leaping, up to my mouth. My legs below, they are freezing. Something terrible is close, for Priam’s children. May it be far from the ear, of mine the word. But very terribly I fear

Tab. 4: From Fränkel to functional.

verse end A B C verse end A C verse end B C verse end A

Boundary (Fränkel)

. Orientation (Setting) . Elaboration (apposition) . Nuclear Discourse Act (clause) . Elaboration (specifying modifier) . Orientation (Setting, Left-dislocated Topic) . Nuclear Discourse Act (clause) . Nuclear Discourse Act (clause) . Elaboration (specifying modifier) . Nuclear Discourse Act (clause) . Elaboration (specifying modifier, Right-dislocated Topic) . Focus . Nuclear Discourse Act (clause)

Discourse-pragmatic Function

102  Rutger J. Allan

Homeric Enjambment (and Caesura)  3

 Conclusion What I have tried to argue is that the traditional, syntactically-oriented classifications of enjambment types are only to a limited extent helpful in analyzing Homeric enjambment, and that we can improve our understanding of the nature of enjambment if we consistently take into account its cognitive and its discourse-pragmatic properties, and, more specifically, if we consider it as a natural component of Homeric discourse organization, of which the basic structural elements are the Intonation Unit and the Discourse Act, which can be seen as two sides (prosodic-cognitive vs. discourse-pragmatic) of the same coin. The cognitive aspect of enjambment as a boundary between Intonation Units revolves around the focusing of attention on successive chunks of information (as ‘windows of attention’). This cognitive aspect of Intonation Units comes to the fore in a number of cross-linguistic principles governing the segmentation of speech into Intonation Units, such as the One New Idea Constraint, the Principle of Parallelism, the Principle of Complexity, and the Principle of Distance. The discourse-pragmatic aspect pertains to the function of enjambment as a boundary between (nuclear and subsidiary) Discourse Acts. Taking into account these fundamental cognitive and functional aspects it is possible to develop a typology of enjambment consisting of 5 enjambment types: (1) clausal enjambment, (2) coordinated noun phrases, (3) Orientations (Left-dislocated Topics, Settings,) and preclausal vocatives, (4) Elaborations (Right-dislocated Topics, appositions, additional specifying modifiers) and intra/postclausal vocatives, and (5) emphatic chunking. These 5 categories can cover most instances of enjambment in Homer, leaving only a relatively small residue of cases resisting a straightforward classification. It should be noted, however, that even these cases do not violate the more general cognitive constraints and principles governing IU segmentation. This strongly suggests that verse end is not only a metrical and prosodic boundary but also a cognitivefunctional (IU) boundary of some sort, and that the notion of ‘antimetry’, a situation in which verse end allegedly does not coincide with a cognitive boundary, is rather problematic. Enjambment is frequently combined with hyperbaton, which is only natural given that both phenomena are intimately connected to the informationstructural dynamics of Homeric discourse. The most common relationship between enjambment and hyperbaton is that the postposed Modifier (M) is separated from the preceding Head (H) and the intervening constituent (‘X’, usually the governing verb) by verse end (i.e. HX ‖ M). A brief examination of the relation between hyperbaton and colometry suggested that there is a strong prefer-

  Rutger J. Allan ence for Head and Modifier to be placed in separate metrical cola/IUs, a tendency which can be explained well on the basis of the One New Idea Constraint.54

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Homeric Enjambment (and Caesura)  

Dik, S.C. (19972), The Theory of Functional Grammar, 2 vols., Berlin/New York. Du Bois, J.W. (1987), “The discourse basis of ergativity”, Language 63, 805–855. Edwards, M.W. (1966), “Some features of Homeric craftsmanship”, TAPhA 97, 115–179. Edwards, M.W. (1991), The Iliad: A Commentary. Vol. 5, Books 17–20, Cambridge. Edwards, M.W. (2002), Sound, Sense, and Rhythm. Listening to Greek and Latin Poetry, Princeton. Fränkel, H. (19683 [1926]), “Der homerische und der kallimachische Hexameter”, in: Wege und Formen frühgriechischen Denkens, Munich, 100–156 [= Nachrichten der Göttinger Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften, 1926, 197–229]. Givón, T. (1990), Syntax: A Functional–Typological Introduction, Vol. II, Amsterdam. Givón, T. (2001), Syntax: An Introduction, Vol. II, Amsterdam. Goldstein, D. (2015), Classical Greek Syntax: Wackernagel’s Law in Herodotus, Leiden. Gussenhoven, C. (2004), The Phonology of Tone and Intonation, Cambridge. Hagel, S. (1994), “Zu den Konstituenten des griechischen Hexameters”, Wiener Studien 107/108, 77–108. Hannay, M./Kroon, C.H.M. (2005), “Acts and the relation between grammar and discourse”, Functions of Language 12, 87–124. Hengeveld, K./Mackenzie, J. (2008), Functional Discourse Grammar: A Typologically-based Theory of Language Structure, Oxford. Higbie, C. (1990), Measure and Music: Enjambement and Sentence Structure in the Iliad, Oxford. Janse, M. (2003), “The metrical schemes of the hexameter”, Mnemosyne 56, 343–348. Janse, M. (20145), Inleiding tot de Homerische taal en metriek [Introduction to Homeric Language and Metre], Ghent. Janse, M. (2020), “Phrasing Homer: A cognitive-linguistic approach to Homeric versification”, Symbolae Osloenses 94, 2–32. Kahane, A. (1994), The Interpretation of Order: A Study in the Poetics of Homeric Repetition, Oxford. Keizer, E. (2015), A Functional Discourse Grammar for English, Oxford. Kirk, G.S. (1966), “The structure of the Homeric hexameter”, Yale Classical Studies 20, 76–104. Kirk, G.S. (1985), The Iliad: A Commentary I. Books 1–4, Cambridge. Kroon, C.H.M. (1995), Discourse Particles in Latin: A Study of nam, enim, autem, vero and at, Amsterdam. Lambrecht, K. (1994), Information Structure and Sentence Form: Topic, Focus, and the Mental Representations of Discourse Referents, Cambridge. Lambrecht, K. (1996), “On the formal and functional relationship between topics and vocatives. Evidence from French”, in: A. Golberg (ed.), Conceptual Structure, Discourse, and Language, Stanford, 267–288. Langacker, R.W. (2008), Cognitive Grammar: A Basic Introduction, Oxford. Leech, G.N/Svartvik, J. (2002), A Communicative Grammar of English, 3rd ed., London. Matsumoto, K. (2003), Intonation Units in Japanese Conversation Syntactic, Informational and Functional Structures, Amsterdam. Nünlist, R. (2000), “Homerische Metrik”, in: F. Graf et al. (eds.), Homers Ilias. Gesamtkommentar. Prolegomena, Berlin/New York, 109–114. Parry, M. (1971 [1929]), “The distinctive character of enjambement in Homeric verse”, in: A. Parry (ed.), The Making of Homeric Verse, Oxford, 251–265 [= TAPhA 60, 1929, 200–220]. Patt, S. (2013), Punctuation as a Means of Medium-Dependent Presentation Structure in English: Exploring the Guide Functions of Punctuation, Tübingen.

  Rutger J. Allan Porter, H.N. (1951), “The early Greek hexameter”, Yale Classical Studies 12, 3–63. Quirk, R. et al. (1985), A Comprehensive Grammar of the English Language, London. Rossi, L.E. (1965), “Estensione e valore del ‘colon’ nell’esametro omerico”, Studi Urbinati 39, 239–273. Ruijgh, C.J. (1995). “D’Homère aux origines de la tradition épique”, in: J.P. Crielaard (ed.), Homeric Questions: Essays in Philology, Ancient History and Archaeology Including the Papers of a Conference Organized by the Netherlands Institute at Athens (15 May 1993), Amsterdam, 1–96. Ruijgh, C.J. (1996 [1990]), “La place des enclitiques dans l’ordre des mots chez Homère d’apres la loi de Wackernagel”, in: Scripta Minora, II, 627–647 [= Ruijgh, C.J. (1990), in: H. Eichner/ H. Rix (eds.), Sprachwissenschaft und Philologie. Jacob Wackernagel und die IndoGermanistik heute, Wiesbaden, 213–233]. Scheppers, F. (2011), The Colon Hypothesis: Word Order, Discourse Segmentation and Discourse, Brussels. Selting, M. (2010), “Prosody in interaction: State of the art”, in: D. Barth-Weingarten/E. Reber/ M. Selting (eds.), Prosody in Interaction, Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 1–40. Slings, S.R. (1992), “Written and spoken language: an exercise in the pragmatics of the Greek language”, CPh 87, 95–109. Slings, S.R. (1999). “Information unit and metrical unit”, in: I.L. Pfeijffer/S.R. Slings (eds.), One Hundred Years of Bacchylides. Proceedings of a Colloquium Held at the Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam, Amsterdam, 61–75. Tsopanakis, A.G. (1983), Homeric Researches. From the Prosodic Irregularity to the Construction of the Verse, Thessaloniki. West, M.L. (1982), Greek Metre, Oxford.

Albio Cesare Cassio

Old Morphology in Disguise: Homeric Episynaloephe, Ζῆν(α), and the Fate of IE Instrumentals Abstract: The problem of Homeric episynaloephe is a delicate issue and has systematically been ignored. It is sporadic, it is a late feature of the Homeric text, but its existence cannot be denied in the name of an idealized archaic Homer in which instances of late manipulations are regarded as quantité négligeable. It is argued that episynaloephe should be added to the many cues indicating that presumably in the 7th cent. BC the earlier epic texts were extensively reshuffled: the old idea of a Homer surviving unscathed from time immemorial is nothing but a romantic dream without foundation in fact. Keywords: Homeric diction, epic Kunstsprache, Greek language, episynaloephe

Archaic and Classical Greek had two very similar but genetically different endings of the dative plural of the thematic declension, namely -οισι and -οις. As is well known, -οισι goes back to an old Indo-European locative plural (*-oisu > Greek *-oisi, Rix 1992, § 123 > Mycenaean -oihi > Archaic Greek -οισι with a restored intervocalic [s]), while -οις is widely believed to continue the IE *-ōis instrumental plural. Yet complications touching on both the original meaning and the Greek use of these endings are not lacking. For instance, almost a century ago Wackernagel and Debrunner 1930, 67 suggested that beside the typical instrumental and comitative function, originally the instrumental case had a datival one, too, which is not improbable in the light of some special datival usages of the instrumental plural in Myceanean (Thompson 2010, 194). The picture is a complex one. -οισι(ν) is extensively attested at an early date in Eastern Ionia, e.g. τοῖσιν ἐκγόνοισιν at Cyzicus, 6th cent. BC, Schwyzer 1923, no. 732 B; Attica (e.g. IG I3 6, 36–38, ante 460 BC) τοῖσι δὲ ὀλείζοσι μυστε̄ρίοισιν); Crete (SEG 35 no. 991, 5th cent. BC Λυκτίοισι twice, IC IV 6 το]ῖσι ναοῖσι), Argos (see below) and Pamphylia,1 but -οις can appear in early inscriptions side by side with -οισι, especially in pronouns: at Argos (Buck 1955: no. 83, ca. 575–550 BC) τοῖσι χρε̄́ μασι τοῖσι χρε̄ στε̄ ριιοισι, but two lines below hοῖζ δέ, δαμιοργός  1 Thumb/Scherer 1959, § 281. 1; -οις is unattested. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111272887-004

  Albio Cesare Cassio ἐπ]α[να]νκασσάτο̄ , which may continue the old instrumental, “with how much [money], the demiurgos shall impose”;2 incidentally, hοῖζ δέ is a perfect match, in form although not in content, for the preconsonantal οἷς of Il. 3.109 οἷς δ’ ὁ γέρων μετέῃσιν, ἅμα πρόσσω καὶ ὀπίσσω / λεύσσει: note that in the Homeric text -οισι endings are an overwhelming majority. In some regions, -οις and only -οις is found from the beginning of the documentation, which is quite early in some dialects (e.g. Elean, Minon 2007 I: no. 12 τοῖρ Χαλαδρίοιρ, 500–475 BC3) slightly later in others (Arcado-Cypriot).4 Beside these areas -οις seems to be the only ending in use in West Ionic (Thumb/Scherer 1959, § 312. 3), Boeotian, Thessalian and most Doric dialects: e.g. in Laconian there seems to be no trace of -οισι (Thumb/Kieckers 1932, § 93. 2; Hämmig 2013, 89 n. 256).5 Note however that theoretically the use of -οισι in earlier, now lost, incriptions of these areas cannot be excluded. It is very difficult to tell whether in each given case -οις was formally the continuation of an old IE instrumental or the result of later modifications, since at some point the demonstrative pronoun ὁ ἡ τό developed a special use as an article, and in this function, according to a widely accepted theory, a τοῖσι in pretonic position lost its final vowel,6 then “the shortened -οις... spread into the other word classes, and the type τοῖς θεοῖς took over” (Willi 2008, 265). Ιf this is accepted, a number of λόγοις or πολέμοις of our Greek texts may have nothing to do with the old instrumentals, and -οις in Sophocles’ βοτοῖς (Aj. 453 ἐν τοιοῖσδε χεῖρας αἱμάξαι βοτοῖς) may genetically be different from the one in Alcman’s βοτοῖς (1. 47 Davies ἐν βοτοῖς στάσειεν ἵππον). As we have seen, -οισι(ν) endings are attested in Archaic inscriptions from many areas of the Greek-speaking world, including East Ionia, where they lasted longer than elsewhere. As is well known, -οισι(ν) “dominiert eindeutig bei Homer” (Risch 1964, 9), e.g. ἀθανάτοισι θεοῖσι, μαλακοῖσι καὶ αἱμυλίοισι λόγοισι, and is usually and rightly interpreted as an East Ionic form; the East Aeolic preference for -οισι might also have played a role. Yet, many indisputable -οις  2 Buck 1955, 283 (translation of the inscription). 3 The complications presented by the -οις datives in Elean are well discussed by Minon 2007 II, 370 ff. 4 Egetmeyer 2010, § 477; Morpurgo Davies 1992, 430, who interestingly suggested that Arcadian -οις may have arisen from an -s recharacterization of *-oi < Mycenaean *-oihi. 5 Whether -οισι was dialektecht in Syracusan Doric is uncertain, Willi 2008, 132. 6 “Im vortonigen Artikel mag -oi̯s durch Apokope des -i aus -oi̯si entstanden sein”, Rix 1992, § 153, see also Risch 1964, 9. That τοῖς before a consonant could be nothing but a truncated τοῖσι is proven by fem. τῆις γυναιξίν (Thasos, IG XII, 8, 264 line 15), since τῆις is nothing but a truncated τῆισι and has nothing to do with instrumentals.

Old Morphology in Disguise  

endings are not lacking in Homer. In a nutshell, the Homeric picture is as follows: -οισι(ν) endings are the rule; -οις endings of pronouns are admitted without problems, but not in nouns and adjectives. One has the impression that in the latest compositional phases -οις datives of nouns and adjectives needed to be ‘excused’ in some way or another, either being placed before a vowel or, so to speak, under the protective wing of other grammatical cases of the same word in the same position in the verse (see below). As already mentioned, -οις in pronouns is a special case and is likely to be old, e.g. Od. 3.113 ἄλλα τε πόλλ’ ἐπὶ τοῖς πάθομεν κακά ‘other evils in addition to these’, Il. 4.153 τοῖς δὲ βαρὺ στενάχων μετέφη κρείων Ἀγαμέμνων = ‘to them’; in Homer τοίσ-δε(σ)σι and τοῖσ-δε are also found.7 But the ‘recent’ form of the article, τοῖς, is never attested in preconsonantal position: there is no *τοῖς πολέμοισι or *τοῖς μεγάροισι in the Homeric text. As a matter of fact, the use of τοῖς as an article must have been familiar to the poets who gave final shape to the two epics, yet they would go to any lengths to camouflage it by placing it before a vowel — and the same policy applied, as far as possible, as we have seen, to the -οις datives of nouns and adjectives used in the spoken language. A line of the Odyssey as printed by Martin West 2017 (19.197 καί οἱ τοῖς ἄλλοις ἑτάροις, οἳ ἅμ’ αὐτῶι ἕποντο) may give us an idea of the possible interplay of the spoken language with literary traditions. In real life, the poet might well have said τοῖς λόγοις, ἄλλοις κακοῖς, ἑταίροις πιστοῖς, but when composing hexameters, he took care to place all his -οις before a following vowel, thus passing -οις off as an elided -οισι. As Mette 1951, 7 says, the Homeric Kunstsprache “zeigt in ihren Anfängen das eindeutige Bestreben, die kurzen Dative zugunsten der langen wenn irgendmöglich zu vermeiden”. The various -οις endings of nouns and adjectives that were not camouflaged have been the object of numerous studies (and controversies) since the 19th century.8 Attempts to link them to specific chronological stages or dialect areas (e.g. ‘Achaean’ = Arcado-Cypriot, Ruijgh 1958 = 1991) are hardly convincing. The problem is that apart from some isolated cases, the metrically guaranteed -οις datives, either inherited or latter-day formations, are mostly found in recent modifications of old syntagms or formulas (Janko 1982, 56) like e.g. Od. 4.754 θεοῖς μακάρεσσι, a unique reversal of frequent μακάρεσσι θεοῖσι. Note that while an -οισι dative has one more syllable than the other cases of the

 7 But never τοισίδε, metrically suitable for the hexameter and found many times in Herodotus. 8 Reichelt 1893; Witte 1913, 22 ff.; Mette 1951, 7 ff.; Ruijgh 1958 = 1991; Shipp 1972, 50 ff.; Risch 1964, 9 ff.; Janko 1982, 54 ff.; and Andersen/Haug 2012, 39.

  Albio Cesare Cassio plural, -οις allows the syllable number to stay the same through the whole declension (Risch 1964, 9): λό.γοι λό.γων λό.γοις λό.γους. This allowed time-honored formulas to be manipulated while leaving the audience with the impression that almost nothing had changed. For instance, if a certain word traditionally occupied a certain metrical slot in the nominative, the genitive or the accusative, an -οις allowed to use that word in the dative in a new syntactical environment with the advantage — hardly a secondary one in the epic language — of leaving it in its traditional placing. This can be observed especially in words of the ᵕ — x shape, which tend to be placed at verse-end (West 1982, 37). A striking case is that of Ἀχαιοῖς, which is never found before a consonant inside a line. It only occurs seven times in all at verse-end, precisely the place where the nominative Ἀχαιοί occurs about two hundred times. It is clear that Ἀχαιοῖς was accurately avoided except for verse-end, where it could be ‘excused’ by the enormous number of nominatives with the same number of syllables in the same position. The same goes for ἄεθλα, found 29 times at verse-end in the nominative, accusative and genitive, while ἀέθλοις is found in the same position only twice in two almost identical lines, in practice once, Od. 8.131 αὐτὰρ ἐπεὶ δὴ πάντες ἐτέρφθησαν φρέν’ ἀέθλοις, 17.174 κοῦροι, ἐπεὶ δὴ πάντες ἐτέρφθητε φρέν’ ἀέθλοις. In pure theory, ἀέθλοις might be a dative with a noble pedigree, formally the heir to an Indo-European instrumental with an instrumental meaning (‘they delighted their minds by means of games’); yet ἀέθλοις was certainly chosen at a late stage of the diction in order to create a new syntactical structure respectful of the traditional metrical placing of ἄεθλα; the lateness of the line as a whole is also denounced by ἐτέρφθην, the old Homeric forms being (ἐ)τάρπην (Il. 11.780 ἐπεὶ τάρπημεν ἐδητύος ἠδὲ ποτῆτος) or (ἐ)τάρφθην (Od. 6.99 σίτου τάρφθεν δμῳαί). Personally, I find it difficult to interpret ἀέθλοις as an extremely old instrumental that survived as such to be re-used after a long time.9 Yet at this point one is entitled to ask: are there in Homer plausible instances of -οις datives demonstrably continuing old IE instrumentals in form and meaning? The reply heavily depends on the re-examination of an oftenneglected peculiarity of some epic hexameters. As is well known, the only inherited accusative of Ζεύς is Ζῆν (< *di̯ēm, cf. Latin diem). For a long time span Ζῆν must have been the only accusative in use, but at some point it was brought into line with the other accusatives of the athematic declension and became Ζῆνα, from which the new oblique cases  9 Note that the theoretically ‘standard’ -οισι dative plural of ἄεθλον is attested only once, Il. 23.646 ἀλλ’ ἴθι καὶ σὸν ἑταῖρον ἀέθλοισι κτερέϊζε.

Old Morphology in Disguise  

Ζηνός and Ζηνί arose — a type of declension well attested in some dialect areas, especially Crete and East Ionia (Wathelet 1974, 196–205: the name of the famous Homeric scholar from Ephesus was not Diodotos but Zenodotos). The Homeric text inherited the old Ζῆν, which, however, began to be perceived as embarrassingly ‘irregular’ in the latest compositional phases of the epics, when only Ζῆνα was in use. In some cases, when in a traditional noun — epithet combination the old Ζῆν found itself before a vowel, it was easy to ‘save face’, so to speak, by conceiving of it as an elided Ζῆνα, as in Iliad 8.22 Ζῆν’ ὕπατον μήστωρ’(α), (and in fact August Fick restored Ζῆν without apostrophe).10 But a problem arose when the time-honored noun-epithet formula in the accusative, ἐυρύοπα Ζῆν, occurred at verse-end. In that position ἐυρύοπα Ζῆν is attested four times in all, thrice in Homer and once in Hesiod, and never elsewhere in Greek literature, and in all four instances the following line begins with a vowel: Il. 8.206 ἐρυκέμεν εὐρύοπα Ζῆν || αὐτοῦ κ’ ἔνθ’ ἀκάχοιτο... Il. 14.265 ἀρηξέμεν εὐρύοπα Ζῆν || ὡς Ἡρακλῆος... Il. 24.331 τὼ δ’ οὐ λάθον εὐρύοπα Ζῆν || ἐς πεδίον προφανέντε· Hes. Theog. 884 Ὀλύμπιον εὐρύοπα Ζῆν || ἀθανάτων·

It has long been understood that the systematic vocalic beginning of the four lines following εὐρύοπα Ζῆν cannot be due to chance; not surprisingly, the best account of what happened is still the one found in Wackernagel’s Sprachliche Untersuchungen zu Homer (1916, 160–163, see also Mette 1951, 7 f. and West 1966, 399 f. ad Hes. Theog. 884). The ‘episynaloephe’, as it is technically called (Körte 1911) — the elision of the final vowel of a line before the vocalic beginning of the following one — was clearly an attempt to ‘excuse’ the presence of the old and obsolete Ζῆν by giving the audience the impression that it was nothing but a ‘modern’ Ζῆνα elided before a vowel. This is confirmed by the graphic arrangement found in the famous Venetus A manuscript, with Ζῆν split between two lines, e.g. Il. 8.206 f. εὐρύοπα Ζῆ || ν᾽ αὐτοῦ...

 10 See West’s 1998 apparatus ad loc.

  Albio Cesare Cassio

Fig. 3: Iliad 8.206 f. as laid out in ms. Venetus A (= Marcianus Graecus Z. 454).

a practice that can also be observed in the Bacchylides papyrus (Ehrlich 1912, 263). In later authors, e.g. Sappho, Sophocles and Callimachus, episynaloephe is well attested and commonly accepted (e.g. Körte 1911; Mette 1951, 8 n. 2; Maas 1962, § 139), but in Homer and Hesiod it is almost universally regarded as a completely isolated phenomenon contravening the general rule by which each hexameter is an autonomous entity. A lonely voice on this issue was that of Mette 1951, 8 n. 2, who interpreted the Homeric line-final -οις datives in lines followed by vowel-initial ones as elided -οισι datives. However, nobody seems to have been impressed by Mette’s interpretation since too often vowel-initial lines alternate with consonant-initial ones, e.g. Il. 8.487 Ἀχαιοῖς /ἀσπασίη but 17.396 Ἀχαιοῖς / νῆας, etc. Yet one case, listed but not discussed by Mette, must give us pause. In Homer, the only dative plural of ἐρετμόν ‘oar’ is ἐρετμοῖς; ἐρετμοῖσι(ν) is never attested. Ἐρετμοῖς is found in ten Homeric lines, mainly in the Odyssey for obvious reasons; it is invariably placed at line-end in sentences invariably describing a boat advancing by means of rowing oars, so with a clear instrumental meaning — there is no other meaning of this dative in Homer. And all ten lines following the ones with ἐρετμοῖς begin with a vowel: Il. 1.435 f. καρπαλίμως, τὴν δ’ εἰς ὅρμον προέρεσσαν ἐρετμοῖς. ἐκ δ’ εὐνὰς ἔβαλον, κατὰ δὲ πρυμνήσι’ ἔδησαν· Od. 4.580 f. ἑξῆς δ’ ἑζόμενοι πολιὴν ἅλα τύπτον ἐρετμοῖς. ἂψ δ’ εἰς Αἰγύπτοιο, διιπετέος ποταμοῖο, Od. 9.104 f. ἑξῆς δ’ ἑζόμενοι πολιὴν ἅλα τύπτον ἐρετμοῖς. ἔνθεν δὲ προτέρω πλέομεν ἀκαχήμενοι ἦτορ. Od. 9.180 f. ἑξῆς δ’ ἑζόμενοι πολιὴν ἅλα τύπτον ἐρετμοῖς. ἀλλ’ ὅτε δὴ τὸν χῶρον ἀφικόμεθ’ ἐγγὺς ἐόντα, Od. 9.472 f. ἑξῆς δ’ ἑζόμενοι πολιὴν ἅλα τύπτον ἐρετμοῖς. ἀλλ’ ὅτε τόσσον ἀπῆν, ὅσσον τε γέγωνε βοήσας,

Old Morphology in Disguise  

Od. 9.564 f. ἑξῆς δ’ ἑζόμενοι πολιὴν ἅλα τύπτον ἐρετμοῖς. ἔνθεν δὲ προτέρω πλέομεν ἀκαχήμενοι ἦτορ, Od. 12.147 f. ἑξῆς δ’ ἑζόμενοι πολιὴν ἅλα τύπτον ἐρετμοῖς. ἡμῖν δ’ αὖ κατόπισθε νεὸς κυανοπρῴροιο West’s apparatus 147 ἑξῆς δ’ἑζόμενοι πολιὴν ἅλα τύπτον ἐρετμοῖς (= δ 580 al.) add. P Mc B N Od. 12.180 f. αὐτοὶ δ’ ἑζόμενοι πολιὴν ἅλα τύπτον ἐρετμοῖς. ἀλλ’ ὅτε τόσσον ἀπῆμεν, ὅσον τε γέγωνε βοήσας, Od. 13.22 f. βλάπτοι ἐλαυνόντων, ὁπότε σπερχοίατ’ ἐρετμοῖς· οἱ δ’ εἰς Ἀλκινόοιο κίον καὶ δαῖτ’ ἀλέγυνον. Od. 15.497 f. καρπαλίμως, τὴν δ’ εἰς ὅρμον προέρεσσαν ἐρετμοῖς. ἐκ δ’ εὐνὰς ἔβαλον, κατὰ δὲ πρυμνήσι’ ἔδησαν·

The four lines following Ζῆν are certainly not due to chance, and there is all the more reason not to attribute to chance the vowel-initial ten lines that follow the ten verse-final ἐρετμοῖς: precisely as in the case of Ζῆν, episynaloephe must have been used as an escamotage to make an archaism appear in modern attire, namely the old instrumental ἐρετμοῖς as an elided East Ionic ἐρετμοῖσι. While e.g. Ἀχαιοῖς is a rare variation of traditional nominative Ἀχαιοί, ἐρετμοῖς is variation of nothing: it is functionally and morphologically a relic embedded in phrases invariably describing a ship or a boat propelled by oars. Note that ἐρετμοῖσι+ double C, or *ἐρετμοῖσιν + C might have been metrically unexceptionable, like e.g. the frequent Ἀχαιοῖσιν beside Ἀχαιοῖς,11 but is never attested in Homer12 — and only twice in the rest of Greek epic poetry.13 Note that the full stops after ἐρετμοῖς are due to modern editors; at the end of some lines a high dot would be more appropriate. In discussing Ζῆν ||V, Wackernagel affirmed that what we have in our Homer is what was left after the elimination of all the old verses in which Ζῆν was followed by a consonant;14 however, the vowel-initial lines of our Homer might well also be brand-new lines expressly composed to make Ζῆν appear as

 11 E.g. Il. 1.284 ἕρκος Ἀχαιοῖσιν πέλεται πολέμοιο κακοῖο, etc. 12 Although lines like e.g. *αὐτικ᾽ ἐρετμοῖσιν πολιὴν ἅλα τύπτον ἅπαντες would have been perfectly possible in Homer. 13 Orac. ap. Hdt. 8.96 Κωλιάδες δὲ γυναῖκες ἐρετμοῖσι φρύξουσι and Ap. Rh. 4.1660 ὑπὲκ βελέων ἐρύοντο / νῆ’ ἐπ’ ἐρετμοῖσιν, δεδοκημένοι κτλ.; otherwise, Ap. Rh. has 10x ἐρετμοῖς, same placing and same meaning as in Homer (but followed by either C or V). 14 Wackernagel (1916, 162): “Es wurde damals überall ausgemerzt, wo der folgende Vers mit Konsonant began”.

  Albio Cesare Cassio an elided Ζῆνα. In any case an old situation was upended. No doubt the same applies to ἐρετμοῖς || V : at early stages of the epics the lines following ἐρετμοῖς must have indifferently begun with a vowel or a consonant: what we have in our Homer is likely to have been composed in obedience to a new rule ‘begin with a vowel the verse following ἐρετμοῖς’. If this is accepted, the ‘short’ ending in ἐρετμοῖς is really an heir to an IE instrumental in form and meaning. The problem of Homeric episynaloephe is a delicate one and has systematically been ignored. It is a late escamotage, but it is not confined to the verses examined above15 and cannot be swept under the carpet as it has been so far. It is sporadic, it is a late feature of the Homeric text, but its existence cannot be denied in the name of an idealized archaic Homer in which instances of late manipulations are regarded as quantité négligeable. My impression is that episynaloephe should be added to the many cues indicating that presumably in the 7th cent. BC the earlier epic texts were extensively reshuffled: the old idea of a Homer surviving unscathed from time immemorial is nothing but a romantic dream without foundation in fact.

References Andersen, Ø./Haug, D.T.T. (eds.) (2012), Relative Chronology in Early Greek Epic Poetry, Cambridge. Buck, C.D. (1955), The Greek Dialects, Chicago. Cassio, A.C. (forth.), ‘Late’ Linguistic Innovations and Elimination of Hiatus in the Homeric Text. Egetmeyer, M. (2010), Le dialecte grec ancien de Chypre, Berlin/New York. Ehrlich, H. (1912), Untersuchungen über die Natur der griechischen Betonung, Berlin. Janko, R. (1982), Homer, Hesiod and the Hymns, Cambridge. Hagen, H. (1994), “Die Diskussion um die Schreibweise von Ζῆν(’) im homerischen Epos”, Glotta 72, 98–104. Hämmig, A.E. (2013), ΝΥ ΕΦΕΛΚΥΣΤΙΚΟΝ, Hamburg. Körte, A. (1911), “Die Episynaloiphe”, Glotta 3, 153–156. Maas, P. (1962), Greek Metre, transl. H. Lloyd-Jones, Oxford. Mette, H.J. (1951), Der Pfeilschuss des Pandaros, Halle/Saale. Minon, S. (2007), Les inscriptions éléennes dialectales (VIe — IIe siècle avant J.-C.), I - II, Geneva. Morpurgo Davies, A. (1992), “Mycenaean, Arcadian, Cyprian and some questions of method in dialectology”, in: J.-P. Olivier (ed.), Μυκηναϊκά, Actes du IX Colloque international sur les textes mycéniens et égéens, Athènes, 2–6 oct. 1990, “BCH” Suppl. XXV, Athens/Paris, 415–432. Reichelt, C. (1893), De dativis in OIΣ et ΗΙΣ (ΑΙΣ) exeuntibus, Breslau.

 15 See Cassio (forth.).

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Risch, E. (1964), “Das Attische im Rahmen der griechischen Dialekte”, Museum Helveticum 21, 1–14. Rix, H. (1992), Historische Grammatik des Griechischen, 2nd ed., Darmstadt. Ruijgh, C.J. (1958), “Les datifs pluriels dans les dialectes grecs et la position du mycénien”, Mnemosyne 11, 97–116 [= J.M. Bremer et al. (eds.), Scripta minora ad linguam graecam pertinentia, Amsterdam 1991, 3–22]. Schwyzer, E. (1923), Dialectorum Graecarum exempla epigraphica potiora, Leipzig. Shipp, G.P. (1972), Studies in the Language of Homer, 2nd ed., Cambridge. Thompson, R. (2010), “Mycenaean Greek”, in: E.J. Bakker (ed.), A Companion to the Ancient Greek Language, Oxford, 189–199. Thumb, A./Kieckers, E. (1932), Handbuch der griechischen Dialekte vol. 1, Heidelberg. Thumb, A./Scherer, A. (1959), Handbuch der griechischen Dialekte vol. 2, Heidelberg. Wackernagel, J. (1916), Sprachliche Untersuchungen zu Homer, Göttingen. Wackernagel, J./Debrunner, A. (1929/1930), Altindische Grammatik III, Göttingen. Wathelet, P. (1974), “Le nom de Zeus chez Homère et dans les dialectes grecs”, Minos 15, 195–225. West, M.L. (1966), Hesiod Theogony, Oxford. West, M.L. (1982), Greek Metre, Oxford. West, M.L. (1998), Homerus Ilias, vol. I (I–XII), Stuttgart/Leipzig. West, M.L. (2017), Homerus Odyssea, Berlin/Boston. Willi, A. (2008), “Genitive problems: Mycenaean -Ca-o, -Co-jo, -Co vs. later Greek -ᾱo, -oιo, -oυ”, Glotta 84, 239–272. Willi, A. (2008a), Sikelismos. Sprache, Literatur und Gesellschaft im griechischen Sizilien (8.-5. Jh. v. Chr.), Basel. Witte, K. (1913), “Über die Kasusausgänge -οιο und -ου, -οισι und -οις, -ησι und -ης im griechischen Epos”, Glotta 5, 8–47.

Lara Pagani

“Not According to our Usage…”: Linguistic Awareness in Hellenistic Editorial Practice on Homer Abstract: Although ancient grammarians apparently were not interested in the facts of linguistic evolution per se or from a theoretical point of view, it has been recently demonstrated with solid arguments that they had some awareness of linguistic diachrony and employed it in their philological task. This paper investigates, with a specific focus on Homer, whether the Hellenistic scholars drew on ideas and remarks connected with historical linguistics in a wide sense, by employing them in their work of textual criticism. An overview of a selection of Homeric scholia will show that ancient philologists (and especially their champion, Aristarchus of Samothrace) did indeed maintain that some forms in the Homeric text were unacceptable, or thought they could detect parts added by interpolators, or even challenged (real or alleged) textual choices of predecessors, on the basis of the belief that changes had occurred in language over time, in semantics, morphology, and construction, so that Homeric linguistic usage had characteristics that made it different from later usage. Keywords: editorial practice, Hellenistic scholarship, Homeric text, language change, textual criticism

 Introduction Despite some reservations expressed in the past about the editorial methods adopted within Hellenistic scholarship, it is now generally acknowledged that it was a turning point towards the establishment of philology as a discipline in Western civilization, with the acquisition not only of technical tools but also of conceptual premises aimed at a critical approach to the literary texts.1 It has also

 1 A series of papers have been devoted to this problem by F. Montanari over the last two decades: for a synthesis, see Montanari 2015, esp. 39–44, with a detailed analysis of the debate between the supporters of the two opposing views, who have counted, among the skeptics, M. van der Valk in the 1950s and 1960s, M.L. West, H. van Thiel, and R. Janko over the new millennium; and, on the other side, Th. Führer, M. Haslam, G. Nagy, J.-F. Nardelli, A. Rengakos, and M. Schmidt from the https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111272887-005

  Lara Pagani been demonstrated that these scholars drew on linguistic knowledge, which had both its starting point and field of application in exegetical and editorial practice but was not entirely without a theoretical character.2 The aim of this paper is to investigate whether the expertise of Hellenistic scholars in the field of technical grammar allowed them also to develop and apply in their philological activity the awareness that their language had undergone changes over the centuries. Our case study will be their editorial work on Homeric poetry, since it was the fundamental touchstone for the Hellenistic scholars, and in relation to this field our evidence is richer and more informative. However, from a brief survey in other corpora, similar approaches by the ancient interpreters clearly emerge also in relation to other poets.3 I have limited my research for now to the Medieval scholia4 (which means that I have not systematically scrutinized other types of erudite sources, such as lexica or the Etymologica, nor ancient material like papyrus commentaries, marginalia, glossaria, etc.). The idea that the philological study of a literary text had to take into account the specific features of its language is clearly attested for the Hellenistic scholars, and has a conceptual counterpart in the exegetical approach described by the motto Ὅμηρον ἐξ Ὁμήρου σαφηνίζειν, which was characteristic of the most important of these grammarians, Aristarchus of Samothrace.5 But did their awareness that the language of ancient poets, and specifically of Homer, had characteristic peculiarities also involve chronological issues? And if

 1990s on (bibliography in the notes of Montanari 2015, 337–339); an update can be found in Montanari 2018, esp. 351–353. 2 Cf. e.g. Matthaios 2011; Pagani 2011, with bibliography. 3 Cf. e.g. Schol. Hes. Op. 336–341; Schol. Pind. Ol. 7.33a, 8.5a; Nem. 4.58a; Schol. Aesch. PV 171; Sept. 126e; Schol. Soph. Ant. 94, 1232; OT 156; Schol. Eur. Or. 1617; Med. 232; Schol. Ar. Ach. 367, 517c; Eq. 326d; Nub. 429a; Plut. 27, 66; Ran. 750; Vesp. 215a, 557. Remarks about the difference between ancient and recent linguistic usage are attested also with reference to Hellenistic poets (e.g. Schol. Ap. Rhod. 4.761–765c; Schol. Theoc. 1.13e). Within the exegetical material to a prose writer like Thucydides, some notes on his departures from the common usage are made in the scholia (e.g. 3.37.2j, 5.85–111), but without any temporal implication; such a temporal sense is indeed clearly present in a lemma of the Lexicon Patmense (108 Kleinlogel, ad 6.74.2). 4 The “Scholia maiora” to the Iliad are quoted according to the standard edition of Erbse 1969– 1988; Scholia D to the Iliad according the proekdosis of van Thiel 20142. The scholia to the Odyssey are quoted from the new edition of F. Pontani (Pontani 2007–) up to book 10, while for books 9–24 Dindorf 1855 is still the reference point. The translations are mine. 5 Cf. Nünlist 2012, 153 and n. 9. On the maxim and its meaning, see Nünlist 2015, with bibliography. Regarding Aristarchus’ analysis of Homer’s idiolect, cf. Schironi 2018, ch. 3.2.A, 3.2.B, 3.3.A, 5.1.

“Not according to our usage…”  

so, did such a linguistic notion inspire any interest in the evolutionary process that led from one phase to the subsequent one? With reference to the first of these questions, we have to take a step back. Aristotle, who has now been recognized as a crucial forerunner of the Hellenistic scholars, elaborated a series of exegetical parameters in his Poetics, which included the recognition of a linguistic usage different from the prevalent one, called by him γλῶττα, as an essential instrument for the interpretation of poetry;6 however, he stressed especially variation in place, by discussing matters concerning dialect forms, leaving any temporal connotation implicit, at most.7 Studies on dialects were very widespread also in the exegetical praxis of the Hellenistic and Imperial ages and this phenomenon left abundant traces in the Homeric scholia. This kind of approach, which has recently been investigated,8 seems to be connected more with interpretive issues than editorial ones. As for diachronic variation, there is currently some skepticism about the hypothesis that the Alexandrian grammarians had any idea at all of the existence of successive stages of the language.9 However, the presence of temporal implications in their linguistic analysis, vague and general as they may be, has been demonstrated: just think, for example, of the section of the Lexeis of Aristophanes of Byzantium devoted to “Words suspected of not having been said by the ancients” (Περὶ τῶν ὑποπτευομένων μὴ εἰρῆσθαι τοῖς παλαιοῖς, frr. 1–36 Slater).10 Furthermore they exploited in their exegetical and textual praxis the identification of substantial differences between how the poet says something, or what he means by saying a word, and how the same thing is said or what the same word means in the usage familiar to the exegetes.11 This distinction clearly comes into play in statements that signify, with various nuances, “the poet does not speak as we do in our usage”, or “[the poet’s expression is] outside our usage”:  6 Arist. Poet. 1461a 10–16. 7 In the passage quoted in previous note he explains three Homeric passages by invoking rare meanings of words involved, in one case connected with a dialectal criterion: εἶδος… ἔην κακόν, said of Dolon in Il. 10.316 does not mean he was deformed in body but ugly in face, on the basis of the Cretan usage of εὐειδής in the sense of εὐπρόσωπον: an in-depth analysis is in Montanari 2012. 8 Cf. Montanari 2012, with bibliography. 9 Cf. Callanan 1987; Lallot 2011. As for the lexical and semantic level, an acquaintance with chronological issues is already attested in Thucydides (1.3) and Hippias of Elis (86 B 9 Diels– Kranz): cf. Nünlist 2012, 154–155. 10 Cf. Pfeiffer 1968, 197–200; Ax 1990, 14–15; Pagani 2011, 37 and n. 81, 48 n. 121; Montanari 2012, 124; Nünlist 2012, 154 n. 10; Pagani 2015, 808; contra Callanan 1987, 75–82. 11 Cf. e.g. Ax 1990; Nünlist 2012 (and Nünlist 2021 with reference to Nicanor); Schironi 2018, passim.

  Lara Pagani οὐκ ὡς ἡμεῖς (‘not as we do’; Schol. Il. 10.383b) οὐ λέγει ὡς ἡμεῖς (‘he [sc. the poet] does not say as we do’; 2.56b) οὐ/οὐδέποτε καθάπερ ἡμεῖς (‘not/never in the way we do’; 3.297a, 17.47a) οὐκ ὡς ἡμεῖς ἐν τῇ συνηθείᾳ (‘not as we [sc. say] in our usage’; 17.202a1) οὐκοῦν κατὰ τὴν ἡμετέραν συνήθειαν (‘at any rate not according to our usage’; 17.134– 136a1) οὐ (λέγει) συνήθως ἡμῖν (‘he [sc. the poet] does not say as is usual to us’; 2.807, 3.206c) παρὰ τὴν ἡμετέραν συνήθειαν (‘outside our usage’; 16.57a) παρὰ τὸ σύνηθες (‘outside the customary’; 10.378b)

Conversely, non-Homeric forms can be qualified as “according to our usage” or “in contrast with the poet’s usage”: κατὰ τὴν ἡμετέραν χρῆσιν (‘according to our usage’; Schol. Il. 5.121) συνήθως ἡμῖν (‘in the way usual to us’; 2.135a, 3.99a, 10.461c) ὁμοίως τῇ ἡμετέρᾳ συνηθείᾳ (‘like our usage’; 9.219b) ἡμεῖς ἐν τῇ συνηθείᾳ λέγομεν (‘we say in the usage’; 17.201d) παρὰ τὸ συνήθες αὐτῷ (sc. Ὁμήρῳ) (‘outside what is customary to him [sc. Homer]’; 24.304a1).

We may wonder whether in such expressions the focus was simply on the observation of a general difference between the two types of language, the poetic one, with its peculiarities and confusing features,12 contrasted with the language familiar to the exegetes, intuitively kept as a point of reference. This is possible, but it does not rule out that a chronological perspective, inevitably implicit in these remarks, could also be operating, all the more so if we consider that other passages unequivocally identify the kind of variation involved as a temporal one.13 For instance, some passages qualify Homeric expressions as having been said “in a (more) ancient fashion” (ἀρχαικῶς: Schol. Il. 1.275b,

 12 The idea that Homeric language was distant from everyday language must have been common in antiquity, as is suggested e.g. by the fragment of Straton’s Phoenicides (at the turning point between the Classical and Hellenistic ages), where a cook comically uses elevated (mostly Homeric) terms to speak of the activities of his job (fr. 1 K.–A.), or the sarcastic remarks by Sextus Empiricus (in the 2nd cent. AD) on the funny oddities one would say, if one were to resort to Homer’s language as a standard paradigm of the language of communication (S. 1.202 ff.) (as Ptolemy Pindarion, a disciple of Aristarchus, had suggested: on this aspect cf. Pagani 2015, 811, 815, 842, with bibliography). 13 Schironi 2018, 599–601 (with reference to scholia reporting Aristarchus’ work) approaches the issue in a very cautious way, but after examining the evidence she concludes that the difference perceived between Homeric usage and “our usage” actually did involve temporal aspects too.

“Not according to our usage…”  

7.328b, 21.166a; ἀρχαικώτερον: 2.186a)14 and non-Homeric ones as “more recent words” (νεωτερικὴ ὀνομασία / νεωτερικὸν [sc. τὸ ὄνομα] / νεώτερον: Schol. Il. 7.475a and c, 14.499–500b1; Schol. Od. 2.260b1), or used by “post-Homeric poets” (οἱ μετ᾿ αὐτόν [sc. Ὅμηρον]: Schol. Il. 14.499–500a1),15 or again as “not yet” customary in Homer’s time (κατὰ τὸν Ὅμηρον μήπω… εἴθισται: Schol. Il. 17.134– 136a1). Furthermore in some cases a continuity is recognized, notably combining “our usage” with the temporal level (μέχρι νῦν ἐν τῇ συνηθείᾳ φαμέν “until now we say in our usage”: Schol. Il. 17.564a1). Admittedly, the transmission process which has preserved these materials is by no means a guarantee that these were the ipsissima verba of the ancient grammarians. However, we normally assume when studying scholia that the concepts, at least, have been preserved in the majority of cases and here too we can be pretty confident that an idea of temporal differentiation must have been present in the original arguments of the Hellenistic scholars. Another element which makes the practice of the philologists different from their Aristotelian antecedent is the fact that they applied these kinds of linguistic considerations not only to interpretive tasks, but also to issues of textual criticism (and this is the specific focus of my study). Moreover the scope was no longer limited to a semantic perspective: they were dealing with questions such as: “Is it possible that a given reading could be genuine in Homer from the point of view of lexicon, word-meaning, morphology, or construction of the sentence?”

 Case studies . Lexical aspects At the level of lexical aspect, we may mention a case where the presence of a word judged “more recent” than Homeric usage determined the expunction of the line where it appeared.16 In a passage of the book 7 of the Iliad, we find a very peculiar scene: at the end of a day spent by the Greeks building the wall and the trench to protect

 14 The expression τῇ ἀρχαίᾳ συνηθείᾳ in Schol. V (Did.+Nican.) Od. 1.275 instead denotes the old way of writing, i.e. that prior to the orthographic reform in Athens under the archon Euclides. 15 Νεώτεροι and cognate terms are general labels that denote all subsequent poets down to the Hellenistic age: cf. Severyns 1928; Rengakos 2000; Schironi 2018, 652–708. 16 Other examples of this type are Schol. Ariston. Il. 24.25–30; Schol. Ariston. | Did. Od. 2.206b1.

  Lara Pagani their camp, wine-ships from Lemnos arrive and the troops exchange whatever goods they possess, including slaves, for wine. ἔνθεν ἄρ᾿ οἰνίζοντο κάρη κομόωντες Ἀχαιοί, ἄλλοι μὲν χαλκῷ, ἄλλοι δ’ αἴθωνι σιδήρῳ, ἄλλοι δὲ ῥινοῖς, ἄλλοι δ’ αὐτῇσι βόεσσιν, ἄλλοι δ’ ἀνδραπόδεσσι· τίθεντο δὲ δαῖτα θάλειαν. Il. 7.472–47517 Then, the long-haired Achaeans bought the wine, some of them with bronze, others with bright iron, others with hides, others with cattle themselves, others with slaves; and they made a rich banquet.

By gathering information from the scholia and Eustathius, we learn that all three main Alexandrian grammarians — Zenodotus, Aristophanes, and Aristarchus — rejected line 475 because of the word ἀνδράποδον,18 which was deemed to be “more recent” (in addition, at least for Aristarchus, to the annoying repetition of ἄλλοι).19 Schol. Ariston. Il. 7.475a: ἄλλοι δ’ ἀνδραπόδεσσι· : ἀθετεῖται, ὅτι νεωτερικὴ ὀνομασία τοῦ ἀνδράποδον· οὐδὲ γὰρ παρὰ τοῖς ἐπιβεβληκόσιν Ὁμήρῳ νοεῖται. λυπεῖ δὲ καὶ τὸ ἄλλοι πλεονάζον. A “others with slaves; ”: it is rejected as spurious, because the name ἀνδράποδον is more recent; for it is not observed in those (sc. lines) that are due to Homer. The repetition of ἄλλοι is also annoying. Schol. ex. | Did. | Ariston. Il. 7.475c: ἄλλοι δ’ ἀνδραπόδεσσι: οὐ περισπούδαστος γὰρ ἡ τῶν ἀνδραπόδων κτῆσις b(BCE3E)T ἐκεῖσε οὖσιν ἦν πρὸς φυλακήν. b(BCE3E4) | γράφεται καὶ “ἀνδραπόδοισι”. | νεωτερικὸν τὸ τῶν ἀνδραπόδων ὄνομα· διὸ καὶ ἠθέτητο ὑπὸ Ἀριστάρχου. T “others with slaves”: as a matter of fact, the possession of slave was not much desired for people who were there for the purpose of guarding. | It is also written ἀνδραπόδοισι. | The

 17 The texts of the Iliad and the Odyssey are those respectively of West 1998–2000 and West 2017; translations are mine. 18 The heteroclite ending of the form ἀνδραπόδεσσι was normalized through the reading ἀνδραπόδοισι by Aristarchus (Schol. Did. Il. 7.475b: Ἀρίσταρχος διὰ τοῦ ο “ἀνδραπόδοισι”. Aint) and possibly other critics (cf. Schol. Did. Il. 7.475c); it is categorized by Eustathius (Il. 692.23) as a metaplasm like κρίνεσιν (from κρίνον, -ου) and perhaps δένδρεσιν (from δένδρον, -ου). 19 Which, according to Kirk 1990, 291, on the contrary, “gives an effect of busy and diverse activity”.

“Not according to our usage…”  

noun ἀνδράποδον is more recent: for this reason too it (sc. the line) was rejected as spurious by Aristarchus. Eust. Il. 692.21: ἡ δὲ τῶν ἀνδραπόδων λέξις νεωτερική ἐστι κατὰ τοὺς παλαιούς.20 διὸ καὶ Ἀριστοφάνης καὶ Ζηνόδοτος ἠθέτουν τὸ ἔπος, ἐν ᾧ κεῖται ἡ λέξις αὕτη. According to the ancients, the expression ἀνδράποδον is more recent: for this reason both Aristophanes and Zenodotus rejected as spurious the line where this expression is found.

It is worth mentioning that some modern scholars too consider this line (or the whole episode of lines 466–481) a subsequent interpolation, for various reasons including the presence of ἀνδράποδον, which is judged an Atticism.21 The qualification of this word as a “more recent term” by the grammarians apparently arose from the empirical observation that it does not occur in other passages properly belonging to Homer, but is indeed used by more recent authors.22 This seems to be the case also in other examples where the presence of vocabulary characteristic of the neoteroi is the reason for some kind of intervention in the text.23

. Semantic aspects With regard to semantic aspects, we have cases where the Homeric idiolect is contrasted not with that of later poets, but with the koine.24 Towards the end of the Iliad, Priam urges a handmaid to bring him water in order to wash his hands before making a libation.

 20 Οἱ παλαιοί is one of the expressions used by Eustathius to indicate his erudite sources: Pagani 2017, 86, 92–93, with bibliography. 21 Wackernagel 1916, 154–156; Shipp 19722, 26; West 2011, 198 (cf. West 1998–2000 I, 224–225, ad 466–481: “fort. Athenis additi”); contra, Kirk 1990, 291 excludes that it is a specifically Attic form, though he takes into consideration the possibility that it was not available to the epic singers and the line is thus an interpolation. Another problem pointed out by West 2011, 198 is the contradiction introduced by this episode, where it is said that the Greeks feasted all night long (line 476), whereas at the very end of the book they go to sleep (line 482). 22 Cf. Schironi 2018, 653–657, with bibliography. The form δμώς and cognates are instead the common ones in Homeric diction (cf. Kirk 1990, 291). 23 Cf. Schol. Hrd. Il. 14.499–500a1, a2; Schol. Ariston. Il. 24.25–30; Schol. Ariston. | Did. Od. 2.206b1. 24 In addition to the one discussed in the text, see Schol. Ariston. Il. 2.807, quoted below; 3.99a, on which see Lehrs 18823, 148 and Erbse 1969–1988 I, 375–376, app. ad loc.; 3.206a.

  Lara Pagani ἦ ῥα καὶ ἀμφίπολον ταμίην ὤτρυν’ ὃ γεραιὸς χερσὶν ὕδωρ ἐπιχεῦαι ἀκήρατον· ἣ δὲ παρέστη χέρνιβον ἀμφίπολος πρόχοόν θ’ ἅμα χερσὶν ἔχουσα. Il. 24.302–304 The old man said so and urged the housekeeper handmaid to pour pure water over his hands; and the handmaid stood by keeping in her hands a vessel and a jug together.

From two different versions of a scholion ascribed to Aristonicus,25 we know the stance of Aristarchus regarding the line containing the word χέρνιβον. Schol. Ariston. Il. 24.304a1: χέρνιβον ἀμφίπολος : ἀθετεῖται, ὅτι παρὰ τὸ σύνηθες αὐτῷ χέρνιβον τὸ ἀγγεῖον τὸ ὑποδεχόμενον τὸ ὕδωρ, ὡς ἡμεῖς. τοῦτο δὲ αὐτὸς εἴωθε καλεῖν “λέβητα” (Il. 23.267, Od. 13.13 al.), τὸ δὲ κατὰ τῶν χειρῶν διδόμενον ὕδωρ “χέρνιβα” (Od. 1.136, 3.440 al.). ἔνιοι δὲ διπλῇ σημειοῦνται ὡς ἅπαξ ἐνταῦθα εἰρημένον. A “The handmaid keeping in her hands a vessel and a jug together”: it is rejected as spurious, because χέρνιβον (sc. is said of) the basin containing the water, as we do, in contrast with the poet’s usage. Indeed he is accustomed to call such an object λέβης, and the water poured over the hands χέρνιψ. However, some mark it with a diple, as a word said only once here. Schol. Ariston. Il. 24.304a2: χέρνιβον: τινὲς ἀθετοῦσιν, ὅτι τὸ χειρόνιπτρον νῦν δηλοῖ. ἀεὶ δὲ τὸ ὕδωρ παρὰ τῷ ποιητῇ. T “A vessel”: some reject it, because in this passage it signifies the basin for washing the hands. But in the Poet it always (signifies) the water.

Therefore Aristarchus rejected this line because of the meaning implied here for the word χέρνιβον, i.e. a basin for water, which was customary among his own contemporaries (ὡς ἡμεῖς), but not to Homer, who normally uses λέβης in this sense,26 but χέρνιψ, on the contrary, for the water itself. χέρνιβα, instead of the expected χέρνιβον, is the form reported by ms. A (in T, which shortens the text,27  25 This material has also found its way into a note of the scholia exegetica, which rearranges it with an interpretive purpose, matching the aims of this scholiastic class: Schol. ex. Il. 14.304c: οὐχ ὥς τινες τὸ ἀγγεῖον· ἐπιφέρει γὰρ πρόχοόν θ’ ἅμα. ἀεὶ δὲ παρὰ τῷ ποιητῇ τὸ ὕδωρ δηλοῖ. b(BCE3E4) (It does not mean, as some claim, the vessel: he [sc. the poet] indeed adds “and a jug together”. On the contrary, it always indicates the water in the Poet). 26 Cf. Schol. V Od. 1.137c: λέβητος· τοῦ καθ᾿ ἡμᾶς χερνίβου. BH1HMaV (sim. Schol. ex. Od. 3.440d). 27 This behavior is not surprising, since this is a VMK–scholion, while ms. T is primarily interested in scholia exegetica.

“Not according to our usage…”  

the form is left implicit), and this probably echoes the formulaic line χέρνιβα δ᾿ ἀμφίπολος προχόῳ ἐπέχευε φέρουσα (“the handmaid poured the water bringing it in a jug”) which occurs several times in the Odyssey,28 where χέρνιβα is the accusative singular of χέρνιψ,29 even if in the relevant scholia it is almost everywhere illustrated as if it were a plural of the neuter χέρνιβον.30 Some other scholars highlighted the line through the addition of a specific semeion (a diple), because this word was a hapax legomenon (in Homer, seemingly).31 It is not clear whether this (correct) analysis led them to reject the line — as Aristarchus did — or was rather used to validate it as an exception.32 We know that Aristarchus was generally respectful of hapax legomena that displayed no further problem (according to the evidence, in those cases he did not suggest replacing them with normalized forms),33 but here the overlapping of this issue with a sense that was customary in koine Greek must have raised his suspicion about the authenticity of the line. The problem of balancing the parameter of usus scribendi with the possibility of a unique initiative taken by an author engages

 28 Od. 1.136, 4.52, 7.172, 10.368, 15.135, 17.91. The word is to be found, in Od. 3.440 and 445, in different constructions but with the same meaning. 29 And this was also what Aristarchus meant, according to Schironi 2018, 261 n. 161. 30 Schol. Od. 1.136b1, b2, b3 (V) 1.136c1 (ex.), 3.440a, 3.445a1 (V), and a2, 4.52c, 7.172a, 15.135. Schol. Od. 1.136b3 and 3.445c contain ‘translations’ of χέρνιβα both with singular and plural forms. The same misunderstanding appears in a note of the scholia exegetica (possibly drawing material from Didymus) that recalls a variant reading in the Massaliote ekdosis regarding Il. 14.304 (χέρνιβον ἀμφίπολος πρόχοόν θ’ ἅμα χερσὶν ἔχουσα) apparently intended to avoid the mention of two vessels by replacing πρόχοόν θ᾿ ἅμα with ταμίη μετά: Schol. ex. (Did.) Il. 14.304b: χέρνιβον ἀμφίπολος πρόχοόν θ’ ἅμα χερσὶν ἔχουσα: ἡ Μασσαλιωτικὴ “ ταμίη μετὰ χερσὶν ἔχουσα” διὰ τὸ μὴ εἰρῆσθαι νῦν συνήθως αὐτῷ ἐπὶ τῶν ὑδάτων, ἀλλ’ ἐπὶ τοῦ σκεύους τὰ “χέρνιβα”, εἰ μὴ ἄρα ἑνικῶς ἐνθάδε γραπτέον χέρνιβον ἀμφίπολος. T (The Massaliote [sc. ekdosis] has “ housekeeper” due to the fact that here it is not said with reference to the water, as is customary to him, but χέρνιβα refers to utensils, unless it has to be written in the singular form: χέρνιβον ἀμφίπολος): here too the text χέρνιβα is implied, again interpreted as a plural form, but the identification of the meaning not common in Homer is made without any comparison with koine Greek. 31 Cf. Schol. Ariston. (?) Od. 1.136d: χέρνιβα] ἅπαξ τὸ “χέρνιβον ἀμφίπολος πρόχοόν θ’ ἅμα φέρουσα” [Ω 304]. HMa. 32 According to Römer 1911, 288–289, their opinion was the opposite of Aristarchus’; Ludwich 1914, 692 (cautiously followed by Erbse 1969–1988 V, 574), on the contrary, seems to conceive the two stances as in agreement with one another. Further references by Aristonicus to semeia by scholars other than Aristarchus are collected in Lehrs 18823, 9–13; cf. Schironi 2018, 16–17. In ms. A (f. 316r) next to this line there are both a diple and an obelos: cf. Ludwich 1914, 692. 33 On Aristarchus’ attitude towards hapax legomena in the Iliad, cf. Schironi 2018, 244–245, and more widely on ancient scholarship Martinazzoli 1953.

  Lara Pagani even modern philologists and the identification of distinctive linguistic features is a good approach to solving it.

. Morphology Concerning morphology, we may consider an example related to the grammatical gender of the noun λέων.34 In the account of the fight over Patroclus’ body, the poet introduces a simile that compares Ajax defending the corpse from the Trojans to a lion protecting its cubs from the hunters while it is leading them through the wood. Αἴας δ’ ἀμφὶ Μενοιτιάδῃ σάκος εὐρὺ καλύψας ἑστήκει, ὥς τίς τε λέων περὶ οἷσι τέκεσσιν, ᾧ ῥά τε νήπι’ ἄγοντι συναντήσωνται ἐν ὕλῃ ἄνδρες ἐπακτῆρες· ὃ δέ τε σθένεϊ βλεμεαίνει, πᾶν δέ τ’ ἐπισκύνιον κάτω ἕλκεται ὄσσε καλύπτων· Il. 17.132–136 Ajax with his large shield protected Menoetius’ son and stood like a lion around his cubs, a lion, whom huntsmen encounter, while he is leading his cubs in the wood; he exults in his strength and furrows his forehead hiding his eyes.

A scholion ascribable to Didymus — rearranged and shortened within the tradition of the scholia exegetica35 — informs us that in Zenodotus’ ekdosis and in the Chian text the three lines 134–13636 were absent.  34 Cf. Schol. Ariston. Il. 2.56b; Schol. Il. 14.499–500a1, a2 (Hrd.), b1 (ex.), 500 (Ariston.). 35 Ms. T preserves it also as an outcome of the VMK–strand of tradition, though in a heavily summarized form: Schol. Did. Il. 17.134–136a2: οὔτε δὲ παρὰ Ζηνοδότῳ οὔτε ἐν τῇ Χίᾳ ἦσαν οἱ τρεῖς στίχοι, ἐπεί φασιν μὴ σκυμναγωγεῖν τοὺς ἄρσενας τῶν λεόντων T. This problem left its traces also in the D-scholia: Schol. D Il. 17.134 (van Thiel): νήπι’ ἄγοντι: ἐπιφερομένῳ τοὺς σκύμνους [= Tr]. σημειωτέον δὲ ὅτι καὶ οἱ ἄρρενες τῶν λεόντων σκυμναγωγοῦσιν [= Um]. ZYQSG ~ Di). 36 Both mss A (Schol. 134–136a1) and T (Schol. 134–136b) relate the omission to lines 133–135 (respectively reproducing, as lemmata, the beginning of line 133 ἑστήκει ὥς τίς τε λέων and the second part of it λέων περὶ οἷσι τέκεσιν [sic]; T also connects the scholion by a symbol to line 133 [f. 189r]), which makes no sense (“ineptum” in Erbse 1969–1988 IV, 355, app. ad loc.; cf. Pasquali 19522, 229 n. 1; Apthorp 1980, 103). Following in the footsteps of Ludwich 1884– 1885 I, 418; II, 138, Erbse emended the lemmata in order to link the two scholia with lines 134– 136: this is the solution accepted by the majority of scholars (cf. recently West 1998–2000 II, 143, app. ad loc.). It is worth mentioning that in ms. T Schol. 134–136a2 (cf. previous note) is

“Not according to our usage…”  

Schol. Did. Il. 17.134–136a1: ᾧ ῥά τε νήπι’ ἄγοντι—ὄσσε καλύπτων: παρὰ Ζηνοδότῳ καὶ ἐν τῇ Χίᾳ οὐκ ἦσαν οἱ τρεῖς στίχοι, ἴσως, φασὶν ἔνιοι, ὅτι οἱ ἄρσενες λέοντες οὐ σκυμναγωγοῦσιν, ἀλλὰ θήλειαι μόναι. κατὰ δὲ τὸ ἀρσενικὸν καὶ ἐπὶ τῆς θηλείας τέτακται ὁ λέων, καὶ ἔστιν ἐπίκοινον· ἔστι γάρ τινα ὀνόματα ἀρσενικά, ἃ καὶ ἐπὶ θηλυκῶν τάσσεται, καὶ θηλυκά, ἃ καὶ ἐπ’ ἀρσενικῶν, οἷον ἱέραξ μὲν καὶ ἐπ’ ἄρσενος καὶ θηλείας τάσσεται, πάρδαλις δὲ θηλυκὸν ὄνομα καὶ ἐπ’ ἀρσενικοῦ τίθεται. οὐκοῦν κατὰ μὲν τὴν ἡμετέραν συνήθειαν λέων μὲν λέγεται ὁ ἄρσην, λέαινα δὲ ἡ θήλεια, κατὰ δὲ τὸν Ὅμηρον μήπω τὴν λέαιναν εἴθισται, ἀλλὰ τὸ ἀρσενικὸν μόνον· διὸ εἰπεῖν ἀρσενικῷ ἄρθρῳ χρώμενον “ᾧ ῥά τε νήπι’ ἄγοντι” (134), οὐχὶ “ᾗ ῥά τε νήπι’ ἀγούσῃ”. ὁ δὲ Ἀντίμαχος (fr. 147 Wyss = 187 Matthews = 22 Fogagnolo) ἐκ τούτου πλανηθεὶς ᾠήθη καὶ τὸν ἄρσενα σκυμναγωγεῖν. A Within Zenodotus’ text and the Chian one the three lines were not there, perhaps — some say — because male lions do not lead about cubs, but only the females do so. But ὁ λέων is applied in the masculine form to the female as well, and is epicene; there are indeed some masculine nouns referring to feminines too, and feminines referring to masculines too, like ἱέραξ indicates both the male and the female, and the feminine noun πάρδαλις is used also for the masculine. Well, in our usage the male is called λέων and the female λέαινα, but at the time of Homer the form λέαινα had not yet become customary, but only the masculine one had; for this reason he says, using the masculine article (i.e. post-positive article = the relative pronoun) “whom, while he is leading his cubs” and not “whom, while she is leading her cubs”. Antimachus, misled by this passage, thought that the male lion too leads about cubs. Schol. ex. (Did.) Il. 17.134–136b: ᾧ ῥά τε νήπι’ ἄγοντι—ὄσσε καλύπτων: οὐ σκυμναγωγεῖ λέων. ἴσως οὖν τὴν θήλειάν φησιν· οὐκ οἶδε γὰρ Ὅμηρος τὸ λέαινα· διὸ φθάσας εἰπεῖν “λέων” (Il. 17.133) ὅλα ἀρσενικῶς ἐπάγει (sc. 134–135)· καὶ γάρ φησιν “ἐπεί σε λέοντα γυναιξί / Ζεὺς θῆκεν” (Il. 21.483–484). b(BCE3E4)T ὁ δὲ Ἀντίμαχος (fr. 147 Wyss = 187 Matthews = 22 Fogagnolo) καὶ τὸν ἄρρενά φησι σκυμναγωγεῖν. […] T The lion does not lead about cubs; therefore he perhaps indicates the female: for Homer does not know the noun λέαινα; for this reason he says previously λέων (133) and accords everything in the masculine form (134–135); accordingly he also says “because Zeus made you as a lion (i.e. lioness) for women”. Antimachus however says that the male lion too leads about cubs.

 written at the end of Schol. 134. However Bolling 1925, 172–174 and 1940, 43 took into consideration the possibility of a mechanical mistake in some copies of the poem, determined by the homeoarchton ΑΙΑΣ (line 132)–ΑΝΔΡΕΣ (line 135), or alternatively suggested emending in the scholia γ΄ στίχοι into δ΄ στίχοι, in order to include also line 137 among the absent lines and avoid a resulting Homeric text that repeated ὥς (at the beginning of line 137) less than a line after the introductory ὥς in line 133. Apthorp 1980, 102–104 argued for an emendation of γ΄ στίχοι into ϛ΄ στίχοι in the scholia, accepting their connection with line 133, and thus implying the absence of lines 133–138 (due to a saut du même au même from ἑστήκει in line 133 to ἐστήκει in line 139). The problem is not discussed in Edwards 1991, 75.

  Lara Pagani The reason tentatively adduced for the expunction by some unidentified scholars (ἴσως, φασὶν ἔνιοι, ὅτι…) is the fact that in this simile a male lion is described as leading around cubs, contrary to zoological accuracy, since only the females actually do that. The counterargument against Zenodotus’ presumed line of reasoning in expunging the lines is linguistic: differently than current usage (κατὰ μὲν τὴν ἡμετέραν συνήθειαν), at the time of Homer (κατὰ δὲ τὸν Ὅμηρον) a distinction between a masculine noun ὁ λέων for the male and a feminine noun ἡ λέαινα for the female is not yet (μήπω) customary, but the former is applied, as an epicene,37 to both genders. Consequently the poet accords in the masculine form the relative pronoun ᾧ, as the first of these scholia says, or better, “everything” as we read in the second one, meaning also the two participles ἄγοντι and καλύπτων and the pronoun ὅ. The lack of attention to this linguistic issue is also identified as the origin of a mistake by Antimachus of Colophon, who was led by this passage to believe that also male lions look after their young.38 The remark that the feminine noun λέαινα is not to be found in Homer and is more recent has parallels in other scholia, one related to another simile where a lion is described as taking care of cubs, the other about a metaphor referring to Artemis (also quoted in our scholion). Schol. ex. Il. 18.318a: {πυκνὰ μάλα στενάχων} ὥς τε λὶς ἠϋγένειος: ἐμπείρως πάνυ· αἱ γὰρ θήλειαι κάλλιστον ἔχουσι γένειον, οἱ δὲ ἄρσενες χαίτην. νῦν δ’ ἐπὶ θηλείας· ἄρσην γὰρ οὐ σκυμναγωγεῖ. τὸ δὲ λέαινα νεώτερον ὄνομα. A

 37 The first occurrence of the gender qualified as ἐπίκοινον and of its definition is in PSI inv. 505 (Pap. 7 Wouters; LDAB 4452, 1st cent. AD; cf. Lundon/Matthaios 2005); later, it found its way into the Techne handed down under the name of Dionysius Thrax (§ 12, GG 1/1, 25.1–2). The gender κοινόν (i.e. that of invariable nouns which can be preceded either by masculine or feminine article) was in all likelihood known already to Aristarchus, who seems to have used it when arguing against Zenodotus (Schol. Ariston. Il. 2.697; cf. Matthaios 1999, 273–274). If the content of our scholion is to be assigned to Aristarchus (see below, in the text), we may suppose that the clarification καὶ ἔστιν ἐπίκοινον has been added by the subsequent tradition, or that this scholion represents evidence for a backdating of the concept and term ἐπίκοινον. 38 This is the scenario that can be outlined on the basis of Schol. 134–136a1, while both in Schol. 134–136b and in the passage of Eustathius that relies on it (Il. 1098.47–52: cf. van der Valk 1971–1987 IV, 26) Antimachus’ opinion seems to be introduced as an auctoritas capable of refuting the reasoning on λέων as an epicene in Homer. This testimony has traditionally been assigned to Antimachus’ studia Homerica, but the possibility that it refers instead to his poetic activity cannot be ruled out: cf. Fogagnolo 2020, 155–164, esp. 162–164.

“Not according to our usage…”  

“Like a well-bearded lion”: this is very skillfully (said), since the females have a beautiful beard, while the males have a beautiful mane. Here (sc. λίς) refers to a female, since the male does not lead around cubs. Λέαινα is a more recent noun. Schol. ex. Il. 21.483b: λέοντα: λέαιναν. οὐδέποτε δὲ παρ’ Ὁμήρῳ εὕρηται τὸ λέαινα. b(BCE3E4)T lion: lioness. The noun λέαινα is never to be found in Homer.

We cannot identify for sure the anonymous scholars alluded to by Didymus as making a conjecture about the reason for Zenodotus’ textual choice and criticizing it, but this approach is a recurring pattern of Aristarchus, and in fact the existence of a scholion of Aristonicus with similar content has been hypothesized, despite the fact that no semeion survives in ms. A.39 It is also far from certain whether the absence of these lines in Zenodotus’ text was the result of a deliberate excision on his part or the passive acceptance of a base text that did not contain them40 — there are arguments in favor of both scenarios.41 The rele 39 Friedländer 1853, 274–275; cf. Pasquali 19522, 229; Erbse 1969–1988 IV, 355, app. ad loc. Edwards 1991, 75 tacitly takes this doctrine to be Aristarchus’. 40 A long debate has arisen about the editorial method of Zenodotus, whether it entailed only (arbitrary) conjectures or also some kind of collation, but it is widely admitted that the explanations given by his successors for the constitution of his text were highly speculative and had no certain foundation (cf. Düntzer 1848; Pfeiffer 1968, 114–115; Nickau 1972; 1977; Montanari 1998; 2002; 2009; Rengakos 2012, 248–252; Montana 2015, 103–105; Montanari 2015; Schironi 2018, 548 ff.; Montana 2020, 177–179). On the absence of these lines in the Chian text, cf. Citti 1966, 19. 41 The hypothesis of an expunction by Zenodotus may be supported through parallel scholia that report interventions by him based on zoological details: from Schol. Did. Il. 13.198a1 we learn that his ekdosis had ὥς τε δύ᾿ αἶγε λέοντε instead of ὥς τε δύ᾿ αἶγα λέοντε allegedly to avoid a scene where two lions are represented collaborating in hunting, which does not correspond to the real habits of these animals (Ζηνόδοτος “αἶγε”· οὐ γὰρ συμμαχοῦσιν ἀλλήλοις λέοντες); in Schol. Pind. Ol. 3.548 it is reported that Zenodotus altered ἐν ὕλῃ κεροέσσης in Anacreon fr. 63 Page into ἐν ὕλῃς ἑροέσσης, to get rid of the factual mistake of a doe with horns (Ζηνόδοτος δὲ μετεποίησεν ἐροέσσης διὰ τὸ ἱστορεῖσθαι τὰς θηλείας κέρατα μὴ ἔχειν, ἀλλὰ τοὺς ἄρρενας): cf. Ael. NA. 7.35 attesting the criticism by Aristophanes of Byzantium (fr. 378 Slater) against this textual constitution (about this passage, see Pfeiffer 1968, 117–119; Slater 1986, 143–144; on the inappropriateness of such a criterion in evaluating artistic products — with the same example of the doe with horns —, see Arist. Poet. 1460b.30–32). However, the reliability of the evidence at our disposal on the motives of Zenodotus’ text is very doubtful (see previous note) and different explanations could be advanced: e.g. Bolling 1940, 44 considered, in the first passage, a mere mistake due to assimilation of αἶγα into the same number as the following word, facilitated by the preceding δύο, and in the latter he suggested (1940, 41–42 and 1944, 27–28) a scribal blunder in majuscule (ΙϹ ~ Κ) (Pasquali 19522, 229–230 inclines in this case to accept the idea of a deliberate intervention on the part of Zenodotus). On the other

  Lara Pagani vant aspect for our research is that a scholar of the Hellenistic age criticized the work of a predecessor on the basis of his own knowledge of an aspect connected with the diachronic variation of language.

. Structure of the sentence My last example concerns the structure of the sentence. The passage involved is from the Odyssey and is part of a speech that Odysseus, disguised as a Cretan in Eumaeus’ hut, pretends Odysseus himself had made during an ambush at Troy. “κλῦτε, φίλοι· θεῖός μοι ἐνύπνιον ἦλθεν ὄνειρος. λίην γὰρ νηῶν ἑκὰς ἤλθομεν· ἀλλά τις εἴη εἰπεῖν Ἀτρείδῃ Ἀγαμέμνονι ποιμένι λαῶν, εἰ πλέονας παρὰ ναῦφιν ἐποτρύνειε νέεσθαι.” Od. 14.495–498 Listen to me, friends! A dream from the gods, a vision in sleep, came to me. Indeed we moved too far from the ships. But someone go and ask Agamemnon Atreides, shepherd of the people, if he could stir up several people to come from the ships.

A couple of scholia can be considered. Schol. Od. 14.495 (Dindorf): κλῦτε φίλοι, θεῖός μοι] ἀθετεῖται ὡς ἐκ τῆς Ἰλιάδος (2.56) μετενηνεγμένος. γελοῖον δὲ εἰπεῖν καὶ τὸν ἐν λόχῳ καθυπνωκέναι. ὁ δὲ νοῦς, θεῖός μοι ὄνειρος ἐφάνη. λοιπὸν τὰ παρὰ τοῦ ὀνείρου ῥηθέντα ἐπάγει, ἐπειδὴ τῶν νηῶν πόρρω ἐσμὲν, ἀπέλθῃ τις καὶ εἴπῃ τῷ Ἀγαμέμνονι πλείους ἡμῖν ἀπὸ τῶν νεῶν πέμψαι συμμάχους, ἵνα μὴ πόρρωθεν ὄντες τῶν ὁμοφύλων ὀλίγοι ὑπάρχοντες βλαβῶμεν ὑπὸ τῶν πολεμίων. H. 496 (immo 495) τινὲς φασὶν ἐνίους ἠγνοηκότας τὸ ἔθος τοῦ ποιητοῦ, ὅτι ἔθος ἐστὶν αὐτῷ ἀπὸ τοῦ γάρ ἄρχεσθαι, διὰ τοῦτο πεπλακέναι τὸν στίχον. H. “Listen to me, friends! (A dream) from the gods (… came) to me”: it is rejected as spurious, since it is transposed here from the Iliad (2.56). And to say someone had fallen asleep during an ambush is ridiculous. The sense is “a divine dream appeared to me”. And for the rest he adds the things said by the dream: “since we are far from the ships, someone go away and ask Agamemnon to send us more allies from the ships, so that we are not damaged by enemies, being distant from kinfolk and few”.

 hand, Zenodotus’ text is known for being shorter and here it could have omitted the digression that expands the simile: the possibility that this textual constitution originated from acceptance of manuscript transmission becomes firmer on the basis of the absence of the lines also in the Chian ekdosis, according to Citti 1966, 19.

“Not according to our usage…”  

Some say that certain people, who ignored the poet’s custom, i.e. that it is his custom to begin from a γάρ clause, shaped the line for that reason.

The first scholion tells us that the first line was athetized since it was transposed here from the Iliad, and also because saying someone had fallen asleep during an ambush is ridiculous; the following part consists in a rewording of the whole passage, first line included, which seems to originate from a different source. The second scholion reports that — according to some anonymous scholars — the line was cast by people who ignored the poet’s habit of putting the γάρ clause before the enunciation of the fact it explains.42 The scholion is written in the inner margin of the ms. (f. 89v) without a lemma or a reference mark, and, on the basis of its alignment, it could equally pertain to line 495 or 496. Dindorf referred it to line 496,43 but, as we wait for the new edition by F. Pontani, I think for now that the content suggests rather line 495: the first line of the speech could be deemed an interpolation aimed at providing an utterance that the subsequent γάρ clause could explain, by someone unaware of the peculiar usage of the anticipatory γάρ in Homer. A parallel in the Iliadic scholia assures that this usage was identified (by Aristarchus) as an ancient one:44 Schol. Ariston. Il. 7.328b: ὅτι ἀπὸ τοῦ γάρ αἰτιώδους εἰσέβαλεν ἀρχαϊκῶς. Aim (sc. there is a diple) since he begins in an ancient fashion from the causal γάρ clause.

Can we hypothesize that the athetesis in the Odyssey goes back to Aristarchus? And what about the explanation of the origin of the presumed interpolation? On the first of these questions, the answer is very likely positive, for a number of reasons: 1) in ms. H VMK–scholia are abundant (more than in any other ms.), especially in ‘intermarginal’ position and, as in our case, in the inner margin;45 2) we know that Aristarchus marked Il. 2.56 with an asterisk because this line

 42 On this structure, common not only in Homer, but also in Herodotus and sometimes in Attic authors, see Monro 1891, 317–318; Kühner/Gerth 1898–19043 2, 332–334; Denniston 19542, 68–70. 43 Dindorf 1855 II, 599. 44 Cf. Friedländer 1853, 1 n. 2; Nünlist 2012, 157 and n. 28; Schironi 2018, 600–601. 45 Pontani 2005, 213 (208–217 for a thorough description of ms. H = London, British Library, Harley 5674, 13th cent. AD; digital images on www.bl.uk/manuscripts/FullDisplay.aspx?ref= Harley_MS_5674).

  Lara Pagani was wrongly repeated in our passage of the Odyssey;46 3) further parallels in addition to the one mentioned above show that Aristarchus repeatedly stressed this linguistic issue47 and a remark in Apollonius Dyscolus’ On conjunctions suggests that Aristarchus was the recognized authority on this subject.48 Regarding the authorship of the explanation of the alleged interpolation, we may recall that Aristarchus is credited with athetesis of lines he thought to have been added by reviser/interpolators49 unaware of the differences between Homeric and more recent usage: Schol. Ariston. Il. 2.807: ἠγνοίησεν: ὅτι τοῦτό ἐστι τὸ πλανῆσαν τὸν τὰ ἐπάνω (sc. 791–795) διασκευάσαντα. οὐ κεῖται δὲ συνήθως ἡμῖν τὸ ἠγνοίησεν, ἀλλ’ ἀντὶ τοῦ οὐκ ἀπίθησεν. A “Failed to understand”: (there is the diple), since this is what misled the reviser/interpolator of the lines above: yet ἠγνοίησεν does not occur according to our usage, but in the sense of “disobeyed”.

Moreover, one of the parallel passages about the Aristarchan doctrine on the anticipatory use of a γάρ clause displays the same wording we find in the Odyssey scholion: Schol. Ariston. Il. 2.284a: […] ἔθος δὲ αὐτῷ ἀπὸ τοῦ γάρ ἄρχεσθαι, “ὢ πόποι, ἦ γὰρ ὀΐω ἐϋκνήμιδας Ἀχαιούς” (~ Od. 18.259).50 A It is his custom to begin from a γάρ clause: “Oh, I know indeed very well that well-greaved Achaeans…” (~ Od. 18.259). cf. 284b: […] ἔθος δὲ τῷ ποιητῇ ἀπὸ τοῦ γάρ ἄρχεσθαι, ὡς τὸ “πολλοὶ γὰρ τεθνᾶσι” (7.328) καὶ “νῦν γὰρ καὶ πόνος ἐστί” (~ 2.291).51 b(BCE3E4)

 46 Schol. Ariston. Il. 2.56b: ὁ δὲ ἀστερίσκος, ὅτι ἐν τῇ ξ τῆς Ὀδυσσείας (495) κακῶς φέρεται. A (The asterisk is there because the line is wrongly preserved in book 17 of the Odyssey); cf. Erbse 1969–1988 I, 189, app. ad loc. 47 E.g. Schol. Ariston. Il. 17.221, 23.627a: cf. Lehrs 18823, 8; Schironi 2018, 600–601. 48 Ap. Dysc. Con. 239.21–25 (Schneider). 49 On Aristarchus’ stance towards the διασκευασταί, see Schironi 2018, 485–490. 50 The Odyssey line actually begins with ὦ γύναι οὐ γάρ ὀΐω: according to West 2017, 387, app. ad loc., the text presupposed in this scholion might have transposed the negative particle to the following line, which could have read οὐ πάντας instead of the εὖ πάντας known to us from the whole evidence at our disposal. 51 The Homeric mss actually transmit here ἦ μὴν καί (emended in ἦ μὲν καί by Christ), with no trace of γάρ: the different incipit attested in our scholion recurs in Il. 9.57: see West 1998–2001 1, 55.

“Not according to our usage…”  

It is the poet’s custom to begin from a γάρ clause, as in the cases “many indeed are dead” (7.328) and “now indeed this is pain…”

Admittedly this could also suggest the possibility that some subsequent grammarian took up Aristarchus’ teaching in order to work out the genesis of this interpolation52 — the somehow clumsy connection of the parenthetic ὅτι ἔθος ἐστὶν αὐτῷ ἀπὸ τοῦ γὰρ ἄρχεσθαι to the rest of the sentence may even push us in this direction. Regardless, here we see either Aristarchus himself, or some subsequent scholar who drew on his work, speculating that an interpolation arose as an (ignorant) attempt to get rid of a perceived oddity, which was actually explainable through an ancient linguistic usage.

 Conclusions The typology of cases discussed leads us to deduce some interesting conclusions at a more general level. An aspect that clearly emerges is that the Hellenistic philologists did have a sense of history in their analysis of language and they applied it within their exegetical and also editorial activity on the Homeric poems: they were able to distinguish a dichotomy between the language of Homer and later language, which might be qualified in a broad perspective (“more recent”), or specifically referred to the most recent stage (“our usage”, i.e. koine Greek).53 Yet, neither a theoretical approach to this issue nor an interest in the development that led from one phase to the following one can be proved. One may wonder whether this limitation is entirely due to the fact that the Hellenistic philologists were first and foremost interested in editing and commenting on literary texts (as are the sources through which we know their doctrine): this is definitely a key aspect, as we explained at the start, which has to be kept in mind when evaluating their approach to reflection on language in general54 — we all remember Wolfram Ax’s apt expression “Grammatik im Kopf”.55 However,

 52 Something similar can be seen in Schol. Did. Il. 18.182c, where the last phase of the diorthosis of Aristarchus is reported to have τίς τάρ σε, instead of the τίς γάρ σε that was in the former version of his ekdosis and is doubtfully considered by Didymus a better solution, by recalling Aristarchus’ own doctrine on the use of the anticipatory γάρ in Homer. 53 Cf. Schironi 2018, 601. 54 For a recent assessment of the subject, with a discussion of previous studies, see Pagani 2011. 55 Ax 1982, 109 and 1991, 288.

  Lara Pagani one can barely see any kind of evolutionary approach to language even in the surviving work of specialists: as a matter of fact, only in a passage of Apollonius’ Syntax does something like that seem detectable, and it still remains far from what we would be ready to call ‘historical linguistics’.56 This picture is consistent with the performance of ancient scholars in the field of etymology. Their analysis, setting aside its generally poor outcomes, is essentially connected with the identification of the real meaning of the words, rather than with the reconstruction of the process through which they developed over time, and in this perspective it is mostly used within their philological praxis. Although on many occasions a sequence of modifications in a word is presupposed and described in order to justify its transformation from the presumed original form to the attested one, this seems to be conceived as a theoretical construction, with all the intermediate forms seen together in an abstract synchronism, rather than a historical process characterized by a development through specific phases of the language situated in given historical moments.57 I wish to borrow a metaphor suggested by Albio C. Cassio some years ago at another Trends in Classics conference:58 if we imagine the different stages of a language as the floors of a building, ancient grammarians had a clear perception of them, but no idea of the way to move from one to another. They seemingly had no interest in looking for this and probably also lacked the proper conceptual tools for it, as well as the necessary access to a wide evidence base. As a matter of fact, we have no hints that they resorted to external evidence in order to ascertain the features of Homer’s language.59 The study of literary texts was what triggered reflection on chronological variation in language, was the field of application of this kind of knowledge, and in all likelihood was also the only source that supplied information on the ancient stages. The acquisition by Hellenistic grammarians of expertise in the diachronic variation of language was largely imperfect and rudimentary but, as any good philologist does, they definitely realized it was essential to their work.

 56 Cf. Synt. 2, 193.17–19 Uhlig, accepted by Lallot 2011, 248 as the only adequate example of a historical approach to the study of language: is the fact that Apollonius is here dealing with a Homeric usage (sc. the simple personal pronouns as reflexives) a mere coincidence? 57 On etymology in Greek antiquity, see the papers collected by Nifadopoulos 2003 and Sluiter 2015; with specific reference to the grammarians (especially Aristarchus): Schironi 2018, 340–376; Nünlist 2019. 58 Cf. Lallot 2011, 250 n. 14. 59 Cf. Schironi 2018, 653–657.

“Not according to our usage…”  

References Apthorp, M.J. (1980), The Manuscript Evidence for Interpolation in Homer, Heidelberg. Ax, W. (1982), “Aristarch und die ‘Grammatik’”, Glotta 60, 96–109 (= Ax 2000, 128–139). Ax, W. (1990), “Aristophanes von Byzanz als Analogist. Zu Fragment 374 Slater (= Varro, de lingua Latina 9, 12)”, Glotta 68, 4–18 (= Ax 2000, 116–127). Ax, W. (1991), “Sprache als Gegenstand der alexandrinischen und pergamenischen Philologie”, in: P. Schmitter (ed.), Geschichte der Sprachtheorie, vol. 2: Sprachtheorien der abendländischen Antike, Tübingen, 275–302 (= Ax 2000, 95–115). Ax, W. (2000), Lexis und Logos. Studien zur antiken Grammatik und Rhetorik, hrsg. von F. Grewing, Stuttgart. Bolling, G.M. (1925), The External Evidence for Interpolation in Homer, Oxford. Bolling, G.M. (1940), “Zenodotus’ dehorning of the horned hind and the text of Homer”, TAPA 71, 40–44. Bolling, G.M. (1944), The Athetized Lines of the Iliad, Baltimore. Callanan, C.K. (1987), Die Sprachbeschreibung bei Aristophanes von Byzanz, Göttingen. Citti, V. (1966), “Le edizioni omeriche ‘delle città’”, Vichiana 3.3, 3–43. Denniston, J.D. (19542), The Greek Particles, Oxford. Dindorf, W. (1855), Scholia Graeca in Homeri Odysseam ex codicibus aucta et emendata, 2 vols., Oxford. Düntzer, H. (1848), De Zenodoti studiis Homericis, Göttingen. Edwards, M.W. (1991), The Iliad: A Commentary. Vol. 5: Books 17–20, Cambridge. Erbse, H. (1969–1988), Scholia Graeca in Homeri Iliadem (Scholia vetera), 7 vols., Berlin. Fogagnolo, M. (2020), Antimachus Colophonius (SGG, 2), Leiden/Boston. Friedländer, L. (1853), Aristonici Peri semeion Iliados reliquiae emendatiores, Göttingen. Kirk, G.S. (1990), The Iliad: A Commentary. Vol. 2: Books 5–8, Cambridge. Kühner, R./Gerth, B. (1898–19043), Ausführliche Grammatik der griechischen Sprache, 2 vols., Hannover/Leipzig. Lallot, J. (2011), “Did the Alexandrian grammarians have a sense of history?”, in: S. Matthaios/ F. Montanari/A. Rengakos (eds.), Ancient Scholarship and Grammar: Archetypes, Concepts and Contexts, Berlin/New York, 241–250. Lehrs, K. (18823), De Aristarchi studiis Homericis, Leipzig. Ludwich, A. (1884–1885), Aristarchs homerische Textkritik, nach den Fragmenten des Didymos, 2 vols., Leipzig. Ludwich, A. (1914), “Die Quellenberichte über Aristarchs Ilias–Athetesen”, RhM 69, 680–734. Lundon, J./Matthaios, S. (2005), “Nominal accidents by question and answer: Two fragments of a Τέχνη γραμματική, one new”, ZPE 154, 97–116. Martinazzoli, F. (1953), Hapax legomenon: Parte prima, Rome. Matthaios, S. (1999), Untersuchungen zur Grammatik Aristarchs: Texte und Interpretation zur Wortartenlehre, Göttingen. Matthaios, S. (2011), “Textinterpretation und grammatische Argumentation im Kreis der alexandrinischen Philologen. Konsequenzen für die ἐμπειρία–τέχνη–Diskussion”, in: N.N. Kazansky et al. (eds.), Ancient Grammar and its Posterior Tradition, Leuven/Paris/ Walpole, MA, 111–141. Monro, D.B. (1891), A Grammar of the Homeric Dialect, Oxford.

  Lara Pagani Montana, F. (2015), “Hellenistic scholarship”, in: F. Montanari/S. Matthaios/A. Rengakos (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Ancient Greek Scholarship, vol. 1, Leiden/Boston, 60–183. Montana, F. (2020), “Hellenistic scholarship”, in: F. Montanari (ed.), History of Ancient Greek Scholarship: From the Beginnings to the End of the Byzantine Age, Leiden/Boston, 132–259. Montanari, F. (1998), “Zenodotus, Aristarchus and the Ekdosis of Homer”, in: G.W. Most (ed.), Editing Texts / Texte edieren, Göttingen, 1–21. Montanari, F. (2002), “Alexandrian Homeric philology. The form of the Ekdosis and the Variae Lectiones”, in: M. Reichel/A. Rengakos (eds.), Epea pteroenta. Beiträge zur Homerforschung. Festschrift für Wolfgang Kullmann zum 75. Geburtstag, Stuttgart, 119–140. Montanari, F. (2009), “Ekdosis alessandrina: il libro e il testo”, in: M. Sanz Morales/M. Librán Moreno (eds.), Verae lectiones. Estudios de crítica textual y edición de textos griegos, Huelva, 143–167. Montanari, F. (2012), “Glosse dialettali negli scholia omerici”, in: M. Meier Brügger (ed.), Homer, gedeutet durch ein großes Lexikon. Akten des Hamburger Kolloquiums vom 6.–8. Oktober 2010 zum Abschluss des Lexikons des frühgriechischen Epos, Berlin/Boston, 123–139. Montanari, F. (2015), “From book to edition. Philology in Ancient Greece”, in: S. Pollock/ B.A. Elman/Ku-ming Kevin Chang (eds.), World Philology, Cambridge, MA/London, 25–44. Montanari, F. (2018), “Ancient scholarship today”, in: M. Ercoles/L. Pagani/F. Pontani/ G. Ucciardello (eds.), Approaches to Greek Poetry. Homer, Hesiod, Pindar, and Aeschylus in Ancient Exegesis, Berlin/Boston, 345–354. Nickau, K. (1972), “Zenodotos von Ephesos”, in: RE 10A, 23–45. Nickau, K. (1977), Untersuchungen zur textkritischen Methode des Zenodotos von Ephesos, Berlin/New York. Nifadopoulos, C. (2003), Etymologia. Studies in Ancient Etymology. Proceedings of the Cambridge Conference on Ancient Etymology, 25–27 September 2000, Münster. Nünlist, R. (2012), “A chapter in the history of Greek linguistics: Aristarchus’ interest in language development”, RhM 155.2, 152–165. Nünlist, R. (2015), “What does Ὅμηρον ἐξ Ὁμήρου σαφηνίζειν actually mean?”, Hermes 143.4, 385–403. Nünlist, R. (2019), “Aristarchus and etymology”, Glotta 95, 201–226. Nünlist, R. (2021), “Nicanor: More than a punctuator”, BICS 64.1, 35–47. Pagani, L. (2011), “Pioneers of grammar. Hellenistic scholarship and the study of language”, in: F. Montanari/L. Pagani (eds.), From Scholars to Scholia. Chapters in the History of Ancient Greek Scholarship, Berlin/New York, 17–64. Pagani, L. (2015), “The language correctness (hellenismos) and its criteria”, in: F. Montanari/ S. Matthaios/A. Rengakos (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Ancient Greek Scholarship, vol. 2, Leiden/Boston, 798–849. Pagani, L. (2017), “Eustathius’ use of ancient scholarship in his commentary on the Iliad”, in: F. Pontani/V. Katsaros/V. Sarris (eds.), Reading Eustathius of Thessalonike, Berlin/Boston, 79–110. Pasquali, G. (19522), Storia della tradizione e critica del testo, Florence. Pfeiffer, R. (1968), History of Classical Scholarship from the Beginnings to the End of the Hellenistic Age, Oxford. Pontani, F. (2005), Sguardi su Ulisse: la tradizione esegetica greca all’Odissea, Rome. Pontani, F. (2007–), Scholia Graeca in Odysseam. 1, Ad libros α–β (2007); 2, Ad libros γ–δ (2010); 3, Ad libros ε–ζ (2015); 4, Ad libros η–θ (2020); 5, Ad libros ι–κ (2022), Rome. Rengakos, A. (2000), “Αristarchus and the Hellenistic poets”, Seminari Romani 3, 325–335.

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Rengakos, A. (2012), “Bemerkungen zum antiken Homertext”, in: M. Meier-Brügger (ed.), Homer, gedeutet durch ein großes Lexikon. Akten des Hamburger Kolloquiums vom 6.–8. Oktober 2010 zum Abschluss des Lexikons des frühgriechischen Epos, Berlin/New York, 239–252. Römer, A. (1911), “Der angebliche Einheitlichkeits– und Gleichheitsfanatismus in der Homerkritik und Homerexegese Aristarchs”, RhM 66, 275–317. Schironi, F. (2018), The Best of the Grammarians: Aristarchus of Samothrace on the Iliad, Ann Arbor. Severyns, A. (1928), Le cycle épique dans l’école d’Aristarque, Liège/Paris. Shipp, G.P. (19722), Studies in the Language of Homer, Cambridge. Slater, W.J. (1986), Aristophanis Byzantii Fragmenta, Berlin/New York. Sluiter, I. (2015), “Ancient etymology: A tool for thinking”, in: F. Montanari/S. Matthaios/ A. Rengakos (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Ancient Greek Scholarship, vol. 2, Leiden/Boston, 896–922. Van der Valk, M. (1971–1987), Eustathii archiepiscopi Thessalonicensis Commentarii ad Homeri Iliadem pertinentes, 4 vols., Leiden. Van Thiel, H. (20142), Scholia D in Iliadem, proecdosis aucta et correctior, Köln [https://kups. ub.uni-koeln.de/5586/]. Wackernagel, J. (1916), Sprachliche Untersuchungen zu Homer, Göttingen. West, M. (1998–2000), Homeri Ilias, 1–2, München/Leipzig. West, M.L. (2011), The Making of the Iliad, Oxford. West, M.L. (2017), Homerus, Odyssea, Berlin/Boston.

Eduard Meusel

A Song of Milk and Honey: The Poetic Transformation of an Ancient Ritual Drink in Pindar Abstract: This article sheds some light on the drink introduced by Pindar in Nem. 3.76 ff., the μεμιγμένον μέλι λευκῷ σὺν γάλακτι, and links it to an old drink formerly used in the Indo-European or Graeco-Aryan ritual. By comparing it, among others, to Greek μελίκρητον, Vedic āśír-, and Avestan haoma ... gauua, it is possible to deduce a terminological reconstruction for this drink: *melit-/ medhu- k̑erh2- [with MILK] ‘to mix honey with milk’. A subsequent in-depth analysis of the text as well as of some of Pindar’s poetic techniques (e.g. ποικιλία, establishing of certain phonetic figures) explain why and how Pindar transforms this heritage into the surface form found in Nemean 3 by way of substituting an underlying κεκρᾱμένον by μεμιγμένον. In doing so, this investigation furnishes another hint at the ritual origin of the Pindaric poetry. Keywords: comparative linguistics, formulaic language, Indo-European ritual, metaphor, Pindar, poetics

 Introduction The subject of the 14th Trends in Classics conference, in which the present study was originally presented, was the relationship between Classical Philology and Historical Linguistics. Therefore, this study attempts to give an example of how both fields can benefit from each other and how important both are to one another. In particular, it will show how the methods and results of Historical Linguistics can contribute to a better and more thorough understanding of classical texts — even though one may think to know them very well already. In a way, this procedure will turn out to be quite similar to doing a psychoanalysis. But in the present case, instead of real people’s psyche, the subject of the analysis is an ancient text. Nonetheless, the outcome is pretty much the same: It is the “reconstitution of the past”, as Freud would put it, and the uncovering of some elements and insights deeply hidden in the realm of the subconscious. To be more precise: The following investigation will deal with a certain passage in Pindar — Nem. 3.76 ff. — where the poet speaks of a drink consisting of milk and honey, which is supposed to represent his own poetry. In digging deep https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111272887-006

  Eduard Meusel into the past, i.e. the prehistory, of this image or metaphor, a more profound understanding of where that drink comes from and why Pindar makes use of it will emerge. This is done by, first, discussing the problems with that specific passage and presenting a new hypothesis on how to interpret it (section 2). Then, the collection of evidence for this hypothesis follows: A comparison with other, very similar drinks from cognate Indo-European languages and cultures is drawn. On that ground and after a closer examination of the Proto-IndoEuropean (PIE) root *k̑erh2-, not only a drink consisting of milk and honey can be postulated for PIE times, but it is also possible to reconstruct its specific terminological shape (section 3). How Pindar transforms this shape and what urges him to do so, is presented in section 4. Finally, additional evidence for interpreting Pindar’s drink as a heritage from PIE times comes forth from another parallel found in the Rigveda: just as in Pindar, the corresponding ritual drink also stands for the poet’s song (section 5).

 A series of problems and a solution from the past . The text under investigation Let us take a closer look into the Pindaric passage in question: [...] χαῖρε, φίλος· ἐγὼ τόδε τοι πέμπω μεμιγμένον μέλι λευκῷ σὺν γάλακτι, κιρναμένα δ᾽ ἔερσ᾿ ἀμφέπει, πόμ’ ἀοίδιμον Αἰολίσσιν ἐν πνοαῖσιν αὐλῶν, ὀψέ περ. [...] Nem. 3.76 ff. Farewell, friend. I send you this mixture of honey with white milk, which the stirred foam crowns, a drink of song accompanied by the Aeolian breaths of pipes, late though it be.

The passage is located near the end of Nemean 3, an ode in honor of Aristocleides from Aegina for his victory in the pancratium. After telling a story about Achilles’ youth and his fight against Memnon at Troy (lines 43–63) and praising the victor Aristocleides (lines 64–70), Pindar makes some gnomic remarks (lines 70–75) and turns to the immediate hic et nunc of the present performance. This

A Song of Milk and Honey  

is evidenced by the use of χαῖρε as a type of transitional formula.1 Immediately after that, Pindar compares his poem to a drink of milk and honey (μεμιγμένον μέλι λευκῷ σὺν γάλακτι and πόμ’ ἀοίδιμον, l. 77 ff.) and apologizes for being late with it (ὀψέ περ, 80).

. The problem and previous approaches The problem in this passage is the image or metaphor of the drink of milk and honey. Why does Pindar introduce the image of a drink at this very moment? Why does he identify his poem as a drink? And why exactly does he choose a drink consisting of honey mixed with milk? Although these questions were already raised by Classicists and commentators of that passage many a time before, a satisfying solution to the problem is still lacking. Dissen explains the composition of the drink with the fact that Boeotia, Pindar’s home, is rich in milk and honey (in Boeotia enim fertili plurima lactis mellisque).2 A similar argumentation is sought by Bury,3 who furthermore thinks that the addition of milk must be understood as some kind of Aeolic characteristic, which would be not insignificant in a victory ode for a victor from Aegina. Later, Bowra argues that “milk and honey suggest purity and sweetness, and these are two qualities which Pindar values — purity because it hints at the victor’s unsullied joy, and sweetness because it belongs to the fullness of such joy”.4 But none of these interpreters can provide a substantial background or parallel for their views. There is no undeniable evidence that milk or milk in combination with honey would represent or hint at either Boeotia, an Aoelic character or purity and sweetness. Thus, all these explanations can at best be viewed as ad hoc solutions. Not even the passage from Claudius Aelianus (NA 15.7), which is often cited in this context by many scholars,5 can remedy this problem, although it potentially renders a parallel as one of the very few sources from antiquity. Claudius Aelianus noted that Indic people also drink milk but unlike the Greeks they do not have to add any honey to it, because their milk is already very sweet by nature.6  1 Cf. Pfeijffer 1999, 397. 2 Dissen 1830, 391. 3 Bury 1890, 60. 4 Bowra 1964, 24. 5 Cf. e.g. Bowra 1964, 23 f. 6 ἀμέλγουσι γὰρ (sc. Ἰνδοὶ) περιγλύκιστον γάλα, καὶ οὐ δέονται ἀναμῖξαι αὐτῷ μέλι, ὅπερ οὖν δρῶσιν Ἕλληνες ‘For they milk the sweetest milk and they do not have to mix honey to it, like the Greeks do’ (Ael. NA 15.7).

  Eduard Meusel What seems as a good parallel at first glance, turns out to be not so fitting at all at a closer look. This is because Claudius Aelianus speaks of a drink with milk as the main substance, to which honey is only optionally added. But in Pindar, it is just the other way around. There, honey is the main substance, and it is the milk that is added. Nonetheless, the recourse to the Indic people leads, at least cautiously, into the right direction as will be become clear below. Another line of reasoning will also prove to be useful in the end, even though in its current form it can only be understood as a mere hint at best. It is the reference to the μελίκρητον, a drink or libation to the dead, which has sometimes been made in order to account for the Pindaric drink.7 But why would Pindar in a victory ode, where he is supposed to praise the victor for his strength and his capabilities in life, compare his poem to a drink for the dead? The answer will turn out to be simple, as the μελίκρητον was not only a drink for the dead; in fact, it was originally used in a much broader ritualistic context. But this insight is not easily accessible from the investigation of Greek alone, it can only be seen from a comparative perspective.

. A solution from the past In light of all these problems and the many downsides of the availabe solutions offered so far, we venture a completely new approach, combining insights from historical linguistics with a thorough internal analysis of the text itself. It is proposed that Pindar’s drink, the μεμιγμένον μέλι λευκῷ σὺν γάλακτι, is a reflex and continuation of a very old and ancient ritual drink, which has already been in use long before Pindar’s time in an Indo-European or at least Graeco-Aryan ritual. Therefore, the reflex is not only of a conceptual nature, but is even retraceable from a terminological point of view. There is a very similar or identical drink in the Vedic and Avestan tradition, whose name centers around the PIE root *k̑erh2- ‘to blend, mix’,8 and which is based on a certain liquid mixed with milk. Pindar’s μεμιγμένον μέλι λευκῷ σὺν γάλακτι is a poetological variation on that very drink. The fact that he furthermore identifies this drink with his poem is also not uncommon in Indo-European poetry. There are parallels in the Rigveda, where such a drink stands symbolically for poetry as well. Therefore, the Pindaric μεμιγμένον μέλι λευκῷ σὺν γάλακτι in Nem. 3.77 f. is best interpreted as a traditional motif as well as a continuation of an old phraseme  7 Cf. Pfeijffer 1999, 403. 8 LIV² 328.

A Song of Milk and Honey  

used to denote an archaic ritual drink. As such, it points to the origins of the Greek choral lyric in the Indo-European ritual.9 To justify this approach, a closer look into the direct surroundings of Nem. 3.77 f. is fruitful. For it reveals that the μεμιγμένον μέλι λευκῷ σὺν γάλακτι is situated between many instances of very archaic phraseology or at least a very archaic imagery. Just a few lines before line 77 as well as at the end of the victory ode, the motif of the ‘shining fame’ is evoked: see τηλαυγὲς ἄραρε φέγγος Αἰακιδᾶν αὐτόθεν ‘the far-shining light of the Aeacidae is fixed from here’ in line 64 and Νεμέας Ἐπιδαυρόθεν τ’ ἄπο καὶ Μεγάρων δέδορκεν φάος ‘from Nemea, Epidaurus, and Megara has shone the light of glory’ twenty lines later in 84. This ‘shining fame’ is a concept which is not only present in Greek, but is also well attested in the Rigveda (cf. e.g. the adjective citráśravas- ‘having bright/ shining fame’ or RV 5.18.5 dyumád ... śrávas ‘bright/shining fame’). As such, it has to be considered very old.10 The same applies to the imagery of the eagle, the αἰετὸς ὠκύς in lines 80 ff., whose introduction by Pindar once gave rise to a considerable scholarly dispute,11 but has clear parallels in the Rigveda too, where a bird of prey is also seeking fame: cf. RV 4.26.5, 4.38.5, and 6.46.13. Just like the ‘shining fame’ before, the image of the ‘eagle seeking fame’ must be inherited from the PIE poetic tradition.12 Given these circumstances, it would not be too surprising if Pindar’s poetological drink consisting of honey mixed with milk would be a relic of IndoEuropean times as well — and this is exactly what is being argued below.

 An ‘old fashioned’ drink: PIE *melit-/medhu- k̑erh2- [with MILK] Crucial for the reconstruction of a phraseme denoting a ritual drink in IndoEuropean or Graeco-Aryan times is the PIE root *k̑erh2- ‘to blend, mix’. This root plays a central role in the Indo-European ritual — it is the root used when a ritual drink or libation is mixed — and provides the verbal base for the recon-

 9 For the theory that the victory odes have a religious background and are more or less to be regarded as hymns, see Bremer 2008. 10 Meusel 2020, 398 ff. 11 See especially the contributions of Stoneman 1967 and Bernardini 1977. 12 See Meusel 2021.

  Eduard Meusel struction. Reflexes of the drink and the phraseme can be found in Vedic, Avestan, and Greek.

. A Greek drink .. The restriction of the root *k̑erh2- to the ritual sphere The significance of the root *k̑erh2- in a ritual context can be seen most clearly in the oldest attestations of the reflexes of the root in Greek. In Homer, the verbs κεράω, κεράννῡμι, and related forms are nearly exclusively used in connection with liquids in general and with wine and water, in particular13 — two important substances for different ritualistic occasions in Greek. But κεράω, κεράννῡμι, and other forms are not only used with liquids. In Homer, they are also highly restricted to an immediate ritual context in the narrow sense, i.e. to the environment of prayers or other kinds of addresses to the gods. Seven of the 25 attestations in total (including verbatim repetitions) of the verb κεράω (or one of its related forms or compounds) appear in such a context. The following two passages from the Odyssey shall illustrate this:14 τοῖς δ’ ὁ γέρων ἐλθοῦσιν ἀνὰ κρητῆρα κέρασσεν οἴνου ἡδυπότοιο, τὸν ἑνδεκάτῳ ἐνιαυτῷ ὤϊξεν ταμίη καὶ ἀπὸ κρήδεμνον ἔλυσε· τοῦ ὁ γέρων κρητῆρα κεράσσατο, πολλὰ δ’ Ἀθήνῃ εὔχετ’ ἀποσπένδων, κούρῃ Διὸς αἰγιόχοιο. Hom. Od. 3.390 ff. And on their coming the old man mixed for them a bowl of sweet wine, which now in the eleventh year the housekeeper opened, when she had broken the seal upon it. Of this the old man bade mix a bowl, and earnestly he prayed, as he poured libations, to Athene, the daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis. ἀλλ’ ἄγε δὴ ξεῖνον μὲν ἐπὶ θρόνου ἀργυροήλου ἕσσον ἀναστήσας, σὺ δὲ κηρύκεσσι κέλευσον οἶνον ἐπικρῆσαι, ἵνα καὶ Διὶ τερπικεραύνῳ σπείσομεν, ὅς θ’ ἱκέτῃσιν ἅμ’ αἰδοίοισιν ὀπηδεῖ· Hom. Od. 7.162 ff.

 13 See LfgrE II, 1385 f. 14 The remaining attestations are Hom. Od. 3.331 ff., 7.179 ff., 13.50 ff., 18.423 ff.

A Song of Milk and Honey  

Come, raise the stranger to his feet and set him upon a silver-studded chair; bid the heralds mix wine, that we may pour libations also to Zeus, who hurls the thunderbolt; for he walks in the footsteps of reverend suppliants.

In the case of Od. 3.390 ff., Nestor prepares a bowl of wine for Telemachos and his companions after their arrival at his palace. Judging by the surrounding verbs εὔχεσθαι or ἀποσπένδειν (394) and the reference to Athene (393) and Zeus (394), the mixing of the wine is closely associated with some religious activity. The same goes for the second example, where Echeneos calls upon Alkinoos to welcome Odysseus with all due honors to his house.15 Again, the verb σπένδω (165) and the name of Zeus (164) attest to the religious character of the situation in which the mixing is performed. In addition, the recourse to the ‘reverend suppliants’ (ἱκέτῃσιν ... αἰδοίοισιν, 165) is a hint to the reciprocal character of such a ritualistic situation. Furthermore, if one accepts that some conventionalized situations such as the welcoming and greeting can also be viewed as a kind of ritual, i.e. rituals in the broader sense,16 almost all of the passages in Homer can be added to the evidence.17 In fact, Od. 4.132 (= 4.616, 15.116) χρυσῷ δ’ ἐπὶ χείλεα κεκράαντο ‘the rims were gilded with gold’ and Od. 10.362 θυμῆρες κεράσασα, κατὰ κρατός τε καὶ ὤμων ‘mixing it to my liking, and pouring it over my head and shoulders’ are the only instances where κεράω (or the like) is not situated in a ritual context. Instead, it describes the covering of something with gold (Od. 4.132) or the mixing of cold and hot water for bathing (Od. 10.362). Such a clear distribution in Homer can hardly be due to coincidence.18 Therefore, the best and easiest way to account for it is to view it as an inherited feature and to assume that the root *k̑erh2- was closely associated with ritual activities already in IndoEuropean (or at least Graeco-Aryan) times.

 15 It is noteworthy that Echeneos is qualified as someone who was ‘an elder among the Phaeacians’ (Φαιήκων ἀνδρῶν προγενέστερος, 156) and was ‘well skilled in speech, and understanding all the wisdom of old’ (καὶ μύθοισι κέκαστο, παλαιά τε πολλά τε εἰδώς, 157). These are all qualities characteristic for the profession of a priest and of a poet alike. 16 Cf. the definition of a ritual by Nagy 1990, 31: “[...] the idea of ritual includes not only such basic activities as sacrifice and prayer but also such diverse occasions as meeting, eating and drinking, courtship, hunting, gathering, farming, building, and traveling”. 17 The passages are Hom. Il. 4.257 ff., 8.185 ff., 9.202 ff.; Od. 5.92 ff., 8.469 ff., 10.356 ff., 14.78 f., 15.499 f., 16.12 ff., 16.52 f., 20.252 f., 24.364 f. 18 In the end, 21 of 25 attestations are situated in a ritual context, either in the narrower or in the broader sense.

  Eduard Meusel .. Greek μελίκρητον Corroboration for the close association of the root *k̑erh2- to the ritual context comes from a Greek ritual drink already mentioned above. It is the μελίκρητον, whose second member is derived from the root *k̑erh2-. The term μελίκρητον is attested for the first time in the Odyssey, where it is parallel to other ritual substances like wine, water or barley. Circe wants Odysseus to pour out such a drink for the dead: ἀμφ’ αὐτῷ (sc. βόθρῳ) δὲ χοὴν χεῖσθαι πᾶσιν νεκύεσσι, πρῶτα μελικρήτῳ, μετέπειτα δὲ ἡδέϊ οἴνῳ, τὸ τρίτον αὖθ’ ὕδατι· ἐπὶ δ’ ἄλφιτα λευκὰ παλύνειν. Hom. Od. 10.518 ff. ~ 11.25 ff. And around it pour a libation to all the dead, first with milk and honey, thereafter with sweet wine, and in the third place with water, and sprinkle on it white barley meal.

Although only the word for honey is overtly expressed in the compound as its first member (μελι°), the comment by Eustathius on this passage shows that milk was also part of the μελίκρητον: μελίκρατον δὲ οἱ παλαιοὶ μίγμα φασὶ μέλιτος καὶ γάλατος [sic!] ἐνταῦθα ‘The μελίκρατον, say the old ones, is here a mixture of honey and milk (Eust. ad Od. 10.519)’. Another attestation in Euripides’ Orestes underlines that the μελίκρητον is a libation for the dead. After talking with Electra and taking her advice, Helen orders her daughter Hermione to make a libation at Clytaemestra’s tomb: ὦ τέκνον, ἔξελθ’, Ἑρμιόνη, δόμων πάρος καὶ λαβὲ χοὰς τάσδ’ ἐν χεροῖν κόμας τ’ ἐμάς: ἐλθοῦσα δ’ ἀμφὶ τὸν Κλυταιμήστρας τάφον μελίκρατ’ ἄφες γάλακτος οἰνωπόν τ’ ἄχνην. Eur. Or. 112 ff. Hermione, daughter, come out in front of the house! Take these libations and my hair offering in your hands. Go to the tomb of Clytaemestra and around it pour out the milk and honey mixture and the foaming wine.

In both of these examples the ritual contextualization of the μελίκρητον is obvious and does not require any further comment. The fact that the μελίκρητον was indeed deeply rooted in the ritual tradition of Greek and must, therefore, be an inheritance from ancient times, is also supported by various puns and allusions as in the following passage of Aeschylus’ Persae:

A Song of Milk and Honey  

[...] παιδὸς πατρὶ πρευμενεῖς χοὰς φέρουσ’, ἅπερ νεκροῖσι μειλικτήρια, βοός τ᾽ ἀφ᾽ ἁγνῆς λευκὸν εὔποτον γάλα, τῆς τ’ ἀνθεμουργοῦ στάγμα, παμφαὲς μέλι, λιβάσιν ὑδρηλαῖς παρθένου πηγῆς μέτα, ἀκήρατόν τε μητρὸς ἀγρίας ἄπο ποτὸν παλαιᾶς ἀμπέλου γάνος τόδε· Aeschyl. Pers. 609 ff. Bringing propitiatory drink-offerings for the father of my child, such as serve to soothe the dead: white milk, good to drink, from a pure cow; the distilled product of the flowerworker, gleaming honey, together with a libation of water from a virgin spring; a drink that has come unsullied from its wild-growing mother, this juice of an old vine.

Here, the adjectival μειλικτήρια clearly alludes to the μελίκρητον, which is surely an intended pun, since the drink-offerings, which are supposed to be μειλικτήρια, display a lot of striking similarities with the μελίκρητον: Both terms are phonologically very close to one another, both drinks are intended for the dead (νεκροῖσι, 610), and both have milk (λευκὸν εὔποτον γάλα, 611) and honey (παμφαὲς μέλι, 612) as ingredients. Would the μελίκρητον not have been so deeply rooted in tradition, the pun or the allusion just would not be possible. The traditional character of the μελίκρητον as a drink for the dead is undoubtedly acknowledged by modern scholars.19 In a convincing article, Watkins even comes to the conclusion that the μελίκρητον must “linguistically and culturally [...] belong to the most ancient layer of inherited Greek religious vocabulary which we possess”.20 From a purely morphological perspective, μελίκρητον is composed of the word for honey, μέλι, as first member, and the to-participle from the root *k̑erh2- of κεράω, κεράννυμι, or the like (°κρητο- < °k̑r̥h2-to-) as second member. Given all this, it is possible to postulate a potential proto-form for PIE which would account for the situation in Greek. A corresponding phraseological reconstruction would then approximately look like the following: *melit- k̑erh2[with MILK] ‘to mix honey with milk’. The inclusion of milk is assured thanks to the μελίκρητον, even though it is not overtly expressed. But this kind of omission could be understood as yet another feature of its archaic character.

 19 Cf. e.g. Ameis-Hentze 1900, 128; Burkert 1985, 71 f.; West 1987, 188 f. 20 Watkins 1978, 10.

  Eduard Meusel

. A Vedic drink In fact, such a ritual drink can be traced back far beyond Greek, and this is revealed by a comparison with the Indo-Iranian branch of Indo-European. In Vedic it left its traces in the form of the noun āśír- f. ‘milk (mixture)’, its derivatives like āśī́rvant- ‘possessing a milk mixture’, and the morphologically independent formation ā́śīrta- ‘mixed (with)’:21 yā́ dámpatī sámanasā | sunutá ā́ ca dhā́vataḥ | dévāso nítyayāśírā RV 8.31.5 The household couple who with one mind press and rinse (the soma) with its own proper milk-mixture, o gods éto nu índraṃ stávāma | śuddháṃ śuddhéna sā́manā | śuddhaír ukthaír vāvr̥ dhvā́ṃsaṃ | śuddhá āśī́rvān mamattu RV 8.95.7 Come now! Let us praise Indra the cleansed with a cleansed sāman. Him grown strong through cleansed hymns let the cleansed (soma) with its milk-mixture exhilarate śúcir asi puruniṣṭhā́ḥ | kṣīraír madhyatá ā́śīrtaḥ | dadhnā́ mándiṣṭhaḥ śū́rasya RV 8.2.9 You are clear, outstanding among many; (and you are) mixed with milk in the middle; and (you, mixed) with curd, (are) the most invigorating for the champion.

All these formations go back again to the root *k̑erh2-. āśír- itself is a compounded root noun,22 whereas ā́śīrta- is a to-participle to the root *k̑erh2- with the Vedic prefix ā́°. āśír- refers to the milk or the milk-mixture which is added to the Soma in the Soma ritual as in RV 8.31.5, where the dámpatī prepares for exactly such a ritual. In RV 8.95.7 the Soma itself, the śuddhá, is described as containing a milk-mixture. This is expressed by way of the adjective āśī́rvant- derived from āśír-. The kṣīraír ... ā́śīrtas ‘mixed with milk’ in RV 8.2.9 refers to the Soma as well, which is directly addressed in this hymn as a goddess. With regards to morphology and content, the phrase kṣīraír ... ā́śīrtas comes very close to the Greek μελίκρητον: Both show to-participles in their second member (°śīrta- vs. °κρητο-) and both have milk as an addition to their respective main liquid.

 21 The remaining attestations are RV 3.53.14, 8.2.10, 8.6.19, 8.31.2, 8.69.6, 9.70.1, 10.49.10, and 10.67.6 for āśír- and RV 1.23.1 for āśī́rvānt-. 22 Scarlata 1999, 532.

A Song of Milk and Honey  

The Vedic formations around āśír- and ā́śīrta- must also be of an older date and go back to an archaic proto-form of a ritual drink, as evidenced by several facts: First of all, outside of the outlined context of the mixing of Soma, āśírand its derivatives as well as ā́śīrta- are nowhere to be found.23 Second, these formations are the only continuants of the root *k̑erh2- in Vedic; there are, for example, no verbal forms of the root.24 This suggests a very limited sphere of use, namely in a ritual context, already at a much earlier stage. And third, āśírexhibits many signs of advanced ‘phraseologicalization’, which is another hint at its archaicity since this process takes a long time to develop: āśír- is very restricted in its morphology. With one single exception (RV 8.31.5), it only appears in the accusative singular and always, with no exception, in combination with the preverb ā°. This preverb is even present in the complex, adjectival derivation of ánāśīrdā- ‘the one who has no milk to add’,25 which suggests that āśírwas already petrified and probably no longer analyzable in Vedic times. The same holds true, of course, for the other derivations like tríāśir- ‘mixed three times with milk’ (RV 5.27.5), dádhyāśir- ‘mixed with sour milk’ (attested several times), dúrāśir- ‘possessing a poor mixture’ (RV 8.2.5), rásāśir- ‘mixed with fat milk’ (RV 3.48.1), sámāśir- ‘mixed with milk’ (RV 1.30.2), and the very frequent gávāśir- ‘possessing a milk-mixture’.26 Finally, āśír- can simply carry the meaning ‘milk’ (cf. e.g. RV 3.53.14, 10.67.6). This circumstance is not accountable for or can be deduced from a strictly internal analysis of Vedic. Departing from the actual meaning of the root *k̑erh2- ‘to blend, mix’, one would rather expect the meaning ‘mixture’. Again, such an oddity is best explained as an inherited feature coming from an older drink or context long before Vedic times.27 Thus, the analysis of the situation in Vedic calls, just like in Greek, for an old and ancient ritual drink.  23 Narten 1987, 270. 24 Cf. Scarlata 1999, 532. For a long time, the Vedic verb śrīṇā́ti (śrayi-) was believed to be the verbal counterpart to āśír-. But Narten 1987 showed that śrīṇā́ti comes from the PIE root *k̑rei̯H‘to excel’ (cf. LIV2, 337). That śrīṇā́ti is embedded in similar contexts as āśír- is due to a merging of the two paradigms at some point as a consequence of the obsolescence of āśír-. On this phenomenon see in greater detail Meusel 2019. 25 The last part of the compound (°dā-) belongs to the root *deh3- ‘to give’ (LIV2, 105 f.). Cf. the derivational chain to the complex verb animadvert- in Latin, from which formations like animadversio are derived (cf. Hackstein 2012, 93). This also requires the assumption of an already fossilized stem form animadvert-. 26 All these are compounds with petrified āśír- as second member and serve as an epithet to the Soma. 27 For an overview and a more in-depth analysis of the process of phraseologicalization in the case of Vedic āśír-, see Meusel 2019.

  Eduard Meusel

. An Avestan drink Confirmation for this analysis of the Indo-Iranian branch comes from a parallel in Avestan, which, again, was linked to the Vedic āśír- as well as to the Greek μελίκρητον already by Watkins.28 He pointed to the following two attestations: yasə tē bāδa haoma zāire gauua iristahe baxšaite

Y. 10.13

O Haoma, endow the man who drinks thee mixed with milk haoma yō gauua Yt. 5.9 et saepe Haoma which is (mixed) with milk.

In both these cases, the haoma ... gauua refers to a drink consisting of Haoma, the Avestan counterpart to the Vedic Soma, and of an admixture of milk. The second example is, following Hoffmann, to be interpreted as an elliptical relative clause.29 If one compares these attestations to the examples with āśír- and the like in Vedic and especially with ā́śīrta-, it is striking that, whereas in Vedic the admixture of milk is for most of the time not expressed, in Avestan the verbal component, i.e. a derivative of the root *k̑erh2-, is absent. As in Vedic, this could indicate a certain degree of inheritance. Thus, if one wants to bring both together, it is quite feasible to reconstruct a common phraseological proto-form, from which the state of affairs in both Indo-Iranian branches could have evolved: *SOMA/HAOMA k̑erh2- with MILK ‘to mix Soma/Haoma with milk’.

. An Indo-European (or Graeco-Aryan) drink Given all these findings so far, it is possible to take the reconstruction to yet another level, i.e. to an Indo-European or at least Graeco-Aryan stage, by comparing the reconstructions for Greek and Indo-Iranian. As already shown by Watkins, such a procedure is entirely legitimate, as he identified the Greek μελίκρητον as “the exact complement of the Vedic compounds with the cognate frozen form ā-śír- ‘mixture’”.30 Thus, we can reconstruct a proto-form of the term  28 Watkins 1978, 14. 29 Hoffmann 1967, 18. 30 Watkins 1978, 10.

A Song of Milk and Honey  

for a ritual drink in Indo-European or at least in Graeco-Aryan times, whose ingredients were honey and milk. Its terminological reconstruction must have looked something like this: *melit-/medhu- k̑erh2- [with MILK] ‘to mix honey with milk’.31 For such a reconstruction it is necessary to assume a replacement of honey by Soma or Haoma respectively in Indo-Iranian. But this is by no means an insurmountable obstacle. On the contrary, it is actually very likely that the Soma took over the place of an older mádhu- ‘honey’: “It should be emphasized that while the Ārya of Old India consumed soma like their Iranian cousins, mádhu ‘mead’ was the primary ritual drink of the Dāsas whom some would regard an earlier wave of Indo-Aryans who may have preserved better some of the more ancient IE beliefs.”32 Traces of such a substitution are still perceivable in formulaic collocations like sómo mádhumān, where the Soma is characterized as ‘honeylike’,33 or somyám mádhu ‘somalike honey’, which is exclusively found at the end of a line in the Rigveda.34

 A drink in disguise: Pindar’s transformation of an old inheritance We return now to the initial problem of the drink presented by Pindar in Nem. 3.76 ff. The issue to be addressed is whether Pindar’s drink identifies with the archaic form μελίκρητον of Greek or at least could originate from a source that would be comparable to Vedic āśír- and its related forms. A few parallels seem to support this hypothesis at first sight. The most obvious commonality is that all these drinks, the Soma or Haoma mixed with milk, the μελίκρητον, and Pindar’s drink, are a blend of a main liquid as a base and milk as an admixture. In the case of μελίκρητον even the main liquid is the same, namely honey. Furthermore, a few textual parallels between Pindar’s passage and those where the μελίκρητον is attested seem to convey a certain proximity between them. In the text from Aeschylus’ Persae cited earlier, the  31 There are two words for ‘honey’, which can be reconstructed for PIE: *mélit- and *médhu(EIEC, 271). *mélit- is included in the phraseological reconstruction because of Greek μελίκρητον, *médhu- because of certain collocations and an alleged replacement of mádhu- by Soma in Vedic (see below). 32 EIEC, 496. 33 Watkins 1978, 13. 34 Pinault 2003, 179.

  Eduard Meusel addition of milk is described with the words λευκὸν εὔποτον γάλα (Aesch. Pers. 610). This is quite similar to the Pindaric passage, λευκῷ σὺν γάλακτι (Pind. Nem. 3.77 f.): they both employ the same lexical combination for the added milk, λευκὸν γάλα. This is not a trivial fact, since the attribution of milk as ‘white’ is somewhat abundant and, therefore, semantically marked. Where Euripides alludes to the μελίκρητον in his Orestes (see above), he mentions a foam in the context of the libation: οἰνωπόν [...] ἄχνην (Eur. Or. 115). Such froth deriving from mixing can be found in Pindar as well, κιρναμένα δ᾽ ἔερσ’ (Pind. Nem. 3.78). But despite these similarities, two issues arise: First, in his μεμιγμένον μέλι λευκῷ σὺν γάλακτι, Pindar does not make use of the root *k̑erh2-, which was, however, crucial for the reconstruction of an archaic ritual drink. Instead, one only finds μεμιγμένον pertaining to the root *mei̯k̑- ‘to mix’.35 Second, why should Pindar in a victory ode, which is supposed to praise and laud the victor, resort to a drink destined for the dead? This would be completely inappropriate for the given occasion.

. Substitution in mixing: how κεκρᾱμένον became μεμιγμένον Let us begin with the first problem. In investigating phraseology from a historical perspective, one can sometimes face a phenomenon called ‘lexical substitution’. This means that within phraseological structures one word can be substituted by another without destroying the phraseme as such. One such example is the collocation heavy shower, which can be regarded as a phraseological variant via lexical substitution of the standard form heavy rain.36 The word rain has been replaced by shower.37 Substitutions of this kind especially occur in poetic texts, where they very often serve a specific intention of the poet. Now given the parallels between Pindar’s μεμιγμένον μέλι λευκῷ σὺν γάλακτι and the reconstructed archaic ritual drink, it is conceivable that such a lexical substitution occured in Pind. Nem. 3.76 ff. If one replaces the attested μεμιγμένον derived from the root *mei̯k̑- with a form from the root *k̑erh2-, the Pindaric drink would conceptually as well as terminologically be a perfect fit to the other drinks of Indo-European or at least Graeco-Aryan origin. In this regard, the best  35 LIV2, 428 f. 36 Cf. Cowie 1994, 3169. 37 For an overview on lexical substitution including further references, see Meusel 2020, 78 ff.

A Song of Milk and Honey  

and safest assumption would be that μεμιγμένον simply was a substitute for an underlying κεκρᾱμένον. To prove that this is the case, some arguments are in order: It has to be investigated whether the preconditions for a lexical substitution of this kind are in place. Then, one has to ask if other factors can be observed that would support or at least facilitate a replacement. Ideally, since we are dealing with a poetic text, we can also single out a certain (textual) motivation for the poet to use the one form over the other.

.. Requirements for lexical substitution One important requirement for a lexical substitution to take place is the semanticsyntactic equivalence of the substitutes, i.e. in this case between μείγνῡμι and κεράννῡμι or κίρναμι (which is the common form in Pindar). A semantic-syntactic equivalence implies that the elements that participate in a substitution exhibit similar syntactical features and are used in comparable semantic contexts. In general, the usage of the verbs μείγνῡμι and κεράννῡμι/κίρναμι differs in the earliest attestations of alphabetic Greek: μείγνῡμι is semantically rather ‘unspecific’,38 whereas κεράννῡμι/κίρναμι is virtually restricted to the use with liquids.39 Nonetheless, there are at least a few commonalities between the verbs already at an earlier stage of Greek, as illustrated by the following two examples:40 χρυσῷ δ’ ἐπὶ χείλεα κεκράαντο Hom. Od. 4.132 The rims were gilded with gold ὁμοῦ δὲ μιγέντος σιδηροῦ ἀργυρῷ καὶ χαλκοῦ χρυσῷ

Plat. Resp. 547a

When iron is mixed with silver and bronze with gold.

In these examples, the verbs refer to the mixing of metals — it is almost the same kind of situation. But whereas Homer makes use of κεράννῡμι, Plato resorts to μείγνῡμι. In the same way, Homer uses both verbs indiscriminately to refer to the mixing of wine in a crater:  38 Cf. LfgrE III, 225 ff. 39 LfgrE II, 1385 f.; see above. 40 Cf. also Pfeijffer 1999, 400 f.

  Eduard Meusel κρητῆρι μελίφρονα οἶνον ἐκίρνα | ἡδὺν ἐν ἀργυρέῳ

Hom. Od. 10.356

And she mixed sweet, honey-hearted wine in a bowl of silver οἶνον ἔμισγον ἐνὶ κρητῆρσι καὶ ὕδωρ

Hom. Od. 1.110

They were mixing wine and water in bowls

These commonalities increase in Pindar, who uses both verbs to express that someone or something is accompanied by a certain feature — with the accompanying feature in the dative and μείγνῡμι and κίρναμι in a passive form: πλοῦτον ... ἀρετᾷ κεκραμένον καθαρᾷ

Pind. Pyth. 5.1 f.

wealth ... conjoined with flawless excellence παῖδ’ ... Ἀρχεστράτου … ὥρᾳ ... κεκραμένον Pind. Ol. 10.99 ff. the son of Archestratus ... imbued with youthfulness ἔστα δὲ θάμβει δυσφόρῳ τερπνῷ τε μιχθείς

Pind. Nem. 1.55 f.

He stood there, stunned with wonder both painful and joyous.

Even though a certain semantic-syntactic equivalence between μείγνῡμι and κεράννῡμι/κίρναμι is already sufficiently determined by these examples, the most striking evidence for their interchangeability comes from Pindar’s passage in Nemean 3. Only a few words after μεμιγμένον, the form κιρναμένα — the passive participle to κίρναμι — follows as an attribute to the ἔερσα. As commentators already noted, both forms must refer to one and the same action, namely the mixing of honey with milk.41 The equivalence of μείγνῡμι and κεράννῡμι/κίρναμι could hardly be displayed in a clearer manner. Thus, from the standpoint of the requirements for a lexical substitution, an underlying *κεκρᾱμένον could theoretically have very well been replaced by μεμιγμένον.

 41 Cf. Dissen 1830, 391; Bury 1890, 60; Fennell 1899, 37; Slater 1969, 279.

A Song of Milk and Honey  

.. Further support Aside from this semantic-syntactic equivalence, the substitution of κεκρᾱμένον by μεμιγμένον is, furthermore, supported by some additional factors facilitating the process of the lexical replacement. One of them is the phonetic and morphological similarity between the substitutes. This was shown for another case by Forssman,42 who demonstrated that the interchangeability between μόρσιμος and αἴσιμος in Homer and Pindar’s modification αἰὼν μόρσιμος (Ol. 2.10) of Homeric αἴσιμον ἦμαρ (Hom. Il. 21.100) rests on their “inhaltliche und formale Ähnlichkeit”,43 to which he counts the fact that both share the same suffix -ιμος. The significance of a phonetic and morphological proximity for the process of lexical substitution can also be seen in another case presented by Watkins.44 He shows that the old word for a wheat species, *sepit-, still reflected in Hitt. šeppit-, is substituted by the word for ‘white’, *albho-. But instead of a simple replacement, *albho- takes over the suffix *-it- in order to retain a greater proximity to its substitutional partner and source. Its reflex is the well-known Greek word ἄλφι, ἄλφιτος (gen.). The similarity between the two substitutes under question, κεκρᾱμένον and μεμιγμένον, is obvious. Both are perfect passive participles and, thus, both share the reduplication syllable (με- vs. κε-), which is characteristic of the perfect stem in Greek, as well as the suffix -μένον for the passive participle. This amounts to nearly ideal conditions for a substitution. Additionally, they are not only phonetically and morphologically close, but also prosodically, i.e. metrically. Both, κεκρᾱμένον and μεμιγμένον, have the exact same prosodical properties — they exhibit an iambic structure (⏑ — ⏑ —) — and are, therefore, metrically completely interchangeable.

.. The motivation behind the replacement But even though the replacement of the one form by the other was theoretically possible, one central question still remains open: Why would Pindar as a poet even make use of it? At this point, it is important to explore possible motivations for a substitution.

 42 Forssman 2006. 43 Forssman 2006, 115. 44 Watkins 1992, 401.

  Eduard Meusel One reason why Pindar chose μεμιγμένον over κεκρᾱμένον lies in his proneness to a vivid and varied style, i.e. in his variatio or ποικιλία,45 which means that he tries to avoid repetition under almost all circumstances. An example to show how this tendency contributes to shaping very old phraseological structures, may be seen in the famous case of ἐπέων ... τέκτονες discovered by Darmesteter.46 Darmesteter recognized that the Pindaric passage in Pyth. 3.112 ff. was a reflex of the PIE phraseme *u̯ eku̯ - tetk̑- ‘to craft words’, which also left its traces in Vedic vā́cam/vácam takṣ- (cf. e.g. RV 1.130.6, 6.32.1) and Avestan vacastašti- (Y. 58.8). In Pindar the text continuing the phraseme reads as follows: Νέστορα καὶ Λύκιον Σαρπηδόν’, ἀνθρώπων φάτις, ἐξ ἐπέων κελαδεννῶν, τέκτονες οἷα σοφοί ἅρμοσαν, γινώσκομεν· [...] Pyth. 3.112 ff. We know of Nestor and Lycian Sarpedon, still the talk of men, from such echoing verses as wise craftsmen constructed.

Compared to the other reflexes of the phraseme, in Pindar, the verb pertaining to the root *tetk̑- is somehow dislocated and transformed into a noun (τέκτονες, 113).47 In its place we find instead the verb ἁρμόζω (ἅρμοσαν, 114), a near synonymous substitute. All this helps Pindar to steer clear of a repetition of two words from the same root, namely τέκτων and τεκταίνομαι, and generally adds to the poetic variatio.48 Nem. 3.76 ff. can be interpreted in the same way. Since Pindar already uses a form of the verb κίρναμι in line 78 (κιρναμένα), it would have been too much for his taste to employ the same verb again within such a narrow context, i.e. within two lines. A potential †κεκρᾱμένον μέλι λευκῷ σὺν γάλακτι, κιρναμένα δ᾽ ἔερσ᾿ ἀμφέπει would not have satisfied his poetological aspirations. A further aspect is that Pindar very often tries to establish various phonetic figures, like alliterations, homeoteleutons, and the like.49 See, for example, Ol. 6.75:  45 Cf. Dornseiff 1921; Bundy 1962, 47. 46 Darmesteter 1878. 47 One has to bear in mind that the primary verb to the PIE root *tetk̑- ‘to produce, make’ is not continued in Greek. Only the secondary verb τεκταίνομαι, derived from the agent noun, is attested. 48 For more details on this phraseme, see Meusel 2020, 466 ff. and 601 ff. 49 For the importance of phonetic figures in the poetic diction of Indo-European, see Watkins 1995, 23 and 291.

A Song of Milk and Honey  

[...] μῶμος ἐξ ἄλλων κρέμαται φθονεόντων τοῖς, οἷς ποτε πρώτοις περὶ δωδέκατον δρόμον ἐλαυνόντεσσιν αἰδοία ποτιστάξῃ Χάρις εὐκλέα μορφάν. Ol. 6.74 ff. But blame coming from others who are envious hangs over those who ever drive first around the twelve-lap course and on whom revered Charis sheds a glorious appearance.

The line starts with a homeoteleuton in τοῖς, οἷς ... πρώτοις, which generates a drive to the end of the line with its focus on the endings. Then, in the middle of the line, the homeoteleuton undergoes a modulation into a first alliteration with π-: ποτε πρώτοις περί. Finally, a second alliteration with δ- follows: δωδέκατον δρόμον. Both alliterations concentrate on the beginning of the words and, thus, run counter to the preceding homeoteleuton. Right in the middle of the line, homeoteleuton and the two alliterations meet and that is exactly where the preposition περί is located. One could say that, by way of the phonetic arrangement, the line circles around περί, which is quite fitting for an ode in honor of a victory in the racecourse. In Nemean 3, a similar finesse is observed. By using μεμιγμένον instead of κεκρᾱμένον, Pindar can establish a line consisting of as many labial elements as seven: πέμπω μεμιγμένον μέλι λευκῷ

When it comes to the taste of a drink, what other sounds could be as suitable for expressing a good flavor as labials? Finally, Pindar is not only keen to avoiding repetitions, but he also strives not to adapt traditional phraseology in an unaltered form.50 This can best be demonstrated in the case of κλέος ἄφθιτον, one of the most prominent phrasemes inherited from PIE. Yet, despite its prominence, Pindar does not use it at all in his poems. He seems to bypass it intentionally. Nonetheless, it is still present underlyingly, and Pindar is totally aware of the inheritance; he just transforms it into something slightly different, as in the following examples:51

 50 The reason for this lies in the inherited ritualistic background of the victory odes. Pindar is supposed to supply the gods each time with a new and different song. Otherwise, he would not be able to request the victor’s desired benefits from them. On this phenomenon, see e.g. Meusel 2020, 540 ff. and 713 f. 51 Cf. Meusel 2020, 431 ff.

  Eduard Meusel φθιμένων ζωῶν τε φωτῶν | ἀπλέτου δόξας

Isthm. 3/4.28 f.

endless fame won by men living or dead οὐ φθίνει Κροίσου φιλόφρων ἀρετά Pyth. 1.94 The kindly excellence of Croesus does not perish. ἐργμάτων ἀκτὶς καλῶν ἄσβεστος αἰεί52 Isthm. 3/4.60 the radiance of noble deeds forever undimmed

Consequently, if the μεμιγμένον μέλι λευκῷ σὺν γάλακτι in Nemean 3 is, indeed, a reflex of the ancient drink discussed above, it is not suprising that Pindar tries to conceal its origin creating as much distance as possible between his surface form and the underlying traditional form. However, he does not wish to completely mask the latter. One must still be able to recognize the long-standing tradition behind his poetic craft. It bears, after all, witness to his poetic skills. Thus, he makes a well discernible reference — at least for those acquainted with the poetic tradition — to the original form with the root *k̑erh2- by placing κιρναμένα at a marked position, i.e. before the δ’.53 The result is both a concealment and a reference at once.

. A swan song? Why the dead? The preceding analysis of linking the Pindaric drink to the Greek μελίκρητον, Vedic āśír-, and the like can also provide a solution to the second problem mentioned above, i.e. why Pindar would resort to a drink for the dead in a victory song. The answer is rather simple. Originally, such a drink made from honey and milk was not restricted to a libation for the dead. It was a drink which was generally employed in a sacrificial ritual in Indo-European or Graeco-Aryan, and this is the kind of use continued in Pindar. In contrast, the sphere of use of the μελίκρητον is limited to one specific kind of ritual.

 52 The αἰεί undeniably hints at ἄφθιτος because of the frequent verse ending ἄφθιτον αἰεί in Homer. 53 Pfeijffer 1999, 395.

A Song of Milk and Honey  

Traces of its original use are observed most clearly in Vedic and Avestan, where a mixture of Soma or Haoma with milk still serves as a general ritual drink. But traces of that broader application are, at least in part, present in Greek as well. Usener already noted that a drink of milk and honey belongs “als fester Zug in das dichterische Bild des bakchischen Jubels”, for which he cites the examples of Eur. Bacch. 142 and Plat. Ion 534a.54 However, there are a few more attestations which probably point to this direction. In some magical papyri, one can read about a drink of milk and honey which possesses magical properties: καὶ λαβὼν τὸ γάλα σὺν τῷ μέλιτι ἀπόπιε πρὶν ἀνατολῆς ἡλίου, καὶ ἔσται τι ἔνθεον ἐν τῇ σῇ καρδίᾳ. PGM I 2055 And take milk with honey, drink it up before sunrise, and something godly will be in your heart.

Thus, there is no objection to connecting Pindar’s μεμιγμένον μέλι λευκῷ σὺν γάλακτι with μελίκρητον. But one has to bear in mind that Pindar’s drink is not a modification or transformation of μελίκρητον nor does it descend from it. What both have in common is solely the same source, namely a drink from IndoEuropean or Graeco-Aryan times, whose original contextualization within a sacrificial ritual is much more faithfully preserved in Pindar than in the μελίκρητον.

 54 Usener 1902, 178. In Plato, the drink is also to be found in the context of poetological activities. There, the activity of the lyrical poets is compared to the frenzy of the bacchants: [...] οὕτω καὶ οἱ μελοποιοὶ οὐκ ἔμφρονες ὄντες τὰ καλὰ μέλη ταῦτα ποιοῦσιν, ἀλλ᾽ ἐπειδὰν ἐμβῶσιν εἰς τὴν ἁρμονίαν καὶ εἰς τὸν ῥυθμόν, βακχεύουσι καὶ κατεχόμενοι, ὥσπερ αἱ βάκχαι ἀρύονται ἐκ τῶν ποταμῶν μέλι καὶ γάλα κατεχόμεναι, ἔμφρονες δὲ οὖσαι οὔ, καὶ τῶν μελοποιῶν ἡ ψυχὴ τοῦτο ἐργάζεται, ὅπερ αὐτοὶ λέγουσι. ‘[...] so the lyric poets do not indite those fine songs in their senses, but when they have started on the melody and rhythm they begin to be frantic, and it is under possession — as the bacchants are possessed, and not in their senses, when they draw honey and milk from the rivers—that the soul of the lyric poets does the same thing, by their own report’ (Plat. Ion 534a). 55 Another example from the magical papyri attests a similar drink and can probably be added in this context: λαβὼν δύο σαυτοῦ ὄνυχας καὶ πάσας σου τὰς τρίχαφαλῆς καὶ λαβὼν ἱέρακα κιρκαῖον ἀποθωσον εἰς ὸς μελαίνης συμίξας αὐτῷ μέλι Ἀττικόν ‘So, take two of your fingernails and all the hair of your head at once and take a hawk and deify (sc. drown) it in the milk of a black cow having mixed Attic honey to it’ (PGM I 2). However, it is problematic that in both examples the milk appears as the main liquid and not honey as in Pindar.

  Eduard Meusel

 “Singing a drink” If one accepts the analysis presented here, another surprising parallel between the situation in Vedic and in Pindar surfaces, which not only strengthens the argumentation by giving another hint to the ritual origin, but also allows for an even better understanding of the text in Nemean 3. Just as Pindar describes his drink as a πόμ’ ἀοίδιμον ‘a drink like a song’ — a circumstance which is enigmatic to some —, so do the Vedic poets identify the Soma or the mádhu- with their song or poetry: vépiṣṭho áṅgirasāṃ yád dha vípro | mádhu chandó bhánati rebhá iṣṭaú RV 6.11.3 When the most inspired of the Aṅgirases, the inspired poet rhythmically speaks his honey, hoarse voiced in his quest.

In this hymn, Agni is depicted as a Hotar priest and sacrificer who ‘sacrifices both for and to himself’.56 One part of the sacrifice lies in the poetological act by the composer as described in this example. Especially noteworthy is the fact that in the case of RV 6.11.3 it is not the Soma being equated with the song; it is the mádhu-, which can be interpreted as substantival in this specific case.57 This places the Vedic mádhu- very close to Pindar’s μέλι, for both usually stand for ‘honey’, but are used in these contexts as symbols for the poet’s song. Furthermore, this close connection between the poet’s work and mádhu- also becomes apparent in collocations like the frequent mádhumad vácaḥ ‘a honeylike speech’ or dhíyam mádhor ghr̥ tásya pipyúṣīm ‘the poetic insight, swollen full of honey and ghee’ (RV 8.6.43), where the poetological speech or insight is said to contain or be comparable to honey. Therefore, the Pindaric πόμ’ ἀοίδιμον must not be considered an innovation or invention of Pindar. Rather, it is another feature passed down to him from the Indo-European or Graeco-Aryan ritual tradition. For the identical situation in Vedic, this was properly formulated by Oberlies: “Eine Beziehung, auf die die Dichter der Soma-Hymnen laufend zurückgreifen, ist die zwischen Soma und den Gedichten/Liedern, die ihn durch die Seihe “treiben” […]. Beides sind Gaben an die Götter [...].”58 Concerning Pindar, this reflex of an archaic feature

 56 Jamison/Brereton 2014, 785. 57 Cf. Pinault 2003, 180. 58 Oberlies 1999, 104 ff.

A Song of Milk and Honey  

from the Indo-European poetic tradition is remarkable, since it otherwise does not appear so accurately in Greek. Thus, with his μεμιγμένον μέλι λευκῷ σὺν γάλακτι as a πόμ’ ἀοίδιμον, Pindar once again reconfirms his status as “the most Indo-European of Greek poets”.59

 Conclusion We conclude then by summarizing the findings of this investigation: The Pindaric μεμιγμένον μέλι λευκῷ σὺν γάλακτι from Nem. 3.76 ff. is a relic from IndoEuropean or at least the Graeco-Aryan period, when a similar drink made of honey and milk was used in a sacrificial ritual. Reflexes of this drink are, besides the Pindaric attestation, found in Vedic āśír-, the Avestan haoma ... gauua, and Greek μελίκρητον. Accordingly, the ingredients of the Pindaric drink should not be motivated on a strictly synchronic perspective as symbolic in meaning, as believed by some interpreters. Rather, they should be viewed as traditional substances which played an important role long before Pindar’s time. Even the motivation to compare such a drink to the poem can be attributed to an old tradition. For in Vedic, the hymns are sometimes identified with the ritual drink, the Soma or the mádhu-. But most astonishingly, in the case of Nem. 3.76 ff., one is not limited to mere conceptual parallels. By means of certain phraseological mechanisms and the diachronic evolution of phrasemes, we are able to single out a terminological basis for the parallels in Greek, Vedic, and Avestan. This basis centers around the PIE root *k̑erh2- ‘to blend, mix’, which shows a close association with ritual contexts, and can be reconstructed as *melit-/medhu- k̑erh2- [with MILK] ‘to mix honey with milk’. Pindar, however, does not continue this phraseme unaltered. There is, for example, no reflex of the root *k̑erh2- in μεμιγμένον μέλι λευκῷ σὺν γάλακτι (although it is hinted at by κιρναμένα in line 78). His own stylistic aspirations as well as an age-old requirement for poets to constantly alter their poems urge him to disguise the inherited form and to avoid a too clear allusion to it. He achieves this by way of substituting underlying κεκρᾱμένον by μεμιγμένον. Only the combined forces of a meticulous philological examination of the text together with the methods and insights from historical linguistics make a retracing of this lexical substitution possible.

 59 Watkins 2002, 319.

  Eduard Meusel These results also corroborate a hypothesis put forth by Bremer, who argues that Pindar’s victory odes are not just mundane poems, but must be understood, above all, as hymns dedicated to gods.60 μεμιγμένον μέλι λευκῷ σὺν γάλακτι, a reflex of an ancient ritual drink, points directly to a ritualistic and religious background and provides another strong argument for that line of reasoning. Finally, if one wants to come back again to the allusion to psychoanalysis made at the beginning of this article, one may now perhaps wonder: What else should the ritualistic background and the μεμιγμένον μέλι λευκῷ σὺν γάλακτι in Nem. 3.76 ff. be but the subconscious parts in Pindar’s poetry? And is what Pindar does to this poetic inheritance, including the process of lexical substitution, not pretty much the same as what Freud called ‘Verdrängung’ and ‘Ersatzhandlung’ within the realm of the human psyche?

References Ameis, K.F./Hentze, K. (1900), Homers Odyssee. Für den Schulgebrauch erklärt von Dr. Karl Friedrich Ameis. Erster Band. Zweites Heft. Gesang VII-XII. Zehnte berichtigte Auflage besorgt von Prof. Dr. C. Hentze, Leipzig. Bernardini, P.A. (1977), “L’‘aquila tebana’ vola ancora”, QUCC 26, 121–126. Bowra, C.M. (1964), Pindar, Oxford. Bremer, J.M. (2008), “Traces of the Hymn in the epinikion”, Mnemosyne 61, 1–17. Bundy, E.L. (1962), Studia Pindarica I & II. The Eleventh Olympian Ode & First Isthmian Ode, Berkeley/Los Angeles. Burkert, W. (1985), Greek Religion. Archaic and Classical [translated by J. Raffan], Oxford. Bury, J.B. (1890), ΠΙΝΔΑΡΟΥ ΕΠΙΝΙΚΟΙ ΝΕΜΕΟΝΙΚΑΙΣ. The Nemean Odes of Pindar. Edited, with Introductions and Commentary, London/New York. Cowie, A.P. (1994), “Phraseology”, in: R.E. Asher/J.M.Y. Simpson (eds.), The Encyclopedia of Language and Linguistics, vol. VI, Oxford, 3168–3171. Darmesteter, J. (1878), “Iranica”, Mémoires de la société de linguistique de Paris 3, 302–321. Dissen, L. (1830), Pindari carmina quae supersunt cum deperditorum fragmentis selectis ex recensione Boeckhii commentario perpetuo illustravit Ludolphus Dissenius. Sect. II. Commentarius, Gotha/Erfurt. Dornseiff, Fr. (1921), Pindars Stil, Berlin. EIEC: Mallory, J.P/Adams, D.Q. (eds.) (1997), Encyclopedia of Indo-European Culture, London/ Chicago. Fennell, C.A.M. (1899), Pindar: The Nemean and Isthmian Odes, with Notes Explanatory and Critical, Introductions, and Introductory Essays, Cambridge. Forssman, B. (2006), “Epischer und chorlyrischer Literaturdialekt: das Verbum ἐφέπω”, Incontri Linguistici 29, 111–117.

 60 Bremer 2008.

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Hackstein, O. (2012), “When words coalesce: Chunking and morphophonemic extension”, in: H.C. Melchert (ed.), The Indo-European Verb. Proceedings of the Conference of the Society for Indo-European Studies, Los Angeles 13–15 September 2010, Wiesbaden, 87–104. Hoffmann, K. (1967), “Avestisch haoma yō gauua”, Münchener Studien zur Sprachwissenschaft 21, 11–20. Jamison, S.W./Brereton, J.P. (2014), The Rigveda. The Earliest Religious Poetry of India, Oxford/ New York. Meusel, E. (2019), “Zum Verhältnis von ved. āśír- f. ‘Milch(beimischung)’, śrī-́ f. ‘Vollkommenheit, Schönheit, Glanz’ und der Verbalwurzel śrayi- ‘vollkommen, glänzen machen’ aus phraseologischer Sicht”, Historische Sprachforschung 132, 168–190. Meusel, E. (2020). Pindarus Indogermanicus. Untersuchungen zum Erbe dichtersprachlicher Phraseologie bei Pindar, Berlin/Boston. Meusel, E. (2021), “The eagle basking in the light of fame: the Indo-European poetic background of Pindar Nemean 3.80–4”, CQ 71 (2021), 482–499. Nagy, G. (1990), Pindar’s Homer. The Lyric Possession of an Epic Past, Baltimore/London. Narten, J. (1987), “Ved. śrīṇā́ti, gr. κρείων, κρέων”, ZVS 100, 270–296.

Oberlies, T. (1999), Die Religionen des R̥ gveda. Zweiter Teil – Kompositionsanalyse der SomaHymnen des R̥ gveda, Vienna. Pfeijffer, I.L. (1999), Three Aeginetan Odes of Pindar. A Commentary on Nemean V, Nemean III, & Pythian VIII. Leiden/Boston/Cologne. Pinault, G.-J. (2003), “Sur les thèmes indo-européens en *-u-: derivation et étymologie”, in: E. Tichy/D.S. Wodtko/B. Irslinger (eds.), Indogermanisches Nomen. Derivation, Flexion und Ablaut. Akten der Arbeitstagung der Indogermanischen Gesellschaft. Freiburg, 19. bis 22. September 2001, Bremen, 153–188. Scarlata, S. (1999), Die Wurzelkomposita im R̥ g-Veda, Wiesbaden. Slater, W.J. (1969), Lexicon to Pindar, Berlin. Stoneman, R. (1976), “The ‘Theban eagle’”, CQ 26, 188–197. Usener, H. (1902), “Milch und Honig”, RhM 57, 177–195. Watkins, C. (1978), “Let us now praise famous grains”, Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 122, 9–17. Watkins, C. (1992), “The comparison of formulaic sequences”, in: E.C. Polomé/W. Winter (eds.), Reconstructing Languages and Cultures, Berlin/New York, 391–418. Watkins, C. (1995), How to Kill a Dragon. Aspects of Indo-Eurpean Poetics, New York/Oxford. Watkins, C. (2002), “ΕΠΕΩΝ ΘΕΣΙΣ. Poetic grammar: Word order and metrical structure in the Odes of Pindar”, in: H. Hettrich (ed.), Indogermanische Syntax. Fragen und Perspektiven, Wiesbaden, 319–337. West, M.L. (1987), Euripides Orestes. Edited with Translation and Commentary, Warminster.

NB: Translations are from the Loeb editions for Greek and from Jamison/Brereton for the Rigveda.

Brian D. Joseph

The Greek Augment: What this Amazingly Enduring Element Says about Continuity in Greek Abstract: The augment of Classical Greek is well entrenched in the verbal system as an obligatory marker of past tense and has proven to be perhaps the most formally enduring grammatical inflection in the verbal system of Greek over time. The vicissitudes and ultimate generalization of the augment across so much of the diachrony of Greek teach several important general lessons about language change: i) the forces of diachronic change can affect even the most stable of elements, ii) even in variability there can be stability and continuity of form across centuries, and suggest some lessons as well about the augment specifically: iii) its loss from other branches of Indo-European very likely reflects a resolution of competition similar to ἐκάθιζον ~ κάθιζον in favor of the unaugmented form but with a different generalized form and a broader scope than in Greek. Keywords: augment, continuity, diachronic change, historical linguistics

 Introduction A long-standing issue that has affected Greece and the Greeks for at least several centuries, and most likely more, is the matter of continuity between ancient Greece and modern Greece.1 It is a pervasive question that has significant cultural and historical dimensions. Regarding this issue, Byzantinist Hélène Ahrweiler (née Eleni Glykatzi), in a 1998 essay, writes that: “[t]he problem of historical continuity, of succession, and of cultural heritage was posited quite squarely by and to the Greeks both before and after the period of national regeneration” (1998, 13).

 1 This study is part of a trilogy, of sorts, dealing with various lessons to be learned from the augment. In Joseph 2020, I use similar facts about the Greek augment to make a point about predictability of language change in general, and in Joseph 2021 and Joseph forth., my focus is how the augment pertains to the identification of the ‘Post-Classical’ as far as Greek is concerned and to periodization of a language in general. In the present case, my intent is to use the augment data to shed light on continuity as a socio-historical issue of key importance in the Greek context, thus a concern that is distinct from, but clearly related to, these other two papers, thereby forming a trilogy with them. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111272887-007

  Brian D. Joseph Going further regarding the significance of this issue, Kim 2023, 1–2 draws attention to its political importance in the 19th century, noting that: Konstantinos Paparrigopoulos, the ‘father’ of modern Greek historiography, had a radical vision for his time: a singular, continuous Hellenism that spanned the ages, from the ancient to the present. … Such a reimagining of the past was a rhetorical necessity for the fledging modern Greek state, which in Paparrigopoulos’s time was still in search of a compelling narrative to justify its existence — and what better way than by reforging seemingly disparate links of a historical chain that for many thinkers, both outside and within Greece, was irrecoverably broken.

Relevant too is Ahrweiler’s further observation that (emphasis added): any examination of Greek continuity obliges us at the very outset to determine, first, what are the limits of time to which the continuity under study is confined and, second, what is the territory within which exist all those features we recognize as primary or precursory, the survival of which permits us to speak of continuity? (1998, 15).

Thus, the features that figure in a consideration of continuity in Greece deserve particular scrutiny and examination, for it is a set of individual persistent features that taken collectively offer — or not, as the case may be — a sense of continuity across time. Besides the cultural, historical, and political, there is a decidedly languagerelated dimension to the continuity issue. This was recognized by, again, Ahrweiler 1998, 23, who in looking at “the intellectual pursuits and way of life of the Hellenes”, sees “knowledge and use of the Greek tongue” as “the prerequisite for participation in this intellectual society”. She further observes that language thus would give someone access to “Hellenikoteta” in general, and by extension, would thereby guarantee some degree of cultural continuity, shaped by language, over centuries. Similarly, in commenting further on Paparrigopoulos, Kim states (emphasis added): His was a history of the Hellenic nation that told a tale of continuity and change over time, and he believed in a discrete, essential, unbroken Hellenism that retained a core of morals, values, and practices, articulated exclusively through the Greek language, that nevertheless evolved through the ages, even under the hegemony of foreign powers, be they Romans, Ottomans, or others (2023, 2).

Thus language, in the opinion of these scholars, is the key means for the transmission of Greek culture across generations. This view came to occupy center stage through an issue that dominated Greek linguistics during most of the 19th and 20th centuries, namely the γλωσσικό ζήτημα (the ‘language question’), which pitted the consciously archaizing καθαρεύουσα language of official

The Greek Augment  

governmental functions and other formal uses against the colloquial and more informal δημοτική variety. At the heart of this question, essentially, was a debate as to which form of the language constituted the clearest overt expression of continuity between Ancient Greek and Modern Greek.2

 Other reflections of the linguistic dimensions to continuity in the Greek language Thus, language has been an important part of any discussion about continuity in Greece and in Greek, and attention to particular features has been part of that discussion. Indeed, various works on Greek mention particularities that have persisted over long periods of time in Greek, features which can be taken to bear witness to some degree of continuity between earlier and later stages of Greek. For instance, in Joseph 1987, 435, I drew attention to several such features in Greek that represent “relatively stable elements of the syntax of Greek over the centuries”. The specific features mentioned are properties of the definite article and of the positioning of adjectives, but others can be added to that list. As for the article, it has steadfastly remained prenominal since Classical times,3 with one exception noted below, and has always allowed extended modifiers to intercede between it and the head noun of the noun phrase. For instance, we find such complex intervening material in Ancient Greek, as shown in (1a), with a similar possibility in Modern Greek, as seen in (1b): (1)

a. τὸ βίαι πολιτῶν δρᾶν the.ntr.sg force.dat.sg citizen.gen.pl act.inf ‘action in defiance of citizens’ (literally, ‘the in-defiance-of-citizens acting’) b. ο μορφωμένος στο Παρίσι γείτονάς μου the.masc.sg educated.masc.sg in.the paris neighbor.nom.sg my ‘my neighbor (who was) educated in Paris’ (literally, ‘the educated-in-Paris neighbor ofmine’)

 2 See Mackridge 2009 for insightful discussion of the early and the more recent history of this key issue in the modern era. 3 This is so even though Modern Greek, largely as a result of intense contact with other languages in the Balkans especially during the period of Ottoman rule in the Balkans, shows many features found as well in those other languages, and even though one such convergent feature is a postposed definite article, occurring after the noun rather than before it (e.g. Albanian det ‘sea’ / det-i ‘the sea’ / *i det).

  Brian D. Joseph Further, regarding adjectival position, the way it interacts with the definite article has been a constant in Greek since the Classical era, in that there is on the one hand a predicative interpretation to an adjective that stands outside of the article, either before it or after the combination of the article and the noun, defining a well-formed sentence without an overt copular verb being needed, as seen in (2a) and (2b), and on the other hand an attributive interpretation, defining a noun phrase, with the adjective between the article and the head noun, as in (2c), with all examples in (2) being read indifferently as if they were Ancient Greek or Modern Greek: (2)

a. καλὸς good.masc.nom.sg ‘the man is good’

ὁ the.masc.nom.sg

ἄνθρωπος man.masc.nom.sg

b. ὁ the.masc.nom.sg ‘the man is good’

ἄνθρωπος καλός man.masc.nom.sg good.masc.nom.sg

c. ὁ the.masc.nom.sg ‘the good man’

καλὸς ἄνθρωπος good.masc.nom.sg man.masc.nom.sg

And, in a deviation from the article’s pre-nominal position, it can also, in both Ancient Greek and Modern Greek, be repeated post-nominally with the adjective, giving the noun phrase (attributive) interpretation, as in (3): (3) ὁ ἄνθρωπος ὁ καλός the.masc.nom.sg man.masc.nom.sg the.masc.nom.sg good.masc.nom.sg ‘the good man’ (literally, ‘the man the good’)

Focusing on the article itself since Classical Greek, it has always been able to use it as a means of turning any part of speech into a substantive; this nominalizing function is exemplified for Ancient Greek by phrases such as τοῖς τότε ‘to the (men) of that time’ (literally, ‘to.the.masc.pl then’) or the so-called ‘articular infinitive’ by which an infinitive can be nominalized, as in (1a) above; a Modern Greek parallel showing the nominalizing of an indirect question clause is given in (4): (4) Το πώς νίκησε δεν καταλαβαίνω the.ntr.sg how won.3sg not understand.1sg ‘How he won I do not understand.’

The Greek Augment  

To these article-based elements of stability across time connecting the ancient form of the language and the modern form can be added also the relatively free ordering of the major constituents of a sentence, so that, e.g. SOV, SVO, and VSO orderings are possible at all stages of the language, admittedly, though, with different pragmatic implications. Importantly, even in the face of the parallelism across centuries and across different periods of the language, there can be some differences; the articular infinitive, for instance, has given way to a nominalized clause with a fully finite (i.e. person-marked) verb introduced by the subordinator να, as in (5), since except for dialectal remnants on the peripheries of the Greekspeaking world, in southern Italy and in eastern Turkey, the infinitive as a form, as a category, and as a productive element of the morphosyntax has been lost from the language: (5) Το να είναι Έλληνας the.ntr.sg subordntor be.3sg Greek.nom.sg ‘the (fact of) being Greek’ (literally, ‘the that one-is Greek’)

That is, continuity can exist even in the face of change, a point driven home dramatically by a consideration of the fate of the verbal augment in Greek over the centuries.

 The augment as a case in point The augment in Ancient Greek is a marker of past tense found with the imperfect, the aorist, and the pluperfect tenses.4 It occurs as a prefix ε- attached to the initial consonant of consonant-initial verbs (the ‘syllabic’ augment) or as lengthening of the initial vowel of vowel-initial verbs (the ‘temporal’ augment). Although the details of its Indo-European origins are hotly debated, a precise parallel to the syllabic augment is found overtly in Indo-Iranian, Armenian, and Phrygian, and there may be traces in other languages. It thus has somewhat deep Indo-European roots, even if it is not necessarily to be projected back as such to the protolanguage. As far as Greek is concerned, it is found in the earliest recorded form of the language, Mycenaean Greek of the 14th cent. BC, where it appears to be optional, since both augmented and unaugmented past tense forms are found,

 4 Relevant details on the augment are given quite fully in Joseph 2020 and especially Joseph 2021, and Joseph forth. (see n. 1), but they are summarized here to give an idea of the extent of the contribution the augment makes to the debate about continuity.

  Brian D. Joseph even of one and the same verb: < a-pe-do-ke > and < a-pu-do-ke > ‘he gave back’ (equivalent to ‘alphabetic’ Greek ἀπέδωκε and ἀπόδωκε, respectively); Homeric Greek shows similar optionality, though there may be a distinct function to the presence versus absence of an augment.5 By Classical Greek, the augment is obligatory for the most part and forms a key part of the morphological make-up of past tense verbs. There are, however, some lexical exceptions, e.g. both unaugmented εὔχετο ‘s/he wished’ and augmented ηὔχετο occur, from the verb εὔχομαι ‘wish’, though some phonological intervention may be at work here, since long diphthongs may have been structurally dispreferred. Moreover, there are some anomalies with the augment in Classical Greek that are noteworthy not just because they are oddities but also because they recur in later periods. They thus provide a link, a kind of continuity, across centuries. For instance, there are forms that show double augmentation, e.g. ἠνειχόμην ‘I endured’ (from ἀνέχω) is found, where the ἠ- represents a temporal augment and ει- represents a contraction outcome of a syllabic augment with the root vowel (originally ‘protected’ by a consonant). Also, the temporal augment spreads to some consonant-initial verbs, so that, e.g. ἠβουλόμην ‘I wanted’, ἠδυνάμην ‘I was able’, and ἤμελλον ‘I was about to’ all are found, in place, respectively, of the expected, and attested, ἐβουλόμην, ἐδυνάμην, and ἔμελλον.6 Further, although canonically the augment occurs to the right of (i.e., inside of) any preverbs that occur with the verb, there are instances of augments appearing to the left of (i.e., outside of) preverbs, e.g. ἐκάθιζον ‘I was sitting (down)’, where καθ- is the form the preverb κατά- ‘down’ takes before the stem ἱζ- ‘sit’.7 Finally, there is the — admittedly of a diachronic/etymological nature — anomaly of a nonverb being augmented in the form ἐχρῆν ‘it was necessary’, which is composed of the augment added onto the original noun *χρή ‘necessity’ together with the past tense of ‘be’, ἦν.

 5 The unaugmented forms, which also occur in early poetry, e.g. in Pindar and Hesiod, may correspond to the so-called ‘injunctive’ of Indo-Iranian, especially Vedic Sanskrit, and possibly other branches of Indo-European. Some discussion of the injunctive as it pertains to Greek, with some references, can be found in Joseph 2020, and Joseph forth. 6 ἠβουλόμην is probably based on the roughly synonymous ἤθελον, the expected past of ἐθέλω; ἐδυνάμην and ἤμελλον form a natural class with it via their shared modal semantics, so that ἠin the past tense is the formal parallel to the shared modality. 7 Although this external augment suggests that καθιζ- was reanalyzed as a root in itself, both the preverb κατά-/καθ- and the stem ἱζ- occur elsewhere in Ancient Greek in those forms, respectively, outside of this verb. This fact suggests that an analysis of καθιζ- as καθ- + ιζ- would presumably have been available synchronically to speakers of Ancient Greek.

The Greek Augment  

The augment continues in the Koine period, throughout Medieval Greek (as discussed in Holton et al. 2019, 1394–1433, the source of medieval forms cited here), and on into Modern Greek, with the same form (syllabic augment ε- and temporal augment generally as η-), pace phonological changes affecting η and ει,8 and the same function, as a marker of past tense. Interestingly and importantly, too, the oddities continue as well across all these periods and are even expanded somewhat. That is, just as in earlier stages of Greek, there are doubly augmented forms in Medieval Greek, e.g. ἐπροέδωσα ‘I gave up’ (14th cent. AD), versus Ancient Greek προέδωκα, and in modern regional dialects, where forms like επήγα ‘I went’ occur, where ε- is the syllabic augment added to (ὑ)π-ῆγα; in π-ῆγα, the past of (ὑ)πάγω, from preverb ὑπ- + verb ἄγω, the -η- contains the (temporal) augment, via the lengthening of the α- of ἄγω, so that επήγα is doubly augmented. Moreover, there are preverb placement anomalies with the augment in Medieval Greek, in forms with an ‘external’ augment, e.g. ἐπαρακαλέσασιν ‘they invited’ (15th cent. AD), versus Ancient Greek παρεκάλεσαν, and similarly, Modern Greek has — admittedly a καθαρεύουσα, that is, high-style, form, but one that is widely used — ε-πρό-κει-το ‘it was a matter of’ (= augment–preverb–root-ending) versus Ancient Greek προὔκειτο (from προ-έ-κει-το with the expected internal augment, reflecting preverb–augment–root-ending). Moreover, in Modern Greek, in the standard language at least, the augment is no longer an obligatory part of the morphological composition of a past tense form (though it is so in some regional dialects still); rather, its occurrence has a phonological basis — the augment appears only when accented, as in 1st sg. έφερα ‘I brought’ with the augment, stressed due to the antepenultimate accent rule for such past tenses, versus 1st pl. φέραμε ‘we brought’ where the antepenultimate stress falls on the root syllable and there is no augment. Interestingly, although a phonological basis for the appearance/nonappearance of the augment recalls the phonologically based long-diphthong-avoidance that affected some Ancient Greek forms, the basis itself is different, giving a continuity of sorts with this oddity, but with some change in detail as well. Additionally, the temporal augment spreads further to other consonantinitial roots in both Medieval and Modern Greek. For instance, ἤβαλες ‘you did put’, the innovative past of βάλλω — compare Ancient Greek ἔβαλες — occurs in the 15th to 16th cent. AD and Modern Greek has ήπια ‘I drank’ as the aoristic past tense of πίνω, versus Ancient Greek ἔπιον.  8 Both η and ει end up as [i] by the late Post-Classical period and on into Medieval and Modern Greek.

  Brian D. Joseph Finally, Modern Greek has the additional oddity of what might be termed ‘nonaugment augment vowels’. That is, in some verbs, the ε of the augment has come to be incorporated into the root of the verb. For instance, κατεβάζω ‘put down’, for which the usual form of the preverb is κατά- and usual form of the root verb is βάζω, appears to have -ε- from the augment in a past tense form like imperfect κατέβαζα. Similarly, ανεβαίνω ‘go up’, for which the usual form of preverb is ανα- and usual form of root verb is βαίνω, appears to have -ε- from the augment in the past tense form ανέβηκα. Thus overall, the degree of continuity to be found with the augment across all periods of Greek is considerable, regarding both function and form. Moreover, it is particularly striking that the continuity extends even to synchronically unusual aspects of the form of the augment, in the large number of parallels that recur across the centuries in various anomalous and odd details of past tense augmentation.

 A related issue Thus, the augment teaches a valuable lesson about continuity over time. It has endured over three and a half millennia within Greek, from Mycenaean up to Modern Greek, even though it is a single, often unstressed, segment in a phonologically vulnerable environment, i.e. at the left edge of the phonological domain of the inflected verb. Nonetheless, it has survived and is still a vital element in the morphology of the language. But it has not stood still, in that it shows evolution and development and change, so that the modern augment is not point-forpoint identical with the ancient augment in all aspects of its behavior. It comes close, to be sure, in that even the anomalies show parallelism across time, but these anomalies also show differences of degree between each stage of the language. Thus, one can legitimately ask whether the augment now is the same as the augment in the past; and the answer clearly is that in a certain sense it is, while at the same time, in another sense, it is not. In this way, the issues with continuity regarding the augment across different periods of Greek intersect with a related ideological matter pertaining to the notion of ‘Greek as one language’.9 This intersection is seen very clearly in the point  9 In calling this ‘ideological’, I am following Silverstein 1979, 193, who spoke of “ideologies about language, or linguistic ideologies, [as] any sets of beliefs about language articulated by the users as a rationalization or justification for perceived language structure and use”. In this case, establishing a connection between the modern language and ancient Greece would be the issue for which a ‘rationalization or justification’ would be needed.

The Greek Augment  

and counterpoint between the noted scholars Byzantinist Robert Browning and historical linguist Eric Hamp that is discussed in Joseph 2009, 192 as follows: the question [arises] of whether Greek indeed is “one” language across its entire history. We must ask at this point what it means to talk about Greek as “one” language throughout all of its history; some have done just this, e.g. Browning 1983, vii (emphasis added): The Homeric poems were first written down in more or less their present form in the seventh century B.C. Since then Greek has enjoyed a continuous tradition down to the present day. Change there has certainly been. But there has been no break like that between Latin and the Romance languages. Ancient Greek is not a foreign language to the Greek of today as Anglo-Saxon is to the modern Englishman. The only other language which enjoys comparable continuity of tradition is Chinese. ... It cannot be too much emphasised that Greek is one language, and not a series of distinct languages.

Joseph 2009, 192 continues: To some extent, talking about unity of a language over time is a misrepresentation (as the comments of Hamp 2003 on this very quote of Browning’s suggest), since all languages show some continuity with their past and some deviation from that past; that is, all languages are a mix at any one time of old features carried over from earlier stages of the language and new innovative features that are supplanting older ones.

This last statement describes very aptly the situation with the augment, in that it shows continuity in the face of change or even continuity despite change. Thus, however one decides the issue of ‘Greek as one language’, the augment, as a remarkably enduring — but not diachronically invariant — element of Greek grammar, must be considered to be an important part of the discussion, maybe even more so than is the case with other persistent features discussed above in section 2 above.

References Ahrweiler, H. (1998), Problems of Greek Continuity, Athens. Browning, R. (1983), Medieval and Modern Greek, Cambridge. Hamp, E.P. (2003), “Prehistoric Greek phonological chronology, with some reflections on sibilance, aspiration, and spirancy”, Journal of Greek Linguistics 4, 65–68. Holton, D./G. Horrocks/M. Janssen/T. Lendari/I. Manolessou/N. Toufexis (2019), The Cambridge Grammar of Medieval and Early Modern Greek, Cambridge. Joseph, B.D. (2009), “Why Greek is one of the world’s major languages. Discussion note”, Journal of Greek Linguistics 9, 187–194. Joseph, B.D. (2020), “What is time (and why should linguists care about it)?”, Language 96.4, 908–937.

  Brian D. Joseph Joseph, B.D. (2021), “The Greek augment—What this amazingly enduring element tells us about language change in general and vice-versa”. Invited presentation at 14th Trends in Classics International Conference: “Historical Linguistics and Classical Philology”, 5–7 March 2021. Joseph, B.D. (forth.), “How “post” is post-classical? Lessons from the augment throughout the history of Greek”, in: G. di Bartolo/D. Kölligan (eds.), Postclassical Greek: Problems and Perspectives, Berlin/Boston. Kim, Y.R. (2023), “Paparrigopoulos on continuity, Constantine, and the Council of Nicaea”, Journal of Modern Greek Studies 41.1, 1–23. Mackridge, P. (2009), Language and National Identity in Greece, 1766–1976, Oxford. Silverstein, M. (1979), “Language structure and linguistic ideology”, in: P.R. Clyne/W.F. Hanks/ C.L. Hofbauer (eds.), The Elements: A Parasession on Linguistic Units, Chicago, 193–247. Willi, A. (2018), Origins of the Greek Verb, Cambridge.

Georgios K. Giannakis

At the Crossroads of Linguistics and Philology: The Tmesis-to-Univerbation Process in Ancient Greek Abstract: The paper discusses the possible connection of stress and intonation with syntactic problems, especially movement phenomena. Our case study will be the phenomena of tmesis and univerbation in ancient Indo-European languages, with particular emphasis on Homeric Greek. The main concern in this study is to explore a theoretical model that could account for the transformation from tmesis to univerbation in Indo-European languages and see syntax in conjunction with phonology and prosody. Thus, it is suggested that the transformation from tmesis (P...V) to univerbation (PV) relates to shifts in stress and intonation patterns in the language, along with other changes in syntax and morphology, a thesis first suggested by Brugmann 1913, 665 ff., but not since exploited properly. Keywords: composition, compounds, Greek language, historical linguistics, morphology-syntax-phonology interface, tmesis, univerbation

 Introductory note In older Indo-European languages, we often find the separation of the preverb from the verb with which it normally forms a semantic unit, a phenomenon termed ‘tmesis’ (from Ancient Greek τμῆσις ‘cutting’, more of a splitting rather than cutting). However, in other instances the two components coalesce and unite into a unified whole, a compound verb as a single tonal unit. Monro gives the following definition of tmesis: “a Preposition is ‘separated’ from the Verb which it qualifies, thus including all ‘adverbial’ uses, but is more properly restricted to a particular group of these uses, viz. those in which the meaning is the same as the Preposition and Verb have in Composition” (1891, 163–164). It is  Earlier drafts of this study were presented at the Arbeitstagung der Indogermanischen Gesellschaft “Indogermanische Syntax” (Wü rzburg, 29.9.–3.10. 1999), and at the 21st Annual Meeting of the Department of Linguistics, Aristotle University (Thessaloniki, 12-14 May, 2000), which was published in the proceedings volume Studies in Greek Linguistics 21, 121–132 (Thessaloniki 2001). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111272887-008

  Georgios K. Giannakis precisely this semantic criterion that is the starting point of our approach, what Kuryłowicz 1964, 171 calls a “synsemantic (= non-autonomous) element” in the use of the preverbs and verbs. Typical examples of tmesis vs compound verb in Greek are the following (1a–i): 1a) νήπιοι, οἳ κατὰ βοῦς Ὑπερίονος Ἠελίοιο ‖ ἤσθιον

(κατὰ … ἤσθιον) Od. 1.8–9

Fools, who devoured the kine of Helios Hyperion 1b) κατὰ μὲν φίλα τέκν’ ἔπεφνεν θάλλοντας ἥβαι ‖ δώδεκ(α)

(κατά … ἔπεφνεν) Pind. fr. 171

He killed his own children, twelve, in the bloom of youth

but with univerbation: 1c) ἔνθ’ ὅ γε τοὺς ἐλεεινὰ κατήσθιε τετριγῶτας

(κατήσθιε) Il. 2.314

The snake gulped them after their pitiful screaming 1d) …μάλα γάρ τε κατεσθίει, εἴ περ ἂν αὐτὸν (κατεσθίει) σεύωνται ταχέες τε κύνες θαλεροί τ’ αἰζηοί Il. 3.25–26 …who eats it eagerly, although against him are hastening the hounds in their speed and the stalwart young men 1e) μνηστῆρας κατέπεφνον ἐν ἡμετέροισι δόμοισι

(κατέπεφνον) Od. 24.325

I have slain the wooers in our halls

or again the following examples with tmesis in (1f) and (1g): 1f)

χεῖρας ἀπὸ ξίφεϊ τμήξας ἀπό τ’ αὐχένα κόψας

(ἀπὸ … τμήξας and ἀπό … κόψας) Il. 11.146

Cutting away his arms with a sword-stroke, free of the shoulder 1g) κατὰ μὲν ἔκτεινε Μιτροβάτεα … κατὰ δὲ τοῦ Μιτροβάτεω τὸν παῖδα … κτείνει μιν (κατὰ … ἔκτεινε and κατὰ … κτείνει) Hdt. 3.126.2

At the Crossroads of Linguistics and Philology  

he killed Mitrobates … but he also kills Mitrobates’ son

but in (1h–i) with univerbation again: 1h) δείδω μὴ δή μοι θρασὺν Ἕκτορα δῖος Ἀχιλλεὺς μοῦνον ἀποτμήξας πόλιος πεδίον δὲ δίηται (ἀποτμήξας) Il. 22.455–456 I fear that great Achilleus might have cut off bold Hektor alone, away from the city, and be driving him into the flat land 1i)

Τρῶες ἀποτμήξαντες ἐνὶ κρατερῇ ὑσμίνῃ

(ἀποτμήξαντες) Il. 11.468

The Trojans were handling him violently in the strong encounter.

Similarly, from other IE languages, e.g. Vedic Sanskrit (2a–d), Hittite (2e–f), Latin (2g–k), and Old Irish (2l–o) below: 2a) abhī́ nú mā, vṛṣabha, cakṣamīthās

(abhi … cakṣamīthās) RV 2.33.7d

Do thou, O Bull, now be compassionate towards me! 2b) ápa svásur uṣáso nág jihīte

(ápa … jihīte)

RV 7.71.1a

away from her sister Dawn Night departs 2c) áhann áhim ánu apás tatarda

(ánu … tatarda)

RV 1.32.1c

he (viz. Indra) killed the serpent, he bored out the waters 2d) prá vaksáṇā abhinat párvatānām

(prá … abhinat)

RV 1.32.1d

he (viz. Indra) split the bellies of the mountains 2e) appa-ya-kán natta kuitki peššiyazzi

And there he throws nothing away

(appa … peššiyazzi) KUB X 93 iv 2

  Georgios K. Giannakis 2f)

anda-kan ḫalīnaš teššummiuš tarlipit šūwamuš 2-TAM pētumini (anda … pētumini) KBo 17.1 i 26–27 We bring in clay vessels twice-filled with tarlipa-liquid,

but univerbated (compound) verbs like: pa-ra-a-i ‘send forth’, pa-(a-)iz-zi ‘go’, ú-iz-zi ‘come’ (from prefixes para- ‘forth’, pa- ‘thither’, and ú- ‘hither’ + verb iya‘go’, respectively), pí-e-da-a-i ‘bring away’ and its opposite ú-da(a-)i ‘bring hither’ (with prefixes p(í)e ‘away’, and ú(e)- ‘hither’ + verb dāi- ‘take’), etc. (see Sturtevant 1951, 116–117). 2g) ob uos sacro (= Cl. Lat. obsecro uos) I implore you 2h) sub uos placo (= supplico uos; this and the preceding example in Festus, p. 206 Lindsay) I entreat you 2i)

de me hor(i)tatur (= dehortatur me; Ennius, Ann. 13.366) (Hannibal) exhorts me (not to make war)

2j)

distraxissent disque tulissent (= distulissent; Plautus, Trin. 833) they (viz. your satellites) would have dissundered and dispersed

2k) post omnia ponas (= omnia postpones; Hor., Sat. 1.1.86) you disregard everything (for money).1

In Old Irish, (21–m) exemplify tmesis and (2n–o) univerbation (the first three examples from Hock 2021, 521, the last one from Thurneysen 1980, 496): 2l)

ad cruth caín cichither A fair form will be observed

 1 See Bader 1962, 364; Wackernagel 1928 II, 175; Leumann/Hofmann/Szantyr, Lat. Gr. I, 271, 557 ff., 562; also vol. II, 217, 398.

At the Crossroads of Linguistics and Philology  

2m) imm -us hua Chorc ebla He shall drive them from Cork,

and univerbated: 2n) as.biur in-so I say this’ 2o) ad.midethar ‘(he) attempts’

Normally, but not necessarily, tmesis is considered the older situation and univerbation a more recent development, but from the very beginning of the literary history of Greek (and of other languages) the two seem to be often used side by side as alternative structures, especially in poetic texts where metrical and prosodic factors might be at work, as in (3a), (3b) and (3c) below from Homeric Greek, where we may have what Watkins calls “a plurality of grammars” (2002, 327), i.e. a mixture of alternative constructions used side by side: 3a) ἂν δ’ ’Αγαμέμνων ἵστατο, Ταλθύβιος δέ ... παρίστατο ποιμένι λαῶν (ἂν … ἵστατο … παρίστατο)

Il. 19.249–251

And Agamemnon stood up, while Talthybios ... took his stand by the side of the shepherd of the people’.

Here in the first case the preverb (ἄν) and the verb (ἵστατο) stand apart although they form a semantic unit, but in the second case preverb and verb are formally compounded (παρίστατο). In Il. 1.436–439 we have a unique example with five instances of tmesis, three times of the same elements (ἐκ … βαῖνον/βῆσαν/βῆ) plus ἐκ … ἔβαλον and κατὰ … ἔδησαν, in such a way that one cannot but think of an extremely elaborate and intentional technique by the composer as if practicing on tmesis and emphasizing his message by the fronted and repeated use of the preverb ἐκ (3b): 3b) ἐκ δ’ εὐνὰς ἔβαλον, κατὰ δὲ πρυμνήσι’ ἔδησαν: ἐκ δὲ καὶ αὐτοὶ βαῖνον ἐπὶ ῥηγμῖνι θαλάσσης, ἐκ δ’ ἑκατόμβην βῆσαν ἑκηβόλῳ Ἀπόλλωνι: ἐκ δὲ Χρυσηῒς νηὸς βῆ ποντοπόροιο.

  Georgios K. Giannakis They threw over the anchor stones and made fast the stern cables and themselves stepped out on to the break of the sea beach, and led forth the hecatomb to the archer Apollo, and Chryseis herself stepped forth from the sea-going vessel’. (tr. Lattimore)

The same elements are elsewhere used by Homer univerbated (3c), which means that the poet uses the two structures as alternates for metrical, stylistic or other reasons, but the language surely shows mixed features:2 3c) ἔκβαλε (Od. 5.244) ἐκβαίνοντα (Od. 5.415) ἐκβήσαντες (Od. 24.301) κατέδησαν (Il. 10.567) etc.

Tmesis is also employed in other authors, especially in poetic texts but not only. In addition to (1f), we find many other instances of tmesis in Herodotus (see Priestley 2009). The following example (3d) is indicative of the use of tmesis in the first case (ἀνά … ἔδραμον) and univerbation with the other two verbs (ἐνέδυνον and παρῆσαν): 3d) ἀνά τε ἔδραμον οἱ Φωκέες καὶ ἐνέδυνον τὰ ὅπλα, καὶ αὐτίκα οἱ βάρβαροι παρῆσαν (ἀνά … ἔδραμον but ἐνέδυνον … παρῆσαν) Hdt. 7.218.1 …whereupon the Phocians sprang up and began to arm, and in a moment the foreigners reached them.

The phenomenon of tmesis has been variously explained: as a stylistic poetic device (Morpurgo Davies 1985, Males 2020), as a means of emphasis (Wackernagel 1928 [2009], Morpurgo Davies 1985), as a mechanism to express vividness, elevation of tone, decoration, and parody (Kühner/Gerth I, 530–537, Schwyzer, Gr. Gr. II, 425–426, Denniston 1954), as a standard feature of technical Ionian prose (Priestley 2009 and many others), as a feature with a discernible narrative function (Priestley), as a feature of inherited poetic grammar (Watkins in various studies), as a left movement and fronting of preverb (Hale 1993), or as part of syntax as a conglomerate of ‘modular sequences’ (Boley 2004), in this case of PWs (place words) and verbs, etc.  2 Determining whether there is tmesis or normal use of adverbs that stand free from the verb is not a simple matter, and this has been an issue that occupied at least the critics of the Homeric text since antiquity, on which see Le Feuvre 2022.

At the Crossroads of Linguistics and Philology  

One wonders if and what other factors, in addition to semantics, may have contributed to the transformation from the structure involving tmesis to the univerbation of preverb and verb; or, to put it differently, would it be possible to describe a mechanism that operates as the vehicle in this transformation? If we succeed in identifying such factors and establishing such a mechanism, we may be able to also detect some archaic syntactic features of Indo-European in this process, as syntax is often the preamble of morphological and derivational processes. To be sure, the issue of tmesis is a much more complex problem and has many more ramifications than we are in the position to offer in this study. Furthermore, a fuller treatment of the problem would require a general consideration of composition as a whole and its possible relationship to syntax, something that cannot be done here either.3 Rather the focus of our study will be on exploring the possibility of establishing the transformational mechanism that leads from tmesis to univerbation. However, it should be stated from the outset that the transformation of an older arrangement where preverb and verb stood apart (in tmesis) to a new univerbated state involves both phonological and syntactic mechanisms, besides the semantic and/or pragmatic aspects that are always present in such movement phenomena.4 Thus, what is intended in this paper is to explore possible reasons for the passage from tmesis to univerbation and see if in this process stress and intonation play a role, an idea first alluded to by Brugmann in 1913 (Gr. Gr., 665 ff.) but

 3 This topic has been addressed by scholars in the past, with the most complete treatment being that of Jacobi 1897, but also by others, notably Lehmann 1969, 1974, and others. We will have occasion to return to some of these works later. The phenomena of tmesis and univerbation have been treated by several scholars both in the more distant past (e.g. Pierson 1857; Wackernagel 1928 [2009]) and in more recent times, with most notable the studies by Watkins 1963, 1964 and 2002, Horrocks 1980, and more fully 1981, Duhoux 1998, Hajnal 2003, 2004, and Boley 2004, to mention only a few. 4 As for the relationship between composition and syntax, we move between two extreme positions: first, the position that holds that all compounds represent transformations of earlier underlying relative clauses (mainly Jacobi, Benveniste, and, in a sense, Lehmann); the other extreme holds that there is no connection between the two. The following quotations are indicative of the first approach: “[...] the compounds (are seen) no longer as morphological aspects but rather like syntactical structures. Nominal composition is a kind of micro-syntax. Every kind of compound must be seen as a transformation of a free syntactic kind of organization” (Benveniste 1967, 15). According to Benveniste, compounds arise from the transformation of (transitive) syntagmas of the type: (i) noun + verb (e.g. Lat. signi-fer), but also (ii) verb + noun (e.g. Gk. φερέ-οικος). In a similar vein, Lehmann argues that “We may extend our knowledge of the sentence structures of a reconstructed language by analyzing the compounds of that language” (Lehmann 1969, 3).

  Georgios K. Giannakis remained unexploited and unexplored thereafter. More specifically, we will try to describe the mechanism that operates as the vehicle in this transformation.

 Accent and the order of syntactic constituents in Indo-European To this end and in connection with tmesis, there are certain premises concerning the relative order of the syntactic constituents of the sentence in IndoEuropean that may have some bearing on our analysis, as in (4a–c): 4a) The Relative (= subordinate) Clause (RC) is placed before the Main Clause (MC).5 4b) In an unmarked situation the verb (V) tends to occupy sentence-final position. 4c) The V of the RC is accented, and the V of the MC is non-accented and enclitic.6

Premises (4a) and (4b) are directly linked to one another by the feature of stress of the constituents of the complex sentence, as is also known that stress plays a significant role in phenomena of emphasis, word order, first and second position in the sentence, etc. We can illustrate the above accentuation patterning of Indo-European by means of the following examples from Vedic Sanskrit drawn from Hock 2014, 153: 5a) [tásmai víśaḥ svayám evā́ namante]MC [yásmin brahmā́ pū́rva éti]RC

RV 4.50.8

Even the common people bow to him for whom the brahmin goes first 5b) áhann áhim (ánv apás tatarda)

RV 1.32.1cd

He slew the dragon (he bored out the waters after him).

 5 See, for instance, Gk. [ὃν οἱ θεοὶ φιλοῦσιν]RC, [ἀποθνῄσκει νέος]MC ‘whoever gods love dies young’ (an Ancient Greek proverb, see Menandri Sententiae 425 Meineke), or from Vedic Sanskrit [yό jātá evá prathamό mánasvān devo devā́n krátunā paryábhūṣat]RC ... [sá, janāsa, Índraḥ]MC ‘The chief wise god who as soon as born surpassed the gods in power, ... he, O men, is Indra’ (with the verb ásti ‘is’ understood in the MC) (RV 2.12.1). 6 E.g. Skt.: prá gacchati (MC) vs yáḥ pragácchati (RC) ‘(who) moves forward’. In Greek, the archaic verbs εἰμί and φημί are treated still in Classical Greek as enclitic, an observation made by Delbrück (with regards to the second position in the sentence) in 1878, some 15 years before Wackernagel formulated his famous law in 1892.

At the Crossroads of Linguistics and Philology  

As accent has the well-known relevance in the study of phonological and morphological problems of Indo-European (such as ablaut phenomena, accentuation of compounds, and others; cf. Hirt 1895, Vendryes 1904, 27–28, Kuryłowicz 1968, Lubotsky 1988, Probert 2006, among others), theoretically it could have a similar relevance for the syntactic component. In the lexicon, we already have the well documented cases of root-accented nomina actionis vs ending-accented nomina agentis, e.g. Skt. bráhman ‘prayer’ vs brahmán ‘priest’, or Gk. τόμος ‘a cut, a slice’ vs τομός ‘cutting, cutter’ (verbal adj.) or τρόχος ‘a running, a course’ vs τροχός ‘anything that runs round, wheel’, etc. It is only natural to expect similar functions of accent on the level of connected speech, therefore that of the connection among the different constituents of the complex sentence (S to S, S to clause, nominal/verbal sentence, etc.). Furthermore, the phenomenon of anastrophe, i.e. the placing of prepositions in postnominal position with accent regression in Greek might be a survival rather than a new feature in the language, and later developments into a prepositive slot could be seen as the result of a rearrangement or reordering with the preposition moving from a post- to a prenominal, i.e. from an enclitic into a proclitic position.7 According to Sihler 1995, 238, there is a general axiom in the grammars of the Indo-European languages according to which “[...] when dependent and independent clauses differ in morphology or syntax, the DEPENDENT (sic) clauses will show the more conservative state of affairs.”8 Sihler continues saying that “[…] the enclitic treatment of verbs in independent clauses could easily have been a feature of the stock of parent speech which immediately underlies Greek and Indo-Iranian” (loc. cit.). As a matter of fact, the difference in the accentuation patterns of the verb between the main clause and the subordinate clause points to this direction. The same remark had already been made by Brugmann, but unfortunately his insight received very little (if any) attention by specialists, and the whole matter was laid to rest for too long.9 Consider the

 7 In Indo-European, disyllabic prepositions carry regressive accent, e.g. *h2épo, *h2énti, etc. (see Delbrück 1879, 153), although some of them in the historical languages may be frozen cases of older nominal forms, like *h2énti, for instance, which is a locative of an older noun meaning ‘front, face’ (cf. Gk. ἀντί, Lat. ante, Skt. ánti, Hitt. ḫanti, etc.). 8 The theory that tmesis was a feature of poetic syntax motivated by stylistic or metrical reasons fell short of providing a plausible explanation of the linguistic data and the actual situation. Watkins, for instance, proved that tmesis is an old feature of traditional Indo-European language (for the best treatment of the matter with wider consequences for Indo-European, see Watkins 1963, 1964, 1976, 2002). 9 Compare Debrunner’s note on p. 698 of Schwyzer’s Griechische Grammatik, vol. II and with reference to Brugmann’s section on the point: “Schwyzer gedachte offenbar diesen Abschnitt

  Georgios K. Giannakis following statement of his: “[...] as is the case with word order so also through rhythm and modulation are the sentence constituents combined into a meaningful and truly graspable whole, and therefore intonation is also an important syntactic means [...]” (1913, 665–666).

 Constituency and the role of intonation Intonation has often been associated with morphosyntactic, semantic and stylistic functions of language. Several studies show that a common feature of many languages is that the end of an utterance is marked by a falling note and the beginning by a rising note. As explained by Hock 2021, 186–187, if a conflict occurs and a word with a high pitch appears at the end of a clause, then we usually have accent retraction to a syllable or word earlier in the clause, as is the case with the Čakavian dialects of Serbo-Croatian which show a shift of high pitch from the final to the penultimate mora only when in utterance-final position, whereas elsewhere the original final high pitch is maintained, as in the following example, taken from Hock and maintaining the traditional notational accentual system (Table 5): Tab. 5: Accent retraction in Serbo-Croatian dialects (Source: Hock 2021, 187). (a)

Čakavian 1

krãly = [kraály]

‘king’

(b)

Čakavian 2

krâly = [kráaly]

/— ##

vs krãly = [kraály] elswhere (c)

Štokavian

krâly = [kraály]

(d)

Štokavian

lopàta > lòpata

‘shovel’

(e)

Štokavian

vodá > vòda

‘water’ (nom.sg.)

vs vodu > vòdu

/— ##

‘water’ (acc.sg.)

As further explained by Hock, some conservative varieties of the Čakavian dialect exhibit no accent shift at all (a) above. This retraction is observed only “in utterance-final position, as a shift of high pitch from the final to the penultimate  nicht zu bearbeiten”, and Brugmann’s statement (also seen earlier in an English translation): “[...] denn wie durch die Wortstellung, so werden durch Rhythmus und Modulation die Teile eines Satzes zu einem sinnlich wahr nehmbaren Ganzen verbunden, und der ‘Tonfall’ ist außerdem ein wichtiges syntaktisches Hilfsmittel [...].” Apparently, it was thought by Schwyzer that this observation by Brugmann was not worthy of elaborating in his work, to my mind a misunderstood statement.

At the Crossroads of Linguistics and Philology  

mora; elsewhere the original final high pitch is retained; see (b). In the standard (Štokavian) language, by contrast, the change has been extended to general word-final position irrespective of position within the utterance; see (c). Moreover, it has been extended even further, as a generalized accent retraction (d) and (e)” (2021, 187).10 Furthermore, Hock speaks of a crosslinguistic tendency, or rather a principle under the rubric “Obligatory Contour Principle” (OCP) according to which stress, pitch accent, or tone clashes in neighboring syllables are avoided, as exemplified by the Lithuanian example in (6) below, where pitch accent clash is avoided through retraction of the final accent in šešias to the first syllable: 6)

šešiàs dẽšimtis → šèšias dẽšimtis ‘sixteen’ (acc.fem.)

The idea of accent retraction (and protraction), i.e. OCP, under certain conditions and in certain phonological or other environments is an important argument for our thesis that may have a wider impact on movement phenomena on the level of phrase, clause and sentence (phrasal contour) as well as phenomena of composition which is the tmesis-to-univerbation shift (on which we will have to say more later).11 On the other hand, Sandmann 1954, 132 believes that the falling pitch in final position “reflects the original tension-detension movement which accompanies the cognitional act in its progress from S(ubject) to P(redicate) and has then been used artificially to denote the beginning and end of statements.” Similarly, Bolinger 1964, 843 explains that “the mere effort of speaking increases subglottal pressure which also raises pitch and provides a purely physiological explanation for higher pitch in the early part of an utterance and lower pitch toward the end [...].” Pitch and intonation are seen by scholars as playing a role like gestures in oral speech and functioning as a ‘binder’ among the constituent parts of the sentence. Thus, Uhlenbeck 1950, 247 thinks of pitch as an ‘utter-

 10 Hock further speculates (but with no evidence as he says) that similar accent retraction may be responsible for some exceptions to the operation of Verner’s Law in Germanic, or the explanation of the initial accent found in many other languages of the world. NB: The numbering of the examples has been adapted to this study. 11 Cf. Hock’s remark with respect to this point (2021, 184): “A broader, historical effect of the OCP can be observed in prefix-verb combinations at a certain stage of Vedic Sanskrit. In sequences of three prefixes + unaccented verb, the middle prefix tends to lose its accent, leading to a pattern with alternating accent”, as in the compound verb abhí-sám-ā́-(a)vartanta > abhísam-ā́-(a)vartanta ‘they turned forth completely toward (him),’ where the preverb sám loses its accent and becomes atonic.

  Georgios K. Giannakis ance-binder’, saying that “every language has words, i.e. signs having a phonematic structure and capable of being used as a sentence in combination with an element of intonation,” whereas Bolinger 1964, 834 states that “[...] pitch is a signal of stress in the same way we refined out pitch as a toneme. The same probably holds, at the level of syntax, for pitch as a signal of sentence stress.” If we think of the Indo-European sentence structure in terms of the three principles mentioned earlier in (4), we see that the sentence-final word is the verb, which is normally atonic, a phonological fact that becomes a syntactic feature. In other cases, variation in intonation has also discourse functions used as a means of distinguishing between old and new information, or between topic and comment, a well-known link of intonation in addition to syntactic functions also to discourse, on which we have more below. See also the essays in BarthWeingarten et al. 2010. Gamkrelidze/Ivanov 1995, 280 move along a similar line of thought and say that the verb of the main clause of Indo-European was unaccented because of its final position in the sentence, and this is so because the general intonation contour for the Indo-European sentence had a sharp drop toward the end of the sentence. When moved to a marked position, i.e., sentence-initial position, the verb carried the accent because this position coincided with the highest point of the intonation contour. However, in many languages, Indo-European included, accent is linked to word order patterns and to other syntactic phenomena.12 To return to our point on the relation of stress and intonation to syntactic patterns, Harris/Campbell 1995, 233 make the point (with regard to the placement of clitics) that “placement in second position is a prosodic rule, but it can become a syntactic rule. Second position placement, or indeed any synchronic prosodic placement rule, becomes syntactic [...].” Changes of this type trigger other changes in word order or better in constituent order patterns. It is possible that the phenomenon of univerbation of P(reverb) and V(erb), which were originally separated by tmesis, is the result of a reordering, perhaps of the reinterpretation of the relation between P, V, N(oun), and other sentence constituents. This shift must have happened at an early stage of the languages (perhaps al 12 Hock says that the fact that the verb occupies sentence-final position and given that this position shows lower tones in the sentence intonation, may explain some other phenomena in SOV languages such as weakening or final-vowel apocope in the verbs of Latin, as in the following examples (Hock 2021, 190): IE *esti > est ‘is’, *eyti > it ‘goes’ or *weniti > uenit ‘comes’, etc. He further hypothesizes that these changes at this context may “lend support to the view that other “word-final” developments likewise start out in utterance-final position and are extended to the final position of all words, irrespective of context in the utterance, along lines similar to the extension of pitch accent retraction in Serbo-Croatian” (loc. cit.).

At the Crossroads of Linguistics and Philology  

ready in Late Indo-European) and was then inherited to the historical languages along with relics of the older pre-univerbated structures as alternative constructions, especially in poetic texts where metrical considerations also play a role.13 For such reordering to take place and be completed, this reinterpretation can be seen in the light of the theory of the ‘Constituency Principle’ (CP), in conjunction with sentence intonation patterns as described earlier. According to the Constituency Principle (see Harris/Campbell 1995, 237), items that form a constituent, that is they belong together, occupy adjacent positions in the sentence: 7)

Constituency Principle: Words that form a constituent are placed in adjacent positions.14

In addition to or, perhaps, in the framework of the operation of the CP, Harris/ Campbell 1995, 237 also recognize three types of rules of word placement, that supplement or are contiguous to the CP, namely: 7a) Relational word order rules are rules that place constituents according to whether they are subject, direct object, verb, etc.15 7b) Stylistic-prosodic rules place constituents in certain positions, especially second and final, according to whether they are stressed, whether they are heavy, and other related criteria.

 13 In Old Icelandic, tmesis has been associated with poetic and stylistic functions, especially in the context of the use of kennings, as in the following famous kenning from Egill SkallaGrímsson: dalmiskunn fiska, lit. ‘fishes’ valley-mercy’, which to acquire a meaning needs to be split as dal-miskunn fiska with dal- going with fiska, and so reread the whole kenning as dalfiska miskunn, i.e. “‘valley-fishes’ = ‘snakes’ mercy [summer, which is kind to cold-blooded animals]” (see Males 2020, 49). 14 This is like Givón’s ‘Proximity Principle’, according to which “The closer two linguistic entities are functionally, the more contiguously they will be coded” (2001 II, 64), or in a slightly different formulation, “Information chunks that belong together conceptually are kept in close spatio-temporal proximity” (2001 I, 35). In several works, and in a slightly different but similar vein, Bybee promotes the idea that sequentiality and frequency are two factors that determine the hierarchical structure of sentence constituents. I quote from a 2002 study of hers where she says: “[…] sequentiality is basic to language and constituent structure emerges from sequentiality because elements that are frequently used together bind together into constituents (2002, 109), and elsewhere: […] semantics, and to some extent, pragmatics and our experience with the world, will determine what elements tend to occur together in sequences in an utterance, but repetition is the glue that binds constituents together. Thus […] hierarchies of constituent structure are derivable from frequent sequential co-occurrence” (2002, 111). 15 Bybee (re)phrases (7a) in the following way: “Constituents can occur in various places in the sentence, e.g. an NP can be the subject of the verb or object of the verb or a preposition; an NP can be extraposed” (2002, 110).

  Georgios K. Giannakis 7c) Pragmatic rules place focused or topicalized constituents in positions defined for that pragmatic role in a particular language.

The basic premise of the CP is that the semantically associated constituents push for and/or form coherent groupings of words that are sentence constituents, therefore attaching to semantics an important role to constituent structure, or to put it differently, constituency reflects semantic roles (to recall Langacker’s position, cf. 1987, 1997). In addition, the semantic criterion also guides syntactic, prosodic and pragmatic movement phenomena, such as those described in rules (7a–c). Rule (7a) particularly can explain the fluidity of the position the different constituents may occupy in the sentence and at the same time be interpreted historically and explain the diachronic development that concerns the tmesis-to-univerbation process. Bybee catches the same idea into a thesis that ultimately is summed up in a principle as follows: “Items that are used together fuse together” (2002, 112). However, placing together of originally dislocated items is only the first step for other changes, which can be phonological, morphological, lexical, syntactical, etc. One of the outcomes of such movement in our case is the formation of compound verbs, i.e. univerbation, with preverb and verb forming a semantic, formal, and tonic unit (P ... V → PV́). This is the change that occurs, and this requires an explanation. The change requires a mechanism to describe the shift, and the rules of the (7b) type above seem to be more relevant here.

 The basic sentence structure of Indo-European Following Gamkrelidze/Ivanov 1995, 313 ff., the Indo-European sentence consists of two components, the rightmost component of cells occupied by Subject, Object, and Verb, and the leftmost component of cells occupied by various particles (*nu/no, *to, *so, *e/o, *khom, *som, *photh), whereas the space between the two components is filled with elements of various type (as in the following Diagram 1, copied from their work).

At the Crossroads of Linguistics and Philology  

S

A

no/nu

{s}

B

{o΄}

{o}

khom

tho

som

so

photh

S

O΄

O

{p}

V

e/o Diagram 1: The basic structure of the simple sentence in Indo-European (Gamkrelidze/Ivanov 1995, 316).

In this type of sentence structure, one possibility is that, due to the absence of intermediate cells, the two extreme elements of the two components, P and V, found themselves to occupy adjacent spots, and this gave rise to verbs with prefixes, e.g. the Old Irish prefixed imperfects no.téigmis (1st pl.) ‘we were going’, no.feidtis (3rd pl.) ‘they were leading’, etc.; the augmented preterites of some Indo-European languages, e.g. Gk. ἔδειξα, ἔφερον, Skt. ádikṣi, ábharam, ‘showed’ and ‘carried’, respectively, etc.; verb forms compounded with preverbs, etc., e.g. Old Latin condō ‘establish’ to which compare Hitt. -kan + dai-, forms with preverb ga- in Gothic, and many similar cases. Thus, Gamkrelidze/Ivanov talk of a ‘reordering transformation’, “whereby the verb was moved from the rightmost to the leftmost cell in the sentence” (1995, 319), assuming the role of the sentence-initial markers, as in Diagram 2: S

*no

V

Diagram 2: The right-to-left movement of V (Gamkrelidze/Ivanov 1995, 319).

  Georgios K. Giannakis e.g. OLat. dant-que eum ‘and they give it’, Hitt. kišat-ya-za ‘and became’, etc. This transformation also affects the p-element, where sometimes P was followed by a substitute initial marker *yo- or *kwe, as in Hitt. appa-ya-kán natta kuitki peššiyazzi ‘and there he throws nothing away’ (KUB X 93 iv 2; also seen in section 1 above as example (2e)). In some languages, adverbials are reanalyzed as preverbs and are thus adjoined to the verb. Such is the case of IE with a number of adverbs that were reanalyzed as P and the unit PV expressed location, time, or perfectivity, e.g. augment, preverbs like Latin cum, Germanic ga-, Irish ro-, and others.16 Compare, for instance, Vedic prá mā yuyujre ‘they have harnessed me’ (RV 10.33.1), which in Classical Sanskrit would be prayuyujre; or from sacral Latin texts changes of the type ob vos sacro to obsecro vos ‘I implore you’, vos/sub vos placo to supplico vos ‘I entreat you’, and many similar examples (see (2g–h) above). Sometimes these processes have been grammaticalized, and in this sense it is not always easy to discern the boundaries between derivation and inflection. This seems to be the case of the augment in Greek and Indo-Iranian which becomes a morphological feature of past tense, or the similar cases of formations in other languages like the ro-preterites of Old Irish, ga-preterites of Gothic mentioned above, or the morphological opposition of perfective/imperfective stems in Slavic by means of composition (= univerbation), perhaps even some phenomena of reduplication. In certain instances, reduplication behaves like composition, e.g. Greek pres. ἀποθνήσκω, aor. ἀπέθανον, but perf. τέθνηκα and not *ἀποτέθνηκα (see Stahl 1907, 75), or in Sanskrit and in Latin where there seems to be a type of complementary distribution between reduplication and composition with certain verbs as if the presence of the one excludes the use of the other. Thus, Sanskrit reduplicated present bíbharti ‘bears’ vs simplex thematic present bhárati ‘id.’, the latter usually compounded with the preverbs ā-, ava-, abhi-, pra-, sam-, etc. (see Renou 1984, § 301, and for the meaning of the compound, § 109; Grassmann 1996, s.v.), or Latin reduplicated perfects vs nonreduplicated compounded formations like tetulī ‘to carry’ vs sustulī ‘to lift up’, momordī ‘to bite’ vs praemordī ‘to bite off’, pupugī ‘to prick’ vs expunxī ‘to prick off’, etc. (see Bader 1968, 160–196). Whether there is some functional connec 16 The same could also be said of the hic-et-nunc deictic particle -i which is attached to the secondary endings of the verb, forming thus the set of the primary endings -mi, -si, -ti, etc. As a rule, derivational and inflectional affixes occupy slots to the right of the root or stem, whereas the left periphery is the territory of other affixes such as preverbs (or prepositions), the augment, etc. Another difference between the two types of affixes is that the former are bound morphemes, the latter are free. Even the augment is historically an independent adverbial that stood apart from the verb with which it later coalesced by grammaticalization.

At the Crossroads of Linguistics and Philology  

tion between the processes of reduplication and composition is not certain. After all, the borderline between derivation and composition is sometimes not clear, and like derivation, composition often creates a completely new lexica1 item. Besides, the origin of many adverbials in general coincides with that of other morphological processes, such as declensional and other affixes. Brugmann (Grundriss II/3, 22 ff.) had made the remark that in certain cases already from PIE times onward verbal reduplication, like the augment too, developed into an independent entity, as if it were the first member of a compound, as seen, for instance, in the double accent in Indic, etc. See further Kuryłowicz 1964, 171–178 and Giannakis 1997, 55–56. Now, if we recall rule (4a) of the constituent order according to which the relative (= subordinate) clause (RC) is pre-posed to the main clause (MC), we can use the scheme of the sentence structure of Indo-European in Gamkrelidze/ Ivanov’s sense of the two components, and place in the leftmost component the Relative Clause and in the rightmost component the Main Clause, and, having said what we said with regards to accent and sentence intonation, we can understand easier why the Verb of the Main Clause is ‘weaker’, of lesser accent or of lower and falling tone in relation to the Verb of the Relative Clause: the MC is enclitic to the RC. If we use the convention of compound sentence stress (i.e. of intonation contour), we would say that in the complex sentence, the RC carries the primary stress and the MC the secondary stress with a falling progression as we move from the left to the right. Within the cell of the MC we see a similar pattern but in the lower scale of the secondary stress: the left cells, usually occupied by P (if present), receive notes higher than the cells to the right, which normally accommodate the Verb. Of course, in cases of marked uses (emphasis, focus, fronting, and the like), this scheme is disturbed and rearranged along with the changes in the order of the constituents or the cells within the constituents. Thus, we can set up an analogical sequence of the following type (8): 8)

(A)

(B)

[Left Component : Right Component] = [Relative Clause : Main Clause]

Fig. 4: Microscale and macroscale of the complex sentence in Indo-European.

  Georgios K. Giannakis where (A) represents the microscale of the basic sentence structure of IndoEuropean and (B) is an extension of (A), it is, so to say, the macroscale of the complex sentence of Indo-European. What happens on the level of (A) can equally apply to (B). For instance, the right-to-left movement (reordering, inversion, fronting, etc.) of V towards the P can also be seen in the reversal of order between the pendants of (B), that is, we have a change like the following (9): 9)

Relative Clause : Main Clause → Main Clause : Relative Clause

In other words, we have here a kind of syntactic metathesis, which may also be concomitant to a more general change of syntactic type from SOV to SVO that characterizes many IE languages from a certain point on.17 The reasons for such a shift vary: they could be stylistic (the beginning is more prominent and is a common mechanism for expressing emphasis), morphophonological (sound loss or change triggers other changes also on the level of morphology), syntactic (morphophonological changes often lead to syntactic rearrangements, changes, and shifts). Often, such changes are also motivated by semantic factors, ambiguities resulting from morphophonological or syntactic changes are frequently resolved by the creation of new paradigmatic or syntagmatic relations, e.g. attrition, weakening and drop of final vowels of case suffixes in the history of Greek, which leads to case loss (e.g. the loss of the dative case and its replacement by analytical syntactic constructions). On the other hand, these changes and shifts create conditions for reanalysis and reinterpretation. All these phenomena are too well known to historical linguists and need not be discussed further here. The direction of such changes is as in the following scheme (10): 10) phonological change (due to the effect of accent as well) ↓ morphological change (with resulting ambiguities) ↓ (syntactic change (to restore clarity or to resolve ambiguity)) ↓ grammaticalization (creation of new morphological types)

A good example of this cycle is the case of adverbs, or at least of some of them. What we observe in this process is a reassignment of class: originally many adverbials were nominal cases and later lost their grammatical function and are  17 Liberman/Prince 1977, 319 find the same reversal in phonology with stress shift which they call Iambic Reversal ‘Rhythm Rule’ (or ‘Beat Movement’, according to Selkirk 1984, 169), as follows: ws → sw (where s = strong- and w = week-stressed syllable).

At the Crossroads of Linguistics and Philology  

now reclassified from morphological types to lexical types, complementing N or V. This reclassification triggers other changes, i.e. a reshuffling of roles, and they come closer to verbs (or nouns). In this sense, tmesis represents an archaism, but the alternative of univerbation shows that our earliest documents represent the phase of transition of the language from an older system of dislocation to that of collocation and ultimately of univerbation. We may observe three stages in this change (after grammaticalization above was complete) (11a–c): 11a) pre/postpositions are (= act as) in the beginning adverbs or adverbials, i.e. they have a semantic relation with the verb with which they form a semantic unit 11b) movement of these adverbials into a closer connection with the verb (semantic and tonal unit), but still used as independent items 11c) verb and ad/preverb form an inseparable formal semantic and tonal unit, resulting in the formation of compounds (= stage of univerbation).18

In a scheme of sentence structure as described earlier, the theory of the Constituency Principle in conjunction with intonation movement can help our understanding of the shifts mentioned above. Devine/Stephens (1994, 378) refer to various languages where composite structures of the type [complement + adjunct] form tonal groups, e.g. [Adv. + Verb], [Adj. + Noun], etc. In such instances, which are also present in Indo-European (e.g. the clitics [= proclisis or enclisis and perhaps also of infixation], [Noun + Adj.], [Noun + Gen. Case], etc., or in  18 One could perhaps envision another scenario here: (1) [[Noun + postposition] Verb] → (2) [[prepos. + Noun] Verb] → (3) [[prepos. (= prev.) + Verb] Noun], i.e. movement of Verb into a new position, i.e. next to the prepositive element which becomes preverbal. The result is a syntactic rearrangement of the type: (S)OV → (S)VO, with subsequent reinterpretation of the role of preposition, which now becomes a true preverb (in the case of nouns, it becomes a true preposition). Compare the cases: Homeric εἰν ἁλί ‘in the sea’, but compound εἰνάλιος ‘situated in the sea’; the verb ἔννεπε (impv.), cf. Lat. in-sece (cf. inquit); Mycenaean personal name da-iqo-ta = Δαhι-χwόντᾱς ‘person who kills in battle’ (cf. Hom. πολυ-φόντης); Proto-Mycenaean *ἀνṛ-χwόντᾱ = Myc. *ἀνδρο-χwόντᾱ; Homeric Ἀργειφόντης, epithet of Hermes, originally ‘the one who kills by his glitter’(?) (cf. neut. †ἄργος ‘brightness’ in ἀργεσ-τής ‘wind that brings brightness’). Perhaps the RC–MC order in older IE is a relic of an even older syntactic structure where there was no hypotaxis but only paratactic arrangement of the constituents of the complex sentence; parataxis is iconic, i.e. the syntactic components tend to be arranged in a way that reflects the logical or natural order of events: X + Y → X(rel.) + Y, and X ... Y → X(rel.) ... Y. Also, from the point of view of typology, the RC–MC order is a feature of the SOV type of language, which is Indo-European. This is so because a RC operates like a nominal determinant, thus as S, O or as their complement, and its normal position is before the V of the MC (viz. before the entire MC). This fact should have certain implications with regards to the relative position that the rest of the constituents occupy in the sentence, such as pre- or postpositions, adverbs, etc.

  Georgios K. Giannakis poetry the cases of enjambment, and other such phenomena), the Constituency Principle applies on the phonological grouping of items that are understood as belonging together by means of intonation as a ‘binding stuff’. Delbrück (1879, 148 ff.) explained the subsequent changes in the constituent order as being motivated by accent. Such bindings (i.e. composite groups) are phonological, morphological (e.g. morphological affixes), and morphosyntactic. As pointed out by Devine/Stephens (1994, 377), “In general, it is not surprising that phonological phrasing is more sensitive to constituency than it is to category: phrasing involves segmenting phonological substance into chunks which largely correspond to syntactic chunks, so it relates more to the beginnings and ends of structures than it does to their internal composition.” And a little later, “Minor phonological phrases [...] are made up of syntactically related words, typically the syntactic head and its modifiers [...].”19 In plain words, what the Constituency Principle requires is that, once an adverbial particle and a V or VP are understood as forming a semantic group, the process of univerbation takes effect; accent functions as the vehicle that brings the two dislocated constituents together and a new phrase or sentence intonation is established. These facts are also supported by Indo-European metrics, where there is a general tendency of syntactic constituents to coincide with phonological and metrical constituents, and in many cases also with the boundaries of traditional formulas (see also Watkins 1995, 20–21).20

 19 These points are also reaffirmed by the preliminary results of Watkins’ study on Pindaric syntax and meter (2002) in which he reminds us of some of the basic principles of metrical organization, which to a large extent also coincides with tonic and syntactic units, such as the fact that the boundaries of a metrical verse or period “[…] coincide with boundaries of a word or accentual group (tonic word or clitic). Its end may, but need not, coincide with a syntactic break” or that “words within it (viz. verse) are ‘synapheia’: they are treated for metrical purposes as a continuous stream of sound divided into syllables without regard to word or syntax division” (2002, 320). 20 As far as the relation of meter to syntactic constituency is concerned, and thus of syntax and phonology, Thompson 1961, 171 gives the following rather picturesque definition (from Nagy 1974, 20–21): “The metrical copy is a copy, a mimicry, a counterfeit without intention to deceive, of the basic elements of our language and of their order. When this metrical pattern and a set of words or phrases are placed in conjunction, a tension exists between them, a strained state of mutual relations; and the language, when we read it as part of a poem, has been strained into something different, into a resemblance to an imitation. It is thus partly imitation itself, and it is this which makes it an art” (but see also Stankiewicz 1960, 69 ff., esp. 77 ff.).

At the Crossroads of Linguistics and Philology  

 The hierarchical structure of sentence constituents Utterances are organized into hierarchical units, and accent can be seen as a property of units rather than of individual items. This may explain, at least in part, the fact that in a complex sentence there is only one accented constituent: there is a scale of hierarchy, where on the top is the stressed segment (in syntactic terms, the head constituent) and the rest is organized around this central point as appendices and enclitic material (again in syntactic terms, the modifiers). Havers 1931, 13–14 had already noticed this hierarchical organization of the sentence, saying that the sentence consists not of isolated individual words but of word-groups (what Boley 2004 calls ‘modules’), such as Verb + Noun, Noun + Adj., Prep. + Case, etc. This is also the way speakers understand their language, not the individual words but their combinations into larger associated groups (semantic or syntactic). Havers adds that, to his understanding, there is no clear line dividing a word-group from a compound word. And it might, in fact, be this shaded area between the two concepts that historically explains the formation of compounds from earlier word groups, provided of course that all constituents for both cases are semantically bound to forming a single semantic unit. In this process, once the coalescence of the different constituents is complete leading thus to the formation of compounds, we have a type of lexification, i.e. the creation of new lexical items normally with a new or modified meaning. In fact, sometimes this coalescence is such that the new compound lexical item is no longer felt as compound but is reinterpreted and rethematized as a simple verb, as in cases like καθέζομαι ‘sit’ in which in the past indicative forms the augment is preposed as proclitic element, e.g. impf. ἐκαθεζόμην, and from pres. καθεύδω ‘lie down, sleep’, impf. ἐκάθευδον, etc. rather than the normal infixation of the augment between the preverb and the base verb. On the other hand, we find instances of hybrid forms that employ double augment, between preverb and verb but also in the beginning before the preverb, e.g. from pres. ἀνέχομαι ‘endure’, impf. ἠνειχόμην and aor. ἠνεσχόμην, from pres. ἀντιδικέω ‘go to law’, impf. ἠντεδίκει, from ἐνοχλέω ‘annoy’, impf. ἠνώχλουν, etc. (see Smyth 1956, § 451), a sign of hesitation over the exact shape of the verbal stem.21 Intonation operates in a similar way: the different beats mark such semantic and/or syntactic word or constituent groups on the level of phrase, clause, or  21 See also Del Treppo 2018, 715 ff.

  Georgios K. Giannakis sentence. This can be best seen in metrical patterns. Meter is the rhythm in the flow of speech according to such intonational patterns based on semantic and syntactic clusters.22 Such clusters constitute the ‘primes’, so to say, of phrasal syntax. These primes may stay unchanged or may be transformed into compound units, that is, compound verbs or compound nouns. I think that the best evidence for this process comes from the study of traditional formulas and traditional epithets, since they reflect archaic features, syntactic or otherwise. Indeed, quite often we find parallel structures, i.e. the compound unit and the analytical composite phrasal constituents, normally a relative clause, e.g. Skt. vṛtra-han ‘killer of vṛtra’ and áhan vṛtrám ‘he killed vṛtra’, etc. (cf. also section 7 below, and Jacobi 1897).

 Punctuation as a constituency marker All writing systems have some way or ways of clarifying their basic notation system, providing more information about the values of the graphemes, modifying or altering them for the needs of representing the language to readers, making various signifying indications, in general organizing the otherwise continuous written text into meaningful units. In writing, punctuation is like the conventional signs in other codes of communication like ‘stop’ in telegrams, ‘over’ or ‘end’ in telecommunications and other systems, ‘halt!’ in military commands, etc. Punctuation does in writing what intonation does in oral language, often functioning as a marker of syntactic or semantic constituency or serving prosodic, stylistic and other similar discourse purposes, almost like part of the notation on a musical score. As noted by Lennard, PUNCTUATION is to written language as cartilage is to bone, bearing stress and allowing articulation. […] confronted with a fully punctuated text, a host of clues are apparent, not only in the visual clarity of the words themselves, but also in cues to pauses, to stress! pitch, and tone-contours - and from these cues gesture will develop as well, the movements of body and hands which orchestrate the cadences of voice. Lennard 1995, 65

 22 In a similar vein, Hayes remarks with respect to the theory of Prosodic Hierarchy that “The essence of the theory is that utterances are PHRASED, in the same sense that musical passages are phrased. As in music, phrasing in language is hierarchical: the lowest units are grouped into small phrases, which in turn are grouped into larger phrases, and so on through several levels. This phrasing, or Prosodic Hierarchy, governs the way in which sandhi rules may be applied” (Hayes 1989, 201).

At the Crossroads of Linguistics and Philology  

Devine/Stephens 1994, 382 ff. present strong evidence for all these in relation to the prosody of Ancient Greek that has a bearing on our topic. With relation to Classical Greek, they say that the prosody of the language is “sensitive to constituency relations despite the comparatively free word-order of Greek”, a proposition that is supported by data from the domains of resyllabification and elision, facts that show that these rules of connected speech apply within prosodic domains that reflect syntactic structure. Such cases include resyllabification in interphrasal environment, syntactic branching, evidence from phrase punctuating inscriptions, sandhi evidence, the structure of the verse, and phrase final lengthening (see also Steriade 1982). Among others, Devine/Stephens tested data from Euripides to see what kind of correlation exists between cluster length and syntactic structure. Their results show that onset to coda resyllabification of word initial clusters of the type sC(C) is permitted between a verb and the following word provided that the second word belongs to the verb phrase, but it is not permitted in the case that it belongs to the subject noun phrase. Cf. the following examples (12a and 12b):23 12a) [[ἐσήμηνε]V [στρατῷ]NP{IO}]VP (Hel. 749) πολλοὺς [[ὤλεσε]V [στρατηλάτας]NP{DO}]VP (Supp. 162) vs 12b) [ἐπηύξατο]V [στρατός]NP{Subject} (Hec. 542)

In the first two cases in (12a) the constituents with the initial cluster στρ- belong to the verb phrase with the preceding verb as the head, whereas in (12b) the cluster στρ- belongs to the following subject noun phrase. The implication here is that in (12a) the initial σ- would be taken (= resyllabified) with the preceding syllable (-ες # τρ-..., where # = syllable boundary), whereas in (12b) this is impossible. In the second case it seems that the morphological boundary between the verb (ἐπηύξατο) and its subject (στρατός) is also strengthened by a phonological juncture and thus resyllabification is blocked. In these cases, it seems that syntax imposes upon phrasal phonology certain restrictions: in (12a) we have [verb + DO/IO] forming phonological words, i.e. a tonal group, which is not possible in (12b).24 Another fact about Ancient Greek is that word punctuation (when used) usually reflects prosodic structure. In the same way, we assume that similar prosodic structure is reflected on the level of phrase punctuation in inscriptions,  23 A similar suggestion but with a triple arrangement of constituents is made by Wachter 1999. 24 See also the Prosodic Hierarchy principle discussed by Hayes 1989, esp. 202 ff.; also Selkirk 1980 and Nespor/Vogel 1982.

  Georgios K. Giannakis as in the following examples (13a and 13b) (again from Devine/Stephens 1994, 390): 13a) : η τεχνηι : η μηχανηι : : τεχναι και μηχαναι :

(T.D. A.8) (Naup. 38)

13b) : και αυτον : και γενος : : αυτον και το γενος :

(T.D. B.27) (Naup. 4)

In each pair here, the prosodic structure equals to lexical and syntactic clusters signaled by the phrase punctuation for each unit, something that is clear in these two as well as in numerous other examples. On some occasions, metrical considerations may point to whether we have tmesis or the use of a preposition accompanying a noun, as in Il. 1.53 ἐννῆμαρ μὲν ἀνὰ στρατὸν ᾤχετο κῆλα θεοῖο ‘for nine days the god’s arrows were coming upon the host’, where ἀνά cannot form a semantic unit with the verb ᾤχετο and stand in tmesis as it is blocked by its being in caesura ἀνά = x|x (for more on this point, see Chantraine 1953, 84–85; cf. also West 1982, 25–26). One interesting case with regards to punctuation is provided by proper names. Since proper names usually show a structure [head + modifier] (e.g. Φίλιππος, Ἀγησίλαος, Ἀλέξανδρος, Ἀρχέλαος, Πεισίστρατος, etc.), they tend to constitute fixed phrases in phrase punctuating inscriptions. We would say that they behave almost like formulaic structures, as in the following examples (14): 14) : τοι Δι Ολυνπιοι : : τοι Ζι τολυνπιοι : : Αθεναιηι Πατροιηι : : Απολλωνος Δελφινιο : : Απολλωνι Δελφινιωι :

(Her. 6) (IGA 111.4) (EG IV. Fig. 5) (Milet. 12) (LSAG 65.50)

and in word punctuating inscriptions like (15): 15) : Ηερμει Εναγονιοι :

(Eleus. 3)

and fixed phrases with proper names (from Cypriote) as in (16): 16) | τα(ν) πτολιν Εδαλιον | | τον Ονασικυπρον τον ιyατεραν | | ο Παφο βασιλευς |

(Id. 1) (Id. 2) (ICS 6)

Another interesting case is provided by the so called the Hekatompedon inscription (IG I3.1.4), which, according to Devine/Stephens “[…] uses a notably restrained version of phrase punctuation, when the subject of an imperatival in-

At the Crossroads of Linguistics and Philology  

finitive is postverbal backgrounded information and the object is a preverbal topic, the subject is phrased separately” (392), as in (17): 17) : γρα[φσα]σθαι : τος ταμιας : ανοιγεν : [τος] ταμιας :

(IG I3.4. Β3) (IG I3.4. Β18)

As a rule, conjuncts and disjuncts are phrased together, e.g. (18) 18) : αιτε Fεπος αιτε Fαργον : : τα τ’ αλ και παρ πολεμο : : κἐ δαμο κἐ Ϙοινανον : : τεχναι και μαχαναι :

(Her. 3) (Her. 4) (Naup. 4) (Naup. 38)

In metrical inscriptions, among other things, we also find instances where punctuation marks the phrasing of units, i.e. of semantic and syntactic constituents such as Subject, Verb + Object, e.g. (19): 19) : [Οινανθες]NP{Subject} : [θεκεν μνεμα]VP : καταφθιμενος (CEG 54)

Devine/Stephens also discuss another known feature seen in the Gortyn Law Code from Crete (dating to the middle of the 5th cent. BC), which seems to illustrate our main thesis in this paper, which is the relationship of phonological, morphological and syntactic features of the language. In Cretan (a Doric dialect), we have a special handling of final -ρ# and -ς# before initial consonants of the following word. These consonants assimilate to the following consonant between the subject and the non-branching verb phrase, e.g. (20a): (20a) ο πατεδ δοει (VI.2) for ο πατηρ δοει ο ανεδ δοει (III.20, III.29) for ο ανερ δοει πατροδ δοντος (V.2), but also πατρος δοντος (VIII.20)

but this assimilation is blocked in the context between subject and branching verb phrase, e.g. (20b): (20b) ο δε δικαστας δικαδδετο πορτι τα αποπονιομένα (IX.30) ο δ’ αμπαναμενος δοτο ται εταιρειαι (X.37).

As noted by Devine/Stephens (398), “other factors, such as phonological substance and text frequency, may also have a role,” but the syntactic criterion surely plays some role in the phonological grouping of the constituents here. Similar processes are also noted in other dialects, e.g. in Attic inscriptions and elsewhere.

  Georgios K. Giannakis What all these examples show is the close connection of the phonological (or better: the prosodic) and the semantic and syntactic aspects of the language, a fact that the scribes try to indicate in writing with various conventions. Unlike the general practice to divide individual words as separate entities, there are a few cases in which the Linear B writing convention of Mycenaean Greek represents not just individual words, but word groups, especially the writing of clitic words (proclitics in particular) together with the host word as a tonal unit, e.g. o-u-di-do-si = οὐ δίδονσι ‘they do not give’, o-u-(ki-)te-mi = οὐ(χὶ) θέμις ‘(it is) not right’, pa-si-te-o-i = πᾶσι θεοῖς ‘to all gods’, to-to-we-to = τοῦτο (ϝ)ἔτος ‘this year’, etc. These facts give us some evidence of phrasal phonology of Mycenaean which is also mapped in the writing practice. Writing in this case is a guide to other details of the language, namely phonological features that extend to syntagmatic elements and to more composite tonal units of the language.

 Excursus: A note on tmesis in Mycenaean At this point a brief note is due on a discrepancy in the attestation of tmesis in Ancient Greek. There are no safe traces of tmesis in the Mycenaean documents, unlike the Homeric epics where tmesis is a common phenomenon. In postHomeric literature, especially prose, tmesis is again on a decline, and ultimately univerbation prevails. This situation seems to be a paradox, but there is a good explanation for it. We have already noted that tmesis is mainly a characteristic of poetic language, however it is not confined to poetry alone.25 Homeric diction is known to represent an archaic stage of Greek, in many ways more archaic than Mycenaean. Besides, it is also the nature of the Homeric poetry that preserves many old and traditional features in both form and content. The few cases of Mycenaean compounds where the two members are separated by a word divider, such as e-ne-wo(-)pe-za ‘with nine feet’, pu-ko-so(-)e-ke-e ‘with box-wood supports’ ke-re-si-jo(-)we-ke ‘of Cretan style or make’, a-pu(-)ke-ka-ume-no (= apukekaumenos) ‘(a tripod cauldron) burnt away’, a-pi(-)to-ni-jo (ἀμφιτόρνιος (?))‘well-rounded’(?) (see Ventris/Chadwick 1973), all these may be interesting but remain a puzzle. The first three of them may be due to low frequency or to the fact that they are for the Mycenaean speaker or scribe new

 25 See Priestley 2009 for a study on tmesis in Herodotus. Priestley’s main thesis is that tmesis is a standard feature of technical Ionian prose with a discernible narrative function, but of course this is not the only function attributed to tmesis (see section 1 above).

At the Crossroads of Linguistics and Philology  

words, not yet established in the language and so the constituent parts are marked off by the word divider; the latter two may indeed represent cases of tmesis (see also Murpurgo Davies 1985, 95–96; see further Ruijgh 2011, 290). According to Horrocks 1981, 153, the preservation of tmesis in Homeric Greek is due to needs of composition in dactylic hexameter, and especially composition on the basis of the ‘flexible formula’. Univerbation, on the other hand, may be due to the double role of P, i.e. as preposition (PN) or preverb (PV), something that gives P a flexibility or even an ambiguity of roles. This is the situation in Homeric Greek, and this must be the situation in late IndoEuropean as well. We take one example from Horrocks’ list illustrating the flexible formula and the different possibilities that this flexibility offers to the oral composer, the formula that refers to the dying hero as his limbs, the seat of his strength and vitality, abandon him (1981, 159): 











λῦντο δὲ | γυῖα (Ιl. .) ὑπέ | λῦ |

θεν δ’ ὑπὸ |

λυντο δὲ | γυῖα (.) φαίδιμα | γυῖα (.) γυῖα ἑ | κάστης (.)

καμά |

τῳ δ’ ὑπὸ |

γυῖα λέ | λυνται (.)

Fig. 5: On the flexible formula (Source: Horrocks 1981, 159).

A similar flexibility exists with many other formulas, e.g. the ‘shedding of tears’ formula (δάκρυ χέων / κατὰ δάκρυ χέων / δάκρυα λείβων, and others, spread in various slots of the dactylic hexameter), or the ‘burning of thighs’ formula (μηρί(α) ἔκαιεν / ἔκηαν, etc.), with preverb in tmesis (ἐπί, κατά) or with no preverb at all, and other examples. Ever since Hainsworth’s analysis, formulas are not just word groups of a particular metrical shape that are repeated but they rather are an association of ideas (1968, 123–127). Watkins 1994, 17, on the other hand, argues that a formula need not be a group of words, since even a single word, e.g. μῆνις ‘wrath’, can have a true formular status, and furthermore, the formula is “the verbal and grammatical device for encoding and transmitting a given theme or interaction of themes,” which means that the “theme is the deep structure of formula.” In this sense, the formulas constitute extremely important material for the study of syntax as well.

  Georgios K. Giannakis

 The process of univerbation With respect to the phenomena discussed earlier, the concept of ‘iconicity’ could be mentioned in this context not without reason. There is a non-arbitrary relationship between linguistic signs and their referent. Thus, in compounds we see this principle applied in the way the constituent parts of the compound are arranged. In syntax we observe a similar principle: important items occupy prominent slots in the sentence or more space or both; conceptually or semantically linked items are also linked syntactically, and even morphologically (see the CP discussed in section 3 above). This fact is also supported by the analysis of information structure of Greek which, admittedly, has a heavy bearing on word order and constituency in the language (see Haug 2014, 347). Describing this process, Dressler 1987, 115 puts it in the following elegant way: “This decrease in semantic transparency is reflected diagrammatically in a decrease in morphosyntactic transparency, which leads to univerbation.” Méndez Dosuna takes a similar position on this saying (with reference to Dressler): “Morphotactic transparency (segmentability of the morphological constituents) is dependent on morphosemantic transparency (compositionality) and vice versa (compositional diagrammaticity)” (1997, 580). In this diachronic process of univerbation, we often observe the perpetuation of the order of syntactic constituents of previous stages of the language in the resulting order of affixes in its later stages. In her 1986 study, Bader also talks of univerbation of preverb (P) and verb (V) as the result of the inversion of the accentual relations of P and V in the neutral and in the marked articulations, respectively. In the first case, the V is atonic and the P carries the accent, in the second case the reverse happens, V is tonic and P becomes proclitic to it, just like the prepositions or postpositions in nominal syntagmata. Similarly, Kuryłowicz says that one of the consequences of univerbation in some languages (e.g. Greek and Sanskrit) is that the verb becomes enclitic or in other languages (e.g. Old Irish, Germanic and Balto-Slavic) we have the proclitic character of the preverb, and he adds: “The prosodic aspect of this conflation (i.e. univerbation), as well as the adverbs involved are in a large measure different in the different historical languages. Therefore, it ought to be ascribed to independent dialectal developments” (1964, 172; for the more general effects of accent, see also 1958). Once again, the relevance of accent for the study of syntax is emphasized, especially for the relative order of the sentence constituents. Bader goes one step further and suggests that we could reconstruct the sentence intonation of Indo-European by means of the position and the accentual habits of pronouns, nouns, and verbs of the Indo-European sentence, something that goes far beyond the scope of this paper.

At the Crossroads of Linguistics and Philology  

Pompei 2014 discusses the tmesis-to-univerbation process in Homer, which according to her is completed in five successive phases that all but the last one can be reconstructed for the language of Homer. The last (fifth) phase “[…] is establishing a system of oppositions through different prefixes applied to the same verbal base” (2014, 273). She summarizes this process in five grammaticalization phases in the order they apply as in Table 6 below (2014, 268): Tab. 6: The tmesis-to-univerbation process according to Pompei 2014. Phase I:

co-occurrence P [ — ] V

Phase II:

complex verb P [ – ] V

Phase III:

juxtaposition P+V

Phase IV:

compounding [P+V]v

Phase V:

derivation [P + [V]v]v

incorporation

This schematic representation of the process of univerbation (= grammaticalization/lexicalization) of the P-V complex can be read as follows (Pompei 2014, 272–273; cf. Giannakis 2015, 2–3 on which this section largely draws): In the first phase of co-occurrence, we have the simple syntactic arrangement of the two dislocated constituents, with P being simply an adjunct to the verb with locative meaning; P and V begin to form a complex in the second phase when P shifts from its originally locative function to an aspectual element, although it can still maintain its locative meaning; in the third phase P and V seem to be interpreted as forming a unified semantic complex, moving close to one another, although the univerbation is not yet complete, something that will happen in the subsequent fourth phase of compounding. These four stages of the process are attested or can be documented by the Homeric data.26 The fifth phase is the derivation phase, or the lexicalization phase, whereby the univerbated whole is interpreted as a thematized stem upon which new Ps can be added as a kind of reinforcement of the locative sense of the first P, creating thus ‘overcompound’ structures of the type {P2[P1V]} (or{P1[P2V]} depending on what form is understood as basic), e.g. προ-κατά-κειμαι ‘lie down before’, δι-εκ-πλέω ‘sail out through’, συν-δι-αλλάσσω ‘help in reconciling’, ἐκ-περί-ειμι ‘to go out and around’, ἐπι-συν-άγω ‘to gather together’, etc. (see also Del Treppo 2018, 671 ff., 710 ff.). As already mentioned in section 5, in some cases, especially in later

 26 For a similar model of development, also as a diachronic process in the history of the Greek language, see Hewson/Bubenik 2006, 77 ff.

  Georgios K. Giannakis stages of the history of the language the PV complex is completely thematized so that we have imperfect ἐκαθήμην from κάθημαι (= κατά + ἧμαι) ‘sit down’, where the prefixed augment ἐ- precedes the preverb (against the general rule according to which the augment is infixed between the preverb and the verb). In this context, then, it is suggested here that we could perhaps see the process and the mechanics of univerbation within the framework of the interface of phonology, morphology, syntax, and prosody, in other words in similar lines as the cases we have just discussed. To recapitulate thus far, univerbation is the outcome of a process towards semantic transparency from a state where constituents were earlier held together by syntactic transparency (in Dressler’s sense), which by its loss disturbed an original balance and constituent order. The move is as in (21a), which is much like that of Table 6 above but somewhat simplified: 21a) dislocated constituents → collocation of constituents → univerbation,

or if x and y stand for P and V as separate tonal units, and # for word-/constituentboundary, this shift can be rewritten as (21b): 21b) x́ # ... #ý → x́ # #ý → #x͡y#

where the univerbated form (#x͡y#) now constitutes a single tonal unit signaled by the ligature tie ͡ (a ‘reverse’ ὑφέν) over the new compound.27 In this scheme, the exact position of the accent of the compound form is not necessarily specified, i.e. whether it should fall on the verbal base or the preverb, although it normally stays within the former as the preverbal element is proclitic. However, also grammatical, semantic or other considerations seem to play some role as the case may be each time and regulate the position of the accent in compounds (on which see Probert 2003, 46–48, Lejeune 1987, 352 ff., and the older work by Vendryes 1904, 127 ff., 145 ff.),28 for instance see the accentual difference between active (nomina actionis) and passive (nomina agentis) nominal compound  27 This is like the similar process of grammaticalization, with the difference being that in this case the result is the formation of grammatical forms, whereas with univerbation we get new lexical items (see also Méndez Dosuna 1997, 578). As further noted by Méndez Dosuna, “univerbation is almost invariably a one-way development. Bound morphemes seldom detach themselves and (re)assume a free form” (579), although in Ancient Greek we do find alternate structures with univerbation and tmesis. However, rare cases of de-univerbation do exist, and Méndez Dosuna discusses two such examples from the history of Greek. 28 For the theoretical bases of the prosodic features and the nature of syllabification of Greek in general and particularly of the compounds, see the seminal work by Steriade 1982.

At the Crossroads of Linguistics and Philology  

formations like λιθο-βόλος ‘throwing stones’ vs λιθό-βολος ‘struck with stones’, or τροχός vs τρόχος, τομός vs τόμος, etc. mentioned earlier. As noted by Allen, “Morphemic division may also be directly relevant to accentuation in Greek, accounting for such differences as in (pres. imper.) ἔπ-ισχε vs (aor. imper.) ἐπίσχες” (1973, 20), with ἔπ-ισχε being a form with reduplicated stem ισχ- and the aorist form being the second aorist with zero-grade root σχ-, thus monosyllabic stem.29 The process of univerbation is exemplified by cases like the following examples (also cited in the first section of the study and repeated here for convenience), with (22a) representing the dislocated items κατά and ἤσθιον as two independent tonal constituents which in (22b) have coalesced into the compound and single tonal constituent κατήσθιε; similarly with the pair (23a) with κατά and ἔπεφνεν in tmesis but univerbated to κατέπεφνον in (23b): 22a = 1a)

νήπιοι, οἳ κατὰ βοῦς Ὑπερίονος Ἠελίοιο ‖ ἤσθιον

22b = 1c)

ἔνθ’ ὅ γε τοὺς ἐλεεινὰ κατήσθιε τετριγῶτας

23a = 1b)

κατὰ μὲν φίλα τέκν’ ἔπεφνεν θάλλοντας ἥβαι ‖ δώδεκ(α)

23b = 1e)

μνηστῆρας κατέπεφνον ἐν ἡμετέροισι δόμοισι

It should be noted that in (22a) the V (ἤσθιον) is enjambed into the next line with P (κατά) opening in a way the host line of the RC (οἳ κατὰ βοῦς…) which serves as the object of the PV in a perfect SOV word (viz. syntactic constituent) order. In (22b) the same constituents are arranged in the same order, but the P and V have fused into a compound form. The same happens with the pair (23a) and (23b). One could imagine an intonational contour of the line with P and V, the two elements that constitute the central constituent of the sentence, i.e. the verbal constituent bearing as it were a compound low-high tone melody and flanking on both sides the rest of the material which is nested within the RC (signaled here as lower nodes of the sentence structure). We could represent the two examples (22a) and (23a) as (22aʹ) and (23aʹ), with the first line containing the P and V (boxed and connected with the dotted arrowed brackets to signal their semantic association) that are the prominent members of the sentence,

 29 Similarly with other compound monosyllabic aorist imperatives, like κατάθες ‘lay down’, ἀπόδος ‘give back’ or with two preverbs συναπόδος ‘join in repaying’, πάρες ‘let go’ and with two preverbs συμπρόες ‘send forth together’, etc. where the accent is recessive and falls on the preverb (see Probert 2003, 47; Kuryłowicz 1964, 174–175).

  Georgios K. Giannakis and the second line standing for all other material that are the object of the two verbs and in a way subdued to or dependent on the VP constituent, with the entire sentence connected with the solid brackets: 22aʹ)

κατὰP

ἤσθιονV

[βοῦς Ὑπερίονος Ἠελίοιο]NP {Object} Fig. 6: The process of univerbation (Hom. Od. 1.8–9). (23aʹ)

κατὰP

ἔπεφνενV [φίλα τέκν’]NP {Object}

Fig. 7: The process of univerbation (Pind. fr. 171).

Rewritten in terms of the process of (21b), the result now with the real data of (22a–b) and (23a–b) take the shape as in (22aʹʹ) and (23aʹʹ):

(22a΄΄) [οἳ]S [κατὰ]P [βοῦς]O [ἤσθιον]V → [ὅ]S [τοὺς]O [{κατ}P {ήσθιε}V]PV

(23a΄΄) [κατὰ]P [φίλα τέκν’]O [ἔπεφνεν]V → [μνηστῆρας]O [{κατ}P {έπεφνον}V]PV Fig. 8: The univerbation process of figures 6 and 7 completed.

At the Crossroads of Linguistics and Philology  

where the originally dislocated P and V (underlined and joined with the dottedline bracket) develop into a compound tonal, formal and semantic constituent PV (solid-line bracket). In a sense, the grave … acute (i.e. falling-rising: ˋ … ˊ) tone combination of P and V symbolizes the semantic association of the two elements which ultimately coalesce into the compound PV́ verbal forms with a single acute accent. It seems that the semantic (or Kuryłowicz’s “synsemantic”) criterion is important in this process. Furthermore, the third supplementary pragmatic rule (7c) of the Constituency Principle mentioned earlier, according to which focused or topicalized constituents are placed in positions defined for that pragmatic role in a particular language, is also in operation in this case where these constituents are precisely such as predicted by the rule.

 Conclusion The tmesis-to-univerbation process is an issue that can best be tackled when examined at the interfaces of phonology, morphology and syntax, also considering intonation and other factors; it is in other words a morphophonosyntactic problem. I think that a fuller treatment of this topic should be part of a general study of composition in Indo-European. And we know that the formation of compounds involves an entire host of factors: phonological, morphological, lexical, syntactic, stylistic, pragmatic, historical, etc. My main concern in this study was not so much to discuss the phenomenon of tmesis per se (on which there are plenty of data-oriented studies), but to explore a theoretical model that could account for the transformation from tmesis to univerbation in IndoEuropean languages and see syntax in conjunction with phonology and prosody. Ultimately, the case of univerbation seems to be one more instance of Givón’s aphorism that “today’s morphology is yesterday’s syntax” (1971, 413).

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

Syntax, Semantics and Pragmatics

Jesús de la Villa

Ideological Change and Syntactic Change in Ancient Greek: The Case of ἄτη and τύχη Abstract: The change in meaning of words very often entails a change in their syntactic distribution. As a consequence, syntactic data can be used inversely as evidence of semantic change. In this paper we study the syntactic data reflecting the change in meaning of the terms ἄτη and τύχη. In the Archaic period these terms were mostly interpreted as referring to entities of a personal character and semi-divine nature, with the meaning, respectively, of Obfuscation and Fortune. Gradually this personification tended to disappear and their meaning changed to the less personalized meaning of ‘ruin’ and ‘chance’. The syntax reflects this change. Philologically, the change in meaning of ἄτη and τύχη has consequences for our different interpretation of these terms at various historical moments of the Greek language. Secondarily, their semantic evolution should also be considered in editions of the texts. Keywords: ἄτη, τύχη, syntactic change, personification, agentivity, determination, edition of texts

 Introduction According to the introduction to this volume, written by Prof. Giannakis, we can consider philology in a narrow sense, as the analysis and solution of problems relating to the edition of texts. But it can also be considered in a broader sense and closer to the original notion of philology that comes from the Hellenistic period: the analysis of the form and meaning of texts. My contribution takes philology in this second sense, since I am going to present data relating to a question concerning the historical linguistics of Ancient Greek and how it influences our understanding of certain texts, and, secondarily, a very specific aspect of the edition of those same texts. In this paper I am going to study the evolution of the content of two terms, ἄτη ‘obfuscation’, later ‘misfortune’, and τύχη ‘fortune’, later ‘luck’ or ‘chance’.  The research presented in this article was conducted as part of the project “Interaction of the lexicon and syntax in Ancient Greek and Latin II” (PID2021-125076NB-C41), financed by the Spanish Government. I want to thank Dr Olivia Cockburn for her revision of the English text. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111272887-009

  Jesús de la Villa Similarly, to what I have done in a previous work for the terms φόβος, δέος, αἰδώς and ἄλγος (Villa, forth.), my intention is to show how the evolution of the meaning of these two terms, from a personified conception as almost divine entities to the expression of abstract concepts, without personification, is reflected in the syntax. Secondarily, this evolution will be reflected in the edition of these terms, which shows a great inconsistency: sometimes, they are marked with a capital letter, as in (1), highlighting their personified character, while in other uses, which are very similar to the previous ones, they appear with a lowercase letter (2).1 1)

ἣ δ’ Ἄτη σθεναρή τε καὶ ἀρτίπος, οὕνεκα πάσας πολλὸν ὑπεκπροθέει, φθάνει δέ τε πᾶσαν ἐπ’ αἶαν βλάπτουσ’ ἀνθρώπους Hom. Il. 9.505–507 The Obfuscation is vigorous and agile, because it takes all of them in its stride and runs ahead of them all over the earth, mocking the people.

2)

ὡς δ’ ὅτ’ ἂν ἄνδρ’ ἄτη πυκινὴ λάβῃ Hom. Il. 24.480 As when a dense obfuscation grips the man.

This graphic issue often derives from codicological tradition itself. Obviously, it is the product of editors throughout time and could only have been introduced at the time when Ancient Greek texts were transferred into minuscule. Modern editors, however, fluctuate in their conventions.

 Personification The notion of personification in Greek culture has been much studied. However, these studies tend to focus more on the analysis of iconographic or literary data than on linguistic data.2 My research departs from the hypothesis that personification and de-personification processes should have a linguistic impact: a very  1 Cf. In both cases we follow the edition by Monro/Allen 19203. 2 Cf. for example, Spurgeon 1954; Webster 1954; Shapiro 1977; Dietrich 1988; Stafford 2000; Trivyzadakis 2013, and the collective volume edited by Stafford/Herrin 2005. An exception is Ramat 1960.

Ideological Change and Syntactic Change in Ancient Greek  

clear example, though not the only one, would be the fact that only a personified entity could appear as Agent in the events in which it participates, as in (1), while a non-personified entity would be more likely to appear either as Subject of nonagentive verbs (3) or in cases other than the nominative, fulfilling the function of Patient (4), Circumstance (5) and others.3 3)

οὐκ ἀτρίακτος ἄτα;

Aesch. Choeph. 339

Is not doom unavoidable? 4)

ἔγνως γὰρ ἄτην παιδός, ὦ δύστηνε σύ;

Eur. Hec. 688

So you knew your son’s fate, poor woman? 5)

…οὐκ εἰδυῖ’ ἄρα ἵν’ ἦμεν ἄτης

Soph. El. 935–936

… not knowing at what point of ruin we find ourselves.

The data will show that this is the case. With regard to the concept of personification, the personal character of an entity can be broadly identified with those of animacy.4 On the one hand, cognitively, personal entities are always conceived as animate; on the other hand, although not all animate entities are actual human beings — they can be divinities, divine forces or even animals — they share most of the typical features of people as far as their participation in events and their linguistic characterization are concerned. Moreover, following Shibatani, it is important to remember that, from a universal point of view, the identification of an entity as personal must be considered in terms of prototypicality; in other words, there will be entities that are typically personal and others that will have only some of the features of personified entities. On the basis of these principles, the typical features of personal, i.e. animate, entities are as follows: 1. According to Lyons’ (1977) characterization of entities, they are first-order entities, i.e. entities with a concrete and material character, neither purely abstract nor eventive;

 3 On the relations of semantics and grammatical there are numerous studies; see, for example, Kittilä/Västi/Ylikoski 2011. 4 See, for example, Yamamoto 1999.

  Jesús de la Villa 2. 3.

They are countable entities, i.e. they are not an uncountable mass or entity, such as liquids or air; They possess autonomy of action and are therefore capable of controlling an event.

To these features, common to all animate entities, a final feature should be added when personalizations of a divine character in the Greek World are concerned: 4. They are, normally, unique entities, like the gods. This means that they are not expected to be endowed with indeterminacy (‘a Zeus’, ‘an Athena’). For the same reasons, we cannot expect unique entities to be determined by deictics of the type ‘this Apollo’, ‘that Hera’ or by adjectives or other expressions that singularize an entity within a group as ‘the best Aphrodite’ or ‘the last Hermes’. In either case, such constructions would imply that there is more than one Zeus, Athena, etc. It is, of course, possible that there are groups of divine or quasi-divine entities, such as the Furies or the Muses; in this case, however, in Greek literary and artistic tradition, those groups either act together as collective or, if they act independently, they are singularly identified, normally by a personal name, so that something as ‘a Muse’, ‘a Fury’ cannot be expected. On the basis of those features, typical of personal entities, we will analyze the linguistic distribution data for ἄτη and τύχη.

 Ἄτη ‘obfuscation, ruin’ . In the epic texts This term appears in the two main Homeric poems, Iliad and Odyssey, in 25 instances,5 and in Hesiod (Theogony and Works and Days) in 5 instances. These 30 instances can be divided into three groups: those in which the term clearly refers to a personified entity; those which are compatible with this interpretation, but there are not definitive linguistics features of personification; and finally, those in which it is difficult to think of a personification.

 5 The meaning and conception of ἄτη, as well as its personification, have been the object of a series of studies, such as Shipp 1965; Witucki 1993; Rennó Asunçâo 2018–2019; Bonanno 2019. None of these, analyzes in depth the syntactic distribution of the term, however.

Ideological Change and Syntactic Change in Ancient Greek  

The first group, which shows the clearest traits of personification, contains 11 cases.6 Of these there are seven cases in which the term is the subject of an agentive verb, either in the nominative, as in (1)–(2), (6)–(7)7 or in the accusative, as the subject of a construction of infinitive (8).8 6)

θεὸς διὰ πάντα τελευτᾶι, πρέσβα Διὸς θυγάτηρ Ἄτη, ἣ πάντας ἀᾶται, οὐλομένη Hom. Il. 19.90–92 Divinity fulfills all things. The eldest daughter of Zeus is Obfuscation and confounds all, she the damned.

7)

τὸν δ’ ἄτη φρένας εἷλε

Hom. Il. 16.8059

Obfuscation captured his thoughts. 8)

ὤμοσε καρτερὸν ὅρκον μή ποτ᾽ ἐς Οὔλυμπόν τε καὶ οὐρανὸν ἀστερόεντα αὖτις ἐλεύσεσθαι Ἄτην, ἣ πάντας ἀᾶται. Hom. Il. 19.129 He swore a mighty oath that never again unto Olympus and the starry heaven should Obfuscation come, she who perturbs all.

In these contexts ‘obfuscation’ has all the features we mentioned in the previous section as typical of entities conceived as persons: firstly, corporeal characteristics of a first-order entity: ‘vigorous’ (2); secondly, it is a clearly singularized and specifically identifiable entity ‘the Obfuscation’: Zeus’ daughter (6), with qualities of its own: ἣ πάντας ἀᾶται (6)–(8); and thirdly, it is an entity capable of initiating and controlling in all cases actions as an agent: ὑπεκπροθέει, φθάνει, βλάπτουσα, ἀᾶται, εἷλε, ἐλεύσεσθαι. In another context, although the term does not appear as a Subject, it is the Agent of a passive sentence:

 6 Plato Symp. 195d explicitly states that, for Homer, Ἄτη was a divinity. 7 A similar instance is Hes. Op. 231. 8 Another instance is Hom. Il. 9.512. 9 In the examples we give, in relation to initial capitals, we follow the convention of the edition used (see References).

  Jesús de la Villa 9)

ὣς καὶ ἐγών, ὅτε δ’ αὖτε μέγας κορυθαίολος Ἕκτωρ Ἀργείους ὀλέκεσκεν ἐπὶ πρυμνῇσι νέεσσιν, οὐ δυνάμην λελαθέσθ’ Ἄτης ᾗ πρῶτον ἀάσθην. Hom. Il. 19.134–136 Even so I also, when the great Hector of the flashing helm /was killing the Argives at the sterns of the ships, / could not forget Ate, of whom at the first I was made blind.

There are also other passages in which the term ἄτη is used in cases other than the nominative or without the proper features of the Agent, but they clearly present some of the other prototypical characteristics of personalized entities: We have examples in the accusative (10)–(11) and in the genitive (12). 10) αὐτίκα δ’ εἷλ’ Ἄτην κεφαλῆς λιπαροπλοκάμοιο

Hom. Il. 19.126

At once he seized the Obfuscation by the head with its clear loops. 11) αὐτὰρ Ἔρις στυγερὴ τέκε μὲν Πόνον ἀλγινόεντα […] Δυσνομίην τ’ Ἀάτην τε, συνήθεας ἀλλήλῃσιν, Hes. Theog. 226–230 But abhorred Strife bore painful Toil and […] Lawlessness and Obfuscation, all of one nature. 12) καὶ γάρ τε Λιταί εἰσι Διὸς κοῦραι μεγάλοιο χωλαί τε ῥυσαί τε παραβλῶπές τ’ ὀφθαλμώ, αἵ ῥά τε καὶ μετόπισθ᾽ Ἀάτης ἀλέγουσι κιοῦσαι. ἣ δ᾽ Ἀάτη σθεναρή τε καὶ ἀρτίπος … Hom. Il. 9.502–505 For Prayers are the daughters of great Zeus, halting and wrinkled and of eyes askance, and they are ever mindful to follow in the steps of Obfuscation.

In these cases, the traits of corporeality (10), singularity and specificity (in all three examples) are present and, although they do not promote or control any action, they are involved in events proper to human beings, such as being the daughter of another personified entity, Eris (11). Finally, in (12), where there might be some doubt, the poet takes care in the immediately following verse to make it clear that ἄτη is a fully animate and agentive force.

Ideological Change and Syntactic Change in Ancient Greek  

Alongside all these contexts in which it seems indisputable that ἄτη is conceived as a personalized entity, there are others which are less clear, though also susceptible of being so interpreted, either in accusative (13)–(14)10 or in dative (15).11 13) ἀλλὰ Ζεὺς καὶ Μοῖρα καὶ ἠεροφοῖτις Ἐρινύς, οἵ τέ μοι εἰν ἀγορῇ φρεσὶν ἔμβαλον ἄγριον ἄτην ἤματι τῷ Hom. Il. 19.87–89 But Zeus, Fate and Erinis, wanderer of the mist, who in the assembly infused my mind with fierce obfuscation on that day. 14) ἄτην δὲ μετέστενον, ἣν Ἀφροδίτη δῶχ’, ὅτε μ’ ἤγαγε κεῖσε φίλης ἀπὸ πατρίδος αἴης. Hom. Od. 4.261–262 And I groaned for the blindness that Aphrodite gave me, when she led me thither from my dear native land. 15) Ζεύς με μέγα Κρονίδης ἄτῃ ἐνέδησε βαρείῃ

Hom. Il. 2.111

Zeus Cronid has bound me tightly with heavy obfuscation.

In these cases, of which there are 7 instances in the epic poems, the term is evidently not referring to an entity that has corporeality, although it does retain the trait of singularity and the specific interpretation of ‘Obfuscation’ cannot be excluded. In these contexts, as mentioned above, Obfuscation does not appear as instigator and controller of any action, but the term refers to a notion instigated or manipulated by other entities, mainly divinities. In these contexts, the term ἄτη appears associated only with some of the prototypical features of human entities. However, when studying other elements that appear in the Homeric poems as manipulated by the gods, we see that animate entities also appear as an object (16) and as an instrument (17), particularly if the agent in these cases is a god. 16) ἀλλ’ οἶοι σύ τ’ ἐγώ τε καὶ ἀμφίπολος μία μούνη, Ἀκτορίς, ἥν μοι δῶκε πατὴρ ἔτι δεῦρο κιούσῃ Hom. Od. 23.227–228

 10 Other similar instances: Hom. Od. 15.233; 24.223. 11 Other similar instances: Hom. Il. 8.235; 9.18 (= 2.111).

  Jesús de la Villa Save thee and me alone and one single handmaid, the daughter of Actor, whom my father gave when I was coming here. 17)

ἦέ μιν ἤδη Πηλεΐδῃ Ἀχιλῆϊ δαμάσσομεν ἐσθλὸν ἐόντα.

Hom. Il. 22.175–176

or if we / are going to break him by means of the Peleid Achilles, despite his courage.

Therefore, although examples such as those in (13)–(15) cannot be used as evidence for the personified character of ἄτη in archaic epic, neither are they evidence to the contrary. To conclude the review of the use of this term in the epic, along with all the cases seen so far, which either require or do not preclude a personified interpretation of ἄτη, there are twelve other instances which are more dubious or in which personification can be ruled out. There are, in the first place, those passages in which ἄτη, while retaining the feature of singularity, cannot be recognized as a specific entity, for it is associated with a specific person and is a quality of that person, i.e., it is ‘the obfuscation proper to a person’, not the Obfuscation, as a personified and unique entity. This can be seen in cases such as the following:12 18)

ὁ δὲ φρεσὶν ᾗσιν ἀασθεὶς ἤϊεν ἣν ἄτην ὀχέων ἀεσίφρονι θυμῷ

Hom. Od. 21.301–302

And he, disturbed in his mind, / marched along carrying his obfuscation with his crazed mind. 19) γνῷ δὲ καὶ Ἀτρείδης ἐυρὺ κρίων Ἀγαμέμνων ἥν ἄτην ὅ τ’ ἄριστον Ἀχαιῶν οὐδὲν ἔτισεν. Hom. Il. 1.411–412 The son of Atreus, wide-ruling Agamemnon may know / his obfuscation in that he did no honor to the best of the Achaeans. 20) ἀλλ’ ἔχον ὥς σφιν πρῶτον ἀπήχθετο Ἴλιος ἱρὴ καὶ Πρίαμος καὶ λαὸς Ἀλεξάνδρου ἕνεκ’ ἄτης. Hom. Il. 24.27–28 They continued even as when at the first sacred Ilios became hateful in their eyes / and Priam and his folk, by reason of the obfuscation of Alexander.

 12 Other similar instances, in the accusative: Hom. Il. 16.274; in the genitive: Il. 6.365.

Ideological Change and Syntactic Change in Ancient Greek  

Something similar happens in (21), the only instance where the term appears within a prepositional syntagm and which obviously refers to the ruin associated with a person, not Obfuscation or Ruin in absolute terms. 21) Ζεῦ πάτερ ἠδ᾽ ἄλλοι μάκαρες θεοὶ αἰὲν ἐόντες, ἦ με μάλ’ εἰς ἄτην κοιμήσατε νηλέι ὕπνῳ Hom. Od. 12.371–372 Father Zeus and the other blessed gods that are forever, verily it was for my ruin that you lulled me in pitiless sleep.

Finally, other cases in which the notion of ἄτη is far removed from a personal interpretation are those in which the term is used in the plural, as in the following cases.13 22) τὸν δ᾽ αὖτε προσέειπεν ἄναξ ἀνδρῶν Ἀγαμέμνων· ‘ὦ γέρον οὔ τι ψεῦδος ἐμὰς ἄτας κατέλεξας’ Il. 9.114–116 To him then spoke in answer the king of men, Agamemnon: “Old sir, in no false wise have you recounted the tale of my blind folly”. 23) πολλῇσιν μ’ ἄτῃσι παρὲκ νόον ἤγαγεν Ἕκτωρ

Hom. Il. 10.391

Hector has made my judgement wander with many deceptions. 24) αἰεὶ δ’ ἀμβολιεργὸς ἀνὴρ ἀάτῃσι παλαίει Hes. Op. 413 A man who puts off work is always at hand-grips with ruin.

For those cases, we should note that, contrary to what happens with other divine figures, as the Muses, which can be mentioned either in singular (e.g. Hom. Il. 2.761), or in plural (e.g. Hom. Il. 2.484 and in all the passages of Hesiod), there is no evidence that Obfuscation, as a personified entity, was ever conceived as a group of characters rather than as a single being. On the other hand, all the cases in (22)–(24) refer either to misfortunes that are specific to a person, i.e. qualities associated with another individual and not autonomous individuals as such, as in (22) and (24), or to generic, non-specific entities, as in (23) as the adjective

 13 The other instances are: Ηοm. Il. 19.270; Hes. Op. 216; 352.

  Jesús de la Villa πολλῇσίν proves. Consequently, all uses of the term ἄτη in the plural can be dismissed as personified references. In conclusion, therefore, the notion of ἄτη in the most Ancient Greek texts appears in a complex form. On the one hand, it is evident that it is shown as a personified notion in a considerable number of passages, even as the Subject of agentive verbs, and that this interpretation cannot be excluded in another number of cases. However, on the other hand, it seems to have been associated with an abstract concept that is not necessarily personified. As a hypothesis to explain this duality, we could, perhaps, suppose that the Homeric poems and Hesiod reflect different stages of Greek thought and imagination and that, while the cases of personification reveal a more archaic phase, the cases of non-personified abstraction are already the sign of a more evolved thought. Nevertheless, when comparing the data from epic texts with the later ones, as we shall do in the following sub-section, we must not fail to keep in mind the proportions seen so far: 11 of the 30 cases of ἄτη in the archaic epic are personified, of which 7 correspond to subjects of agentive verbs, and in another 7 the possibility is left open. This makes up 60% of the examples, as opposed to the 12 cases where the personified interpretation can be excluded, which represent 40% of the examples. Finally, in terms of the editing of epic texts, in view of the data presented, we can raise a serious doubt about the convention of editing the term ἄτη with a capital letter when it is personified and with a minuscule when it is not. As we have seen, along with indisputable cases of personification, there are many others in which this interpretation cannot be excluded. A coherent graphic convention should seriously reconsider each of the instances and, probably, remove the initial capital letter from all the cases which are not personified without discussion.

. In Classical and Post-Classical texts The term ἄτη has a clearly archaic character. It is not present in most prose authors from the Classical or Post-Classical periods such as Thucydides, Xenophon, Lysias, Demosthenes or Plato. There are only two isolated exceptions in a passage of Herodotus (1.32), and another in a work traditionally attributed to Aristotle (De uirtutibus et uitiis 1251b). Nor has it been transmitted to us in any passage from comedy.14 On the contrary, the term is present in Attic tragedy, as corresponds to  14 In Ar. Pax 605 Seidler, in a much corrupt context, reconstructed ἄτης. We have not incorporated it to our study.

Ideological Change and Syntactic Change in Ancient Greek  

a type of literary language that is poetic and partly archaizing, and therefore dependent to a greater or lesser degree on the epic tradition. This dependence on poetic tradition may distort the results in tragedy, because, probably, there are references to ἄτη that do not correspond to the true Greek imaginary of Classical times, but to poetic conventions that follow earlier patterns. However, as we shall see, even in these circumstances, the distribution of this term in Greek drama and in the singular case of Herodotus reflects, if only in statistical terms, the depersonification of the concept of Obfuscation or Ruin. The following table shows the data from Classical texts compared to epic data. Tab. 7: ἄτη in Classical texts compared with the Epic. Total

Personalized

Dubious

Not personalized

Epic (Hom., Hes.)



 (,%)

 (,%)

 (%)

Aeschylus

15

 (,%)

 (,%)

 (,%).

Sophocles



 (,%)

 (,%)

Euripides

16

 (%)

 (%)

Herodotus



 (%)

Ps.-Aristotle



 (%)

This table contains important data concerning the trends in the use of the term in Greek drama.17 First of all, in absolute terms of usage, we see a clear reduction in its use; it is quite remarkable that in Euripides it is attested fewer times than in Aeschylus or Sophocles, although we have many more plays by him. Herodotus and Aristotle present marginal cases. In internal terms, the percentages of the three tragedians are also very clear: Aeschylus presents a number of personalized uses of ἄτη that are, in terms of percentage, lower than those of the epic, but magninally so. On the other hand, he presents more cases compatible with a personalized interpretation, although not secure. All this is quite in line with the general characterization traditionally

 15 We exclude from the analysis Supp. 850, because it is a very corrupted passage. 16 We exclude from the analysis IT 226, which is also a very corrupted passage. 17 The personalized concept of ἄτη has been studied for Aeschylus by Rodrigues 2020, and for Sophocles by Sommerstein 2013; Cairns 2014; Kovacs 2018. The studies are about its conceptualization and meaning.

  Jesús de la Villa attributed to Aeschylus’ imagery and its literary conventions, which is still very dependent on its archaic antecedents. In contrast, Sophocles and Euripides present data far removed from the models of epic and Aeschylus, because they do not offer any case indisputably personalized. On the other hand, the percentage of doubtful or clearly non-personalized cases, respectively, is very similar in Sophocles and Euripides. The ideological change implied by the depersonification of the notion of ἄτη is thus clearly reflected in the linguistic usages collected in this table. As a complement and illustration of the data in Table 7, let us look at some examples. We can consider, in the first place, as the clearest cases of personification those in which ἄτη refers to a singularized entity with agentive character in the sentence in which it appears. Of this we have several examples in Aeschylus, among which, in six cases, the term appears as the Subject of an agentive verb, such as those in (25) and (26).18 25) διαλγὴς ἄτα διαφέρει τὸν αἴτιον παναρκέτας νόσου βρύειν Aesch. Choeph. 68 Soul-racking Obfuscation distracts / the guilty man till he is steeped in utter misery. 26) φιλόφρων γὰρ ποτισαίνουσα τὸ πρῶτον παράγει βροτὸν εἰς ἄρκυας Ἄτα Aesch. Pers. 97–98 For Obfuscation, with her fair appearance, lures men astray into snares.

Apart from the instances in the nominative, there are contexts in which, although agentivity cannot be taken as evidence of personification, there are other features that allow us to think that the notion to which ἄτη refers is personified, as those in (27) and (28).19 27) βιᾶται δ᾽ ἁ τάλαινα Πειθώ, προβούλου παῖς ἄφερτος Ἄτας. Aesch. Ag. 385–386 Perverse Temptation, the overmastering child of designing Obfuscation, drives men on.

 18 The text of example (25) is dubious in what concerns διαλγής and παραναρκέτας (see Page ad locum), but the general sense of the sentences is clear. Other instances are: Aesch. PV 1007; Choeph. 826; Sept. 687. 19 The other instances are: Ag. 736, 770; Choeph. 830, 1076; Sept. 956.

Ideological Change and Syntactic Change in Ancient Greek  

28) μὰ τὴν τέλειον τῆς ἐμῆς παιδὸς Δίκην, Ἄτην Ἐρινύν θ᾽, αἷσι τόνδ᾽ ἔσφαξ᾽ ἐγώ,

Aesch. Ag. 1432–1433

By Justice, exacted for my child, by Obfuscation, by the Avenging Spirit, to whom I sacrificed that man.

Let us note how in all these cases the interpretation of the term as Obfuscation, i.e. as a state of unconsciousness or blindness leading to ruin, can still be well maintained. As examples of dubious cases we have some instances in which the term appears in the nominative, but never with clearly transitive verbs:20 29) ἐμὸν ἐμὸν κέρδος αὔξεται τόδ᾽· ἄτα δ᾽ ἀποστατεῖ φίλων.’ Aesch. Choeph. 825–826 This grows to profit for me, for me, and calamity holds off from those I love. 30) νῦν δὲ τῇδε θἠμέρᾳ στεναγμός, ἄτη, θάνατος, αἰσχύνη, κακῶν ὅσ᾽ ἐστὶ πάντων ὀνόματ᾽, οὐδέν ἐστ᾽ ἀπόν Soph. OT 1282–1285 But now today lamentation, ruin, death, shame, and every earthly ill that anyone could name are all theirs. 31) ὡς οὔτε τούτοις ἥδομαι πεπραγμένοις, χρησμοῦ τε μὴ κρανθέντος οὐ βιώσιμον· μείζων γὰρ ἄτη· συμφορὰ δὲ καὶ τάδε. Eur. Heracl. 605–607 For I take no pleasure in what has occurred, and if the oracle is not fulfilled, my life is no life at all. All the greater will be my ruin. What we have seen is already a calamity.

In these cases, apart from the absence of agentivity, the feature of singularity is maintained. There is no indication that the entity is considered to be a first-order entity, i.e. with corporeality, although this cannot be excluded either. Note, however, that, from the context, it is difficult to understand ἄτη, as was the case in the epic and in the agentive examples of Aeschylus exemplified in (28) and (29),  20 The other instances are: Aesch. Ag. 1124; Choeph. 339; Soph. Ph. 706; Eur. El. 1307; Ph. 1066.

  Jesús de la Villa as ‘obfuscation’; it seems that the meaning has already evolved by metonymy to the result of ‘ruin’, ‘disaster’. Other doubtful examples are as follows: 32) λίμνᾳ δ᾽ ἔμβαλε πορφυροειδεῖ τὰν μελανόζυγ᾽ ἄταν.

Aesch. Supp. 529–530

Cast into the purple sea their black-benched Obfuscation. 33) οὔτ᾽ ἂν σιωπήσαιμι τὴν ἄτην ὁρῶν στείχουσαν ἀστοῖς ἀντὶ τῆς σωτηρίας,

Soph. Ant. 185–186

I would not be silent if I saw ruin, instead of safety, marching upon the citizens. 34) -πῶς δ᾽ οὔ, τριταίαν γ᾽ οὖσ᾽ ἄσιτος ἡμέραν; -πότερον ὑπ᾽ ἄτης ἢ θανεῖν πειρωμένη; Eur. Hipp. 275–276 -No wonder: she's been three days without food. -Is she deranged? Or does she mean to die?

Finally, there are numerous cases where the term is obviously conceived as a non-personified entity: 35) βοᾷ γὰρ λοιγὸς Ἐρινὺν παρὰ τῶν πρότερον φθιμένων ἄτην ἑτέραν ἐπάγουσαν ἐπ᾽ ἄτῃ. Aesch. Choeph. 402–404 Murder cries out on the Fury, which from those killed before brings one ruin in the wake of another. 36) καὶ μὴν ὅδ᾽ ἄναξ αὐτὸς ἐφήκει μνῆμ᾽ ἐπίσημον διὰ χειρὸς ἔχων, εἰ θέμις εἰπεῖν, οὐκ ἀλλοτρίαν ἄτην, ἀλλ᾽ αὐτὸς ἁμαρτών. Soph. Ant. 1257–1260 Look, here is the King himself approaching, his hands grasping a monument plainly signing that his — if we may say it — and no one else’s, was the madness of this error.

Ideological Change and Syntactic Change in Ancient Greek  

37)

ἔγνως γὰρ ἄτην παιδός; Eur. Hec. 688 so you knew your son’s fate?

In the latter cases, the reference to ἄτη must be understood as an abstract entity, sometimes associated with the state of mind of some specific person. Among them we must include a case from Aeschylus, surprisingly edited with a capital letter by Page in his Oxford edition, despite the clearly generic, non-specific character of the usage and therefore hardly conceivable as a personification: 38) ἄλλην τιν’ Ἄτην ἀντ’ ἐμοῦ πλουτίζετε.

Aesch. Ag. 1268

Go enrich someone else’s ruin instead of me!

To complete the view of the Classical period, we offer the passage of Herodotus (39), with the only two testimonies of ἄτη in this author, and one in Aristotle (40). 39) ὁ μὲν ἐπιθυμίην ἐκτελέσαι καὶ ἄτην μεγάλην προσπεσοῦσαν ἐνεῖκαι δυνατώτερος, ὁ δὲ τοισίδε προέχει ἐκείνου· ἄτην μὲν καὶ ἐπιθυμίην οὐκ ὁμοίως δυνατὸς ἐκείνῳ ἐνεῖκαι

Hdt. 1.32.6

One is more capable of fulfilling his appetites and of bearing a great disaster that falls upon him, but the other surpasses him in the following aspects: the lucky man is not so able to support disaster or appetite as is the rich man, … . 40) μικροψυχίας δ’ ἐστὶ τὸ μήτε τιμὴν μήτε ἀτιμίαν μήτε εὐτυχίαν μήτε ἀτυχίαν δύνασθαι φέρειν, […] ἀπότευγμα δ’ ἄτην καὶ ἀτυχίαν κρίνειν μεγάλην Aristot. De uirtutibus et uitiis 1251b It belongs to small-mindedness to be unable to bear either honor or dishonor, either good fortune or bad, […] and to deem any failure a great disgrace and misfortune, …

In conclusion, the linguistic data from Classical texts, in particular from tragedy, are evidence for a clear evolution towards the less animistic, less personified interpretation of the idea of ‘obfuscation’, ‘ruin’, ‘disgrace’, which seems to be the sole possibility in Euripides and in the isolated cases of Aristophanes and Herodotus. This is reflected not only in the semantic contexts in which this term can be used, but also in syntax, as we can see how it has ceased to be used since Sophocles in syntactic contexts in which it appears as the Subject of an agentive verb. On the other hand, it comes to be used with a generic character, indeterminate or

  Jesús de la Villa associated with the situation of another person, rather than as an entity with its own personal traits. Summarizing, the conceptual evolution of the notion of ἄτη also conditions its syntactic possibilities. For the sake of comparison, let us now review what happens with another term with similar characteristics to those of ἄτη: τύχη

 Τύχη The case of τύχη is more complicated than that of ἄτη. To begin with, we have less evidence of the term from the Archaic period, since the term is not attested in the Homeric poems. It is present, however, although in very few cases, in other archaic texts, such as Hesiod or the Homeric Hymns. On the other hand, Τύχη as a civic divinity, associated with the fortune of the different cities, remained present, at least officially throughout Antiquity.21 However, again, there has not been much research on linguistic aspects of the concept. The linguistic data could, nevertheless, provide us with more spontaneous evidence on the degree of personification attributed to it at a particular moment.

. In archaic texts As we have already said, this term appears only once in Hesiod, as one of the daughters of Thetis, in a clearly personalized context (42). 41) Τηθὺς […] τίκτε δὲ θυγατέρων ἱερὸν γένος […] Εὐδώρη τε Τύχη τε

Hes. Theog. 337–360

Tethys spawned a sacred offspring […] Eudore, Fortune.

It does appear, although very rarely, in other archaic or archaizing authors.22 Referring to a divine and individualized entity, we have it in examples such as Archilochus (42) and Pindar (43), which are, correctly, edited with a capital letter.

 21 The literature about τύχη and the evolution of the concept of Fortune is abundant; see, for example, Berry 1940; Dietrich 1965; Villard 1987; Sfameni Gasparro 1997; de los Ríos 2017; Böhme 2018. 22 Strohm 1944 studied the use and conceptualization of this term for archaic poetry.

Ideological Change and Syntactic Change in Ancient Greek  

42) Πάντα Τύχη καὶ Μοῖρα, Περίκλεες, ἀνδρὶ δίδωσιν

Archil. 8D

Everything Fortune and Destiny, O Pericles, give to the man. 43) λίσσομαι, παῖ Ζηνὸς Ἐλευθερίου, Ἱμέραν εὐρυσθενέ᾽ ἀμφιπόλει, σώτειρα Τύχα.

Pi. Ol. 12.2

I entreat you, child of Zeus the Deliverer, saving Fortune, keep protecting Himera, and make her powerful.

However, already from the ancient texts it also appears, like ἄτη, as a phenomenon subject to the will and manipulation of the gods, and, therefore, as an entity with less autonomy: 44) χαῖρε, θεά, δὸς δ᾽ ἄμμι τύχην εὐδαιμονίην τε. h.Hom. 11.5 Hail, goddess, and give us fortune and happiness.

There is also one single case in Pindar of metonymic association with the result of one’s own fortune, which does not, therefore, allow an interpretation as an autonomous personal entity: 45) ὃς τύχᾳ μὲν δαίμονος, ἀνορέας δ᾽ οὐκ ἀμπλακὼν ἐν τέτρασιν παίδων ἀπεθήκατο γυίοις νόστον ἔχθιστον Pi. Ol. 8.89–91 He, with the fortune of a god and no lack of courage, unloaded on the limbs of other children the bitter return.

The result, therefore, is that, in archaic texts, τύχη appears personalized, but also, at least in the case of Pindar, with hints of a generic and abstract content, corresponding to ‘luck’, ‘fortune’, more abstract, less personal notions.

. In dramatic texts Again, as an intermediate language stage between the Archaic period and prose, we can see what the results are in Attic drama. In Aeschylus there are 55 instances of use of the term τύχη; in Sophocles, 42; in Euripides, 211; in Aristophanes, 20. The data and their distribution across the different degrees of personification are presented in table 8.

  Jesús de la Villa Tab. 8: τύχη in Attic drama. Total

Personalized

Dubious

Not personalized  (,%)

Aeschylus



 (,%)

 (,%)

Sophocles



 (,%)

 (,%)

 (,%)

Euripides



 (,%)

 (,%)

 (,%)

Aristophanes





(%)



(%)



(%)

The figures of the three authors are similar. The difference between Aeschylus and the other authors with regard to clearly personalized cases should be taken with caution, as these are rather low overall figures. The most relevant figure is that the clearly non-personalized cases range in very high patterns: from more than half in Sophocles to three quarters in Euripides. This shows, as a whole, that the term τύχη retains a residual potentially personalized usage. This is, in all likelihood, a product of poetic tradition, but the majority of its examples already refer to a non personalized concept. Let us look at some examples of each type. Examples of personalized uses in the three playwrights are those in (46)–(48) 46) a. Τύχη δὲ σωτὴρ ναῦν θέλουσ’ ἐφέζετο.

Aesch. Ag. 66423

Fortune, the savior, gladly calmed the ship. b. τύχη γὰρ ὀρθοῖ καὶ τύχη καταρρέπει

Soph. Ant. 115824

Fortune sets upright and Fortune sinks. c. καὶ μὴν ἐκεῖνά γ’ ἡ τύχη θήσει καλῶς. Eur. El. 64825 And, as for the other, fortune will surely ordain well.

 23 Another instance is: Aesch. Sept. 426. 24 The other instances are: Soph. Ant. 328; OC 1026; OT 263, 44; Trach. 327. 25 Other instances are: Eur. Heracl. 509; IT 478; Ion 529; etc.

Ideological Change and Syntactic Change in Ancient Greek  

47) ὦ πότνια μοῖρα καὶ τύχη δαίμων τ’ ἐμός.

Eur. IA 113626

O destiny, my lord, and fortune and divinity of mine. 48) a. Ἐγὼ δ’ ἐμαυτὸν παῖδα τῆς Τύχης νέμων τῆς εὖ διδούσης, οὐκ ἀτιμασθήσομαι. Soph. OT 1080–1081 But I, who hold myself son of Fortune that gives good, will not be dishonored. b. ἢ τὴν τύχην μὲν δαίμον’ ἡγεῖσθαι χρεών,27 τὰ δαιμόνων δὲ τῆς τύχης ἐλάσσονα. Eur. Cyc. 606–607 Otherwise, we will have to regard Fortune as a god and the gods as weaker than Fortune.

In (46) we have agentive uses; in (47) uses in vocative, only present in Euripides; (48), uses in other cases, but in which the qualities attributed to Fortune mean that we can consider her as an autonomous force with her own initiative. Some other cases are doubtful, since there are no independent clues as to how to interpret them, as in (49). 49) a. ἀλλ᾽ οὖν μέμνησθ᾽ ἁγὼ προλέγω μηδὲ πρὸς ἄτης θηραθεῖσαι μέμψησθε τύχην Aesch. PV 1071–107328 Well then, bear my warning in memory and do not blame Fortune your fortune when you are caught in the toils of calamity. b. Οἲ ’γώ, φίλοι, πρόστητ’ ἀναγκαίας τύχης,

Soph. Aj. 803

Ah, me! My friends, protect me from inexorable Fortune / the inexorable doom!

 26 Other instances are: Eur. Hipp. 818; IA 864; Ion 1519. 27 Other instances are: Eur. Heracl. 1357; Med. 58, 1116, 1203. 28 Other instances are: Aesch. Choeph. 969; Eum. 596; PV 21; etc.

  Jesús de la Villa

c. ἐπειδὴ τὴν τύχην αὐτὸς καλεῖς

Eur. Phoen. 91429

since you yourself are calling Fortune / on fate.

In these cases, the term is used in non-agentive contexts, yet devoid of any kind of determination, so that a personalized interpretation cannot be excluded. Finally, the bulk of the uses can by no means be considered as signs of personalization. In some cases, they are fixed or semi-fixed expressions, such as the prepositional syntagms σὺν τύχῃ, ἐν τύχῃ (50). 50) a. παντᾷ τοι φλεγέθει / κἀν σκότῳ μελαίνᾳ ξὺν τύχᾳ /μερόπεσσι λαοῖς. Aesch. Supp. 94–95 It shines everywhere, even in gloom, together with fortune obscure to mortal men. b. θάρσει προνοίας οὕνεκ᾽: οὐ δοθήσεται πλὴν σοί τε κἀμοί: ξὺν τύχῃ δὲ πρόσφερε. Soph. Ph. 774–775 Have no fears as to my caution. shall pass into no hands but yours and mine. Give it to me, and may good luck accompany it! c. κάλλιστα δῆτ᾽ ἀνήρπασ᾽ ἐν τύχῃ πόσις.

Eur. Hel. 1374

My husband has snatched up by chance fine things indeed. 51) a. ὦναξ Ἄπολλον, εἰ γὰρ ἐν τύχῃ γέ τῳ σωτῆρι βαίη λαμπρὸς ὥσπερ ὄμματι.

Soph. OT 80–84

Lord Apollo, may he come to us in the brightness of saving fortune as brilliant as he seems! b. ἔστι γάρ τις ἐν δόμοις /τύχη, τύραννος ᾗ ταράσσεται δόμος.

Eur. Hel. 478

Because something is happening within, by which the palace is thrown into confusion.

 29 Other instances are: Eur. Hel. 698; Heracl. 480; Med. 54.

Ideological Change and Syntactic Change in Ancient Greek  

52) a. καὶ τίς γένοιτ’ ἂν τῆσδ’ ἔτ’ ἐχθίων τύχη;

Aesch. Pers. 43830

What worse fortune than this could there be? b. πρίν μοι τύχη τοιάδ’ ἐπέστη

Soph. OT 776–77731

Until a ruin like this ell upon me. c. οὐκ ἐς γέροντας ἥδε σοι τείνει τύχη, Eur. Hipp. 79732 It is not the old who are affected by this stroke of fortune.

In all these cases, it is clear that reference is not made to a personified Fortune, but to an undefined or vague situation. Finally, we can cite the numerous cases of use of this term in the plural, always referring to the result of fortune and not to Fortune itself, as proof that it is often used with forms of determination: 53) a. δέδια δ’ ἀμφὶ σαῖς τύχαις,

Aesch. PV 182

I am afraid about your fate. b. Καὶ πρῶτα μέν σοι τὰς ἐμὰς λέξω τύχας,

Soph. Ph. 1418

First I will tell you my varied fortunes. c. θάνατοι / δειναί τε τύχαι σφάλλουσι δόμους. Eur. Med. 197–198 Deaths and terrible disasters overthrow houses.

 30 Other instances are: Aesch. Ag. 1042; Supp. 327. 31 Other instances are: Soph. Aj. 980, 1058; OC 1506. 32 Other instances are: Eur. Heracl. 1993; IT 875; Phoen. 66.

  Jesús de la Villa In conclusion, in Attic tragedy, although there are uses with the characteristics of personalization, there are many more that are either dubious or, above all, cannot be considered examples of personalized uses at all.33 Aristophanes’ examples are similar. We have only two cases in which personalized usage must be recognized: 54) ὦ σκληρὲ δαῖμον, ὦ τύχαι θραυσάντυγες / ἵππων ἐμῶν

Ar. Nu. 1264–1265

O harsh fortune! O Fates, breaking the wheels of my horses! 55)

ὡς πάνθ᾽ ὅσ᾽ ἂν θεὸς θέλῃ χἠ τύχη κατορθοῖ, / χωρεῖ κατὰ νοῦν

Ar. Pax 939–940

How everything succeeds to our wish, when the gods are willing and Fortune favors us!

The sentence of (54), according to the scholia (ad locum), is a case of ‘paratragedy’, taken from the tragedian Xenocles. The example in (55) has a clear gnomic character, so that one cannot think of a spontaneous use of the figure of τύχη as a personal entity either, but probably more as kind of fixed expression. Along with these cases, there are some dubious ones in which τύχη could be understood either as ‘Fortune’ or simply as ‘chance’. 56) a. οὐδ᾽ εἰ Κλέων γ᾽ ἔλαμψε τῆς τύχης χάριν, αὖθις τὸν αὐτὸν ἄνδρα μυττωτεύσομεν

Ar. Vesp. 62–6334

And, despite the fame of Cleon thanks to Fortune / to a happy chance, we shall not go out of our way to belabor him again. b. τάχα δὲ μεταβαλοῦσ᾽ ἐπὶ κακὸν ἑτερότροπον ἐπέχει τύχη. Ar. Thesm. 724–725 Soon fortune will turn round and overwhelm you.

Finally, the vast majority, again, are those in which the term certainly does not refer to a personalized entity:  33 It is doubtful that we can still think of an extended or popular conception of τύχη as a real divinity from the 5th cent. BC onwards, contrary to what is usually defended; see, for example, Giannopoulou 2011. 34 Other instances are: Ar. Av. 1315; Eccl. 836.

Ideological Change and Syntactic Change in Ancient Greek  

57) a. σὲ γὰρ αὐτοκράτορ’ εἵλετ’ ἀγαθή τις ἡμῖν τύχη. Ar. Pax 359–360 For a good fate has named you our leader. b. τύχη δὲ ποία κομίζει / ποτ᾽ αὐτὼ πρὸς ὄρνιθας / ἐλθεῖν; Ar. Av. 410–411 And what fate has led them hither to the land of the birds?

In conclusion, therefore, looking at all the data, we see how the term τύχη is used in Attic drama in a very similar way to ἄτη: there are some cases in which it refers to a personalized entity, but the bulk of the cases show that the term alludes to an abstract concept, whether it is mere chance or a misfortune. As far as spelling is concerned, only in single cases of the plays do the editors choose to write τύχη with a capital letter and, in some cases, with obvious imprecision (see example 36). Generally speaking, except perhaps in some very specific passages, even if part of the manuscript tradition has transmitted this term written with a capital letter, it would probably be more accurate to maintain the use with a lower case. It is the linguistic features — the verbal context, the determination — that would allow the audience, in an oral transmission of the dramas, to undo the possible semantic ambiguity between some more personalized uses and others less so.

. Prose of the Classical Period We have studied the use of τύχη in Herodotus, Thucydides and Xenophon. The data are as presented in Table 9. Tab. 9: τύχη in some authors of Classical prose. Total

Personalized

Dubious

Not personalized

Herodotus



-





Thucydides









Xenophon









As can be seen, personalized or dubious uses in prose are, as might be expected, residual. We find, some agentive uses of τύχη, but they seem rather fixed. In

  Jesús de la Villa particular, there seems to be a syntactic collocation with the verb δίδωμι, which corresponds to two out of the three examples of personification in the corpus:35 58) a. τὸ μὲν γὰρ ἰσχύος δικαιώσει, ἣν ἡ τύχη ἔδωκεν, ἐπέρχεται, τὸ δὲ γνώμης ἀδίκου ἐπιβουλῇ Th. 4.86.6 For one is produced by the right of force, which is a gift of fortune, but another by an evil spirit. b. τοῦτο γὰρ ἡ τύχη καὶ ἔχειν τὸ ἀπὸ τοῦδε δίδωσι σοὶ καὶ ἐμοὶ προσαγορεύειν

X. Cyr. 7.2.9

For fortune grants that henceforth you should bear this title and I address you by it.

A third case occurs in Xenophon, where there seems to be a play on words, that perhaps justifies the particular use of τύχη: 59)

Ἦν δὲ αὕτη ἡ στρατηγία οὐδὲν ἄλλο δυναμένη ἢ ἀποδρᾶναι ἢ ἀποφυγεῖν· ἡ δὲ τύχη ἐστρατήγησε κάλλιον X. An. 2.2.13 This plan of campaign meant nothing else than effecting an escape, either by stealth or by speed; but fortune planned better.

The term στρατηγία, referring to a concrete and premeditated plan of action, is contrasted with a usage that would probably be shocking, such as that ἡ τύχη ἐστρατήγησε, where the term τύχη has an individualized use and is associated to an agentive context. We might well have a quasi-divine conception of Τύχη here, but, probably, it is only a kind of literary play with words. As it is an isolated example, I think that, in all probability, this use had no correspondence in the real beliefs of the time. Secondly, there are also some ambiguous cases: 60) a. ὁ δὲ βουλευσάμενος αἰσχρῶς, εἴ οἱ ἡ τύχη ἐπίσποιτο, εὕρημα εὕρηκε ἧσσον δὲ οὐδέν οἱ κακῶς βεβούλευται Hdt. 7.10 δ 236 Whoever has made the wrong decision, if fortune is with him, will find a chance success, but his decision is still wrong.

 35 It is also present in other authors, as Lysias 18.22, 24.22. 36 Another instance is in the same context: Hdt. 7.10 δ 2.

Ideological Change and Syntactic Change in Ancient Greek  

b. καὶ ἡ τύχη ἐπ’ αὐτοῖς οὐδὲν ἔλασσον ξυμβάλλεται ἐς τὸ ἐπαίρειν

Th. 3.45.6

Moreover, fortune does nothing to ease tensions. c. τοῖς δὲ πάντα καὶ ὑπὸ τῆς τύχης κατωρθοῦτο

X. HG. 6.4.8

For them everything had been arranged by fortune.

The most important fact, however, is that most of the uses of this term, even when it is the subject of the sentence, are associated with non-agentive verbs, which describe a state or a process, such as those in (61) and (62). 61)

ἐς τοῦτό τε περιέστη ἡ τύχη ὥστε Ἀθηναίους μὲν ἐκ γῆς τε καὶ ταύτης Λακωνικῆς ἀμύνεσθαι ἐκείνους ἐπιπλέοντας Th. 4.12.3 So much did fortune change that the Athenians, from the Laconian land itself, repulsed the Laconians who attacked from the sea.

62) ἢν δὲ τύχη τοιαύτη γένηται

X. Cyr. 6.2.32

If the event results so.

Of course, in all other cases, τύχη does not refer to personalized uses, as in the following examples, similar to those already seen in the drama. In such cases the term appears either in fossilized expressions (63),37 or with determiners or adjectives that show that it is not an entity conceived as a unique and personalized entity (64), or in the plural (65). 63) οὔτε εἰ συνεκύρησε ἡ τῶν Καλυνδέων κατὰ τύχην παραπεσοῦσα νηῦς

Hdt. 8.87.3

... or whether the Calinda ship collided with theirs because it happened to cross their path. 64) a. ὁρέων τὸν Δαρεῖον μεγάλως ἐπιθυμέοντα τῆς χλανίδος, θείῃ τύχη χρεώμενος λέγει … Hdt. 3.139.2 seeing that Darius greatly desired the mantle, inspired by a divine fortune, he said to him ...

 37 Similar cases, for example, in Th. 4.3.1, X. HG 4.4, etc.

  Jesús de la Villa b. καὶ τὴν τόλμαν ἀπὸ τῆς ὁμοίας τύχης ἡ ξύνεσις ἐκ τοῦ ὑπέρφρονος ἐχυρωτέραν παρέχεται Th. 2.62.5 Ιntelligence, under equal conditions of fortune, by the feeling of superiority, provides a more confident boldness. c. εἴπερ γε μὴ τύχῃ τινί, ἀλλ’ ὑπὸ γνώμης ταῦτα γίγνεται X. Mem. 1.4.4 Ιf this is not the result of chance, but of knowledge. 65) a. ἐπὶ τύχῃ χρηστῇσι ἐπὶ δεῖπνον ἐκέκλητο

Hdt. 1.119

Βy a favorable chance he had been invited to dinner. b. βούλεσθε μᾶλλον ἐπιόντας, καὶ ἐς τύχας πρὸς πολλῷ δυνατωτέρους ἀγωνιζόμενοι καταστῆναι Th. 1.69.5 You prefer to attack them and put yourselves in the hands of fortune by fighting enemies that are much stronger.

Therefore, it is evident that in prose, apart from some exceptional cases, such as that of Xenophon, the term has lost its individualized value associated with a semi-divine character, and this is reflected in the syntax.

 Conclusions Syntax reflects a change in ideology: two terms ἄτη and τύχη evolved semantically to lose their individualized and personalized character. As a consequence, a change also appeared in their syntax, which can be summarized in the following features: 1. When they are in the nominative, these terms are no longer used with agentive verbs. Instead, they are used with state or process verbs, where the first argument does not imply control over the event. 2. As a result of their loss of their unique character, they can be accompanied either by expressions of indeterminacy (τις), or, to the contrary, with determiners or adjectives which specify a concrete ruin or misfortune. Finally, they can even be used in the plural, which eliminates their unique character.

Ideological Change and Syntactic Change in Ancient Greek  

The results of this research have a double implication: on the one hand, they provide new evidence, of a linguistic nature, on the loss of animistic meaning in the use of certain terms throughout the history of Greek. On the other hand, from a sociolinguistic point of view, the data examined offer for Ancient Greek new information on how language is conditioned by the semantic change. From a philological point of view, a detailed examination of the evolution of the terms studied allows a better comprehension of texts in those passages where ἄτη and τύχη are used. Finally, as far as the edition of texts is concerned, it is possible to continue using an initial capital letter to mark personalized usages. However, we must be aware that this is only a pure convention and that, indeed, in very few cases, at least in Classical Greek, ἄτη and τύχη were really conceived as personal entities.

References Editions Aeschylus: Septem quae supersunt tragoediae, ed. D. Page, Oxford 1972. Archilochus: Líricos griegos: elegíacos y yambógrafos arcaicos, 2 vols., ed. F. Rodríguez Adrados, Madrid 20104. Aristophanes: Fabulae, 2 vols., ed. N.G. Wilson, Oxford 2007. (Ps.)Aristotle. De uirtutibus et uitiis, ed. A.I. Bekker Aristoteles Opera, Berlin, 1831–1870. Euripides: Fabulae, 2 vols., ed. J. Diggle, Oxford, 1981. Herodotus: Histories, 2 vols., ed. N.G. Wilson, Oxford, 2015. Hesiodus: Carmina, ed. A. Rzach, Leipzig 1967. Homer: Iliad, 2 vols., ed. D.B. Monro/T.W. Allen, Oxford, 19203. Homer: Odyssey, 2 vols., ed. D.B. Monro/T.W. Allen, Oxford, 19203. Homeric hymns: Homeri opera V, ed. T.W. Allen, Oxford, 19462. Pindar: Carmina, ed. M. Bowra, Oxford 1963. Sophocles: Fabulae, ed. H. Lloyd-Jones/N.G. Wilson, Oxford 19902. Thucydides: Historiae, 2 vols., H. Stuart-Jones/J.E. Powell, 1963. Xenophon: 5 vols, ed. E.C. Marchant, Oxford 1963.

Bibliography Berry, E.G. (1940), The History and Development of the Concept of Theia Moira and Theia Tyche, Chicago. Böhme, H. (2018), “Zufall in der Geschichte – Geschichte des Zufalls”, in: Jahrbuch der Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften, 106–128.

  Jesús de la Villa Bonanno, D. (2019), “(Dis)habilités divines chez Homère et au-delà: Atē, les Litai et l’enfant d’Horkos”, in: R. Gagné/M. Herrero de Jáuregui (eds.), Les dieux d’Homère. 2. Anthropomorphismes [Kernos. Supplément, 33], Liège, 65–87. Cairns, D.L. (2014), “«Λόγου τ᾽ ἄνοια καὶ φρενῶν Ἐρινύς»: «atē» in Sophocles’ «Antigone»”, in: Διεθνές συμπόσιο αρχαίου ελληνικού δράματος. 12, Πάθος, μάθος; Πόνος, παραφορά και διαχείρισή τους στο αρχαίο ελληνικό δράμα: Λευκωσία, 6, 7 και 8 Ιουλίου 2012, Nicosia, 37–54. Dietrich, B.C. (1965), Death, Fate and the Gods. The Development of a Religious Idea in Greek Popular Belief and in Homer, London. Dietrich, B.C. (1988), “Divine personality and personification”, Kernos: Revue Internationale et Pluridisciplinaire de Religion Grecque Antique 1, 19–28. Giannopoulou, V. (2011), Týche: Fortune and Chance in Euripides and in Fifth Century Historiography, Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Oxford. Kittilä, S./Västi, K./Ylikoski, J. (2011), “Introduction”, in: S. Kittilä/K. Västi/J. Ylikoski (eds.), Case, Animacy and Semantic Roles, Amsterdam, 1–26. Kovacs, D. (2018), “The inconsistency of Antigone: Human character and divinely-sent ἄτη in Sophocles’ play”, in: L. Athanassaki/Ch. Nappa/A. Vergados (eds.), Gods and Mortals in Greek and Latin Poetry: Studies in Honor of Jenny Strauss Clay [Ariadne. Supplements, 2], Rethymno, 137–157. Lyons, J. (1977), Semantics, Cambridge. Ramat, P. (1960), “La figura della Moira in Omero allá luce dell’analisi lingüística”, Studi Italiani di Filologia Classica 32, 215–248. de los Ríos, Iván (2016), Grecia o el azar. Divinidad, suerte y destino en la antigua literatura griega, Santiago de Chile. Rodrigues, M.A. (2020), “Anunciando a desgraça : o conceito de ἄτη e o coro na tragédia de Ésquilo”, Synthesis 27.1. Sfameni Gasparro, G. (1997), “«Daimôn» and «tuchê» in the Hellenistic religious experience”, in: P. Bilde (ed.), Conventional Values of the Hellenistic Greeks [Studies in Hellenistic Civilization 8], Aarhus, 67–109. Rennó Assunção, T. (1998–1999), “L’«áte» dans l’«Iliade» (le cas Agamemnon)”, Classica 11–12, 271–280. Shapiro, H.A. (1977), Personification of Abstract Concepts in Greek Art and Literature to the End of the Fifth Century B.C., Princenton. Shipp, G.P. (1965), “Personification in Homer with special reference to Ate”, in: M. Adams (ed.), Aulla. Proceedings of the Ninth Congress of the Australasian Universities’ Languages and Literature Association, Melbourne 19-26 August 1964, Melbourne, 35–37. Sommerstein, A.H. (2013), “«Atē» in Aeschylus”, in: D.L. Cairns/W. Allan (eds.), Tragedy and Archaic Greek Thought, Swansea, 1–15. Spurgeon, J.W. (1954), Personification in Homer, Diss. University of London. Stafford, E. (2000), Worshipping Virtues: Personification and the Divine in Ancient Greece, Swansea. Stafford, E./Herrin, J. (eds.) (2005), Personification in the Greek World: From Antiquity to Byzantium [The Centre for Hellenic Studies, King’s College publications 7], Aldershot. Strohm, H. (1944), Tyche. Zum Schicksalfassung bei Pindar und die frühgriechischen Dichtern, Stuttgart. Trivyzadakis, T. (2013), “Personification: Its course as notion and artistic motive from antiquity to the Christian world”, in: V. Gheller (ed.), Ricerche a confronto: dialoghi di antichità

Ideological Change and Syntactic Change in Ancient Greek  

classiche e del vicino Oriente: Bologna-Trento 2011, Il tempo nel tempo 6, Montorso Vicentino, 286–310. de la Villa, J. (forth.), “Personificación y abstracción en el imaginario griego. Estudio de algunos términos de Homero a la época clásica”, Synthesis. Villard, L. (1987), Tyche: des origins à la fin du Vème siecle avant J.C., Diss. Lille. Webster, T.B.L. (1954), “Personification as a mode of Greek thought”, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 17, 10–21. Witucki, B.L. (1993), Personification and Homeric Ate, Diss. New York University. Yamamoto, M. (1999), Animacy and Reference. A Cognitive Approach to Corpus Linguistics, Amsterdam.

Marina Benedetti and Carla Bruno

Syntactic Markedness and Stylistic Refinement: ‘Proleptic’ and ‘Resultative’ in Ancient Greek Abstract: Research on resultative secondary predications (such as She brought him up an honest man) has so far focused on modern languages. Although the availability of this construction type in Ancient Greek has occasionally been questioned, no specific investigation has been devoted to the topic yet. On the basis of literary evidence, this paper argues that resultative secondary predications were not alien to Ancient Greek and that they are subsumed under the ‘proleptic’ use of adjectives described in traditional historical grammars. The productivity of this construction type is essentially confined to poetry, especially tragedy, where it is distinctive of a highly elaborated style and spreads across specific thematic areas. Poetry offers fertile ground for the actualization of a potentiality on the margins of the language system, thus enhancing the linguistic repertoire of Ancient Greek. Keywords: resultative secondary predication, ‘proleptic’ nominal predicates, causatives, poetic language

 Resultative secondary predications Structures such as those in (1)–(4) below illustrate the availability within the world languages of a class of secondary predications that, following the pioneering study of Halliday 1967, are generally known as ‘resultative’. 1)

She brought him up an honest man (Halliday 1967, 62)

2)

German Der Schmied hämmert das Metall flach (Richter/Van Hout 2010, 1) ‘The smith hammers the metal flat’

 Even though this paper is the outcome of joint work by the authors, for academic purposes the final editing is to be attributed to Marina Benedetti for section 2, to Carla Bruno for sections 1 and 3. The two authors are equally responsible for section 4.

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111272887-010

  Marina Benedetti and Carla Bruno 3)

Latvian Viņš piekrāva vagon-u He loaded wagon-acc.sg ‘He loaded the wagon full’

4)

Japanese John-ga kabe-o aoku John wall-ACC blue ‘John painted the wall blue’

piln-u (Riaubienė 2016, 167) full-ACC.SG

nut-ta paint-PAST

(Washio 1997, 2)

Besides the main — verbal — predicate, all these structures include an additional (‘secondary’)1 non-verbal predicate controlled by the direct object.2 This additional predicate occurs as a noun phrase in (1) and as an adjective in (2)–(4), and is responsible for the peculiar (i.e. ‘resultative’) interpretation, since it expresses “a state which is interpreted as a result of the state of affairs encoded by the main predicate” (Himmelmann/Schultze-Berndt 2005, 4). The resultative type has been intensively discussed in recent literature, especially in contrast to other secondary predications, such as the so-called ‘depictive’ ones (cf. 5a-b). 5)

a. Mary drinks her coffee black b. They ate the carrots raw

While “[t]he state of affairs expressed by a depictive holds true specifically at the time that the eventuality expressed by the main predicate takes place” (cf. Schultze-Berndt/Himmelmann 2004, 60), the state of affairs expressed by a resultative is understood as a consequence of the eventuality expressed by the main predicate. Compared to depictives, resultatives involve a closer relationship between main and secondary predicate, as usually acknowledged in the literature: depictives have been treated as adjunct adverbials (cf. Schultze-Berndt/Himmelmann

 1 Secondary predicates are controlled by one of the arguments of the main predicate (cf. Rothstein 2017): the construction then necessarily contains at least two predicates: “the verb-phrase and a second phrase whose host is typically one of the verb’s argument” (Rapoport 2019, 427). 2 The format encompasses a certain variation according to the form of the secondary predicate, which can surface not only as a noun or an adjective (as in exx. 1–4), but also as a prepositional phrase as in Bill broke the bathtub into pieces (cf. Goldberg/Jackendoff 2004). Besides transitive resultatives such as (1)–(4), intransitive resultatives are also attested, as The pond froze solid (Goldberg/Jackendoff 2004, 540). See also Beavers 2012, 909 ff., where also the unaccusative vs unergative distinction turns out as relevant.

Syntactic Markedness and Stylistic Refinement  

2004), whereas resultatives have been rather discussed as forming (with the main verb) a complex predicate (cf. Hale/Keyser 1993, 143).3 Resultative structures have also been assumed as instantiating a complex event involving two sub-events linked by a causal relation: these are represented by the main and the secondary predicate, representing respectively a ‘causing’ and a ‘caused’ sub-event (Levin 2020, 185).4 The assumption of a causative component is supported by the regular availability of paraphrases involving overt causatives, such as the forms of the verb cause in (6b) and (6c) (both from Levin 2020).5 6)

a. The waitress wiped the silverware dry b. The waitress wiped the silverware causing it to become dry c. The waitress caused the silverware to be dry

Owing to the lack of an overt causative element, resultative constructions have been taken as ‘concealed causatives’ (cf. Bittner 1999; Levin 2020). As illustrated in (7), they display a regular correlation with make-causatives.6 7)

a. Willy watered the plants flat b. Willy made the plants flat by watering (Goldberg/Jackendoff 2004, 538)

Compared to ‘overt’ causatives (as in their cause or make counterparts), resultatives convey a richer information, which concerns not only the caused event (expressed by the non-verbal predicate, e.g. flat in 7a), but also the causing event (expressed via the main verb, e.g. water in 7a). In other words, the main verb of a resultative construction lexicalizes a manner semantic component (henceforth, Manner) that specifies the way in which the result is accomplished. Accordingly, while in resultatives Manner is lexically encoded in the verb, this is not the case in causatives, where Manner may be encoded separately through an adverbial by-clause (as in 7b).7  3 The way the main and secondary predicate interact in resultatives is a highly debated issue. According to the different approaches, these constructions have treated as complex predicates, or, alternatively, as matrix verb plus small-clause (cf. Hoekstra 1988). For a different analysis, cf. Carrier/Randall 1992. 4 Cf. Rapoport-Hovav/Levin 2001, for an analysis in terms of ‘temporal dependency’, and Beavers 2012, 922 for a discussion. 5 Cf. Beavers 2012, 915 who assumes similar correlations as a sort of causation diagnostics. 6 On the relationship between resultatives and causatives, within constructionist approaches, cf. Goldberg 1995, 189, and Goldberg/Jackendoff 2004, 538. 7 See Croft et al. 2010 for discussion on Talmy’s 1985 typological classification of complex motion events and its extension to resultative constructions, which are accordingly analyzed as manner-incorporating.

  Marina Benedetti and Carla Bruno Moreover, resultatives differ from make-causatives also for the thematic relationship between the main verb and the direct object controlling the secondary predicate (cf. Rapoport 1993, 160). In resultatives, the clause object thematically depends also on the verbal predicate; hence, the nominal predicate can be deleted without affecting the whole structure, as illustrated in (8): 8)

a. Willy watered the plants flat b. Willy watered the plants

By contrast, in causatives, the clause object thematically depends exclusively on the nominal predicate. Hence, this cannot be deleted without affecting the whole structure, as illustrated in (9), where (9b) is in no way related to (9a). 9)

a. Willy made the plants flat b. Willy made the plants

Accordingly, an entailment relation holds between (8a) and (8b), whereas (9a) does not entail (9b). Owing to the semantic weight of the verbal predicate, resultative constructions display stronger restrictions than make-causatives. Obviously “the causing event must be one that can lead to the result state” (Levin 2020, 193): a semantic coherence between the verbal and the nominal predicate is necessarily required.8 As has been observed, the distribution of resultative constructions shows remarkable crosslinguistic variability, independent of genetic affiliation. Compared to depictives, which are common across world languages, resultatives show a much more limited distribution. They are particularly productive in Germanic languages: Jespersen 1909–1949 V, 23–28 describes them as “an idiomatic usage [...] highly characteristic of the English”; they are found, for instance, also in Danish (ibid., 23) and in German (cf. Boas 2003 for a comparative analysis between English and German resultatives). Resultatives are also attested in Hungarian, Japanese, Korean, Mandarin, whereas they seem not to occur (or to occur only marginally) in languages of the Romance and Slavonic families (cf. Snyder 2001, 329).9  8 A certain idiomaticity may be also involved by the class; cf. Carrier/Randall 1992, 184. Cf. also Levin 2020, 199, who discusses resultative constructions “organized around particular result phrases […] and not particular verbs”. 9 Research on their availability across languages has particularly focused on the definition of language types allowing or disallowing resultatives. Parameters favoring resultatives across languages have been variously singled out, such as, e.g., the presence of satellite-framed patterns (cf. Talmy 1991), the productivity of compounding strategies (cf. Snyder 2001), or the lack a

Syntactic Markedness and Stylistic Refinement  

Although secondary predications have been explored also within ancient languages (cf. Casaretto 2020 and references therein), resultative constructions have not been specifically investigated. As far as Ancient Greek is concerned, for instance, their presence is excluded in a cursory remark by Horrocks/Stavrou, within a study mainly focused on resultative constructions in Modern Greek: “in ancient Greek [...] there is no comparable evidence for secondary syntactic resultative predication involving adjectives” (Horrocks/Stavrou 2003, 322). Nevertheless, resultative constructions are not totally excluded in Ancient Greek, as argued by Benedetti/Bruno 2022, who identify this pattern in the following passages from Euripides:10 10) [πενία] διδάσκει [...] ἄνδρα τῇ χρείᾳ κακόν.

Eur. El. 376

Poverty teaches a man [to be] base from need (lit.: ‘teaches a man base’).’ 11) χρεία διδάσκει [...] σοφόν.

Eur. Fr. 715.2 Nauck/Snell; Fr. 715.2 Kannicht

Need teaches [to be] clever. 12) ποιητὴν δ’ ἄρα | Ἔρως διδάσκει, κἂν ἄμουσος ᾖ τὸ πρίν. Eur. Fr. 663 Nauck/Snell; Fr. 663 Kannicht After all, Love teaches [to be] poet, even one previously lacking in skill.

These structures display properties commonly ascribed to resultative secondary predications. Thus, the state designated by the nominal predicate (κακόν, σοφόν, ποιητήν respectively) is understood as an effect of the action encoded by the verbal predicate (διδάσκει): more precisely, the subject of διδάσκει is at the same time the Causer of the resulting state of the object.

 grammaticalized aspectual opposition in the verb (cf. Horrocks/Stavrou 2003). Interestingly, languages commonly avoiding resultatives may accept them when the secondary predicate expresses states predictable from the main predicate (i.e. the so-called ‘weak’ resultatives, cf. Washio 1997). Conversely, the ‘strong’ type (where the secondary predicate event is not predictable from the main verb) displays major restrictions across world languages. Cf. also Kaufmann/Wunderlich 1998 for discussion on the strong vs weak distinction, and Romagno 2020, with references (particularly on standard Italian). 10 The translations of the Greek passages — unless explicitly stated — are freely adapted from those of the Loeb Classical Library in accordance with the intent of the authors to achieve more literal translations.

  Marina Benedetti and Carla Bruno The correlation with causative constructions is supported by philological evidence, such as the Platonic passage in (13), echoing Euripides’ gnomic statement quoted in (12).11 13) ποιητὴς ὁ θεὸς σοφὸς οὕτως ὥστε καὶ ἄλλον ποιῆσαι· πᾶς γοῦν ποιητὴς γίγνεται, “κἂν ἄμουσος ᾖ τὸ πρίν,” οὗ ἂν Ἔρως ἅψηται. Pl. Symp. 196e The god (scil. Love) is a composer so accomplished that he makes [poets] also others; everyone, you know, becomes a poet, “though alien to the Muse before”, when Love gets hold of him.12

As suggested in Benedetti/Bruno 2022, the passage of Theognis in (14), encoding separately the notion of ‘teaching’ (διδάσκων) and the notion of ‘causing’ (ποιήσει), seems to suggest a suitable rephrasing of the denser Euripidean expression in (10), according to the same pattern illustrated above in 7. 14) ἀλλὰ διδάσκων | οὔποτε ποιήσει τὸν κακὸν ἄνδρ’ ἀγαθόν. Thgn. 437–438 But you will never make the base man noble through teaching.

It can thus be argued that resultative constructions were not alien to the Ancient Greek system: in (10)–(12) they are exploited to add gnomic flavor to a tragic topos, namely the effect of supernatural forces on the human condition. On the basis of the Euripidean evidence, one might ask whether this use is a unicum in Greek literary texts, and how its presence can be reconciled with the assumed scarce propensity of Ancient Greek towards this construction type. In our view, valuable insights into these questions are offered by the notion of ‘proleptic’ use of adjectives, as seen in descriptive grammars of Ancient Greek.13 Cf. the following statement: In der Dichtersprache, besonders in der dramatischen, seltener in der Prosa, wird das Adjektiv oft in proleptischer Bedeutung gebraucht, indem dasselbe ein Attribut ausdrückt,

 11 For further philological details, cf. Benedetti 2021. 12 The echo of Euripides in Plato’s passage is undoubtable, as emerges from the wider context. Explicit references to Euripides’ proverbial expression are also in Plutarch, who also uses the verb ποιέω (cf. Benedetti 2021). 13 Cf. also Gonda 1958, with evidence from other ancient Indo-European languages.

Syntactic Markedness and Stylistic Refinement  

welches an dem Substantive noch nicht haftet, sondern erst durch das Verb des Satzes oder durch ein Satzglied hervorgerufen wird. (Kühner/Gerth 1898, 276)14

As will be argued in the following, instances of the so-called ‘proleptic’ use of adjectives display properties today usually ascribed to resultative secondary predications.

 Evidence for resultative secondary predication in Ancient Greek Let us start by considering the following passages, which are selected from the sample of ‘proleptic’ constructions included in Ancient Greek descriptive grammars.15 15) αὐτὰρ ἐπεὶ δὴ κυκλοτερὲς μέγα τόξον ἔτεινε

Hom. Il. 4.124

But when he had stretched his bow [so as to make it] round 16) ἐν Φθίαι σ’ ἐγὼ | θρέψω μέγαν τοῖσδ’ ἐχθρόν. Eur. Andr. 723–724 In Phthia I shall bring you up [so as to make you] the enemy of these people. 17) [...] ὅθ᾽ ᾕρει τῶνδ᾽ ἀνάστατον δορὶ | χώραν γυναικῶν ὧν ὁρᾷς ἐν ὄμμασιν. Soph. Trach. 240–241 Since he had conquered and devastated the land (lit.: ‘conquered the devastated land’) of these women whom you see with your own eyes. 18) [τὸ γῆρας] βλεφάρων σκοτεινὸν φάος ἐπικαλύψαν. Eur. HF 637–641 [old age] covering the light of my eyes [so as to make it] dark.

 14 Cf., also, in a similar perspective, Schwyzer/Debrunner 1988 (1950), 181: “Eine besondere Anwendung der verbalappositiven Adjektivs ist dessen proleptischer (antizipativer) Gebrauch, wobei das Adjektiv nicht eine vom Wesen des Beziehungsworts untrennlich, sonder eine erst durch die Verbalhandlung entstehende, meist vorübergehende Qualität bezeichnet”. 15 Cf. Kühner/Gerth 1898; Schwyzer/Debrunner 1988 (1950); Moorhouse 1982.

  Marina Benedetti and Carla Bruno 19) ἐγὼ γὰρ ὀμμάτων ἀποστρόφους | αὐγὰς ἀπείρξω σὴν πρόσοψιν εἰσιδεῖν.

Soph. Aj. 69–70

I shall keep away the rays of his eyes [so as to make them] distorted and prevent them from seeing you.16

The comparison with transitive resultative constructions is in the first place grounded on the common ‘resultative’ interpretation of the non-verbal (nominal) predicate, which is controlled by the direct object. This is unanimously acclaimed as the feature defining the ‘proleptic’ use (as contrasted to other uses) of nominal predicates. The label ‘proleptic’ itself suggests that the nominal predicate here expresses — ‘anticipating’ them — the effects of the action denoted by the main predicate on one of its participants (in the cases at issue, the direct object).17 This applies to all the cases in (15)–(19), where κυκλοτερές, μέγαν ἐχθρόν, ἀνάστατον, σκοτεινόν and ἀποστρόφους respectively describe a property or a condition that is regularly understood as “the end result of the action, which is therefore anticipated” (Moorhouse 1982, 167). Such an ‘anticipation’ correlates to a higher syntactic complexity of these structures, since these verbal predicates do not belong to the class commonly admitting predicative complements (such as, for instance, verbs of thinking or calling). This complexity is reflected in paraphrases offered by modern commentators to the individual passages, where the nominal predicate is sometimes assimilated to an ‘elliptical’ consecutive clause: in (19), for instance, σκοτεινόν would correspond to “ὥστε σκοτεινὸν εἶναι” (cf. Witzschel 1838, 645).18 The supposed ‘ellipsis’ is an interpretative effect of the syntactic and semantic compactness of this construction type. The rephrasing through a consecutive clause makes the relation between verbal and non-verbal predicate explicit, by overtly separating the two predicative domains. Furthermore, a causative implication — typical of resultatives — characterizes also (15)–(19): besides the thematic interpretation imposed by each verbal predicate (and varying according to the verb lexeme), the clausal subject also acquires an interpretation as Causer of the state described by the nominal predicate.  16 For the emphasis generally ascribed by commentators to the pattern, cf. for instance Schneidewin/Nauck 1877: “ἀποστρόφους fasst prädikativisch das Resultat des αὐγὰς ὀμμάτων ἀπεῖρξαι, zur Steigerung des Begriffes μὴ εἰσιδεῖν zusammen”. 17 Cf. also Gonda 1958, 1, who discusses the ambiguity of this label, which is also employed for variation in the word order. 18 Similarly, in Porson/Richarson 1829 the expression παῖδας ἐκδιδάσκεσθαι σοφούς ‘children educated clever’ (Eur. Med. 295, see (24) further in § 3) is rephrased as παῖδας ἐκδιδάσκεσθαι (ὥστε εἶναι) σοφούς.

Syntactic Markedness and Stylistic Refinement  

This can be illustrated by comparing these structures with ποιέω-causatives. For instance, the passages in (15) and (17) above can be easily contrasted with (20) and (21) respectively. 20) ἀλλ’ ἀσπίδος τρόπον [τὰ πλοῖα] κυκλοτερέα ποιήσαντες Hdt. 1.194 making [the boat] rounded like a shield 21) ἀνάστατα ἐποίησαν τὰ ταύτῃ χωρία

Thuc. 8.24

they made the land there devastated

The lexical identity in the nominal predicates (κυκλοτερής in both 15 and 20, ἀνάστατος in both 17 and 21) makes the different nature of the verbal predicates involved immediately evident. In (20) and (21), ποιέω identifies the clause subject as the Causer of the resulting state; the way this result is achieved is left unexpressed. The passages in (15) and (17), by contrast, depict richer scenarios: they not only identify the clausal subject as the Causer of the resulting state, but also specify the way this result is achieved, through the lexical information embodied by the verbal predicate. As illustrated by the English examples in (7a-b) above, the paraphrastic correlation between resultatives and causatives can be improved by the implementation of an adverbial manner adjunct (such as the by-clause in 7b). The same applies also to the kind of ‘proleptic’ structures illustrated above: for example, the Sophoclean expression in (17) — ᾕρει ἀνάστατον χώραν — could find a possible rephrasing in contexts such as (22), from the later prose of Diodorus Siculus, where a ποιέω-causative is ‘expandend’ by means of the subject-oriented participle ἑλών, which (unlike 17) encodes Manner separately. 22) καὶ τὴν μὲν Ἡράκλειαν τὴν ἐν Τραχινίᾳ διὰ προδοσίας ἑλὼν ἀνάστατον ἐποίησε D.S. 15.57.2 And [Jason] took Heracleia in Trachinia by treachery and laid it waste (lit. ‘having taken [...] laid it waste’)

Also, ancient interpreters occasionally provide paraphrastic reformulations with ‘expanded’ causatives, which come very close to those suggested in the literature on modern languages.

  Marina Benedetti and Carla Bruno This is the case of the Homeric passage in (15), where the action of stretching the bow (τόξον τείνειν, cf. Aesch. Ag. 364) is described as having the consequence of making it κυκλοτερής ‘stressed into a circle’. The Homeric text was evidently perceived as difficult, unusual, not immediately transparent, and this not in view of its lexical choices but in view of its syntactic configuration, where different predications are conflated together: μέγα τόξον ἔτεινε and ἐποίει μέγα τόξον κυκλοτερές. According to a scholiast, κυκλοτερὲς ἔτεινεν would be used ἀντὶ τοῦ ‘instead of’ τείνας κυκλοτερὲς ἐποίησε: the causative implication is made explicit through ποιέω, while the lexical component of ἔτεινε is expressed through the adverbial participle τείνας: 23) ἀντὶ τοῦ τείνας κυκλοτερὲς ἐποίησε. sch. 124a2, cf. Erbse 1969, 470 instead of τείνας κυκλοτερὲς ἐποίησε.

The correlation between the prolepsis of the adjective κυκλοτερές and a ποιέωcausative implemented by a manner adjunct is thus confirmed by the judgment of an ancient reader of Homer.19 Also, the ‘optional’ status of the nominal ‘proleptic’ predicate — which is “added optionally […] to a construction which is semantically and syntactically complete without it” (Moorhouse 1982, 167) finds a strict parallel with resultatives and can be similarly explained (cf. § 1). In the ‘proleptic’ type, the clausal object belongs to the thematic grid of the verbal predicate; hence it may occur independently of the presence of a nominal predicate. This can be omitted without disrupting the entire structure, albeit with loss of informative content: κυκλοτερὲς μέγα τόξον ἔτεινε (cf. 15) entails μέγα τόξον ἔτεινε. The same cannot be said for the causative ποιέω-type; here, the clause object is not assigned a thematic role by the verbal predicate, but only by the nominal one; hence, the latter cannot be omitted without disrupting the entire structure: [τὰ πλοῖα] κυκλοτερέα ποιήσαντες (cf. 20) does not entail [τὰ πλοῖα] ποιήσαντες.20

 19 On the same passage, see also sch. 124a1 (cf. Erbse 1969, 470), which suggests rephrasing ἔτεινε κυκλοτερὲς as τείνας ἐκύκλωσεν ‘by stressing it rounded it’, providing a further — different — representation of the single components involved by the same event structure. Here, compared to the proleptic contexts, it is the result component that is merged into the main predicate, while Manner has a satellite encoding. 20 For a more detailed argumentation, see Bruno 2013 and Benedetti/Bruno 2022.

Syntactic Markedness and Stylistic Refinement  

Summing up, the ‘proleptic’ use of nouns and adjectives, in transitive constructions, is characterized by the co-occurrence of the following features: a. co-occurrence of a verbal and a nominal predicate, converging on the clause direct object; b. resultative reading of the nominal predicate; c. causative implication; d. syntactic autonomy of the construction even in absence of the nominal predicate. As shown above, all of them correspond to the features defining the class of transitive resultative predications.

 Resultative secondary predications in Ancient Greek between syntax and lexicon As usually observed in the literature, the ‘proleptic’ pattern is typical of the language of poetry, especially of tragedy (cf., among others, Kühner/Gerth 1898, 276, quoted in § 1). In particular, evidence is provided by the passages taken from grammars of specific semantic and lexical domains recurring across this corpus. The field of teaching and education is particularly well represented. The three Euripidean passages quoted in (10)−(12) are a remarkably homogeneous set, in view of the gnomic wisdom expressed, and of the peculiar sense assumed by διδάσκω, here describing the ‘educational’ power of the metaphysical forces determining human destiny. Also (24)−(27) below can be traced back to the same conceptual domain. In (24)−(25), the forms of διδάσκω occur in a more common sense (referred to the education of children), while in (26) and (27) the verbal predicate is παιδεύω. In (24), in Medea’s words, the pattern occurs again (as in 10−12) in the enunciation of a general truth, while (25) is one of the rare occurrences of the prolepsis in prose (meaningfully in Plato, who in 13 moves from another Euripidean proleptic structure, rephrasing it). In (26) and (27),21 it is the theme of education in evil that appears again, as (11) above with διδάσκω.

 21 Here, again, in a gnomic context.

  Marina Benedetti and Carla Bruno 24) χρὴ δ᾿ οὔποθ᾿ ὅστις ἀρτίφρων πέφυκ᾿ ἀνὴρ | παῖδας περισσῶς ἐκδιδάσκεσθαι σοφούς Eur. Med. 294−295 No man who is sensible ought ever to have his children educated [to become] excessively clever22 (i.e. ‘to have his children made excessively clever through education’) 25) ἢ οὐκ ἀκήκοας ὅτι Θεμιστοκλῆς Κλεόφαντον τὸν υἱὸν ἱππέα ἐδιδάξατο ἀγαθόν; Pl. Men. 93d Have you never heard how Themistocles had his son Cleophantus taught [to become] a good horseman? 26) καίτοι σε Θῆβαί γ᾿ οὐκ ἐπαίδευσαν κακόν

Soph. OC 919

Yet the Thebans did not train you [to become] evil 27) οἷς γὰρ ἡ γνώμη κακῶν | μήτηρ γένηται, κἄλλα παιδεύει κακούς. Soph. Ph. 1360−1361 For when the mind of men has once mothered wrongdoing, it trains those men to be wrongdoers in all else thereafter. (transl. R. Jebb)

Also, the description of the effects of age and the changes induced by it offers a suitable domain for ‘proleptic’ constructions. The Euripidean passage in (18) above, where old age covering (ἐπικαλύψαν) the light of the eyes (βλεφάρων φάος) makes it dark (σκοτεινόν),23 can be contrasted with the Pindaric picture of the growing of the first beard covering (ἔρεφον) a boyish chin (γένειον) and making it dark (μέλαν) in (28).24

 22 Middle inflected (ἐκ)διδάσκεσθαι means ‘to have someone educated’, as commonly acknowledged by dictionaries (e.g. LSJ, s.v.). 23 The contrast of light and shade is another recurrent theme in Greek poetry, here emphasized by the oxymoronic association between φάος ‘light’ and σκοτεινός ‘dark’ in this elaborated expression, within a choral passage. 24 The individual thematic threads can be also differently interwoven. For instance, the idea of covering recurs also in Eur. HF 1070 (ἀπόκρυφον δέμας […] κρύψω ‘I shall hide myself hidden beneath the roof’, with the figura etymologica ἀπόκρυφον - κρύψω) and, expanding our corpus to include intransitive structures, cf. Eur. Alc. 385 on the loss of vision, which goes dark (σκοτεινὸν ὄμμα [...] βαρύνεται ‘my sight is dimmed with darkness’, transl. D. Kovacs).

Syntactic Markedness and Stylistic Refinement  

28) λάχναι νιν μέλαν γένειον ἔρεφον

Pi. Ol. 1.68

when downy hair began covering his chin [making it] dark.

Furthermore, in tragedy, another clearly homogeneous set of resultative constructions occurs in the description of peculiar ways of moving the eyes, with the effect of making them diverted or distorted. The passages in (28) and (29), with διάστροφος as ‘proleptic’, are very close to (19) quoted above, where ἀπόστροφος (only differing in the prefix) occurs. 29) τότ’ ἐκ προσέδρου λιγνύος διάστροφον | ὀφθαλμὸν ἄρας εἶδέ μ’ ἐν πολλῷ στρατῷ Soph. Trach. 794–795 Then lifting his eyes [so as to make them] diverted from the smoke that clung about him, he saw me weeping in the middle of the throng 30) ἡ δ’ ἀφρὸν ἐξιεῖσα καὶ διαστρόφους | κόρας ἑλίσσουσ’, οὐ φρονοῦσ’ ἃ χρὴ φρονεῖν,| ἐκ Βακχίου κατείχετ’, οὐδ’ ἔπειθέ νιν. Eur. Bacch. 1122–1124 But she, with foaming lips and eyes that rolled wildly, and reckless madness-clouded soul, possessed of Bacchus, gave no heed to him.

Also the passage in (16) is not isolated: it finds a close parallel in the Homeric excerpt in (31) and in a comparable construction in (32), taken from Plato’s Republic, where τρέφειν is associated with αὔξειν, whose forms too are involved in a rich class of proleptic constructions, such as (33) and (34): 31) μέγα γάρ μιν Ὀλύμπιος ἔτρεφε πῆμα | Τρωσί τε καὶ Πριάμῳ μεγαλήτορι τοῖό τε παισίν. Hom. Il. 6.282 For the Olympian has reared him as a great bane to the Trojans and great-hearted Priam, and to the sons of Priam. 32) οὐκοῦν ἕνα τινὰ ἀεὶ δῆμος εἴωθεν διαφερόντως προΐστασθαι ἑαυτοῦ, καὶ τοῦτον τρέφειν τε καὶ αὔξειν μέγαν; Pl. Resp. 565c And doesn’t this mean that the people habitually appoint someone outstanding to take charge of them, nurturing him and making him great (lit. ‘increase him [to make him] great’)?

  Marina Benedetti and Carla Bruno 33) ἀνδρὶ δὲ κεκμηῶτι μένος μέγα οἶνος ἀέξει

Hom. Il. 6.261

When a man is weary with toil, wine greatly increases his force 34) ἐν ἀνδράσι δ᾽ αὖ | κόσμος ἐνὼν ὁ μυριοπλη- | θὴς μείζω πόλιν αὔξει.

Eur. I.A. 570−572

while among men, when good order in its fullness is present, it makes the city greater (lit. ‘increases the city [to make it] great’).25

According to the dense network of — semantic as formal — connections between the passages, analogical factors appear to contribute to the spread of the proleptic use.

 Some concluding remarks As shown in the preceding discussion, a class of constructions involving, besides a verbal predicate, a nominal one controlled by the clause object — and labeled, according to a well-established philological tradition, as ‘proleptic’ — share crucial properties with resultative secondary predications, as identified in various modern languages. Semantically, the nominal predicate and the verbal predicates represent two (sub-)events related by a causal implication, so that the nominal predicate expresses a resultant state of the event instantiated by the verb. This finds a correlate in paraphrases — e.g. with ποιέω — revealing the causative implication concealed in the ‘proleptic’/resultative patterns. Occasionally, due to lucky chance, these paraphrases are supported by textual evidence, either directly (such as in Plato’s comments on Euripides — cf. 12 and 13 above — or in the Homeric scholion in 23) or indirectly (in the case of phraseological matches, as that between 10 and 14, or between 17 and 22). Structures with ‘proleptic’ adjectives are semantically and syntactically dense, as results also from the attempts of ancient and modern commentators to disentangle the complex interaction between the two predicative domains (cf. section 2).

 25 Cf. also the intransitive counterpart, with middle inflected αὔξεται, in Aesch. Supp. 338 (σθένος μὲν οὕτως μεῖζον αὔξεται ‘in this way strength increases greater’).

Syntactic Markedness and Stylistic Refinement  

Our analysis has shown that unlike what generally assumed resultative secondary predications were available in Ancient Greek. The passages above provide evidence not only of the so-called ‘weak’ type (generally assumed to be crosslinguistically more widespread), but also of the less common ‘strong’ type (cf. n. 9). A passage such as (32), for instance, can be easily traced back to the ‘weak’ type: in view of the semantic component shared by the verbal and nominal predicates, μέγας ‘big’ represents a highly predictable option after αὔξω ‘increase’. By contrast, a passage like (10), where no similar relation can be established between κακός and διδάσκω, instantiates the ‘strong’ type. The seeming contradiction between the assumed scarce propensity of Ancient Greek for resultatives and the data here discussed is explicable by deeper reflection on their use. Specific restrictions and preferences emerge in the evidence here provided, involving stylistics on the one hand and lexicon and semantics on the other. In fact, as far as we can see, this construction is essentially confined to poetry, especially tragedy, where it is distinctive of a highly elaborated style. Moreover, its productivity appears to be sensitive to lexical and semantic features, so that some thematic leitmotifs can be detected, linking different occurrences (e.g. the effects of teaching, of getting older, of moving the eyes, etc.; cf. section 3). Poetry offers fertile ground for the actualization of a potentiality on the margins of the language system, thus enhancing the linguistic repertoire of Ancient Greek.

References Beavers, J. (2012), “Resultative constructions”, in: R.I. Binnick (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Tense and Aspect, Oxford, 908–933. Benedetti, M. (2021), “‘Love teaches’: Echoes of a fragment from Euripides”, in: G.K. Giannakis et al. (eds.), Synchrony and Diachrony of Ancient Greek: Language, Linguistics and Philology (Trends in Classics Supplementary Volumes 112), Berlin/Boston, 397–402. Benedetti, M./Bruno, C. (2022), “Risultativi in greco antico? Spunti su διδάσκω”, Studi e Saggi Linguistici 60, 9–27. Bittner, M. (1999), “Concealed causatives”, Natural Language Semantics 7, 1–78. Boas, H.C. (2003), A Constructional Approach to Resultatives, Chicago. Bruno, C. (2013), “Gr. ποιέω: note di sintassi”, in: L. Lorenzetti/M. Mancini (eds.), Le lingue del Mediterraneo antico. Culture, mutamenti, contatti, Rome, 69–82. Carrier, J./Randall, J.H. (1992), “The argument structure and syntactic structure of resultatives”, Linguistic Inquiry 23, 173–234. Casaretto, A. (2020), “On secondary predicates in Vedic Sanskrit. Syntax and semantics”, International Journal of Diachronic Linguistics and Linguistic Reconstruction 17, 1–63.

  Marina Benedetti and Carla Bruno Croft, W. et al. (2010), “Revising Talmy’s typological classification of complex event constructions”, in: H. Boas (ed.), Contrastive Studies in Construction Grammar, Amsterdam/Philadelphia, 201–236. Erbse, H. (ed.) (1969), Scholia Graeca in Homeri Iliadem (Scholia Vetera). Vol. I: Praefationem et Scholia ad Libros Α–D Continens, Berlin. Goldberg, A.E. (1995), Constructions. A Construction Grammar Approach to Argument Structure, Chicago/London. Goldberg, A.E./Jackendoff, R. (2004), “The English resultative as a family of constructions”, Language 80, 532–568. Gonda, J. (1958), “Prolepsis of the adjective in Greek and other ancient Indo-European languages”, Mnemosyne 11, 1–19. Hale, K./Keyser, S.J. (1993), “On argument structure and the lexical expression of syntactic relations”, in: K. Hale/S.J. Keyser (eds.), The View from Building 20: Essays in Linguistics in Honor of Sylvain Bromberger, Cambridge, MA, 55–110. Halliday, M.A.K. (1967), “Notes on transitivity and theme in English, Part 1”, Journal of Linguistics 3, 37–81. Himmelmann, N.P./Schultze-Berndt, E. (2005), Secondary Predication and Adverbial Modification, Oxford. Hoekstra, T. (1988), “Small clause results”, Lingua 74, 101–139. Horrocks, G./Stavrou, M. (2003), “Actions and their results in Greek and English: The complementarity of morphologically encoded (viewpoint) aspect and syntactic resultative predication”, Journal of Semantics 20, 297–327. Jespersen, O. (1909–1949), A Modern English Grammar on Historical Principles. Part V. Syntax (vol. IV), Copenhagen. Kaufmann, I./Wunderlich, D. (1998), Cross-linguistic Patterns of Resultatives, Ms., Düsseldorf. Kühner, W.R./Gerth, B. (1898), Ausführliche Grammatik der griechischen Sprache3, II.2, Hannover/Leipzig. Levin, B. (2020), “Resultatives and constraints on concealed causatives”, in: E.A. Bar-Asher Siegal/N. Boneh (eds.), Perspectives on Causation, Cham, Switzerland, 185–217. Moorhouse, A.C. (1982), The Syntax of Sophocles, Leiden. Porson, R. (1829), The Medea of Euripides, from the Text, and with a Translation of the Notes of Porson. Critical and explanatory remarks by the Rev. J(ohn) R(ichardson) Major, London. Rappaport Hovav, M./Levin, B. (2001), “An event structure account of English resultatives”, Language 77, 766–797. Rapoport, T.R. (1993), “Stage and adjunct predicates: Licensing and structure in secondary predication constructions”, in: E. Reuland/W. Abraham (eds.), Knowledge and Language, Vol. II, Lexical and Conceptual Structure, Dordrecht/Boston/London, 157–182. Rapoport, T.R. (2019), “Secondary predication”, in: R. Truswell (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Event Structure, Oxford, 426–455. Riaubienė, B. (2016), “Secondary predication in the Baltic languages: A preliminary overview”, Valoda: nozīme un forma 7, 165–188. Richter, M./Van Hout, R. (2010), “Why some verbs can form a resultative construction while others cannot: Decomposing semantic binding”, Lingua 120, 2006–2021. Romagno, D. (2020), “Strong resultative constructions in Romance between usage and norm: Evidence from Northern Calabria”, Belgian Journal of Linguistics 34, 294–304. Rothstein, S. (2017), “Secondary predication”, in: M. Everaert/H.C. van Riemsdijk (eds.), The Blackwell Companion to Syntax, Volume IV, Malden/Oxford/Victoria, 209–233.

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Schneidewin, F.W./Nauck, A. (eds.) (1877), Sophokles. Erklärt von F. W. Schneidewin und A. Nauck, Erstes Bändchen, Berlin. Schultze-Berndt, E./Himmelmann, N.P. (2004), “Depictive secondary predicates in crosslinguistic perspective”, Linguistic Typology 8, 59–131. Schwyzer, E./Debrunner, A. ([1950] 1988), Griechische Grammatik, Zweiter Band, Syntax und syntaktische Stilistik, Munich. Snyder, W. (2001), “On the nature of syntactic variation: Evidence from complex predicates and complex word-formation”, Language 77, 324–342. Talmy, L. (1985), “Lexicalization patterns: Semantic structure in lexical forms”, in: T. Shopen (ed.), Language Typology and Syntactic Description, Cambridge, 36–149. Talmy, L. (1991), “Path to realization: A typology of event conflation”, in: L. Sutton et al. (eds.), Proceedings of the Seventeenth Annual Meeting of the Berkeley Linguistics Society: General Session and Parasession on The Grammar of Event Structure, Berkeley, 480–519. Washio, R. (1997), “Resultatives, compositionality and language variation”, Journal of East Asian Linguistics 6, 1–49. Witzschel, A. (1838), “Quaestiones Euripideae”, Zeitschrift für die Altertumswissenschaft 79, 641–647.

Mark Janse

Girl, Υou’ll Be a Woman Soon: Grammatical Versus Semantic Agreement of Greek Hybrid Nouns of the Mädchen Type Abstract: In this study I discuss cases in which grammatical agreement is overruled by semantic agreement, exemplified with Greek hybrid nouns of the Mädchen type. After a brief overview of non-canonical genders in Greek, i.e. common and epicene, I discuss the case of hybrid nouns, i.e. nouns whose agreement varies according to the agreement target in accordance with Corbett’s Agreement Hierarchy. Just like the German neuter diminutive noun Mädchen, its Greek equivalent κοράσιον, as well as other diminutives referring to girls such as θυγάτριον and παιδίον, show different agreement patterns according to three parameters: distance, age, and womanhood. The presentation includes a discussion of the age classes associated with other terms referring to girls, particularly παῖς and παρθένος and their Hebrew and Aramaic equivalents. The data are taken from New Testament and Septuagint Greek, but the conclusions are valid for other varieties of Greek as well. Keywords: agreement, common nouns, epicene nouns, gender, hybrid nouns, New Testament, Septuagint

 Gender in Greek Dionysius Thrax informs us that some further unspecified grammarians distinguished a ‘common’ (κοινόν) and an ‘epicene’ (ἐπίκοινον) gender in addition to the traditional ‘masculine’ (ἀρσενικόν), ‘feminine’ (θηλυκόν) and ‘neuter’ (οὐδέτερον) genders.1 Common and epicene nouns refer to animate beings, but whereas the former distinguish natural gender by grammatical agreement, the

 The title is taken from Neil Diamond’s hit single of the same name (from the album Just for You released in 1967 on Bang Records). It enjoyed a second life in Urge Overkill’s cover on the soundtrack of Quentin Tarantino’s 1994 film Pulp Fiction (featuring Uma Thurman in what is often considered to be the cult scene of the film).  1 G.G. I 1, 24–25 Uhlig. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111272887-011

  Mark Janse latter do not.2 Well-known examples of common nouns in Greek are παῖς (1) and θεός (2):3 1)

τὰ δ’ ἀμφὶ παιδὸς [C] τοῦδε [M] παῖς [C] ἐμὴ [F] κρινεῖ ἤν τε κτανεῖν νιν [C] ἤν τε μὴ κτανεῖν θέλῃ Menelaus to Andromache, Eur. Andr. 431–4324 As to this boy here, my daughter shall decide whether she wants to kill or not to kill him

2)

μήτε τις οὖν θήλεια [F] θεὸς [C] τό γε μήτε τις ἄρσην [M] # πειράτω Hermes to Calypso, Ηom. Il. 8.9–10 Let not any female god nor any male # try this

The agreement of τοῦδε with παιδός and ἐμή with παῖς in (1) and of θήλεια versus ἄρσην with θεός in (2) does not simply distinguish grammatical but also natural gender, perhaps even exclusively so. Examples of epicene nouns, which in Greek typically refer to animal, not human, beings, are ἀετός ‘eagle’ (3) versus γαλῆ ‘weasel’ (4): 3)

ὁ [M] δ’ ἀετὸς [M] ᾠὰ μὲν τίκτει τρία, ἐκλέπει δὲ τούτων τὰ δύο, ὥσπερ ἐστὶ καὶ ἐν τοῖς Μουσαίου λεγομένοις ἔπεσιν, « ὃς [M] τρία μὲν τίκτει, δύο δ’ ἐκλέπει, ἓν δ’ ἀλεγίζει » […] ἐκβάλλει δ’ αὐξανομένων τὸν ἕτερον τῶν νεοττῶν ἀχθόμενος [M] τῇ ἐδωδῇ Arist. Hist. an. 563a The eagle lays three eggs, but hatches only two of them, as is also said in the verses ascribed to Musaeus: “that lays three, hatches two and cares for one” … As they grow, she casts either of the young ones out, as she becomes weary of feeding them

4)

τῶν δ’ αἰδοίων διαφορὰ πολλή ἐστιν· τὰ μὲν γὰρ ἔχει χονδρῶδες τὸ αἰδοῖον καὶ σαρκῶδες, ὥσπερ ἄνθρωπος [M] […] τὰ δ’ ὀστώδη, ὥσπερ ἀλώπεκος [F] καὶ λύκου [M] καὶ ἴκτιδος [F] καὶ γαλῆς [F]· καὶ γὰρ ἡ [F] γαλῆ [F] ὀστοῦν ἔχει τὸ αἰδοῖον Arist. Hist. an. 500b

 2 Corbett 1991, 67. 3 The latter is, of course, also used as a masculine noun with θεά as its feminine counterpart, e.g. εἰρωτᾷς μ’ ἐλθόντα [M] θεὰ [F] θεόν [M]; ‘you question me upon my coming, a goddess to a god?’ (Hermes to Calypso, Hom. Od. 5.97). 4 παῖς ἐμή refers to Hermione, Menelaus’ daughter and Neoptolemus’ wedded wife, παιδὸς τοῦδε to Molussus, Andromache’s son with Neoptolemus. Compare παῖδα [C] δ’ ἐμὴ [F] παῖς [C] # τόνδ’ [M] Ἑρμιόνη [sc. ἀναιρεῖ] ‘my daughter Hermione [will kill] your son [Molossus]’ (Andr. 518–519).

Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon  

In the [male] organs there is great diversity; some have a gristly and fleshy organ, such as man … other organs are bony, such as those of the fox, the wolf, the marten and the weasel; for indeed, the weasel has a bone for an organ

The masculine gender of the female eagle in (3) does not prevent her from laying eggs, hatching them and feeding her young, nor does the feminine gender of the male weasel in (4) prevent him from having a bony penis. As a matter of fact, λύκος is the only masculine noun in (4), whereas ἀλώπηξ and ἴκτις are epicene feminine nouns like γαλῆ.5 There is, however, another gender not recognized by the ancient grammarians, i.e. the class of ‘hybrid’ nouns, defined by Corbett as “nouns which neither simply take the agreements of one consistent agreement pattern nor belong to two or more genders”.6 Elsewhere, Corbett defines hybrid nouns as nouns “whose agreement specification varies according to the agreement target”.7 The agreement specification is determined by the Agreement Hierarchy:8 5)

attributive > predicate > relative pronoun > personal pronoun grammatical agreement

←→

semantic agreement

The Agreement Hierarchy is explained as follows by Corbett: “For any controller that permits alternative agreements, as we move rightwards along the Agreement Hierarchy, the likelihood of agreement with greater semantic justification will increase monotonically” (2015, 193). Hybrid nouns are not mentioned as such in mainstream Greek grammars, but the phenomenon is well-known under the heading “constructio κατὰ σύνεσιν (ad sententiam)”,9 “construction according to the sense”,10 or simply “sense construction”.11 With reference to gender, it is typically described in the following terms: “The real, not the grammatical, gender often determines the agreement”.12 Kühner/Gerth give the following rather fanciful explanation:13  5 See Janse 2020, 26 f. for a more detailed discussion of epicene nouns in Ancient Greek, and Spathas/Yasutada 2020 for Modern Greek. Yasutada/Spathas 2020 use the term ‘epicene’ as a synonym for ‘common’ (on which see Corbett 1991, 67). 6 Corbett 1991, 183. 7 Corbett 2015, 191. 8 Corbett 1991, 226 = 2015, 193; cf. Widmer 2014, 75. 9 Kühner/Gerth 1898, 52 ff. 10 Smyth 1920, 271. 11 Van Emde Boas et al. 2019, 323. 12 Smyth 1920, 271; cf. Schwyzer/Debrunner 1950, 602; Goodwin 1900, 201. 13 Kühner/Gerth 1898, 52 f.

  Mark Janse Diese Konstruktion ist gleichsam aus dem Kampfe der Logik mit der Grammatik hervorgegangen, in welchem diese jener unterliegt. Der Gebrauch derselben ist wohl in keiner Sprache häufiger als in der Griechischen. Sie liegt tief begründet in dem Wesen des lebhaft empfindenden und denkenden Griechen, dessen freier Geist weniger die tote Form des Wortes als den lebendigen Inhalt der Form anschaute und erfasste. Durch keine Vorschriften der um Regelrichtigkeit ängstlich bemten Sprachlehre behindert, bildete sich der griechische Sprache aus dem vollen und frischen Leben der Rede und undter dem Einflusse der Dichter.

As far as the Agreement Hierarchy is concerned, it should be noted that semantic agreement of attributive modifiers is generally considered to be limited to poetry.14 In example (6), τέκνον shows both grammatical and semantic agreement:15 6)

Ἕκτορ, τέκνον [N] ἐμόν [N], τάδε τ’ αἴδεο καί μ’ ἐλέησον … τῶν μνῆσαι, φίλε [M] τέκνον [N], ἄμυνε δὲ δήϊον ἄνδρα Hecabe to Hector, Hom. Il. 22.82–84 Hector, my child, respect this and pity me … remember those things, dear child, and ward off the cruel man

Examples (7) and (8) exhibit semantic agreement of both attributive and predicative modifiers: 7)

ὦ φίλτατ’ [M], ὦ περισσὰ τιμηθεὶς [M] τέκνον [N], θανῇ πρὸς ἐχθρῶν μητέρ’ ἀθλίαν λιπών [M] Andromache to Astyanax, Eur. Tro. 740–741 O dearest, o most highly honored child, you will die at the hands of enemies, leaving your poor mother behind

8)

κείσῃ δή, τέκνον [N] ὦ φίλος [M] … νεκρὸς [M] ὑπὸ χθονὶ σὺν νεκρῷ

Andromache to Molossus, Eur. Andr. 510–512

 14 Kühner/Gerth 1898, 53; Gildersleeve 1911, 203; Schwyzer/Debrunner 1950, 602 f. The following, very rare, example from a documentary papyrus is therefore noteworthy: γλυκύτατε(*) [M] τέκνον [N] (PCR 25.22). This particular example is not mentioned by Mayser and very different from the other examples quoted by him under the heading Inkongruenz zwischen Substantiv und Attribut 1934, 21 ff. 15 Formulaic and probably determined by metrical considerations: φίλε τέκνον is used before the masculine caesura (Il. 22.84, Od. 2.363, 3.184, 15.509), τέκνον φίλον before the bucolic diaeresis (Od. 15.125, 23.26).

Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon  

In fact you will lie, my dear child … dead below the ground with [your] dead [mother]

Semantic agreement of predicative modifiers is not limited to poetry. In addition to the participle λιπών in (7) and the adjective νεκρός in (8), the following example is noteworthy because of the semantic agreement of the reciprocal pronoun ἀλλήλους and the participle διαλεγόμενοι with τὰ μειράκια τάδε: 9)

τὰ [N] γὰρ μειράκια [N] τάδε [N] πρὸς ἀλλήλους [Μ] οἴκοι διαλεγόμενοι [Μ] θαμὰ ἐπιμέμνηνται Σωκράτους Lysimachus to Socrates, Nicias and Laches, Pl. La. 180e For these boys, when talking to each other at home, frequently mention Socrates

Semantic agreement of pronouns is “ungemein häufig” according to Kühner/ Gerth,16 but the examples quoted all exhibit agreement in number rather than gender. Relative pronouns are singled out and here we are presented with a number of examples of agreement in gender:17 10) κλῦθί μοι, αἰγιόχοιο Διὸς τέκος [N], ἥ [F] τέ μοι αἰεί # ἐν πάντεσσι πόνοισι παρίστασαι Odysseus to Athena, Hom. Il. 10.278–279 Hear me, child of aegis-bearing Zeus, you who always # stand by me in all manner of toils 11) τὴν ἐμὴν ἐρημίαν # γνόντες τέκνου [N] τε τοῦδ’ [Μ/N], ὃν [Μ] οὐδὲν αἴτιον [Μ/N] # μέλλουσι […] κτενεῖν Andromache to Peleus with reference to Molossus, Εur. Andr. 569–570 Because they knew my weakness # and that of this child here, whom they are about to kill, even though he is guilty of nothing

In his excellent survey of agreement, Widmer notes: “The likelihood of semantic agreement for any kind of agreement type increases with the syntactic distance between the controller and the target”,18 an observation already made by Kühner/ Gerth, who distinguish modifiers “in unmittelbarer attributiver Beziehung” from those “in entfernterer attributiver Beziehung”,19 the former corresponding with ‘attributive’, the latter with ‘predicate’ in Corbett’s Agreement Hierarchy (5).  16 Kühner/Gerth 1898, 54. 17 Kühner/Gerth 1898, 55; cf. Schzywer/Debrunner 1950, 603. 18 Widmer 2014, 75. 19 Kühner/Gerth 1898, 53, italics mine.

  Mark Janse An explanation in terms of ‘distance’, however, overlooks a number of other parameters which have proven to be relevant in the assignment of semantic rather than grammatical agreement. Corbett discusses the case of German Mädchen as a “frequently quoted example of a hybrid noun”.20 Being a neuter diminutive, all of its agreement targets are obligatorily neuter except the personal pronoun, which allows a choice between neuter and feminine.21 The same holds for Dutch as well, as can be seen in the following examples quoted by Kraai-kamp:22 12a) Dat [N] meisje [N] dat [N] daar staat ken ik. Het [F] zit bij mij op school. 12b) Dat [N] meisje [N] dat [N] daar staat ken ik. Ze [F] zit bij mij op school. 12c) Dat [N] meisje [N] die [C] daar staat ken ik. Ze [F] zit bij mij op school. That girl who is standing there I know. She is in my school.

Corbett notes “a further point of interest”: “the older the girl in question, the more likely the feminine becomes (and conversely the neuter)”.23 Following up on this suggestion, Braun/Haig show that the choice depends on the “semantics of age”,24 as well as on the “semantics of femaleness”.25 They conclude that biological gender is perceived “as more relevant for adults than for children” and that “a natural boundary, that of puberty, appears to be relevant in the statistical distribution of feminine and neuter forms”: feminine forms are favored when the Mädchen is eighteen as opposed to twelve-years old.26 The relevance of the ‘semantics of age’ parameter is obvious in the case of adults who are addressed as τέκνον, as in the case of Hector in (6), and even more so in the case of immortals like Athena in (10). The ‘semantics of womanhood’, as I prefer to call it, which in the case of German Mädchen has to do with sexual maturity and, in many societies, nubility, will be discussed in the following section with reference to New Testament and Septuagint Greek. The question as to whether there is also a ‘semantics of manhood’ in the case of examples (9) and (11) will be discussed elsewhere.27  20 Corbett 1991, 183; cf. Corbett 2015, 194. 21 Corbett 1991, 228. 22 Kraaikamp 2017, 82 f. 23 Corbett 1991, 228. 24 Braun/Haig 2010, 70. 25 Braun/Haig 2010, 82. 26 Braun/Haig 2010, 82. 27 Janse, in preparation a–c.

Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon  

 Greek hybrid nouns of the Mädchen type The Greek equivalents of German Mädchen to be examined here are the neuter diminutives κόριον and κοράσιον as well as παιδίον and θυγάτριον. By way of introduction, I start with an example from Plutarch, i.c. Aemilius Paulus’ θυγάτριον, who is immediately identified as τὴν Τερτίαν, which naturally triggers feminine agreement in the following participles and pronouns, even though she is explicitly said to be ‘still a παιδίον’: 13) λέγεται δ’ αὐτόν […] εὑρεῖν τὸ [N] θυγάτριον [N] τὴν [F] Τερτίαν [F] δεδακρυμένην [F], ἔτι παιδίον [N] οὖσαν [F]· ἀσπαζόμενον οὖν αὐτὴν [F] ἐρωτᾶν ἐφ’ ὅτῳ λελύπηται· τὴν [F] δὲ περιβαλοῦσαν [F] καὶ καταφιλοῦσαν [F] […] εἰπεῖν […] And it is said that he [sc. Aemilius Paulus] found his little daughter Tertia, who was still a little child, crying, and that he, taking her into his arms, asked her why she was grieved, and that she, embracing and kissing him, said […] (Plut. Aem. 10.3–4).

This is obviously not an example of semantic agreement, as all the attributive and predicative modifiers clearly agree grammatically with the feminine proper noun τὴν Τερτίαν and not with the preceding neuter diminutive τὸ θυγάτριον. In the next two sections I discuss cases where the agreement varies between grammatical and semantic according to the grammatical category of the target.

. New Testament Greek The first example of such variation can be found in Mark’s version of the miraculous resurrection of the daughter of the synagogue leader Jairus,28 who introduces her to Jesus as follows: 14) τὸ [N] θυγάτριόν [N] μου ἐσχάτως ἔχει, ἵνα ἐλθὼν ἐπιθῇς τὰς χεῖρας αὐτῇ [F] ἵνα σωθῇ καὶ ζήσῃ Jairus to Jesus, Ev.Marc. 5.23 My little daughter is at the point of death, so please come and lay your hands on her so that she may be saved from death and live’

Jairus’ daughter is here identified as τὸ θυγάτριόν μου, but in the subordinate ἵνα-clause she is referred back to by the feminine personal pronoun αὐτῇ instead  28 Ev.Marc. 5.21–43.

  Mark Janse of the neuter αὐτῷ. Obviously, the syntactic distance between the controller θυγάτριον and the target αὐτῇ is great enough to allow for semantic agreement, but at this point it is not yet clear whether the age of Jairus’ daughter is relevant as well. The narrative is interrupted by the miraculous cure of a woman with hemorrage.29 When Jairus is told that his daughter, now referred to as θυγάτηρ,30 has died in the meantime, the story continues as follows: 15a) τὸ [N] παιδίον [N] οὐκ ἀπέθανεν ἀλλὰ καθεύδει […] Jesus to the crowd outside Jairus’ house, Ev.Marc. 5.39 The child is not dead but asleep […] 15b) παραλαμβάνει τὸν πατέρα τοῦ [N] παιδίου [N] […] καὶ εἰσπορεύεται ὅπου ἦν τὸ [N] παιδίον [N] Ev.Marc. 5.40 He takes the father of the child with him […] and enters the room where the child was 15c) καὶ κρατήσας τῆς χειρὸς τοῦ [Ν] παιδίου [N] λέγει αὐτῇ [F]· And taking the hand of the child and he says to her: (15d) τὸ [N] κοράσιον [N], σοὶ λέγω, ἔγειρε!

Jesus to Jairus’ daughter, Ev.Marc. 5.41

Little girl, I say to you, wake up! 15e) καὶ εὐθὺς ἀνέστη τὸ [N] κοράσιον [N] καὶ περιπάτει· ἦν γὰρ ἐτῶν δώδεκα […] καὶ εἶπεν δοθῆναι αὐτῇ [F] φαγεῖν Ev.Marc. 5.42–43 And immediately the little girl stood up and began to walk around (she was twelve years old) […] and he told [them] to have something given to eat to her

Here we find two other neuter diminutives, παιδίον and κοράσιον, both of which are referred back to by the feminine personal pronoun αὐτῇ in (15c) and (15e) respectively. Especially with reference to the former, the syntactic distance between τοῦ παιδίου and αὐτῇ is minimal, i.c. one word (λέγει). Compare

 29 Ev.Marc. 5.25–34. 30 Ev.Marc. 5.35.

Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon  

Matthew’s version in which the feminine personal pronoun αὐτῆς refers back (and forward) to κοράσιον: 16a) οὐ γὰρ ἀπέθανεν τὸ [N] κοράσιον [N] ἀλλὰ καθεύδει Jesus to the crowd outside Jairus’ house, Εv.Matt. 9.24 The girl is not dead but asleep 16b) ἐκράτησεν τῆς χειρὸς αὐτῆς [F] καὶ ἠγέρθη τὸ [N] κοράσιον [N] Εv.Matt. 9.25 He took her hand and the girl arose

In Mark’s version, a relevant piece of information is added in the subsidiary γάρclause (15e): the girl is twelve years old. This clause has been the subject of much discussion, conveniently summarized by Zakowski,31 who convincingly argues for a procedural instead of a causal reading of γάρ as a discourse marker in terms of Relevance Theory.32 The causal reading transpires in translations in which γάρ is rendered as ‘for’, as if the fact that the girl was able to walk would be plausibly explained by the fact that she was twelve years old. Zakowksi shows that the rhetorical function of the so-called Ancillary Act with γάρ (as opposed to the preceding Nuclear Act) is not Cause but Background, i.e. information which is “not crucial to the development of the narrative”.33 The Background reading corresponds with translations in which the γάρ-clause is rendered in parentheses, as in (15e). Zakowski’s own explanation, however, still seeks to find a causal connection between the girl’s age and her ability to walk: “as a sidenote, it [sc. the Ancillary Act with γάρ] indicates that the girl had been able to walk before her death, as she was twelve years old.”34 The age of the girl, however, is not mentioned as a sidenote but is very relevant for the interpretation of the passage, as can be gathered from Luke’s version, in which Jairus’ daughter is introduced as follows:

 31 Zakowski 2016, 307 f. 32 Blakemore 2002. 33 Zakowski 2016, 310. 34 Zakowski 2016, 310: italics mine.

  Mark Janse 17) θυγάτηρ [F] μονογενὴς [C] ἦν αὐτῷ ὡς ἐτῶν δώδεκα καὶ αὐτὴ [F] ἀπέθνῃσκεν

Ev.Luc. 8.42

He had an only daughter of about twelve years old and she was dying’

Instead of the neuter diminutive θυγάτριον, the feminine root noun θυγάτηρ is used here. Moreover, Jairus’ daughter is qualified as μονογενής, which suggests that he had no sons but just an only daughter, i.e. a sole descendant. Her age is not mentioned separately in an Ancillary Act, as in Mark’s version (15e), but is included in the Nuclear Act in Luke’s. The age is mentioned here, because Jairus’ only daughter was near to the marriagable age of twelve.35 According to the Mishnaic tractate Niddah, the life cycle of womanhood centers around the age of twelve: a girl who is eleven years and one day old is still a ‘young girl’ (‫ ִתּינוֹקֶ ת‬tīnōqεṯ), a girl who is twelve years and one day old reaches ‘maturity’ (‫ בֶּ גֶר‬bεḡεr).36 The text indicates that (legal) womanhood is judged both by chronological age and the physical changes of puberty.37 It is possible that the variation in the terminology used to refer to Jairus’ daughter in the synoptic Gospels reflects the uncertainty about her exact age to a certain extent: ‘about twelve years’ in Luke’s Nuclear Act (17), ‘twelve years’ in Mark’s Ancillary Act (15e). In Luke’s version of Jesus’ command which brings about her resurrection, the common noun παῖς is used instead of the neuter diminutive κοράσιον of Mark’s version (15c). The use of the articulated nominative ἡ παῖς instead of the vocative παῖ allows the child to be identified as a girl:38 19)

ἡ [F] παῖς [C], ἔγειρε Ev.Luc. 8.54 Girl, wake up!

The same word is used in the phrase τὸν πατέρα τῆς [F] παιδὸς [C] ‘the father of the girl’ preceding Jesus’ command.39 The contemporary Alexandrian Jewish philosopher Philo quotes (Pseudo) Hippocrates’ classification of the male life  35 Fitzmyer 1981, 745; cf. Lane 1974, 195. 36 Niddah 5.6–7; cf. Fonrobert 2022 II, 846 f.; Ilan 2022 II, 32. Twelve is the traditional age of the Bat Mitzvah (‫) ִמצְ וָה בַּ ת‬. 37 The standard marker of puberty is the growth of ‘two [pubic] hairs’ (‫ ְשׂﬠָרוֹת ְשׁתֵּ י‬šətē śəʿārōṯ: Niddah 6.11; cf. Terumot 1.3). 38 The use of the articulated nominative instead of the vocative is Classical: cf. ὁ παῖς ἀκολούθει ‘Boy, come along!’ (Ar. Ran. 521); cf. Goodwin 1900, 223; Schwyzer/Debrunner 1950, 63 f.; van Emde Boas et al. 2019, 381. 39 Ev.Luc. 8.51.

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stages according to age groups in which παῖς is used to refer to boys from age seven to fourteen,40 i.e. ἄχρι γονῆς ἐκφύσιος ‘until puberty’.41 It is tempting to interpret the use of παῖς in this particular context as referring to a female child before her marriage, as in Classical Athens.42 Ιt would also account for the absence of neuter diminutives in Luke’s version of the narrative in which, apart from παῖς, the feminine root noun θυγάτηρ is the only other word used to refer to the girl. The use of the neuter diminutive κοράσιον in Matthew’s version (16a–b) should not be interpreted as indicative of a very young age. The fact that Jairus introduces his daughter as ἡ θυγάτηρ μου suggests that she is not extremely young.43 The prophetess Anna, for instance, referred to as θυγάτηρ Φανουήλ ‘daughter of Phanuel’, is said to be a widow of 84 years old.44 The four daughters of Philip the Evangelist are described as θυγάτερες παρθένοι προφητεύουσαι ‘prophesizing virgin daughters’,45 where παρθένοι is probably used to emphasize their dedicated celibate state rather than their relatively young age.46 Last, but certainly not least, it should be noted that the woman with hemorrage, who is certainly not a minor, is addressed by Jesus as θυγάτηρ.47 The diminutives θυγάτριον (14), παιδίον (15a–c) and κοράσιον (15d–e) in Mark’s version cannot be taken as indicative of a very young age either, as the age of the girl is explicitly mentioned in (15e). The diminutives should rather be interpreted here as terms of endearment, which is of course one of the common uses of diminutives referring to humans (as well as animals).48 The same variation can be found in the exorcism of the Syrophoenician woman’s daughter, who is

 40 The account ascribed to Hippocrates includes seven stages of life: each identified with a life span of seven years, so not too much should be made of the chronological reality of παῖς-hood (or the other stages, for that matter); cf. Janse 2020, 35, with further references. 41 Joseph. de opificio mundi 105 Cohn-Wendland. 42 Beaumont 2012, 18, Golden 2015, 12. 43 Ev.Matt. 9.18. 44 Ev.Luc. 2.36–37. 45 Act.Ap. 21.9. 46 Compare Paul’s description of a παρθένος: μεριμνᾷ τὰ τοῦ κυρίου, ἵνα ᾖ ἁγία καὶ τῷ σώματι καὶ τῷ πνεύματι ‘she is concerned about the affairs of the Lord, so as to be holy in both body and spirit’ (1 Ep.Cor. 7.34). This comes close to the definition of παρθένος as ‘consecrated virgin’ in Patristic Greek literature (Lampe 1961, 1037 s.v.). 47 Ev.Matt. 9.22, Ev.Marc. 5.34, Ev.Luc. 8.48; cf. Bauer/Aland’s description “Vok. als freundliche Anrede an Mädchen od. Frauen” (1988, 742 s.v.). 48 Goodwin 1900, 188; Smyth 1920, 235; van Emde Boas et al. 2019, 264.

  Mark Janse referred to as θυγάτηρ in Matthew’s version of the story,49 but as θυγάτριον, θυγάτηρ (twice) and παιδίον in Mark’s.50 What is really important is the semantic agreement of the feminine personal pronoun αὐτῇ with the neuter diminutives θυγάτριον in (14), παιδίον in (15c) and κοράσιον in (15e) and (16b). It is safe to conclude that in addition to the syntactic distance between the controllers and the targets the semantic agreement is triggered by the ‘semantics of age’ as well as the ‘semantics of womanhood’. Whereas the age of Jairus’ daughter is known, the age of the daughter of king Herod’s wife Herodias is not. When she enters the stage, she is presented as Herodias’ θυγάτηρ in Matthew’s version, but as Herod’s in Mark’s. The girl then dances in front of Herod and his guests and pleases them very much, whereupon he promises to give her whatever she wants. In Matthew’s version, the targets remain feminine in accordance with the controller θυγάτηρ: 20) μεθ’ ὅρκου ὡμολόγησεν αὐτῇ [F] δοῦναι ὃ ἐὰν αἰτήσηται· ἡ [F] δἐ προβιβασθεῖσα [F] ὑπὸ τῆς μητρός αὐτῆς [F]· δός μοι, φησίν, ὧδε ἐπὶ πίνακι τὴν κεφαλὴν Ἰωάννου τοῦ βαπτιστοῦ Ev.Matt. 14.7–8 With an oath he promised to give her whatever she asked; and prompted by her mother she says: Give me here on a platter the head of John the Baptist

In Mark’s version, however, the controller changes from θυγάτηρ to κοράσιον: 21) εἶπεν ὁ βασιλεὺς τῷ [N] κορασίῳ [N]· αἴτησόν με ὃ ἐὰν θέλῃς, καὶ δώσω σοι, καὶ ὤμοσεν αὐτῇ [F] ὅ τι ἐάν με αἰτήσῃς δώσω σοι […] καὶ ἐξελθοῦσα [F] εἶπεν τῇ μητρὶ αὐτῆς [F]· τί αἰτήσωμαι; ἡ δὲ εἶπεν· τὴν κεφαλὴν Ἰωάννου τοῦ βαπτίζοντος. καὶ εἰσελθοῦσα [F] εὐθὺς μετὰ σπουδῆς πρὸς τὸν βασιλέα ᾐτήσατο [F] λέγουσα […] Ev.Marc. 6.22–23 The king said to the girl: Ask me whatever you want and I will give [it] to you […] and he swore to her: Whatever you ask me I will give to you […] and she went out and said to her mother: what shall I ask? And she said: The head of John the Baptist. And she immediately went in hastily to the king and asked him saying […]’

It might be argued that the semantic agreement of the personal pronouns αὐτῇ and αὐτῆς and the participles ἐξελθοῦσα, εἰσελθοῦσα and λέγουσα with κοράσιον is in fact still grammatical agreement with the preceding θυγάτηρ. That this is not necessarily the case appears from what happens when the executioner brings Herod the head of John the Baptist:  49 Ev.Matt. 15.22, 15.28. 50 Ev.Marc. 7.25 (θυγάτριον), 7.26 and 7.29 (θυγάτηρ), 7.30 (παιδίον).

Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon  

22) καὶ ἤνεγκεν τὴν κεφαλὴν αὐτοῦ ἐπὶ πίνακι καὶ ἔδωκεν αὐτὴν τῷ [N] κορασίῳ [N] καὶ τὸ [N] κοράσιον [N] ἔδωκεν αὐτὴν τῇ μητρὶ αὐτῆς [F] Ev.Marc. 6.28 And he [sc. the executioner] brought his head on a platter and give it to the girl and the girl gave it to her mother 23) καὶ ἠνέχθη ἡ κεφαλὴ αὐτοῦ ἐπὶ πίνακι καὶ ἐδόθη τῷ [N] κορασίῳ [N] καὶ ἤνεγκεν τῇ μητρὶ αὐτῆς [F] Ev.Matt. 14.11 And his head was brought on a platter and given to the girl and she gave it to her mother

There can be no doubt that αὐτῆς refers back to κοράσιον in (22) and (23). It is very likely that the agreement is triggered by the ‘semantics of age’ and the ‘semantics of womanhood’ as well. The problem is the identification of the girl: is she the daughter of Herodias and her first husband (Herod’s half-brother) Philip, as Matthew has it,51 or the daughter of Herod (and Herodias), according to some important manuscripts of Mark’s version?52 Josephus identifies her as Salome, Herodias’ daughter from her first marriage and hence Herod’s stepdaughter and grandniece,53 who became an icon of dangerous female seductiveness in the arts.54 Salome would have been twenty years old at the time of the events,55 which would account for the agreement in terms of the ‘semantics of age’. The undoubtable implication of the text, moreover, is that “the dancing was sensual and lascivious”,56 which would account for the agreement in terms of the ‘semantics of womanhood’ as well.

. Septuagint Greek Similar variation is found in the Septuagint. I start with the story of Rebecca as told in the book of Genesis. Abraham asks his servant to find a marriageable wife for his son Isaac in his native land Mesopotamia. The Greek word used is  51 Ev.Matt. 14.6. 52 Ev.Marc. 6.22, (εἰσελθούσης) τῆς θυγατρὸς αὐτοῦ (‫ א‬D L Δ 565 pc), τῆς θυγατρὸς αὐτῆς τῆς Ἡρῳδιαδος (A C Θ f13 33. 2427 𝔐𝔐), τῆς θυγατρὸς αὐτῆς Ἡρῳδιάδος (W), τῆς θυγατρὸς Ἡρῳδιάδος (f1 pc). 53 Joseph. AJ 18.5. 54 Daffner 1912; Claudel 2013. 55 Mann 1986, 297. 56 Mann 1986, 297; cf. Lane 1974, 215.

  Mark Janse γυνή, which translates the Hebrew ‫ ִאשָּׁ ה‬ʾiššā ‘woman’.57 The servant rests his camels by a well near Nahor, the city founded by Abraham’s brother Nahor, where the θυγατέρες of its inhabitants come to draw water (ὑδρευόμεναι).58 The servant prays to God to help him find the right παρθένος from among these.59 The word παρθένος translates the Hebrew feminine noun ‫ ַנﬠ ֲָרה‬naʿărā ‘young girl’,60 which is used to refer to a young unmarried girl, but also to a newly married girl.61 When Rebecca appears, she is described twice as a παρθένος in two consecutive clauses, but the Greek word actually translates two different Hebrew words: 24a) ἡ [F] δὲ παρθένος [F] ἦν καλὴ [F] τῇ ὄψει σφόδρα Αnd the young girl was very beautiful in appearance 24b) παρθένος [F] ἦν, ἀνὴρ οὐκ ἔγνω αὐτήν [F] Gen. 24.16 She was a virgin, no man had known her

In (24a), παρθένος translates ‫ ַנﬠ ֲָרה‬naʿărā, but in (24b) it translates the Hebrew feminine noun ‫ ְבּתוּלָה‬bəṯulā ‘virgin’, further specified as a “grown-up girl without any sexual experience” with reference to this particular passage by Koehler/ Baumgartner/Stamm.62 It is clear from the context that the servant was looking for a marriageable young girl, i.e. a girl around the age of twelve (cf. section 3.1), as the word παρθένος is used two more times to translate ‫ ַנﬠ ֲָרה‬naʿărā.63 The same Hebrew word, however, is twice translated as παῖς with reference to Rebecca.64 Ιt is very likely that παῖς is used here in the sense of ‘marriageable young girl’, exactly as it was in (19). The same words occur in the story of Esther in the eponymous book. Esther is one of the selected κοράσια παρθενικὰ ‘young virgins’,65 who is chosen to be the new wife of the Achaemenid king Artaxerxes. She is presented as follows:

 57 Gen. 24.3–8 passim. 58 Gen. 24.11–13. 59 Gen. 24.14, 24.55 60 The orthography varies between ‫ ַנﬠ ֲָרה‬and ‫ ַנﬠ ֲָר‬, i.e. with and without the mater lectionis ‫ה‬. 61 Koehler/Baumgartner/Stamm 1994–2000, 707 f. s.v. 62 Koehler/Baumgartner/Stamm 1994–2000, 167 s.v. 63 Gen. 24.14, 24.55. 64 Gen. 24.28, 24.57. 65 Es. 2.3.

Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon  

25) καὶ ἦν τούτῳ παῖς [C] θρεπτή [F], θυγάτηρ [F] Αμιναδαβ ἀδελφοῦ πατρὸς αὐτοῦ, καὶ ὄνομα αὐτῇ [F] Εσθηρ· ἐν δὲ τῷ μεταλλάξαι αὐτῆς [F] τοὺς γονεῖς ἐπαίδευσεν αὐτὴν [F] ἑαυτῷ εἰς γυναῖκα [F]· καὶ ἦν τὸ [Ν] κοράσιον [Ν] καλὸν [Ν] τῷ εἴδει Es. 2.7 And he [sc. Mardochaeus] had an adopted girl, daughter of Aminadav, brother of his father, and her name [was] Esther. When her parents had died, he brought her up for himself as a wife. And the girl was beautiful in appearence

Esther is referred to as a παῖς in (24), corresponding with a κοράσιον παρθενικόν, i.e. a marriageable ‘virgin girl’ near the age of twelve. Naturally, the personal pronouns αὐτῇ, αὐτῆς and αὐτήν agree grammatically with the common noun παῖς. After that, she is again described as a κοράσιον, as she was originally one of the selected κοράσια παρθενικά mentioned above. It is instructive to compare the various Greek nouns in (25) with their Hebrew equivalents. Leaving aside the question of the deliberate revision of the source narrative of this particular passage to assimilate it to the conventions of the Hellenistic Greek novel,66 it is interesting to note that παῖς has no equivalent in the Masoretic text, but θυγάτηρ translates its Hebrew equivalent ‫ בַּ ת‬baṯ.67 The phrase κοράσια παρθενικά actually translates two asyndetically coordinated nouns in the Masoretic text, i.e. ‫ נְ ﬠָרוֹת בְּ תוּלוֹת‬nəʿārōṯ bəṯūlōṯ ‘young girls [and] virgins’.68 The adjective παρθενικά therefore does not refer to the age of the girls but to their virginity. The noun κοράσιον in (25) also translates ‫ַנﬠ ֲָרה‬ naʿărā, but because the Hebrew noun is feminine,69 so is the predicative adjective ‫ יְ פַת‬yəp̄ aṯ in the Masoretic text.70 The translation not only indicates that “the translation profile of the [Old Greek Esther] is not rigidly isomorphic”, but that “there is also variety in the choice of translation equivalents”.71 In the continuation of the story, Esther continues to be referred to as τὸ κοράσιον:

 66 Boyd-Taylor 1997; cf. Hiebert 2021, 325. The obvious alteration of the source text is the translation of ‫ �ו לְ בַ ת‬lō ləbat ‘as his own daughter’ with εἰς γυναῖκα ‘as a wife’ (Hiebert 2021, 325). 67 The MT reads: ‫ אֹ מֵ ן אֶ ת־הֲדַ סָּ ה הִ יא אֶ ְסתֵּ ר בַּ ת־דֹּ דֹ ו‬ʾōmēn ʾεṯ-hăḏassā hī ʾεstēr baṯ-dōḏō ‘he had brought up Hadassah: that is Esther: the daughter of his uncle’ (Es. 2.7). 68 Es. 2.2. 69 Note that Hebrew does not have a neuter gender. 70 The masculine equivalent of the feminine singular construct adjective ‫ ְי ַפת‬yəp̄ aṯ is ‫ ָיפֶה‬yāp̄ ε̄ (Koehler/Baumgartner/Stamm 1994–2000, 423. 71 Hiebert 2021, 326; cf. Joosten 2013, 34; Boyd-Taylor 2015, 207 ff.

  Mark Janse 26) καὶ ἤρεσεν αὐτῷ τὸ [N] κοράσιον [N] καὶ εὗρεν χάριν ἐνώπιον αὐτοῦ καὶ ἔσπευσεν αὐτῇ [F] δοῦναι τὸ σμῆγμα καὶ τὴν μερίδα καὶ τὰ [N] ἑπτὰ κοράσια [N] τὰ [N] ἀποδεδειγμένα [N] αὐτῇ [F] ἐκ βασιλικοῦ καὶ ἐχρήσατο αὐτῇ [F] καλῶς καὶ ταῖς ἅβραις αὐτῆς [F] ἐν τῷ γυναικῶνι· Es. 2.9 And the girl pleased him [sc. the keeper of the harem] and she found favor with him and he hasted to give her the soap and her share and the seven girls appointed to her from the palace and he treated her well as well as her maids in the harem

Whereas the predicative modifier of τὸ κοράσιον, i.e. καλόν, is neuter in (25) — as is the attributive modifier of τὰ κοράσια, i.e. τὰ ἀποδεδειγμένα, in (26) — the personal pronouns αὐτῇ and αὐτῆς show feminine agreement. Semantic agreement also applies when the time has come for Esther to enter Artaxerxes’ quarters: 27) οὗτος δὲ ἦν καιρὸς κορασίου [N] εἰσελθεῖν πρὸς τὸν βασιλέα […] καὶ τότε εἰσπορεύεται πρὸς τὸν βασιλέα· καὶ ᾧ ἐὰν εἴπῃ, παραδώσει αὐτῇ [F] συνεισέρχεσθαι αὐτῇ [F] ἀπὸ τοῦ γυναικῶνος ἕως τῶν βασιλείων Es. 2.12-13 ‫ א‬Α And this was the time for the girl to go into the king […] and then she goes in to the king, and whatever she says, he [sc. the custodian Gai] will give her to enter with her from the harem to king’s quarters

Again, κορασίου translates ‫ﬠ ָר‬ ֲ ‫ ַנ‬naʿărā, which is repeated in the second clause in the Masoretic text, but left untranslated in the Old Greek version. The personal pronouns αὐτῇ and αὐτῇ (v.l. αὐτῷ) correspond respectively with the feminine prepositional phrases ‫ לָהּ‬lāh ‘to her’ and ‫ ﬠִ מָּ הּ‬ʿimmāh ‘with her’ in the Masoretic text, even though the translation differs from the Hebrew Vorlage in several respects. It seems reasonable to assume that αὐτῇ is not simply an isomorphic translation of the Hebrew feminine prepositional phrases and that the agreement with κορασίου is in accordance with Esther’s ‘semantics of age’ and ‘semantics of womanhood’. Even though she was not yet a woman in the period before Artaxerxes made her his queen,72 she had fulfilled all the conditions to become one, as appears from the use of the word γυνή in the phrase ἐν τοῖς σμήγμασιν γυναικῶν ‘with the unguents of women’, which translates the Hebrew ‫ ַנﬠ ֲָרה‬naʿărā.73 A similar case can be found in the first book of Samuel:  72 Hence the expression ἐν δὲ τῷ ἀναπληροῦσθαι τὸν χρόνον ‘when the time was fulfilled’ (Es. 2.15). 73 Es. 2.12.

Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon  

28) καὶ αὐτοὶ εὑρίσκουσιν τὰ [N] κοράσια [N] ἐξεληλυθότα [N] ὑδρεύσασθαι ὕδωρ καὶ λέγουσιν αὐταῖς [F] […] καὶ ἀπεκρίθη τὰ [N] κοράσια [N] καὶ λέγουσιν αὐτοῖς […] 1 Sam. 9.11–12 And they find the girls who had come out to draw water from the well and they say to them […] and girls answered and say to them […]

The age of τὰ κοράσια is not specified, but they were old enough to fetch water from the well, like the ὑδρευόμεναι from the story of Rebecca mentioned at the beginning of this section. The Masoretic text has ‫ נְ ﬠָרוֹת‬nəʿārōṯ, the plural of ‫ַנﬠ ֲָר‬ naʿărā, so we may assume that they must have been around the same, probably marriageable, age. The neuter plural participle ἐξεληλυθότα agrees of course with τὰ κοράσια, just as its Hebrew equivalent, the feminine plural participle ‫ יֹ צְ אוֹת‬yōṣəʾōṯ, agrees with ‫ נְ ָﬠרוֹת‬nəʿārōṯ. The personal pronoun αὐταῖς, on the other hand, shows feminine agreement. Like αὐτῇ in (27), αὐταῖς corresponds with a feminine prepositional phrase in Hebrew, i.e. ‫ לָהֶ ן‬lāhεn, but in this case as well, I assume that the agreement in the Old Greek version is semantic and not simply the result of an isomorphic translation. Perhaps the best confirmation for this is the fact that the verb ἀπεκρίθη is singular because the subject τὰ κοράσια is neutral plural, whereas the equivalent verb in Hebrew is feminine plural, i.e. ‫ﬠנֶינָה‬ ֲ ַ‫ תּ‬taʿănε̄ nā. Remarkably, the coordinated verb λέγουσιν is plural, like its Hebrew equivalent ‫ תּ ֹאמַ ְרנָה‬tōmarnā, which is feminine plural as well. Plural agreement of the verb with neuter plural subjects is already attested in Classical Greek in the case of human referents,74 but the variation is nevertheless remarkable.75 I conclude with the story of Sarah from the book of Tobit. The original language was probably Aramaic, although Hebrew fragments have been found at Qumran in addition to the more numerous Aramaic fragments.76 The textual transmission of the book is extremely complicated, including three Old Greek recensions and Old Latin versions which seem to be based on the Aramaic Vorlage.77 Sara is presented as follows in the version of codex Vaticanus: 29) ἔστιν αὐτῷ θυγάτηρ [F] μονογενὴς [C] ὀνόματι Σάρρα Tob. 6.11 B He [sc. Raguel] has an only daughter by the name of Sarah

 74 Smythe 1920, 263; Goodwin 1900, 198. 75 Example (28) is quoted by Muraoka 2016, 650. 76 Fitzmyer 2003, 18 ff. 77 Fitzmyer 2003, 3 ff.

  Mark Janse Τhis is the only manuscript which adds μονογενής, but the fact that Sarah is Raguel’s only child is mentioned as well in codex Sinaiticus:78 30) καὶ υἱὸς ἄρσην οὐδὲ θυγάτηρ ὑπάρχει αὐτῷ πλὴν Σάρρας μόνης Tob. 6.12 S Αnd he didn’t have a male son or a daughter except Sarah [his] only [daughter]

The description of Sarah is similar to the description of Jairus’ daughter in (17). The implications are the same: like Jairus’ daughter, Sarah is of a marriageable age and whoever takes her as his wife (εἰς γυναῖκα) is entitled to her inheritance (ἡ κληρονομία αὐτῆς).79 Then Sarah is referred to as τὸ κοράσιον, with neuter attributive adjectives added, but in the next clause αὐτῆς is used to refer back to the neuter diminutive: 31a) καὶ τὸ [N] κοράσιον [N] φρόνιμoν [N] καὶ ἀνδρεῖον [N] καὶ καλὸν [N] λίαν ἐστιν καὶ ὁ πατὴρ αὐτῆς [F] καλός Tob. 6.12 S And the girl is smart and courageous and very beautiful and her father [is] honorable 31b) καὶ τὸ [N] κοράσιον [N] καλὸν [N] καὶ φρόνιμόν [N] ἐστιν· καὶ νῦν ἄκουσόν μου καὶ λαλήσω τῷ πατρὶ αὐτῆς Tob. 6.12–13 B And the girl is beautiful and smart. And now listen to me and I will speak to her father

The Aramaic fragment corresponding with (31b) lacks the word for ‘young girl’, but the Old Latin version has puella. The same pattern is repeated in the continuation of the story: 32) ἀκήκοα ἐγὼ τὸ [N] κοράσιον [N] δεδόσθαι ἑπτὰ ἀνδράσιν καὶ πάντας ἐν τῷ νυμφῶνι ἀπολωλότας […] ὅτι δαιμόνιον φιλεῖ αὐτήν [F], ὃ οὐκ ἀδικεῖ οὐδένα πλὴν τῶν προσαγόντων αὐτῇ [F] Tob. 6.15 B I have heard that the girl was given to seven men and they all died in the bridal chamber […] because a demon loves her, who does not harm anyone except those who approach her’

 78 The addition of ἄρσην to υἱὸς might seem odd (as if υἱός were a common noun!), and the Aramaic equivalent is missing, but it reflects a Hebrew collocation, e.g. ‫ בֵּ ן ָזכָר‬bēn zākār (Jer. 20.15); cf. Koehler/Baumgartner/Stamm 1994-2000, 137 s.v. ‫בֵּ ן‬. 79 Tob. 6.12.

Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon  

This Aramaic equivalent of κοράσιον preserved in the Qumran fragments is the feminine noun ‫ עליםתא‬ʿōlīmtā ‘young girl’.80 Its Hebrew cognate is ‫ ﬠַלְ םָ ה‬ʿalmā, which is used to refer to “a marriageable girl”, “a girl who is able to be married” and “a young woman (until the birth of her first child)”.81 Νot surprisingly, ‫ﬠַלְ םָ ה‬ ʿalmā is sometimes translated as παρθένος in the Old Greek translation, but this occurs only once, i.e. in the story of Rebecca discussed above, where παρθένος translates both ‫ ַנﬠ ֲָר‬naʿărā and ‫ ﬠַלְ םָ ה‬ʿalmā in two otherwise identical clauses.82 When Raguel finally tells Tobias that Sarah is destined to be his wife, he reminds him of what happened before, now using παιδίον instead κοράσιον: 33) σοὶ γὰρ καθήκει τὸ [N] παιδίον [N] μου λαβεῖν […] ἔδωκα τὸ [N] παιδίον [N] μου ἑπτὰ ἀνδράσιν, καὶ ὁπότε ἐὰν εἰσεπορεύοντο πρὸς αὐτήν [F], ἀπεθνῄσκοσαν ὑπὸ τὴν νύκτα Tob. 7.10–11 B You deserve to take my child […] I gave my child to seven men, and whenever they approached her, they would die by night

The Aramaic Vorlage of this passage is missing, but it is clear that Raguel uses παιδίον as a term of endearment for his daughter who is about to get married. The point is, of course, that Sarah is presented as a still marriageable young woman, even though she had been married seven times before. The semantic agreement of the feminine personal pronouns with the neuter diminutive nouns κοράσιον and παιδίον can therefore again be plausibly explained by the ‘semantics of age’ and the ‘semantics of womanhood’.

 Conclusion In this study I have shown how and when grammatical agreement can be overruled by semantic agreement in the case of hybrid nouns of the Mädchen type, i.e. κοράσιον, παιδίον and θυγάτριον. In accordance with Corbett’s Agreement Hierarchy, such neuter diminutives permit alternative agreements when the target is a personal pronoun. This can be explained in part by the syntactic distance

 80 4Q197 4 ii 2 and 7 (Fitzmyer 2003, 212 and 214); cf. Dalman 1905, 159 s.v. ‫ עוליםתא‬Mädchen, Sokoloff 1990, 399 s.v. ‫‘ עוליםתא‬young girl’, with plene writing of ‫ו‬. 81 Koehler/Baumgartner/Stamm 1994-2000, 835 f. s.v. 82 καὶ ἔσται ἡ παρθένος, ᾗ ἂν ἐγὼ εἴπω ‘and it will be the young girl to whom I will say’ (‫ַנﬠ ֲָר‬ naʿărā, Gen. 24.14 vs. ‫ ﬠַלְ םָ ה‬ʿalmā, Gen. 24.43).

  Mark Janse between the controller and the target, but the main justification is the ‘semantics of age’ and the ‘semantics of womanhood’ associated with the controller. In the Jewish context of the Septuagint and the New Testament, (legal) womanhood is associated with the age of twelve, which means that a girl is marriageable when she reaches this age. The use of neuter diminutives when referring to marriageable girls often alternates with root nouns such as παῖς and παρθένος, which refer to, admittedly fluid, age classes reminiscent of ancient classifications of life stages associated with particular terms. In (Pseudo) Hippocrates’ classification, the term παῖς refers to a boy (and presumably also to a girl) from age seven to fourteen, i.e. until the physical changes of puberty manifest themselves. Chaniotis has shown that the term παρθένος is used in inscriptions from Asia Minor to refer to “a girl (ca. 8–14 years), unmarried, and a virgin”.83 The Greek terms παῖς, παρθένος and κοράσιον often translate Hebrew and Aramaic words with similar associations regarding age and nubility. I hope to have shown that the use of feminine personal pronouns referring back to neuter diminutives should not be explained as a simple isomorphic translation of the Hebrew or Aramaic equivalents within the bilingual context of the Septuagint and the New Testament (assuming an Aramaic oral tradition underlying the synoptic Gospels, especially with regard to the κυριακά λόγια, i.e. the words attributed to Jesus).84 The diminutives are easily explained as terms of endearment with reference to girls, especially daughters. I conclude by briefly discussing three non-Biblical Greek examples, where no bilingual interference can be assumed. The first one is taken from Aesop’s life: 34) τὰ [N] παιδισκάρια [N] ἔχαιρον καὶ ἓν τῶν [N] κορασίων [N] εἶπεν· ἐμοὶ ὁ δεσπότης ἄνδρα ἠγόρασεν· ἄλλη [F]· οὔ, ἀλλ’ ἐμοί· ἐγὼ γὰρ ἐν τοῖς ὕπνοις εἶδον· ἄλλη [F] ταῦτα αὐταῖς [F]· ἀλλ’ ἡ [F] πιθανωτέρα [F] λήψεται· σὺ οὖν πιθανωτέρα [F] εἶ; ἀλλὰ σύ; καὶ ἄρχονται μάχεσθαι Vita Aesopi G, 30 Ferrari The girls were pleased and one of the girls said: It is for me that the master bought a man. Another one: No, for me! I saw it in my dreams. Another [said] this to them: The most persuasive will be taken. So you are more persuasive? No, you? And they began to quarrel

Although the age of the girls is not mentioned, they are marriageable (or at least they think so). The neuter diminutives used are παιδιασκάριον (a diminutive of  83 Chaniotis 2016, 203. 84 A well-known example which has not been discussed in this study is the Aramaic version of (15d), ταλιθα κουμ (Εν.Μarc. 5.41), where ταλιθα represents Aramaic ‫ טליתא‬ṭəlīṯā (Dalman 1905, 150).

Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon  

παιδίσκη)85 and κοράσιον, but the agreement of the pronouns ἄλλη and αὐταῖς is semantic instead of grammatical. It is a matter of taste whether the agreement of ἡ πιθανωτέρα is considered semantic rather than grammatical, but the predicative πιθανωτέρα agrees of course with the female referent of σύ. The second one is taken from Menander’s Dyscolus: 35) θυγάτριον [N] # βούλει μ’ ἀναστῆσαι λαβοῦσα [F] Cnemon to his daughter, Men. Dysc. 699–700 Dear daughter, please hold me and help me stand up — age: παρθένος θυγάτηρ Κνήμων.

Cnemon’s daughter is presented as his παρθένος θυγάτηρ in the dramatis personae and referred to as παρθένος later in the play,86 and she is clearly marriageable, as Pan has caused the rich city boy Sostratus to fall in love with her. The semantic agreement of the predicative participle λαβοῦσα with θυγάτριον, which is quite obviously used as a term of endearment, is therefore predictable from the ‘semantics of age’ as well as the ‘semantics of womanhood’. The third and last examples comes from Lysias: 36) οὕτως ἐρωτικῶς τὸ [N] κόριον [N] μετεχειρίζετο τῆς ἡλικίας αὐτῆς [F] ἀπολαύων, ἧς [F] ῥᾷον τοὺς ὀδόντας ἀριθμῆσαι ἢ τῆς χειρὸς τοὺς δακτύλους Lys. fr. 1 Carey = Athen. 9.612e In this way he was handling the ‘young girl’, taking advantage of her age, although it would be easier to count her teeth than the fingers on one hand

The age of the κόριον had been revealed shortly before the statement: the wife of Hermaeus the perfume-maker is seventy years old! It is clear that the semantic agreement of the personal pronoun αὐτῆς and the relative pronoun ἧς is justified, both in terms of age as in terms of womanhood. The use of the diminutive κόριον is not exactly a term of endearment but rather a “term of depreciation”.87 These few examples may suffice to show that semantic agreement of neuter diminutives of the Mädchen type with their targets occurs in non-Biblical Greek as well. Moreover, they provide evidence for the fact that not only personal pronouns may semantically agree with their controllers, but relative pronouns and predicative modifiers as well.

 85 LSJ s.v. 86 Μen. Dysc. 34. 87 Van Emde Boas et al. 2019, 264.

  Mark Janse

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Janse, M. (in preparation b), “Male attention and masculine agreement: The case of μειράκιον in Plato’s Euthydemus”. Janse, M. (in preparation c), “Coming of age on stage: Grammatical versus legal agreement in Menander’s Epitrepontes”. Joosten, J. (2013), “Varieties of Greek in the Septuagint and the New Testament”, in: J.C. Paget/ J. Schaper (eds.), The New Cambridge History of the Bible, vol. 1: From the Beginnings to 6000, Cambridge, 22–45. Koehler, L./Baumgartner, W./Stamm, J.J. (1994–2000), The Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the Old Testament, Leiden. Kraaikamp, M. (2017), Semantic versus Lexical Gender: Synchronic and Diachronic Variation in Germanic Gender Agreement, Utrecht. Kühner, R./Gerth, B. (1898), Ausführliche Grammatik der griechischen Sprache, vol. 2: Satzlehre, 3rd ed., Hannover. Lampe, G.W.H. (1961), A Patristic Greek Lexicon, Oxford. Lane, W.L. (1974), The Gospel according to Mark, Grand Rapids, Michigan. Mayser, E. (1934), Grammatik der griechischen Papyri aus der Ptolemäerzeit, vol. 2: Satzlehre, part 3: Synthetischer Teil, Berlin. Muraoka, T. (2016), A Syntax of Septuagint Greek, Leuven. Salvesen, A.G./Law, T.M. (eds.) (2021), The Oxford Handbook of the Septuagint, Oxford. Schwyzer, E./Debrunner, A. (1950), Griechische Grammatik, vol. 2: Syntax und syntaktische Stilistik, Munich. Smyth, H.W. (1920), A Greek Grammar for Colleges, New York. Sokoloff, M. (1990), A Dictionary of Jewish Palestinian Aramaic of the Byzantine Period, Ramat Gan. Spathas, G./Sudo, Y. (2020), “Gender on animal nouns in Greek”, Catalan Journal of Linguistics 19, 25–48. Sudo, Y./Spathas, G. (2020), “Gender and interpretation in Greek”, Glossa: A Journal of General Linguistics 5, 129 (doi.org/10.5334/gjgl.1173). Widmer, P. (2014), “Agreement”, in: G.K. Giannakis et al. (eds.), 73–76.

Luz Conti

The Expression of Authority and Solidarity: ἡμεῖς in Place of ἐγώ in the Iliad Abstract: This paper analyses the use of ἡμεῖς in place of ἐγώ in the Iliad. Starting with the connection between the prototypical and non-prototypical uses of the ἡμεῖς forms, we determined the two pragmatic meanings of ἡμεῖς in place of ἐγώ: the reinforcement and diminishing of the speaker’s authority. The expression of modesty, social power, and self-dignity are analyzed as manifestations of the first pragmatic meaning, while the expression of solidarity and in-group feeling are analyzed as manifestations of the second. The expression of modesty and social power responds to a negative politeness strategy. On the contrary, the expression of solidarity and in-group feeling respond to a positive politeness strategy. Keywords: personal pronouns, Iliad, politeness strategies, pragmatics, authority, solidarity

 Introduction In natural languages, we pronouns refer to a set of individuals that have been previously introduced into the discourse and which is therefore easily identifiable to the addressee. This set consists of a heterogeneous plurality of referents (for example, the speaker + the addressee) and a plurality of instances.1 The focal referent of the we forms is the speaker.2 The use of pronouns in new contexts can trigger the development of nonprototypical values. Sometimes these non-prototypical values, initially conditioned by grammatical, pragmatic, or discursive factors, evolve into new proto-

 This work was carried out within the framework of the research projects “Verbal politeness and impoliteness in ancient Greek literary dialogue” (PGC2018-093779-B-I00), “Indirect speech acts and interaction in Ancient Greek” (PID2021-122489NB-100) and “Irony as a rhetorical device in Athenian legal language” (SI3/PJI/2021–00208).  1 Cf. Cysouw 2003, 66–78; Helmbrecht 2015, 176. 2 See Daniel 2005, 13, 18. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111272887-012

  Luz Conti typical values.3 In this way, a given pronoun expands its referential person and/ or number value, which then leads to a restructuring of the paradigm.4 In Ancient Greek, non-prototypical uses of first-person plural forms involve changes to their referential values, however they do not imply any paradigmatic restructuring. These changes affect the number, as in (1), the person, as in (2), and the number and person referred to by the pronoun, as in (3):5 Reference to a single speaker: 1)

ἡμεῖς δέ σοι κακὴ κεφαλὴ νόθοι δοκοῦμεν;6

Plu. Alex. 9.8.2.

But what of me, base wretch? Dost thou take me for a bastard? (Alexander to Attalus, Cleopatra Eurydice’s uncle).

Reference to the second-person plural: 2)

ἀλλ’ ἄγεθ’ ὡς ἂν ἐγὼ εἴπω πειθώμεθα πάντες

Hom. Il. 9.27.

Come then, do as I say; let us all be won over (Agamemnon to his men).

Reference to the third-person singular: 3)

φίλαι, τί χρῆμα; πῶς ἀγῶνος ἥκομεν;

Eur. El. 751.

My friends, what is it? How do we stand in the contest? (Electra to the female chorus while Orestes is meeting Aegisthus to kill him).

 3 For a discussion of this process, see Helmbrecht 2015, 184–188, among others. 4 This is what Heine/Song 2011, 617 call “grammaticalization in a wide sense”. The evolution of sie in German, vous in French, or lei in Italian towards second-person singular or plural deference forms are examples of this process. The incorporation of the dual to plural pronouns, which is part of the evolution of the singular/dual/plural number system towards the singular/ plural system (cf. Corbett 2000, 38–49), is also the result of “grammaticalization in a wide sense”. 5 First-person plural forms are also used as references to the second-person singular and third-person plural forms. 6 The data was sought and compiled using the Thesaurus Linguae Graecae, A Digital Library of Greek Literature (http://stephanus.tlg.uci.edu/Iris/inst/tsearch.jsp). Translations of the Iliad were taken from Lattimore (ed. Martin). The translations of other Greek authors were taken from the digital edition of the Loeb Classical Library.

The Expression of Authority and Solidarity  

In addition to changes in their referential value, non-prototypical uses of pronouns give rise to additional pragmatic meanings.7 In the specific case of the non-prototypical uses of ἡμεῖς in Homer and, especially, in the Iliad, the grammatical tradition admits the existence of pragmatic meanings that emphasize the in-group feeling, such as modesty and empathy with the interlocutor.8 On the contrary, other pragmatic meanings, such as the expression of social power, for example, are considered to be the result of a recent phenomenon that had not yet been crystallized in Homer.9 However, some passages seem to contradict this hypothesis. Thus, Achilles, among other characters, sometimes uses plural forms instead of singular forms to refer to himself and highlight his power and dignity: 4)

… ἀλλ’ ἄγε θᾶσσον ὄτρυνον πόλεμόνδε κάρη κομόωντας Ἀχαιούς, ὄφρ’ ἔτι καὶ Τρώων πειρήσομαι ἀντίον ἐλθὼν αἴ κ’ ἐθέλωσ’ ἐπὶ νηυσὶν ἰαύειν· ἀλλά τιν’ οἴω ἀσπασίως αὐτῶν γόνυ κάμψειν, ὅς κε φύγῃσι δηΐου ἐκ πολέμοιο ὑπ’ ἔγχεος ἡμετέροιο Hom. Il. 19.68–73 …Come, then! The more quickly drive on the flowing-haired Achaians into the fighting, so that I may go up against the Trojans, and find out if they still wish to sleep out beside the ships. I think rather they will be glad to rest where they are, whoever among them gets away with his life from the fury of our spears’ onset (Achilles to Agamemnon).

This study will focus on the uses of ἡμεῖς in place of ἐγώ in the Iliad.10 The analysis will take the two basic pragmatic meanings developed by the first-person plural in both Indo-European and non-Indo-European languages as a starting point: the expression of closeness to the addressee and the expression of distance from the addressee.11 This approach, which bridges the prototypical and non-prototypical uses of ἡμεῖς, will allow for a reinterpretation of the Iliad data.

 7 Cf. Helmbrecht 2015, 178. 8 Cf. Kühner/Gerth 1898, 83; Wackernagel 1924, 98–99; and Schwyzer/Debrunner 1950, 243. Grammars understand modesty as a manifestation of in-group feeling. This paper proposes another analysis of this pragmatic meaning (cf. § 2.1). 9 Cf. Wackernagel 1924, 100. Schwyzer/Debrunner 1950, 243, for example, establish the origin of the use of ἡμεῖς as pluralis maiestatis in the Hellenistic period. 10 On the use of ἡμεῖς instead of the second person, see Conti 2023. 11 Cf. Siewierska 2004, 218 and Helmbrecht 2015, 182–184, among others.

  Luz Conti This reinterpretation of the data will yield different results from those that have been proposed so far.

 Data analysis This work analyzed a total of 538 passages. Examples of first-person plural verb endings, first-person pronouns in all their case forms, and first-person plural possessives were considered. The terms ἡμεῖς and ἡμεῖς forms are used to refer to any of these forms. In the vast majority of the passages,12 the ἡμεῖς-forms show a prototypical use. Among these examples of prototypical use, ἡμεῖς forms are used with an inclusive value (addressee inclusion)13 in 80% of the cases14 (cf. (5)). The exclusive value (addressee exclusion),15 limited to 20% of the examples, is often observed in passages that are inserted in confrontational contexts between the speaker and his interlocutor (cf. (6)). Therefore, the exclusion of the group of which the speaker is part seems to be a strategy used to isolate the interlocutor and weaken his chances of success in the communicative exchange: 5)

Ἀτρεΐδη νῦν ἄμμε παλιμπλαγχθέντας ὀΐω ἂψ ἀπονοστήσειν, εἴ κεν θάνατόν γε φύγοιμεν

Hom. Il. 1.59–60

Son of Atreus, I believe now that straggling backwards we must make our way home if we can even escape death (Achilles to Agamemnon) 6)

Ἀτρεΐδη τέο δ’ αὖτ’ ἐπιμέμφεαι ἠδὲ χατίζεις; πλεῖαί τοι χαλκοῦ κλισίαι, πολλαὶ δὲ γυναῖκες εἰσὶν ἐνὶ κλισίῃς ἐξαίρετοι, ἅς τοι Ἀχαιοὶ πρωτίστῳ δίδομεν εὖτ’ ἂν πτολίεθρον ἕλωμεν

Hom. Il. 2.225–228

Son of Atreus, what thing further do you want, or find fault with now? Your shelters are filled with bronze, there are plenty of the choicest women for you within your shelter,

 12 Around 80% of the total. 13 Speaker + addressee(s) // Speaker + addressee(s) + associate(s). 14 These figures are approximate, since in some passages it was difficult to determine whether the speaker uses ἡμεῖς with an inclusive or exclusive value. 15 Speaker + associate(s).

The Expression of Authority and Solidarity  

whom we Achaians give to you first of all whenever we capture some stronghold (Achilles to Agamemnon).

In their non-prototypical use as a reference to a single speaker (ἡμεῖς in place of ἐγώ), the first-person plural forms present two opposing pragmatic meanings in the Iliad:16 1. Reinforcement of the speaker’s authority 2. Diminishing of the speaker’s authority The meaning of 1 is linked to the expression of distance from the addressee, the meaning of 2 is related to the expression of closeness to the addressee. In turn, the expression of closeness to the addressee derives from the inclusive prototypical uses; on the contrary, the expression of distance from the addressee derives from the exclusive uses.

. Reinforcement of the speaker’s authority In the Iliad the speaker reinforces his social, moral, or intellectual authority through the metaphorical association with third persons.17 Interestingly, this pragmatic meaning of authority can be used by the speaker for two distinct purposes: expressing modesty or expressing power and self-dignity.18 In the first case, the speaker presents his I diluted among the I of others;19 in the second, the speaker reinforces his I through the I of others.  16 The function of the ἡμεῖς-forms in place of ἐγώ is observed in the following passages: Hom. Il. 1.30, Hom. Il. 1.140, Hom. Il. 2.374, Hom. Il. 2.486 (3x), Hom. Il. 3.224, Hom. Il. 3.440, Hom. Il. 4.49, Hom. Il. 4.362, Hom. Il. 5.258, Hom. Il. 6.151, Hom. Il. 6.414, Hom. Il. 7.196, Hom. Il. 7.363, Hom. Il. 8.31, Hom. Il. 8.32, Hom. Il. 8.33, Hom. Il. 8.35, Hom. Il. 8.36, Hom. Il. 8.178, Hom. Il. 9.108, Hom. Il. 9.619, Hom. Il. 11.527, Hom. Il. 11.528, Hom. Il. 11.838, Hom. Il. 13.257, Hom. Il. 13.779, Hom. Il. 13.785 (2x), Hom. Il. 15.224, Hom. Il. 16.244, Hom. Il. 18.197, Hom. Il. 19.73, Il. 19.195, Hom. Il. 20.214, Hom. Il. 21.60, Hom. Il. 21.332, Hom. Il. 21.458, Hom. Il. 22.393 (2x), Hom. Il. 23.413, Hom. Il. 23.802, Hom. Il. 24.70 and Hom. Il. 24.71. While in all cases the communicative context favors the interpretation of the ἡμεῖς forms as a reference to a single speaker, some examples do not exclude the possibility of a prototypical use of the ἡμεῖς forms. 17 This phenomenon is common in natural languages (cf. Brown/Levinson 1987, 220 and Siewierska 2004, 217). 18 On the relationship between self-dignity and deference, see Ide 2005. 19 By avoiding referring to himself explicitly, the speaker also avoids the central role assigned to him by the first-person singular in the message. This is a defocalizing device that is also observed in the non-prototypical uses of other pronouns (cf. Helmbrecht 2002, 40–41). On the phenomenon of defocalization of person in Ancient Greek, see Fornieles 2020 and 2021.

  Luz Conti The following passage is a good example of the use of ἡμεῖς forms as an expression of modesty.20 As we see, the poet switches between the singular and the plural to refer to himself in his invocation of the Muses.21 The singular emphasizes his individuality. On the contrary, with the plural, he proclaims himself to be a representative of the poets; however, at the same time he emphasizes their inferiority — and that of all those who exercise their profession — in front of the goddesses (ὑμεῖς ... ἡμεῖς δέ). As we see, the metaphorical association with the rest of the poets reinforces the value of the speaker’s opinions: 7)

Ἔσπετε νῦν μοι Μοῦσαι Ὀλύμπια δώματ’ ἔχουσαι·22 | ὑμεῖς γὰρ θεαί ἐστε πάρεστέ τε ἴστέ τε πάντα, | ἡμεῖς δὲ κλέος οἶον ἀκούομεν οὐδέ τι ἴδμεν·| οἵ τινες ἡγεμόνες Δαναῶν καὶ κοίρανοι ἦσαν· | πληθὺν δ’ οὐκ ἂν ἐγὼ μυθήσομαι οὐδ’ ὀνομήνω, | οὐδ’ εἴ μοι δέκα μὲν γλῶσσαι, δέκα δὲ στόματ’ εἶεν, | φωνὴ δ’ ἄρρηκτος, χάλκεον δέ μοι ἦτορ ἐνείη, | εἰ μὴ Ὀλυμπιάδες Μοῦσαι Διὸς αἰγιόχοιο | θυγατέρες μνησαίαθ’ ὅσοι ὑπὸ Ἴλιον ἦλθον· | ἀρχοὺς αὖ νηῶν ἐρέω νῆάς τε προπάσας23 Hom. Il. 2.484–493 Tell me now, you Muses who have your homes on Olympos. For you, who are goddesses, are there, and you know all things, and we have heard only the rumor of it and know nothing. Who then of those were the chief men and the lords of the Danaans? I could not tell over the multitude of them nor name them, not if I had ten tongues and ten mouths, not if I had a voice never to be broken and a heart of bronze within me, not unless the Muses of Olympia, daughters of Zeus of the aegis, remembered all those who came beneath Ilion. I will tell the lords of the ships, and the ships numbers.

In the following passage we also observe a use of ἡμεῖς that seems to reflect the speaker’s desire to project an image of modesty. It is Athena who responds to Zeus when he forbids the gods to intervene in the fight between the Greeks and the Trojans. The goddess declares herself willing to take on her father’s orders but announces that she will warn the Danaans to avoid their ruin. Although she refers to her own thoughts and feelings, just as understood by Zeus,24 Athena hides her I between the I of the rest of the supporters of the Greek side. This  20 The analysis of ἡμεῖς as an expression of modesty is possible in Hom. Il. 2.486 (3x), Hom. Il. 8.31, Hom. Il. 8.32, Hom. Il. 8.33, Hom. Il. 8.35, Hom. Il. 8.36 and Hom. Il. 9.108. 21 On this switch in Sophocles and Euripides, see Conti 2021, 24, 26, and 33, among others. 22 This verse, repeated in Hom. Il. 11.228, Hom. Il. 14.508 and Hom. Il. 16.112, introduces the narration of a solemn moment (Kirk 1990, 166–167). 23 This passage was analyzed by Wackernagel 1924, 100 as a possible early example of pluralis auctoris. 24 The answer he gives his daughter is clear: θάρσει Τριτογένεια φίλον τέκος· οὔ νύ τι θυμῷ | πρόφρονι μυθέομαι, ἐθέλω δέ τοι ἤπιος εἶναι (Hom. Il. 6.39–40) ‘Tritogeneia, dear daughter, do not lose heart; for I say this not in outright anger, and my meaning toward you is kindly’.

The Expression of Authority and Solidarity  

allows her to avoid direct confrontation with her father, while it strengthens her position: 8)

ὦ πάτερ ἡμέτερε Κρονίδη ὕπατε κρειόντων | εὖ νυ καὶ ἡμεῖς ἴδμεν ὅ τοι σθένος οὐκ ἐπιεικτόν·| ἀλλ’ ἔμπης Δαναῶν ὀλοφυρόμεθ’ αἰχμητάων, | οἵ κεν δὴ κακὸν οἶτον ἀναπλήσαντες ὄλωνται. | ἀλλ’ ἤτοι πολέμου μὲν ἀφεξόμεθ’ ὡς σὺ κελεύεις· | βουλὴν δ’ Ἀργείοις ὑποθησόμεθ’ ἥ τις ὀνήσει, | ὡς μὴ πάντες ὄλωνται ὀδυσσαμένοιο τεοῖο Hom. Il. 8.31–37 Son of Kronos, our father, o lordliest of the mighty, we know already your strength and how none can stand up against it. Yet even so we are sorrowful for the Danaan spearmen who must fill out an unhappy destiny, and perish. Still we shall keep out of the fighting, as you command us; yet we will put good counsel in the Argives; if it may help them, so that not all of them will die because of your anger.

The speaker uses ἡμεῖς as an expression of modesty in communicative exchanges with characters of a higher status. Therefore, we are faced with a manifestation of deference, that is, a device used to maintain or reinforce the preexisting social relationship, in this case asymmetric, between the speaker and the interlocutor.25 In principle, the use of ἡμεῖς forms as an expression of power and selfdignity is typical of characters of high social rank,26 therefore its presence in the Iliad should not surprise us.27 Zeus and Agamemnon, for example, sometimes use ἡμεῖς with this value. As we know, both represent an institution and generally have authority over their interlocutors.28 The following passage shows this use of ἡμεῖς as pronounced by Zeus.29 This is an example of pluralis maiestatis:

 25 For a discussion on the concept of deference and its implications, see Haugh 2010, 271–276. 26 This is found, for example, in some of Sophocles and Euripides’ tragedies (cf. Conti 2021, 28–29). 27 The analysis of ἡμεῖς as an expression of power and self–dignity is seen in the following passages: Hom. Il. 1.30, Hom. Il. 2.374, Hom. Il. 3.224, Hom. Il. 3.440, Hom. Il. 4.49, Hom. Il. 5.258, Hom. Il. 6.151, Hom. Il. 6.414, Hom. Il. 7.196, Hom. Il. 7.363, Hom. Il. 8.178, Hom. Il. 13.779, Hom. Il. 13.785 (2x), Hom. Il. 15.224, Hom. Il. 16.244, Hom. Il. 18.197, Hom. Il. 19.73, Hom. Il. 20.214, Hom. Il. 21.60, Hom. Il. 21.332, Hom. Il. 21.458, Hom. Il. 23.413 and Hom. Il. 24.70. 28 As French/Raven 1959, 150 point out, in formal organizations the influence of each member is conditioned by the position he occupies, and not so much by his character or personal qualities. It is common for heads of an institution to use we forms to refer to themselves, but also to refer to themselves and the institution they represent. On these and other characteristics of political discourses in collectivist societies see, for example, Pyykkö 2002, 234 ff. 29 Other characters such as Achilles, Diomedes, or Hector also act as representatives of an institution, especially in front of their respective troops and other army leaders.

  Luz Conti 9)

ἔρχεο νῦν φίλε Φοῖβε μεθ’ Ἕκτορα χαλκοκορυστήν· | ἤδη μὲν γάρ τοι γαιήοχος ἐννοσίγαιος | οἴχεται εἰς ἅλα δῖαν ἀλευάμενος χόλον αἰπὺν | ἡμέτερον30… Hom. Il. 15.221–224 Go now, beloved Phoibos, to the side of brazen-helmed Hektor, since by this he who encircles the earth and shakes it is gone into the bright sea and has avoided the anger that would be ours (Zeus to Apollo).

However, the speaker’s social position is not always superior to that of the interlocutor; it may be equal or even slightly lower. In these cases, the speaker uses the ἡμεῖς forms to underline both his dignity and his social prestige, or even to claim recognition.31 Let us look at some examples. In (10), Poseidon has just reminded Apollo of Laomedon’s insulting behavior towards them (Hom. Il. 21.450–456). Then, he reproaches him for his condescendence with the Trojans and his refusal to support him. Poseidon uses the plural to try to highlight his dignity, a dignity that is, obviously, not comparable to that of mere mortals:32 10) τοῦ δὴ νῦν λαοῖσι φέρεις χάριν, οὐδὲ μεθ’ ἡμέων πειρᾷ ὥς κε Τρῶες ὑπερφίαλοι ἀπόλωνται Hom. Il. 21.457–458 Yet to his people you give now your grace, and you will not try with us to bring destruction on the insolent Trojans.

 30 The use as an expression of power and self-dignity is especially observed in the possessive, which designates both alienable and inalienable possessions. Wackernagel 1924, 99 previously drew attention to this fact. 31 Therefore, the ἡμεῖς forms are not used as a sign of a power assumed by both the speaker and his interlocutor but as a means to achieve or regain the respect that the speaker believes he deserves. Although there is no unanimous agreement on this, this paper starts with Wartenberg’s definition of power (1990): “A social agent A has power over another social agent B if and only if A strategically constraints B’s action–environment” (Wartenberg 1990, 85). 32 Apollo understands that Poseidon refers exclusively to himself: ἐννοσίγαι’ οὐκ ἄν με σαόφρονα μυθήσαιο | ἔμμεναι, εἰ δὴ σοί γε βροτῶν ἕνεκα πτολεμίξω | δειλῶν, οἳ φύλλοισιν ἐοικότες ἄλλοτε μέν τε | ζαφλεγέες τελέθουσιν ἀρούρης καρπὸν ἔδοντες, | ἄλλοτε δὲ φθινύθουσιν ἀκήριοι. ἀλλὰ τάχιστα | παυώμεσθα μάχης· οἳ δ’ αὐτοὶ δηριαάσθων (Hom. Il. 21.462–467) ‘Shaker of the earth, you would have me be as one without prudence if I am to fight even you for the sake of insignificant mortals, who are as leaves are, and now flourish and grow warm with life, and feed on what the ground gives, but then again fade away and are dead. Therefore, let us with all speed give up this quarrel and let the mortals fight their own battles.’

The Expression of Authority and Solidarity  

Let us analyze a second passage. Hector reproached Paris for his indolence in combat, for he had found him encouraging others, and not fighting alongside the strongest men (Hom. Il. 13.69–73). Paris responds to Hector, trying to claim his worth. As we see, Paris uses the singular to refer to his facet as an individual but the plural is used instead when he describes his behavior at that moment on the battlefield. It is this behavior, clearly called into question by Hector, that Paris intends to underline: 11) Ἕκτορ ἐπεί τοι θυμὸς ἀναίτιον αἰτιάασθαι, | ἄλλοτε δή ποτε μᾶλλον ἐρωῆσαι πολέμοιο | μέλλω, ἐπεὶ οὐδ’ ἐμὲ πάμπαν ἀνάλκιδα γείνατο μήτηρ·| ἐξ οὗ γὰρ παρὰ νηυσὶ μάχην ἤγειρας ἑταίρων, | ἐκ τοῦ δ’ ἐνθάδ’ ἐόντες ὁμιλέομεν Δαναοῖσι | νωλεμέως· ἕταροι δὲ κατέκταθεν οὓς σὺ μεταλλᾷς. | οἴω Δηΐφοβός τε βίη θ’ Ἑλένοιο ἄνακτος | οἴχεσθον, μακρῇσι τετυμμένω ἐγχείῃσιν | ἀμφοτέρω κατὰ χεῖρα· φόνον δ’ ἤμυνε Κρονίων | νῦν δ’ ἄρχ’ ὅππῃ σε κραδίη θυμός τε κελεύει·| ἡμεῖς δ’ ἐμμεμαῶτες ἅμ’ ἑψόμεθ’, οὐδέ τί φημι | ἀλκῆς δευήσεσθαι, ὅση δύναμίς γε πάρεστι.33 Hom. Il. 13.775–786 Hektor, since it is your pleasure to blame me when I am blameless, it would be better some other time to withdraw from the fighting than now. My mother bore me not utterly lacking in warcraft. For since that time when by the ships you wakened the battle of our companions, we have stayed here and fought the Danaans without end. And our companions are killed you ask for. Only Deiphobos and the strength of the prince Helenos have gone away, wounded each in the hand by strokes of the long spears, but the son of Kronos fended death from them. Now lead on, wherever your heart and spirit command you, and we shall follow you eagerly; I think that we shall not come short in warcraft, in so far as the strength stays with us.

The speaker’s attempt to reinforce his authority, whether it be social, moral, or intellectual, reflects a negative politeness strategy that clearly delineates the I of you.34 This strategy is observed in confrontational contexts as well as in contexts in which the speaker believes that it is convenient to maintain a certain distance with his interlocutor and highlight his own excellence.

 33 Then (Hom. Il. 13.789), the two brothers go to the place where the battle is the fiercest. 34 On the deactualizing process that explains the use of ἡμεῖς in place of ἐγώ in the contexts we just analyzed, cf. Conti 2021, 30–32.

  Luz Conti

. Diminishing of the speaker’s authority In the Iliad the use of ἡμεῖς forms sometimes responds to the speaker’s desire to reduce his responsibility in the development of the verbal action and, therefore, his authority.35 The speaker, solely involved in the performance of the verbal action, makes the interlocutor a partaker of his achievements, his decisions, or even his mistakes. The clearest and most frequently commented36 example is the following. In this passage Achilles uses the plural to refer to his victory over Hector and the glory wrought by his enemy’s death. Here, ἠράμεθα could be considered to have a prototypical value, unlike ἐπέφνομεν, since, as we know, only Achilles intervened in Hector’s death: 12) ἠράμεθα μέγα κῦδος· ἐπέφνομεν Ἕκτορα δῖον Hom. Il. 22.393 We have won ourselves enormous fame; we have killed the great Hektor.

The following passage also presents this use of ἡμεῖς. Eurypylus, wounded, asked Patroclus for help. Patroclus decides to change his plans and save him. Obviously, Eurypylus is neither in a position to take a decision nor to act accordingly. Even so, Patroclus uses a first-person plural to express his emotional connection with his companion. Then, when he recounts the mission he must fulfill, he logically uses the singular: 13) πῶς τὰρ ἔοι τάδε ἔργα; τί ῥέξομεν Εὐρύπυλ’ ἥρως; ἔρχομαι ὄφρ’ Ἀχιλῆϊ δαΐφρονι μῦθον ἐνίσπω ὃν Νέστωρ ἐπέτελλε Γερήνιος οὖρος Ἀχαιῶν· ἀλλ’ οὐδ’ ὧς περ σεῖο μεθήσω τειρομένοιο. Hom. Il. 11.838–841 But how shall this be, my lord Eurypylos, how shall we do it? I am on my way carrying a message to wise Achilleus given me by Gerenian Nestor, the Achaians’ watcher. But even so I will not leave you in your affliction.

Let us take another passage. Now, we find Agamemnon who has just reproached Odysseus for his inaction in combat. Odysseus’ irate reply (Hom. Il. 4.350–355)  35 Cf. Hom. Il. 1.140, Hom. Il. 4.362, Hom. Il. 9.619, Hom. Il. 11.527, Hom. Il. 11.528, Hom. Il. 11.838, Hom. Il. 13.257, Hom. Il. 19.195, Hom. Il. 22.393 (2x), Hom. Il. 23.802. and Hom. Il. 24.71. This use is observed much less frequently than the previous one, but it has attracted more attention from scholars. 36 See, for example, Wackernagel 1924, 98 or Slotty 1927, 352.

The Expression of Authority and Solidarity  

leads Agamemnon to recant. Although Agamemnon must restore harmony, as he went too far with his words, he uses a plural form to implicate Odysseus and present the reconciliation as a gesture in which both, not only he, will be protagonists: 14) διογενὲς Λαερτιάδη πολυμήχαν’ Ὀδυσσεῦ | οὔτέ σε νεικείω περιώσιον οὔτε κελεύω·| οἶδα γὰρ ὥς τοι θυμὸς ἐνὶ στήθεσσι φίλοισιν | ἤπια δήνεα οἶδε· τὰ γὰρ φρονέεις ἅ τ’ ἐγώ περ.| ἀλλ’ ἴθι ταῦτα δ’ ὄπισθεν ἀρεσσόμεθ’ εἴ τι κακὸν νῦν | εἴρηται37, τὰ δὲ πάντα θεοὶ μεταμώνια θεῖεν. Hom. Il. 4.358–363 Son of Laertes and seed of Zeus, resourceful Odysseus: I must not be niggling with you, nor yet give you orders, since I know how the spirit in your secret heart knows ideas of kindness only; for what you think is what I think. Come now, we will make it good38 hereafter, if anything evil has been said; let the gods make all this come to nothing.

This use of ἡμεῖς is also observed in contexts in which the speaker occupies a position of inferiority with respect to his addressee. The charioteer Cebriones, for example, uses the plural to involve Hector in a verbal action that only he will execute. This reduces the possible negative impact of his directive message on Priam’s son. Cebriones’ proposal is actually a way of asking for permission: 15)

… ἀλλὰ καὶ ἡμεῖς κεῖσ’ ἵππους τε καὶ ἅρμ’ ἰθύνομεν, ἔνθα μάλιστα ἱππῆες πεζοί τε κακὴν ἔριδα προβαλόντες ἀλλήλους ὀλέκουσι … Hom. Il. 11.527–530 So, let us also steer our horses and chariot that way, since there the horsemen and the foot-ranks more than elsewhere hurling the wicked war-hate against each other, are destroying.

The analysis of these examples in their context invites us to cast aside the interpretation of ἡμεῖς as an expression of modesty. What the speaker is actually trying to do is accentuate the climate of solidarity and cooperation with the addressee. In this climate of solidarity, the speaker’s role in the verbal action is reduced, but, at the same time, the in-group feeling is reinforced, which adds to the addressee’s confidence in the speaker and closes the distance between  37 The use of the third-person singular, and not the first, is worth mentioning. Although it is clear that he was the one who said the impertinences, Agamemnon avoids the first person to prevent himself from taking the blame explicitly. By doing so, his power is not in question. 38 Lattimore translates ἀρεσσόμεθα as ‘I will make it good’.

  Luz Conti both.39 This is a positive politeness strategy in which the speaker tries to promote good understanding with the addressee.40

 Conclusions The preceding analysis performed on the Iliad allows us to draw the following conclusions: 1. In their prototypical uses, the exclusive value of ἡμεῖς forms is characteristic, above all, of confrontational contexts between the speaker and his interlocutor. The inclusive value, which is observed much more frequently, does not seem to be linked to specific contexts. 2. The non-prototypical uses of the ἡμεῖς forms derive either from the exclusive value or from the inclusive value of the prototypical uses. The nonprototypical uses derived from the exclusive value are employed by the speaker as a strategy to reinforce his authority and maintain distance from the addressee. The uses that derive from the inclusive value, on the other hand, are employed by the speaker as a strategy to reduce his authority and lessen his distance from the addressee. 3. The pragmatic meaning of social, moral, or intellectual authority, which arises from the metaphorical association with third parties, is used by the speaker for two different purposes: to express modesty and to express social power and self-dignity. In the first case, the speaker presents his I diluted between the I of others; in the second, the speaker reinforces his I through the I of others. This is a negative politeness strategy by which the speaker maintains or accentuates the distance with his interlocutor. 4. Contrary to the most widespread opinion, the Iliad offers unequivocal examples of the so-called pluralis maiestatis. These are passages in which  39 The passages that we have just analyzed are the reverse to others in which the speaker uses a first-person plural to refer to verbal actions in which he has not participated. On the use of ἡμεῖς as positive politeness strategy when referring to the second person see Conti 2023, 7–9, 17. Odysseus, for example, presents the death of Dolon as a joint action to Diomedes. However, we know that the death of the Trojan hero was the work of Diomedes alone (cf. Hom. Il. 10.455– 456): οὗτός τοι Διόμηδες ἀνήρ, οὗτοι δέ τοι ἵπποι, | οὓς νῶϊν πίφαυσκε Δόλων ὃν ἐπέφνομεν ἡμεῖς (Hom. Il. 10.477–478) ‘Here is our man, see, Diomedes, and here are his horses, those that Dolon, the man we killed, pointed out to us’. 40 The modesty we observe in the Iliad, on the contrary, reflects the speaker’s association with third parties, not with the interlocutor. Otherwise, it makes no sense for a feeling of modesty to lead the speaker to make the interlocutor his accomplice in his mistakes, as in (14).

The Expression of Authority and Solidarity  

5.

6.

the speaker reinforces his social power and dignity as a representative or prominent member of an institution. In other cases, however, the speaker uses ἡμεῖς forms as a strategy to claim the social power and dignity that he believes he deserves and that are not recognized at that time. The pragmatic meaning of diminished authority, derived from the metaphorical association with the addressee, is used by the speaker to accentuate solidarity and in-group feeling. The speaker who is solely involved in the performance of the verbal action, makes the interlocutor a partaker of his achievements, his decisions, or even his mistakes. We are facing a positive politeness strategy that the speaker uses to attempt to foster cooperation and good understanding with the addressee, thereby closing the distance between the two. The more frequent use of the ἡμεῖς forms in place of ἐγώ is the expression of social power and self-dignity. This could be a striking fact given the scarce presence of the exclusive value in the prototypical use of ἡμεῖς forms. Nevertheless, this is easily explained if we consider the relevance of the discourse focused on I and its excellence as an argumentative resource in the Iliad.

References Brown, P./Levinson, S.C. (1987), Politeness. Some Universals in Language Usage, Cambridge. Conti, L. (2021), “A first approach to ἡμεῖς in place of ἐγώ in Sophocles and Euripides: A deactualising device and expression of self-dignity”, Graeco-Latina Brunensia 26.1, 23–35. Conti, L. (2023), “Sobre el valor pseudo inclusivo de la primera persona del plural en la Ilíada”, Glotta 99, 2–20. Corbett, G.G. (2000), Number, Cambridge. Cysouw, M. (2003), The Paradigmatic Structure of Person Marking, Oxford. Daniel, M.A. (2005), “Understanding inclusive”, in: E. Filimonova (ed.), Clusivity. Typology and Case Studies of the Inclusive-Exclusive Distinction, Amsterdam, 3–48. Fornieles, R. (2020), “Sobre un mecanismo de (des)cortesía verbal entre Esquines y Demóstenes: La impersonalización con el pronombre indefinido τις”, QUCC 125.2, 131–151. Fornieles, R. (2021), “Impersonalization as a mechanism of impoliteness in Aeschines and Demosthenes: a study of οὐδείς and μηδείς”, in: G.K. Giannakis et al. (eds.), Synchrony and Diachrony of Ancient Greek, Berlin, 347–355. French, J.R.P./Raven, B. (1959), “The bases of social power”, in: D. Cartwright (ed.), Studies in Social Power, Ann Arbor, 150–167. Haugh, M. (2010), “Respect and deference”, in: M.A. Locher/S.L. Graham (eds.), Interpersonal Pragmatics, Berlin, 271–288. Heine, B./Song, K.-A. (2011), “On the grammaticalization of personal pronouns”, Journal of Linguistics 47, 587–630.

  Luz Conti Helmbrecht, J. (2002), “Grammar and function of we”, in: A. Duszak (ed.), Us and Others. Social Identities across Languages, Discourses and Cultures, Amsterdam, 31–49. Helmbrecht, J. (2015), “A typology of non-prototypical uses of personal pronouns: Synchrony and diachrony”, Journal of Pragmatics 88, 176–189. Ide, S. (2005), “How and why honorifics can signify dignity and elegance”, in: R. Lakoff/S. Ide (eds.), Broadening the Horizons of Linguistic Politeness, Amsterdam, 45–64. Kirk, G.S. (1990), The Iliad: A Commentary, Volume II: books 5–8, Cambridge. Kühner, R./Gerth, B. (1898), Ausführliche Grammatik der griechischen Sprache 1, Hannover/ Leipzig. Pyykkö, R. (2002), “Who is ‘we’ in Russian political discourse”, in: A. Duszak (ed.), Us and Others. Social Identities across Languages, Discourses and Cultures, Amsterdam, 233–248. Schwyzer, E./Debrunner, A. (1950), Griechische Grammatik II 1.2, Munich. Siewierska, A. (2004), Person, Cambridge. Slotty, F. (1927), “Der sog. Pluralis modestiae”, Indogermanische Forschungen 44, 155–190. Wackernagel, J. (1924), Vorlesungen über Syntax: mit besonderer Berücksichtigung von Griechisch, Lateinisch und Deutsch 1, Basel. Wartenberg, T.E. (1990), The Forms of Power: From Domination to Transformation, Philadelphia.

Raquel Fornieles

A First Approach to Irony in Greek Oratory Abstract: Like many other natural languages, Ancient Greek has linguistic mechanisms to codify a statement’s ironic sense and its understanding by interlocutors. These irony markers — which require a degree of shared knowledge between the speaker and the audience — include evidentials, diminutives, simplifications, repetitions, rhetorical questions, hyperbole, litotes, oxymoron or lexical-semantic markers. This paper aims to offer a first approach to irony in Greek oratory. We will look specifically at the three extant speeches of Aeschines (Against Timarchus, On the Embassy and Against Ctesiphon) and two speeches of Demosthenes: On the Crown and On the Dishonest Embassy. Keywords: irony, pragmatics, (im)politeness, oratory, courtroom speech

 Introduction The term ‘irony’ has its origin in the Greek word εἰρωνεία (‘dissimulation’, ‘feigned ignorance’), often applied to Socrates (Socratic irony) in a negative sense (Arist. Rh. 1379b31) and more related to lies than to dissimulation in Aristophanic comedy.1 Scholars of rhetoric explain irony as a figure of speech in which a speaker — with his words or with prosodic elements, such as tone of voice or intonation2 — expresses a meaning3 that is directly the opposite to the intended meaning (Kaufer 1997, 90). Both the linguistic and situational context are conducive to successful irony performance. As Lyons 1997, 578 points out:

 This study has been written as part of two research projects: SI3/PJI/2021-00208 (“Irony as a rhetorical device in Athenian legal language”) and PGC2018-093779-B-I00 (“Verbal politeness and impoliteness in Ancient Greek literary dialogue”).  1 See Wolfsdorf 2008 or Luarsabishvili 2019. 2 It should be note that in oral discourse, irony is often accompanied by a particular tone, intonation, or accent. Therefore, prosody plays a decisive role (as a significant part of paralinguistic information) for the audience’s correct recognition and interpretation of irony. Unfortunately, when we study corpus languages, we lack such information. Hence, in the next few pages we will focus exclusively on linguistic indicators. Here we present a first approach. A more detailed analysis will follow in subsequent papers. 3 Frequently in terms of antonymy from a semantic point of view (e.g. brave / coward). Cf., for instance, Kerbrat-Orecchioni 1986, 102 or Panther/Thornburg 2012. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111272887-013

  Raquel Fornieles “Irony depends upon and presupposes the participants’ knowledge of the normal conditions of situational appropriateness”.4 A clear example of this can be seen in the following passage in which Aeschines refers ironically to the values that Demosthenes is supposed to represent: 1)

καὶ γὰρ ἐὰν αὐτὰ διεξίῃ τὰ ἐκ τοῦ ψηφίσματος προστάγματα, ἀλλ’ οὐ τό γ’ ἐκ τῆς ἀληθείας αἰσχρὸν σιωπήσεται, ἀλλὰ τἀναντία δόξει τῇ τοῦ κήρυκος φωνῇ φθέγγεσθαι ὅτι τόνδε τὸν ἄνδρα, εἰ δὴ καὶ οὗτος ἀνήρ, στεφανοῖ ὁ δῆμος ὁ Ἀθηναίων ἀρετῆς ἕνεκα τὸν κάκιστον καὶ ἀνδραγαθίας ἕνεκα τὸν ἄνανδρον καὶ λελοιπότα τὴν τάξιν. Aeschin. In Ctes. 155. For if he goes through the actual announcement ordered by the decree, shame prompted by the truth will not stay silent but will seem to proclaim in opposition to the herald’s voice that this man, if man he really is, is being crowned by the Athenian people for his virtue when he is utterly base, and for his manly excellence when he is a coward who has deserted his post.5

It is well known that Aeschines brought a γραφή παρανόμων (indictment of an illegal proposal) against Ctesiphon, who passed a decree that the city should award Demosthenes a golden crown for his services to the city. Obviously, Aeschines tries to demonstrate that Demosthenes does not deserve such an honor and echoes his words with irony when he says that his opponent is being crowned for his virtue (ἀρετῆς ἕνεκα) and for his manly excellence (ἀνδραγαθίας ἕνεκα). To discredit Demosthenes, Aeschines refers to him using two terms contrary to the values that the city attributes to him. Firstly, with the superlative κάκιστος, which does not fit in with virtue (ἀρετή), and secondly, with the adjective ἄνανδρος (‘coward(ly)’). The latter is totally incompatible with bravery or manly excellence (ἀνδραγαθία) but appropriate in order to define a man who would be ashamed to desert the post assigned to him in war. Aeschines is referring to a very specific fact of which the audience would have been well aware, that Demosthenes was accused of deserting the army in 348 BC. Irony has aroused great interest from Classical Rhetoric to modern linguistic theories. The extensive literature dealing with the ironic phenomenon tends to establish a typology based on the distinction between several modalities, such

 4 Cf. also Lausberg 1998, 266: “Irony is the expression of something by means of a word that describes its opposite. It is a tool of partisanship […]: the speaker is so sure of the persuasiveness of his own position as well as of public sympathy that he makes use […] of the lexical range of values of his opponent and exposes its falsity by the linguistic or situational context.” 5 Translations of Demosthenes and Aeschines are from Yunis 2005 and Carey 2000, respectively.

A First Approach to Irony in Greek Oratory  

as the irony of fate, dramatic irony (tragic irony, whose origin dates to Sophocles), situational irony or verbal irony.6 Below, we present a summary of research published on this topic to date.

. Irony as a pragmatic phenomenon Pragmatic approaches have found satisfactory explanations for grammatical or semantic problems posed by the study of irony (Marimón-Llorca 2005). In his Speech Act Theory, Austin 1962 excluded both non-literal language and irony from his analysis, as he considered them to be “non-serious” uses of language. Conversely, Searle 1975, 1979 did take irony into account and, along with metaphor, addressed it as an indirect speech act in which the speaker’s intention differs from the literal meaning of the speaker’s utterance. Later, in his article “The theory of ironic speech acts”, Amante 1981, 77 argued that irony operates by covertly negating one or more of the conditions and rules of most non-ironic speech acts. On the other hand, Haverkate7 specified that irony is manifested mainly in assertive speech acts and proposed a classification of the main ironic assertions taking as a starting point the dichotomy between stereotyped (lexicalized) and non-stereotyped expressions (derived from context). In the framework of the Theory of Conversation, Grice 1975 outlined irony as an infringement of the Cooperative Principle or of one of its maxims, almost always the supermaxim of Quality (“Try to make your contribution one that is true”), divided into two more specific maxims: “Do not say what you believe to be false” and “Do not say that for which you lack adequate evidence”). Ducrot 1984, 1988, for his part, approached the phenomenon from the point of view of his Theory of Polyphony. According to Ducrot, irony occurs when a speaker introduces a point of view that is not his own, which he dissociates from and even mocks implicitly.

 6 Verbal irony has been defined, among others, by Burgers/van Mulken/Schellens 2011, 190 as an expression with an initial evaluation implicitly contrary to its intended evaluation. Irony has also been explained as a useful resource to express surprise (Colston/Keller 1998). See also Attardo 2000, Alcaide 2004 — who offers a theoretical framework up to Utsumi’s ‘Implicit Display Theory of Irony’ — and Athanasiadou/Colston 2020, 1–14. Studies on irony in Ancient Greek are few and far between (cf. Minchin 2010 and 2010b for Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, Wolfsdorf 2008 for Aristophanes, Vatri 2018 for the specific case of Oratory or Pawlak 2019 for the New Testament and Lucian). 7 Cf. Haverkate 1984; 1985; 1990.

  Raquel Fornieles Sperber and Wilson8 also dealt with irony from the perspective of Relevance Theory, specifically the “use-mention” distinction. The notion of “echo” is essential in this context. According to Sperber and Wilson, in irony the speaker echoes9 some propositional content represented by a previous utterance but conveys an attitude of dissociation. Thus, the speaker dissociates himself/ herself from the opinion echoed and indicates that he/she does not hold it herself. It is also worth noting the interest that irony has aroused in studies on politeness and impoliteness. Regarding the former, scholars like Lakoff 1973 or Leech 1983, who propose the ‘Irony Principle’, take as a starting point Grice’s Cooperative Principle. The main contribution has been Brown and Levinson’s proposal (1978 and 1987), who based their politeness’ model on the concept of face created by Goffman 1967. In broad terms, as a member of society, every individual has a positive face (the want of every member that his wants be desirable to at least some others) and a negative face (the want of every ‘competent adult member’ that his actions be unimpeded by others). When verbal interaction takes place, speakers tend to protect their positive face and avoid damaging that of the interlocutor.10 However, there are speech acts that threaten face, the so-called face-threatening acts (FTAs). Brown and Levinson do not define irony, but they approach it as one of the linguistic realizations of off-record strategies,11 a kind of hint as to what a speaker wants or means to communicate without doing so directly. From the perspective of impoliteness theoretical frameworks, Culpeper 1996 states that he prefers the term ‘sarcasm’ and labels it as a mechanism of feigned politeness (mock politeness), an off-record strategy of impoliteness.12 Finally, linguistic (and non-linguistic) markers that appear when irony occurs have also been a focus of interest for researchers in recent decades. In this regard, as we shall discuss below, pragmatics brings into play the situational context, the intention of the speaker and the interlocutor’s interpretation.13

 8 Cf. Sperber/Wilson 1978 and 1981. 9 Cf. Sperber/Wilson 1986, 239: “Verbal irony invariably involves the implicit expression of an attitude, and that the relevance of an ironical utterance invariably depends, at least in part, on the information it conveys about the speaker’s attitude to the opinion echoed”. 10 For instance, requests threaten the hearer’s negative face, since they put him in an awkward position (he must accept or reject them). 11 That is, a covert, subtle realization of the speech act that admits a threat-free interpretation. Cf. Brown/Levinson 1987, 67 and 263. 12 See also, among others, Lachenicht 1980, Jorgensen 1996 or Bousfield 2008. 13 Cf., among others, Alvarado 1996. Some of the main works on irony markers are those of Muecke 1978, Attardo 2000b, Attardo et al. 2003 or Schoentjes 2003.

A First Approach to Irony in Greek Oratory  

. Irony as an argumentative resource As we shall discuss later, the texts analyzed in this study are mainly argumentative in nature. Irony has also been approached by Perelman and OlbrechtsTyteca 1971 from the perspective of their theory of argumentation (‘The New Rhetoric’) as a quasi-logical argument of a non-formal nature that requires a high effort of thought. Also interesting are Toulmin’s 1958 model of argumentation, in which legal argumentation plays a relevant role, and Anscombre and Ducrot’s 1983 ‘Theory of Argumentation’ or the ‘Pragma-dialectical Theory’, developed by Van Eemeren and Grootendorst 1992.

 Irony and courtroom discourse in Greek oratory Trials have very particular characteristics that are marked, to a large extent, by the very purpose of legal speeches such as those we will focus on. The orator’s main goal is to persuade, to convince the members of the jury to vote in the sense he proposes, that is, in his favor and against his opponent’s interests. Therefore, courtroom discourse is eminently argumentative and Ancient Greek has several linguistic mechanisms that are used by speakers to guide their interlocutors towards the conclusion they deem suitable and to influence their behavior. From this starting point, the proposed research is based on the following hypotheses. Firstly, irony is an effective mechanism of legal language14 that helps the speaker to fulfill his purpose to direct the audience’s thoughts and behavior. On the other hand, irony has traditionally been associated with criticism and mockery, and so is usually seen to have a negative effect. However, our hypothesis is that, in his use of irony, the speaker not only causes this negative effect but can also have a positive effect with his words. Thus, the use of irony responds to a(n) (im)politeness strategy that is a part of the speaker’s own discursive strategies. These strategies are aimed at three different orator’s purposes that are not always exclusive: attacking a speaker’s adversary, defending him 14 The relationship between law, language and discourse has also been widely studied recently and receives different denominations (‘forensic linguistics’, ‘legal linguistics’, ‘language and the law’, etc.). We have especially taken into consideration the studies of Kurzon 1989, Lakoff 1989, Gibbons 2003, Cornu 2000, Gibbons/Turell 2008, Coulthard/Johnson 2010, Olsson/ Luchjenbroers 2014 or Heydon 2019. For the specific case of Ancient Greek, see Edwards/ Spatharas 2019.

  Raquel Fornieles self, and showing modesty (or false modesty) to the jurors to protect his own face and win their approval. For example, in (2), Aeschines, who is lashing out at Demosthenes as a prelude to his own defense, addresses the jurors thus: 2)

Ἀκούσατε δὴ τούς τε ἡμετέρους λόγους οὓς εἴπομεν ὑπὲρ ὑμῶν, καὶ πάλιν οὓς τὸ μέγα ὄφελος τῆς πόλεως εἴρηκε Δημοσθένης, ἵν’ ἐφεξῆς καὶ κατὰ μικρὸν πρὸς ἕκαστα τῶν κατηγορημένων ἀπολογήσωμαι. Aeschin. Emb. 24 So, listen to the speeches we made on your behalf and then those made by the great benefactor of the city, Demosthenes, so that I can reply in order and in detail to each of his charges.

In this case, despite referring to Demosthenes as ‘the great benefactor of the city’ (τὸ μέγα ὄφελος τῆς πόλεως), Aeschines is really trying to belittle him, to show his superiority over him (his statement could be paraphrased like this: ‘I defended the city; he, who is supposed to be the great benefactor, did not do the same’). In (3), Aeschines is ironic when he refers to Demosthenes with a very significant adjective (μισοφίλιππος, ‘hating Philip’, ‘anti-Philip’) in a passage in which he is reporting precisely how, at a given time, his rival looked kindly upon the peace with Philip: 3)

Παρελθὼν δ’ ὁ μισοφίλιππος Δημοσθένης, κατέτριψε τὴν ἡμέραν ἀπολογούμενος· Aeschin. Emb. 14 Demosthenes the anti-Philip came to the stand and spent the whole day on the defense.

Irony is recognized by lexical-semantic markers in both examples and the same applies to (4). Despite describing Demosthenes as ‘honest’, and a ‘good man’ (χρηστός), it is easily inferred from the passage that Aeschines is disparaging him: 4)

Ἐπειδὴ δ’ ἐφ’ ἡμῶν αὐτῶν ἐγενόμεθα, σφόδρα πάνυ σκυθρωπάσας ὁ χρηστὸς οὑτοσὶ Δημοσθένης, ἀπολωλεκέναι με ἔφη τὴν πόλιν καὶ τοὺς συμμάχους. Aeschin. Emb. 36 When we were alone together, this fine fellow Demosthenes was very ill-tempered and claimed I had ruined the city and its allies.

A First Approach to Irony in Greek Oratory  

In (5), on the contrary, Demosthenes seeks to protect his own face. To achieve his goal, he alludes ironically to his rival’s behavior,15 but also to his own attitude: 5)

δῆλον γὰρ ὅτι σὺ μὲν ἀλγεῖς ἐπὶ τοῖς συμβεβηκόσιν, Αἰσχίνη, καὶ τοὺς Θηβαίους ἐλεεῖς, κτήματ’ ἔχων ἐν τῇ Βοιωτίᾳ καὶ γεωργῶν τὰ ἐκείνων, ἐγὼ δὲ χαίρω, ὃς εὐθὺς ἐξῃτούμην ὑπὸ τοῦ ταῦτα πράξαντος. Dem. De cor. 41 Naturally (It is manifest that), you’re pained by these events, Aeschines, and you feel pity for the Thebans, since you own property in Boeotia and farm their land, but I’m delighted since the author of the crime immediately demanded my surrender.

In this case the irony marker is the evidential δῆλον, which suggests outrage at Aeschines’ hypocrisy.16 Demosthenes tries to harm his rival, but he also pursues his own benefit. This is a very interesting aspect, since, as Vatri 2018, 1054 highlights: “When a speaker uses irony to deprecate himself, the harshness evoked by his statements will be judged excessive by the audience and result in indulgence”.17

 Irony markers in Ancient Greek: A first approach from Oratory Ancient Greek, as well as other natural languages, has a series of linguistic markers to codify a statement’s ironic sense and its understanding by interlocutors. These verbal indicators of irony18 require a degree of shared knowledge between the speaker and his audience. Included in these linguistic markers or verbal indicators of irony are lexical-semantic markers, as in the examples shown in (1), (2), (3) and (4) and evidentials — for example, δῆλον in (5) or ὡς ἔοικεν in (6): 6)

καίτοι τοσαύτῃ γ’ ὑπερβολῇ συκοφαντίας οὗτος κέχρηται ὥστε, εἰ μέν τι τῶν δεόντων ἐπράχθη, τὸν καιρόν, οὐκ ἐμέ φησιν αἴτιον γεγενῆσθαι, τῶν δ’ ὡς ἑτέρως συμβάντων ἁπά-

 15 Cf. Yunis 2005, 42: “Behind this sarcasm is the fact that Demosthenes was one of ten Athenians whom Alexander, after putting down the Theban revolt, demanded as hostages. The demand was later rescinded. Demosthenes also implies that Aeschines’ property in Boeotia came to him from Philip in return for services rendered”. 16 Cf. Yunis 2001, 132. 17 Cf. also Patillon 1988, 140. 18 Muecke 1978 calls them irony markers. Cf., also, Schoentjes 2013.

  Raquel Fornieles ντων ἐμὲ καὶ τὴν ἐμὴν τύχην αἰτίαν εἶναι· καί, ὡς ἔοικεν, ὁ σύμβουλος καὶ ῥήτωρ ἐγὼ τῶν μὲν ἐκ λόγου καὶ τοῦ βουλεύσασθαι πραχθέντων οὐδὲν αὐτῷ συναίτιος εἶναι δοκῶ, τῶν δ’ ἐν τοῖς ὅπλοις καὶ κατὰ τὴν στρατηγίαν ἀτυχηθέντων μόνος αἴτιος εἶναι. Dem. De cor. 212. The malice of this man’s prosecution is so outrageous that he credits the occasion, not me, for any positive achievement, but blames me and my fortune for everything that turned out otherwise. Then, it would seem19 that in his eyes I, adviser and speaker, deserve no credit at all for anything that was achieved through speaking and advising but am solely responsible for the disasters in the army and among the generals.

Depending on the evidential20 he utters, the orator may express a greater or lesser degree of certainty regarding his own words. For example, by using δῆλον (‘it is manifest’, ‘it is obvious’) in the passage in (5), Demosthenes shows absolute certainty about what he has said.21 The underlying irony behind δῆλον is in the fact that this evidential is not used in a literal but in a figurative sense. The expression ὡς ἔοικεν in (6), however, refers to indirect evidence22 and implies that the orator is less certain, involved or committed to what he is saying. Other irony markers are diminutives, simplifications, repetitions, rhetorical questions or the use of hyperbole, litotes, or oxymoron. Let us examine some illustrative examples. It is very common for Demosthenes to attack Aeschines for his previous occupations before he entered politics.23 In truth, the fact that Demosthenes calls Aeschines a ‘secretary’ or an ‘actor’ would not necessarily be offensive, since his opponent was both a secretary and an actor early in his life. However, examples like (7) reflect a very different intention: 7)

πονηρόν, ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, πονηρὸν ὁ συκοφάντης ἀεὶ καὶ πανταχόθεν βάσκανον καὶ φιλαίτιον· τοῦτο δὲ καὶ φύσει κίναδος τἀνθρώπιόν ἐστιν, οὐδὲν ἐξ ἀρχῆς ὑγιὲς πεποιηκὸς οὐδ’ ἐλεύθερον, αὐτοτραγικὸς πίθηκος, ἀρουραῖος Οἰνόμαος, παράσημος ῥήτωρ. Dem. De cor. 242

 19 Here we follow Vince and Vince’s proposal, who translate ὡς ἔοικεν as ‘it would seem’. Yunis’ translation (2005, 82) is less literal: ‘It’s clear’. However, in his commentary on this speech (Yunis 2001, 229) he refers to the ironic content reflected in these words. 20 According to Bybee 1985, 184, evidentials may be defined as “markers that indicate something about the source of the information in the proposition”. 21 In fact, Vince and Vince translation is ‘beyond a doubt’. 22 On the main differences between these evidential markers see, for instance, Cornillie /Gras 2015. 23 Aeschines only refers ironically to Demosthenes’ former occupation as a professional speechwriter. Cf. Aeschin. In Tim. 94: λογογράφος τις (‘certain speech-writer’) and Aesch. In Tim. 119: Ὁ γὰρ περιττὸς ἐν τοῖς λόγοις Δημοσθένης (‘That consummate speaker Demosthenes’).

A First Approach to Irony in Greek Oratory  

Every sycophant is a depraved character, Athenians, depraved as well as backstabbing and faultfinding at every opportunity; and this puny fellow is by nature a rogue. From the beginning he’s done nothing useful or generous. He’s a real ape on the tragic stage, an Oenomaus of the countryside, a counterfeit politician.

There is no irony in this passage. Demosthenes attacks his rival with indirect insults (συκοφάντης, βάσκανον, φιλαίτιον, παράσημος ῥήτωρ), animal metaphors (κίναδος,24 πίθηκος) and a diminutive (ἀνθρώπιον). As Yunis 2001, 243 points out, the subject τοῦτο τἀνθρώπιον concerns not Aeschines’ physical stature but his character, and the predicate (καὶ φύσει κίναδος) revives the notion that Aeschines by nature is unfit for noble pursuits. The diminutive ἀνθρώπιον is disparaging, but it is not used in an ironic sense. However, the same does not apply to (8): 8)

ἐπειδὴ δ’ εἰς τοὺς δημότας ἐνεγράφης ὁπωσδήποτε, (ἐῶ γὰρ τοῦτο,) ἐπειδή γ’ ἐνεγράφης, εὐθέως τὸ κάλλιστον ἐξελέξω τῶν ἔργων, γραμματεύειν καὶ ὑπηρετεῖν τοῖς ἀρχιδίοις. Dem. De cor. 261 When you were enrolled as a citizen, however that happened (which I’ll pass over) in any case, when you were enrolled, you straightaway chose the most noble of occupations, namely, scribe and errand boy to minor officials.

Once again, the orator uses a diminutive to scorn his opponent, but irony falls in this case on the superlative (τὸ κάλλιστον) used to describe one of his previous occupations.25 In (9), in contrast, the diminutive itself is ironic: 9)

Ἤδη δ’ ἐψηφισμένων Θετταλῶν ἐπιστρατεύειν ἐπὶ τὴν ὑμετέραν πόλιν, καὶ τοῦ νεανίσκου τὸ πρῶτον παροξυνθέντος εἰκότως, ἐπειδὴ περὶ Θήβας ἦν τὸ στρατόπεδον, πρεσβευτὴς ὑφ’ ὑμῶν χειροτονηθείς, ἀποδρὰς ἐκ μέσου τοῦ Κιθαιρῶνος ἧκεν ὑποστρέψας, οὔτ’ ἐν εἰρήνῃ οὔτ’ ἐν πολέμῳ χρήσιμον ἑαυτὸν παρέχων. Aeschin. In Ctesiph. 161 The Thessalians had already voted for a campaign against our city, and the young man was initially enraged, not surprisingly. And when the army was near Thebes, Demosthenes, elected envoy by you, turned tail halfway through Cithaeron and came back, a man equally useless in peace and in war.

 24 Kamen 2014 argues that the orator is using a pun here because of the similarity of the term with κίναιδος (‘depraved’, ‘dissolute’) and would not only be referring to the cunning of a fox but would also be implying that Aeschines was a prostitute for Philip. 25 According to Yunis 2001, 257, Demosthenes’ contempt is based on the notion that serving for remuneration in such a lowly office was incompatible with civic leadership.

  Raquel Fornieles The young man (τοῦ νεανίσκου) mentioned is Alexander, who is 20 years old at this point. The expression is derogative and Aeschines uses it here ironically to highlight Demosthenes’ misjudgment in these initial moments of the new stage (Lucas de Dios 2002, 545). Repetitions can also indicate the presence of irony and we see an example of this in (10). Demosthenes, who has just lashed out at Aeschines once more time, repeats the imperative δότε with ironic intention to address the jurors (Yunis 2001, 191): 10) Καὶ τὸ μὲν δὴ πρὸ τοῦ πολεμεῖν φανερῶς συναγωνίζεσθαι Φιλίππῳ δεινὸν μέν, ὦ γῆ καὶ θεοί, πῶς γὰρ οὔ; κατὰ τῆς πατρίδος· δότε δ’, εἰ βούλεσθε, δότ’ αὐτῷ τοῦτο. Dem. De cor. 139 That Aeschines supported Philip before war broke out is deplorable, O earth and gods — how could it not be? — and against his own country! But allow him that, if you wish, allow it.

In this passage, there is another relevant resource for the analysis of irony: rhetorical questions, often used to express irony in persuasive settings like political debates or law-court speeches such as those that concern us here. In contexts like these, the use of rhetorical questions by the speaker would evoke greater anger and negative feelings in the audience (Leggit/Gibbs 2000, 4), in this case, the jurors. Thus, the speaker uses these mechanisms to achieve his objective, which — as we have already noted — is to persuade the members of the jury to vote for him and against his rival. Hyperboles and exaggerations are also irony markers. In (11), Demosthenes accuses Aeschines of having convinced the Athenians to send embassies nearly to the Red Sea: 11) οὐχ οὗτος; τίς ὁ πείσας ὑμᾶς μόνον οὐκ ἐπὶ τὴν ἐρυθρὰν θάλατταν πρεσβείας πέμπειν, ὡς ἐπιβουλευομένης μὲν ὑπὸ Φιλίππου τῆς Ἑλλάδος, ὑμῖν δὲ προσῆκον προορᾶν ταῦτα καὶ μὴ προΐεσθαι τὰ τῶν Ἑλλήνων; Dem. Emb. 304 Was it not this man? Who persuaded you to send envoys practically to the Red Sea on the grounds that Philip’s plotting against Greece obliged you to anticipate events and keep abreast of Greek affairs?

A First Approach to Irony in Greek Oratory  

In his commentary on this Demosthenes’ speech, MacDowell (2010, 339)26 emphasizes that the mention of this sea is a rhetorical flourish meaning ‘nearly everywhere’. Other rhetorical figures used by both orators are oxymoron and litotes. We present an example of the former in (12), an excerpt in which Demosthenes’ invective focuses on Aeschines’ private life. After mocking Aeschines’ father, Demosthenes concentrates on his mother and, incidentally, on Aeschines himself: 12) Οὐκ ἀπορῶν δ’ ὅ τι χρὴ περὶ σοῦ καὶ τῶν σῶν εἰπεῖν, ἀπορῶ τοῦ πρώτου μνησθῶ· πότερ’ ὡς ὁ πατήρ σου Τρόμης ἐδούλευε παρ’ Ἐλπίᾳ τῷ πρὸς τῷ Θησείῳ διδάσκοντι γράμματα, χοίνικας παχείας ἔχων καὶ ξύλον; ἢ ὡς ἡ μήτηρ τοῖς μεθημερινοῖς γάμοις ἐν τῷ κλεισίῳ τῷ πρὸς τῷ καλαμίτῃ ἥρῳ χρωμένη τὸν καλὸν ἀνδριάντα καὶ τριταγωνιστὴν ἄκρον ἐξέθρεψέ σε; Dem. De cor. 129 I have no difficulty finding things to say about you and your family, but it is difficult to decide where I should start. With your father Tromes, who as slave to Elpias, the schoolteacher in the temple of Theseus, wore heavy fetters and a wooden collar? Or with your mother, who engaged in midday matrimonies in a shed by the shrine of the hero Calamites and raised her pretty doll and consummate bit-part actor, namely, you?

The fact that Demosthenes mentions Aeschines’ previous occupation as an actor is not accidental. Indeed, the entire audience would have been aware of this. It was well known that Aeschines had been an actor earlier on in his life and Demosthenes makes fun of him for it. However, the oxymoron ‘consummate bitpart actor’ (τριταγωνιστὴν ἄκρον), a resource used in a clear ironic sense, does stand out in this passage. The term τριταγωνιστής cannot designate a consummate (ἄκρον) actor, since, as Demosthenes himself assures (Dem. Emb. 247): ‘In every tragic drama the third actors enjoy the particular privilege of playing tyrants and those who bear the scepter’. In other contexts, both orators make use of litotes — a rhetorical device in which an affirmative statement is expressed by the negative of its contrary —, considered in the theoretical framework of verbal politeness as a mechanism used by the speaker to soften the possible aggression that a speech act may provoke towards the negative face of his interlocutor.27 When attacking his

 26 See also Yunis 2005, 205: “Ironic exaggeration. The ‘Red Sea’ included the modern Red Sea, the Persian Gulf, and the general area of the Indian Ocean, of which the Athenians had little firm knowledge”. 27 On litotes as a mechanism of verbal impoliteness in Aeschines and Demosthenes, see Fornieles 2020.

  Raquel Fornieles adversary, it is common for the speaker to notice his contradictions or inconsistent behavior, as in (13): 13) Ἀνάγνωθι δὴ καὶ τὴν τῶν συμπρέσβεων μαρτυρίαν, ἵν’ εἰδῆτε, ὦ Ἀθηναῖοι, ὅτι Δημοσθένης οὐχ ὑπὲρ τῆς πόλεως εἰπεῖν δύναται,28 ἀλλ’ ἐπὶ τοὺς συσσίτους καὶ ὁμοσπόνδους μελετᾷ. Aeschin. Emb. 55 Read out the deposition from our fellow envoys, to show you, the jurors, that Demosthenes cannot speak in the city’s interest (= he is unable to speak for the city) but readily practices his skills against those who have shared his meals and libations.

The use of litotes by Aeschines with a derogatory tone in passages likes this one denotes a degree of irony, since the contrast between Demosthenes’ incompetence to meet his obligations towards the city and his efforts and dedication to what he is interested in is highlighted. In (14) Demosthenes criticizes Aeschines’ change of attitude towards Aristophon and Eubulus, two fellow citizens: 14) οὓς σὺ ζῶντας μέν, ὦ κίναδος, κολακεύων παρηκολούθεις, τεθνεώτων δ’ οὐκ αἰσθάνει κατηγορῶν· Dem. De cor. 162 These men, you fox, whom you flattered and trailed when they were alive, you unwittingly condemn now that they’re dead.

 Final remarks This paper provides a first approach to irony in Greek oratory. Legal language has certain peculiarities closely related to the final purpose of the orator delivering speeches in the law court such as those studied here. It should be noted that the speaker aims to convince the members of the jury to vote in his favor. Hence, courtroom discourse is characterized by being eminently argumentative by nature.

 28 The scope of negation is not clear here. If it is interpreted to affect the verb, we could understand that Demosthenes is incapable of speaking in favor of the city. Instead, if it is interpreted to affect the prepositional phrase, we could understand that he is capable of speaking, but not in favor of the city.

A First Approach to Irony in Greek Oratory  

In this context, as we have shown in this study, irony is an effective mechanism of legal language that helps the orator to fulfill his objective of guiding the audience’s thoughts and behavior. Although irony has traditionally been associated with criticism and mockery, our study reveals that it does not always seek to have a negative effect on the interlocutor. As we have seen, in certain contexts the words of the speaker who resorts to irony can also have a positive effect. Thus, the speaker’s use of irony obeys a(n) (im)politeness strategy within the framework of his own discursive strategies. These strategies are aimed at three different oratorical objectives: to attack his rival, to defend himself or to show modesty before the jurors to protect his own face and win their approval. Similarly, this paper has offered a first approach to the main indicators of irony that appear in the law-court speeches examined. Included in these linguistic irony markers are lexical-semantic markers, evidentials, diminutives, simplifications, repetitions, and the use of hyperbole, litotes and oxymoron. As we have highlighted, these linguistic procedures — which also require a degree of shared knowledge between the speaker and his audience — enable the speaker to encode the ironic sense of a statement and ensure that it is understood by the interlocutors.

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Luarsabishvili, V. (2019), “La ironía: sobre la evolución histórica de la noción”, Dicenda 37, 185–198. Lucas de Dios, J.M. (2002), Esquines. Discursos, testimonios y cartas, Madrid. Lyons, J. (1997), Semantics, vol. II, Cambridge. Marimón-Llorca, C. (2005), “Sobre el sentido irónico en español”, EPOS XXI, 34–35. Minchin, E. (2010), “From gentle teasing to heavy sarcasm: Instances of rhetorical irony in Homer’s Iliad”, Hermes, 138.4, 387–402. Minchin, E. (2010b), “The expression of sarcasm in the Odyssey”, Mnemosyne 63, 533–556. Muecke, D.C. (1970), Irony and the Ironic, London. Muecke, D.C. (1978), “Irony markers”, Poetics 7, 363–375. Panther, K.-U./Thornburg, L.L. (2012), “Antonymy in language structure and use”, in: M. Brdar/ I. Raffelli/M.Z. Fuchs (eds.), Cognitive Linguistics between Universality and Variation, Cambridge, 161–188. Olsson, J./Luchjenbroers, J. (2014), Forensic Linguistics, London. Patillon, M. (1988), La théorie du discours chez Hermogène le rhéteur. Essai sur la structure de la rhétorique ancienne, Paris. Pawlak, M. (2019), “How to be sarcastic in Greek: Typical means of signaling sarcasm in the New Testament and Lucian”, Humor, 32.4, 545–564. Perelman, Ch./Olbrechts-Tyteca, L. (1971 [1958]), The New Rhetoric. A Treatise on Argumentation, London. Schoentjes, P. (2003), La poética de la ironía, Madrid. Searle, J.R. (1975), “Indirect speech acts”, in P. Cole/J.L. Morgan (eds.), Syntax and Semantics, vol. III, New York, 59–82. Searle, J.R. (1979), Expression and Meaning, Cambridge. Sperber, D./Wilson, D. (1978), “Les ironies comme mentions”, Poétique 36, 399–412. Sperber, D./Wilson, D. (1981), “Irony and the use-mention distinction”, in: P. Cole (ed.), Radical Pragmatics, New York, 295–318. Sperber, D./Wilson, D. (1986), Relevance: Communication and Cognition, Oxford. Toulmin, St. (1958), The Uses of Argument, Cambridge. Vatri, A. (2018), “Implicit, explicit and ‘paraphrased’ irony in Attic oratory”, Mnemosyne 71, 1053–1061. Vince, Ch.A./Vince, J.H. (1926), Demosthenes with an English Translation, London. Wolfsdorf, D. (2008), “Eirôneia in Aristophanes and Plato”, CQ 58, 666–672. Yunis, H. (2001), Demosthenes, On the Crown, Cambridge. Yunis, H. (2005), Demosthenes, Speeches 18 and 19, Austin.



Comparative, Diachronic and Lexicographical Studies

Paolo Poccetti

Greek Numeral System and Language Contacts in an Archaic Native Settlement of Southern Italy Abstract: A set of inscriptions on roof tiles of an Archaic building (6th – 5th cent. BC) found in Torre di Satriano in Lucania in South Italy display a system of numbering that combines letters and ordinal numerals of the first decade, a practice known since Archaic times. The ordinal numerals, written in an Archaic alphabet and in the dialect of the Laconian colony Taras, show interesting variants that are likely to result from contacts between native Sabellian languages spoken in the indigenous site and the Doric speaking area around Tarentum. This fact suggests a high level of bilingualism and literacy of the preLucanian hinterland from an early period, as well as a close interaction with the Laconian colony. The misspellings of the Greek numerals can be explained as the result of transferring certain phonological features of the Sabellian languages to Greek, as is common in contexts of bilingualism. Keywords: numbering systems, Sabellian languages, Doric dialects, Southern Italy, language contacts, bilingualism

 Introduction: Description of the inscriptions During the last decades an important archaeological site has been excavated in Southern Italy. This site is located in the hearth of ancient Lucania, not too far from Potenza at roughly midway between the Tyrrhenian coast and the Ionian one. Its current name is Torre di Satriano, but its name in antiquity is unknown. Satriano arises from the Latinate form Satrianum, which is attested only since 9th cent. AD. Satrianum is a derivative from Satrius, a personal name broadly expanded in Central and Southern Italy, probably of Sabellian origin, as shown by its non-Latin counterparts Sadiris, Sadri( ), Sadries evidenced by both Oscan1 and Paelignian inscriptions.2 Further derivatives from the same base Satr- are Satrenius, Satrinius, Satronius, Satrivius, that testify to both spread and variation

 1 E.g. Sadiris (ImIt Pompei 18), Sadri[..] (ImIt Bovianum 16). 2 Sadries (ImIt Corfinium 26). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111272887-014

  Paolo Poccetti of the onomastic base especially within the Sabellian area.3 Starting from Satrius, Satrianum is featured by the possessive mark -āno-, that occurs in numberless modern place names of Central and Southern Italy derived from personal names referring to owners of a landed estate in the late Roman period (praedia). Hence this type of place names, which Satriano belongs to, forms the category called “toponimi prediali”.4 In this site archaeological excavations starting from the Sixties brought to light a pre-Roman settlement, that continued his life until the Roman period.5 Findings relevant to the pre-Roman period are assigned to two chronological stages, that are an Archaic one (6th–5th cent. BC), corresponding to the preLucanian phase, and a more recent one pertaining to the Lucanian phase (from 4th cent. BC onwards). The pre-Lucanian phase is generally called Oenotrian from the name of the Oἰνωτροί, mentioned by the earliest Greek historians since Hecateus referring to the native communities settled in the regions between Ionian and Tyrrhenian coasts in southern Italy. This area encompasses today’s western Lucania and Northern Calabria, including the surroundings of Torre di Satriano. Those communities spoke an archaic variety of the Sabellian languages, as proven by both epigraphic and onomastic evidence.6 One of them, named Σερδαῖοι, increased in importance at least in the eyes of the neighboring Greeks, in that they signed a treaty of φιλότας with Sybaris, warranted by Poseidonia under the protection of the main gods of the pantheon, as recorded by a renowned Greek inscription from Olympia.7 Epigraphic remains in the native language, however, are very scanty and mostly concentrated across the hinterland along the Tyrrhenian coast between Poseidonia and Laos, a Sybaritan sub-colony, where the Greek alphabet of the Achaean colonies was adopted8 (Fig. 9). The community mentioned under the name Σερδαῖοι in the inscription from Olympia is likely to be located in this district.9

 3 Schulze 1904, 225. 4 Pellegrini 1990; Calzolari 1994. 5 Osanna/Colangelo/Carollo 2009; Osanna/Capozzoli 2012. 6 Poccetti 2001; Lazzarini/Poccetti 2001. 7 Dubois 2002, n. 12. 8 ImIt III (1336–1340). 9 Greco 1990.

Greek Numeral System and Language Contacts in Southern Italy  

Fig. 9: The site of Torre di Satriano and the Oenotrian area.

As to Torre di Satriano, despite the importance of this indigenous settlement evidenced by archaeological findings, no non-Greek inscription is found so far. In contrast, a set of Greek inscriptions dating back to the Archaic period have been unearthed during recent excavations of this site. Those epigraphic remains form a special corpus with respect to the type of materials, contexts and contents. All inscriptions at issue were neither written on monumental supports nor conceived for purposes of official communication, but they were engraved on tiles belonging to a roof of a prominent building, which collapsed already in the late Archaic period, after its abandonment.10 The inscriptions were carried out before drying clay, when manufacturing tiles. Consequently, the inscriptions at issue were scratched by craftsmen employed in a brick factory, that was charged with supplying the products needed by the roof building. Probably, the brick factory responsible for manufacturing the tiles was located not too far from the site, where the building was erected. It is unlikely, that the full load of tiles was produced elsewhere and then transported there. In addition, the sort of clay, typical of the site,11 decidedly speaks in favor of a local manufacture. Such a conclusion points to a cohesiveness of the entire group of inscribed tiles with respect to chronology, context, and func 10 Osanna et al. 2011, 7. 11 Osanna 2013, 88.

  Paolo Poccetti tion, which has important repercussions on a sociolinguistic insight into this set of documents. Each inscribed tile presents an ordinal numeral alternatively in either masculine or feminine gender. The grammatical gender of the numerals is distributed among different sorts of tiles, to be referred to their respective function or position in each part of the roof. Practically, those numeral indicators were intended to give instructions for positioning each item in an appropriate order, when making up the roof. In other words, numbering tiles had a practical purpose to mark the order of placing each item or items of the same type according to the respective function and role in the roof structure. The practice of marking building materials with writing signs is well known in antiquity, though the types of lettering vary, ranging from single signs (of both alphabetic and nonalphabetic nature) to abbreviated words, numerals of both ordinal and cardinal series, noun phrases. This variety is found even within the same building since Archaic times, as shown by the earliest Greek epigraphy. Among the most interesting examples, the inscribed tiles of the temple of Artemis Laphria in Kalydon present alternatively both ordinal and cardinal numerals written in words (e.g. [δ]ύϝε καὶ ϝίκατ[ι12 ‘twenty two’; ἑβδέμα13 ‘seventh’; [ὀγ]δόϝα14 ‘eighth’) sometimes accompanied by terms for orientation in either western or eastern direction serving to indicate the opposite sides of the temple roof, where each tile had to be distributed:15 e.g. μία ἐπὶ ϝίκατι πὸ ἑσπέρας16 ‘twenty one on the western side’; —]α ποτ’ ἀϝο͂ ς17 ‘???] on the eastern side’. More frequently single letters and numerical signs or symbols are found in roof tiles. In fact, single letters may work as alphabetic labels equivalent to or combining with numerical notations for putting in order parts of an ensemble, not differently from the modern way of listing, that may alternate or combine with numerals.18 Various sites in Magna Graecia and Sicily, such as Poseidonia and Caulonia, among the Achaean colonies, and Gela and Syracuse, among the Corynthian and Rhodian colonies, evidence for the use of letters for labeling building materials. Roof tiles form a considerable number of samples of alphabetic or numerical signs even in non-Greek foundations, such as Pompei and  12 1:152, d. 13 1:152, e. 14 1:152, f. 15 Poulsen/Rhomaios 1927, 23–27; Moreno 1963, 204; Jeffery 1990, 226; Guarducci 1995, 214. 16 1:152, c. 17 1:152, a. 18 As to the letter labels Tod 1954.

Greek Numeral System and Language Contacts in Southern Italy  

Braida di Vaglio.19 The practice of inscribing roof tiles, however, do not apply homogeneous criteria. On the one hand, different labeling systems and counting systems are used or combined each other, like the alphabetic and decimal ones respectively, and, on the other hand, different numerical symbols are adopted such as strokes indicating units, circles and semicircles for tens or especial signs, like those shaped by overlapping delta and epsilon, whose value is controversial.20 As to the building excavated at Torre di Satriano, both typological and decorative factors of the roof tiles point to an imposing edifice, whose prominent aspect is to be related to public or institutional functions.21 This feature could be suitable to a dwelling appointed to the local ruling class, concretely either to a residence of a ruler of the local community or to a government seat. Less probably the building seems to be recognizable as a worship place. That is why this edifice, dating back to the second half of the 6th cent. BC, was called anaktoron by the archaeologists, who unearthed it. The architectural structures of this building are similar to Greek patterns known across the Mediterranean area. That points out closest contacts between the local communities and the neighboring Greek colonies, reflected by absorption of techniques of building, architectural models and literacy. Significantly, those cultural intercourses took place among the élites of the local society, which imitated technical patterns and architectural style of buildings relevant to the public life, so that this context appears to be “un exemple saisissant de la manière dont un potentat local tentait de s’inscrire dans le réseau des élites méditerranéennes archaïques en adoptant un langage matériel et des codes communs”.22 Nevertheless, closest contacts with the Greek surroundings and their repercussions on literacy involved the working classes, that were responsible for manufacturing the tiles. In this sense the primary evidence is provided by the inscriptions engraved on the roof tiles, consisting in a set of the Greek ordinal numerals, each of them scratched on a single tile. The sequence of the ordinal numerals hitherto available forms the complete series of the first decade from ‘first’ to ‘tenth’. No ordinal numeral over ‘tenth’ is known, but the fact that some numerals are repeated in a handful of items points out that the numbers did not exceed the first decade. We ignore, however, whether the subsequent decades were signalled by numerical indicators, basing on mathematical criteria of addi 19 Rescigno 1998, 343; Lo Porto/Ranaldi 1990, 13–18. 20 Moreno 1963, 206–209. 21 Osanna 2011; Osanna et al. 2011. 22 Duplouy/Capozzoli/Zambon 2019, 168.

  Paolo Poccetti tion and multiplication, or a system of labeling different from numbers was applied.

 The numeral series from Torre di Satriano The numeral series evidenced by the roof tiles from Torre di Satriano is the most complete in the epigraphy of the Western Greek colonies known so far.23 The richest sources of Ancient Greek numerals in Southern Italy and Sicily are the Herakleia Tables and the lead sheets from Camarina respectively, where a large quantity of both cardinal and ordinal numerals is variously distributed among units, tens and hundreds, but each series of them is incomplete. Concerning the numeral notations from Torre di Satriano, a twofold distinction can be made according to grammatical and non-grammatical criteria. The grammatical distinction concerns the inflectional forms, referring to masculine and feminine gender, that are listed together with the number of occurrences, as follows: Tab. 10: List of the numerals evidenced by findings from Torre di Satriano. Masculine gender st

πρᾶτος

(x)



δεύτερος

(x)

rd

τρί[τος]

th

τέταρτος

th

πέντος



ϝέτος

(x)

th

hέδεμος

(x)

th

hoδος



[?hέ]νατος

th

δέκατος

nd

th

th

Feminine gender

(x) πέντα

hoδoα

 23 A survey of the evidence of the Greek numeral systems in Southern Italy and Sicily, cf. Weiss 2012.

Greek Numeral System and Language Contacts in Southern Italy  

A non-grammatical distinction concerns single letters or other marks, accompanying ordinal numerals. In this regard, even the place of letters deserves to be noted, that are variably positioned either in the top or in the bottom or on the edge of the surface: α

α

ϝέτος

[h?έν]ατος

τρί[τος]

τέταρτος

πέντος

hέδεμος

α

Α

γ

γ

The same letter occurs with different numerals in the same position: hέδεμος

τέταρτος

Δέκατος

θ

θ

Θ

The same numeral occurs together with different letters variously positioned:

γ

δεύτερος

δεύτερος

δεύτερος

Ζ

h

As to the grammatical forms of the numerals, the essential distinction between masculine and feminine gender implies a syntactic agreement with a term of the same gender, which is not expressed. Technically, the numeral forms with masculine morphemes occur in items, identified as terracotta simas,24 that are elements serving to funnel rainwater at roof ends.25 Numeral forms in feminine gender are scratched on the back of terracotta frieze, that is a revetment, called geison, that caps the roof pitches.26 However, specific terms agreeing with either masculine and feminine morphemes cannot be easily recognized. With respect to the feminine gender, sima is a Latin architectural term, though of Greek origin,27 that Vitruvius translates ἐπαιετίς, unknown elsewhere.28 Notoriously, the most common and generic term for ‘tile’ is κεραμίς, that could be in agreement with the feminine gender of the numeral adjectives.  24 Capozzoli 2009, 133–139. 25 Sapirstein 2016, 49. 26 Capozzoli 2009a; 2012; Osanna 2011; 2013. 27 Ernout/Meillet 2001, 627, s.v. simus. 28 Vitr. 3.5.12: insuper coronas simae, quas Graeci ἐπαιετίδες dicunt.

  Paolo Poccetti A masculine variant, signalled elsewhere by adjectives like δημόσιος, is κέραμoς, which cannot be excluded, given that in other contexts κεραμίς and κέραμoς distinguish different shapes of tiles.29 Much rarer are technical terms of masculine gender such as καλυπτήρ and στεγαστήρ referring to both function and position in a specific part of the roof. In conclusion, the distinction of grammatical gender could be referred to words indicating either different types of tiles related to their respective functions in the architectural parts of the roof or rows of tiles related to the order of assembling each series. In any event, the distribution of the grammatical gender matches the different shapes of the recovered items serving as simas and geison tiles respectively. As a result, diverse words of the Greek architectural terminology should be considered with reference to the agreement with the grammatical gender of the numerals. Marking masonry tools, like tiles, bricks, stones through alphabetic letters and other signs working as numerals or labels is a very common practice in the building techniques since Archaic times, including Southern Italy.30 Nevertheless, no complex system of numbering roof tiles comparable to the remains of the anaktoron of Torre di Satriano is known elsewhere. A threefold system of marking tiles is found in Torre di Satriano, that is ordinal numerals differentiated by the masculine and feminine gender and single letters alongside numerals. The most problematic question concerns the role played by single letters accompanying an ordinal numeral. Two plausible solutions could be envisaged: a) Single letters fulfill a function independently from numerals. In this case, the alphabetic signs could work either as marks of the manufacturing activity or as complementary instructions for assembling tiles in the roof. Thus, for instance, the letters could serve to point to a row of tiles, whereas numerals are likely to label the inner sequence of each row. The variable position of the letters with respect to the numerals, if not fortuitous, could be related to the distribution in the different parts of the roof. b) Each letter has a numerical value combining with the ordinal numeral, in function of addition or multiplication. This view is favored by the circumstance, if not fortuitous, that numerals referring to numbers over ‘ten’ are lacking. The latter solution would point to a hybrid system resulting from blending an ordinal numeral in its grammatical inflection and an alphabetic symbol for a cardinal numeral. Combining ordinal and cardinal numerals is not unknown in numbering systems expressed by words: the closest examples are provided by  29 Ginouvès 1992, 182. 30 Moreno 1963; Lo Porto/Ranaldi 1990; Rescigno 1998.

Greek Numeral System and Language Contacts in Southern Italy  

the lead sheets from Camarina, where ‘eleventh’ is expressed by joining together hεν ‘one’ and δεκάτα ‘tenth’ (in parallel to Latin undecimus alongside decimus primus)31 and ‘fourteenth’ is alternatively formulated either by both ordinals (τετάρτα δεκάτα) or an ordinal with a cardinal (τετάρτα ἐπὶ δέκα).32 If this is the case, a further question is raised, as it concerns the value of each letter according to the main criteria of symbolic notation of numerals through alphabetic signs. The Greek numbering system is essentially twofold, i.e. the so-called acrophonic principle and the numerical value of the alphabetic order.33 The acrophonic system, which was the most common in Attica, seems to be excluded by occurrences of letters such as theta and qoppa, that are unknown as initials of numerals. In fact, the acrophonic principle essentially concerns the initials of the numbers for ‘five’ and ‘ten’, so that it was also called ‘decimal’, given that it combines multiples of those numbers with units indicated by strokes, applying the criterion of addition, such as ΠIII ‘5+3’=8; ΔIII ‘10+3’=13; ΔΔΠI ‘10+10+5+1’=26. The criterion of addition is practised also with the notation of numerals, basing on the numerical value assigned to the order of the alphabetic series, but it distinguishes signs for units, tens, hundreds, whose combination forms an addition, e.g. MΘ ‘49’; ΦΠΔ ‘584’. Noteworthy, however, in the Greek epigraphy the notation of numerals could vary depending on the type of counted materials even within the same text or a corpus of texts. Thus, for instance, in the Lokroi tablets numeral marks for coins are distinguished from those for cereal products.34 Analogously in the inventories made by the Delian ἱεροποιοί, weights and measures related to different types of wares often figure with different ways of recording numerals.35 In conclusion, the set of the inscribed tiles from Torre di Satriano makes a significant contribution to increase our knowledge of the Greek numbering system and its written notation, even though the criteria applied to its function in the specific context are still not clear. Thus, a further investigation should pay a particular attention to the interaction between ordinal numerals in words and single letters used as symbols as well as to the practical purposes of numbering, connected with the technical procedures of roof building.

 31 Dubois 2008, n. 46, 80; 83. 32 Dubois 2008, n. 46, 45; 81. 33 Tod 1912; Guarducci 1995, 417–425. 34 Del Monaco 2013, 26–29. 35 Tod 1954.

  Paolo Poccetti

 Contacts between non-Greek communities and Greeks in Lucania Now we are focusing on both linguistic and alphabetic features, which are helpful to profile the acculturative impact on the non-Greek communities of preOscan Lucania. As to the script, the shape of the letters is easily recognizable as typical of the Tarentine alphabet with slight variants. The divergences could depend either on variations of the original alphabet of the Laconian colony or on changes, that letter shapes underwent when the alphabet was adopted by non-Greek speakers. An answer to this question is closely linked to the core point of the interpretation of this set of inscriptions, that rests on a key question: who was responsible for writing on those materials? Concretely, were the people appointed to this job native speakers of Greek or non-Greeks, who learned Greek as a second language? From a merely alphabetic viewpoint it is difficult to decide between these alternatives, for two reasons: first, the Archaic epigraphy of Tarentum is very scanty,36 so that the terms of comparison are insufficient; second, we have no further evidence for the use of the Tarentine alphabet among non-Greek communities, except the Messapians, who adopted the alphabet of the neighboring Laconian colony. As said above, the earliest epigraphic remains in native languages of the so-called Oenotrian area, prior to the spread of the Hellenistic alphabet, are written in the Achaean alphabet,37 that sharply differentiates from the Tarantine one especially as it regards the shapes of the signs for gamma, iota and the distribution of san and sigma (Fig. 10). The area influenced by the Tarantine alphabet was ancient Apulia, where inscriptions in Tarentine dialect and script are found, though in small and scattered quantity.38 Only the Messapians settled in Southern Apulia borrowed and adapted the Tarantine alphabet to the phonological requirements of their own language since Archaic times.39 Instead, no inscription written in Tarantine alphabet is found in the territory of the Oἰνωτροί, namely in western Lucania, where the Achaean alphabet of the neighboring colonies was adopted by the native inhabitants. This picture, basing on the data known so far, displays a

 36 Arena 1998, nos. 1–28; Cassio 2002, 438. 37 ImIt III 1336–1340; 1482. 38 Jeffery 1990, 281–284. 39 De Simone/Marchesini 2002, 8–10; As to the difference between Apulian and Messapian alphabets, De Simone 1991, 299–302.

Greek Numeral System and Language Contacts in Southern Italy  

geographic distribution of the spheres of influence of the Archaic alphabets in Magna Graecia: the Tarentine alphabet radiated towards the eastern regions along the Adriatic coast, the Achaean one towards the western regions along the Tyrrhenian coast.

Fig. 10: List of the attested alphabetic signs.

Linguistically, those alphabetic circuits distinguish the Messapian speaking area from the Sabellian one respectively. In other words, from alphabetic viewpoint in the earliest period the prominent branches of native languages spoken in Southern Italy are distinguished in this way: the Messapians were attracted within the cultural orbit of Tarentum; the Sabellian speaking communities gravitated to the orbit of the Achaean colonies. Furthermore, basing on the data hitherto known, the Achaean alphabet seems to have had a broader diffusion than its Tarentine counterpart, when considering that epigraphic remains in Achaean alphabet are found in eastern Lucania and in Apulia, whereas no evidence for the Tarantine alphabet is known from the western regions so far40 (Fig. 11).

 40 Basing on the inscriptions in the respective alphabet listed in Jeffery 1990, 262 and 284.

  Paolo Poccetti

Fig. 11: Main alphabetic areas of Archaic Magna Graecia.

Thus, the epigraphic evidence from Torre di Satriano makes a novel contribution to the diffusion of the Tarentine alphabet in north-western Lucania, where it is unexpected. Noteworthy, however, this type of alphabet is not used for recording the local language, but for Greek. The Tarantine alphabet is consistent with the Doric dialect of the inscriptions, manifested by the numeral forms such as πρᾶτος for πρῶτος and the endings of πέντα and ὀδόα for πέμπτη and ὀγδόη. All that, however, does not mean that the local community of Torre di Satriano entirely gravitated to the orbit of the Laconian colony. It is important keep in mind that both script and dialect are intimately connected with a specific communicative function of the inscribed tiles, intended to give practical instructions concerning techniques of art of building. In other words, the inscriptions in themselves do not evidence anything else than a technological exchange. Another pre-Lucanian community, settled in today’s Braida di Vaglio, appears to have been influenced by Metapontum, as to the techniques of building.41 As already stressed, the nature of the clay supports of the inscriptions invites to exclude that the inscribed tiles were imported from Tarentum, which is far away from Torre di Satriano, and suggests that they were manufactured in situ. This impression is confirmed by linguistic features, which will be scruti-

 41 Capozzoli 2009a; 2012.

Greek Numeral System and Language Contacts in Southern Italy  

nized later. The fact that inscriptions were scratched before firing clay implies that they were conceived and made up almost simultaneously by manufacturers in the same working place of the non-Greek site. Such a conclusion raises the questions why and how the alphabet and dialect of Tarentum was used by craftsmen of this site of interior Lucania, so distant from the Laconian colony. In fact, the Achaean alphabet was due to be employed there because of the proximity to the circuit of the Oenotrian communities, which adopted this type of alphabet in the frame of intense and long-term relationships. Basically, a twofold plausible scenario can be imagined: a) some members of the local working class moved to Tarentum to learn the art of building, especially for important constructions. In this circumstance they made acquaintance with the dialect of the Laconian colony at written level, required by the professional use; b) some Greek architects or building technicians moved from Tarentum to the non-Greek center of the Lucanian hinterland and played the role of master builders or civil engineers, who gave instructions to the local workers in their mother language. Either solution implies at least two facts: a) both bilingualism and literacy of the non-Greek workers, who evidently learned Greek as L2; b) contacts conveyed by personal mobility in either direction. Moreover, writing practice on this type of artifacts is likely to have been acquired together with training in art of building, given that the inscribed tiles were intended for this specific domain. In addition, abilities in counting system for technical purposes according to the Greek numbering criteria were acquired when learning the basic architectural principles and techniques of preparing and assembling roofing materials.

 Phonetic changes in Greek numerals Linguistic features of some numeral adjectives are convergent with those conclusions. Two types of phonological facts characterize the numeral series from ‘fifth’ to ‘eighth’. The first one, which is common to the handful in the whole, is the simplification of the consonant clusters. Concretely, the original consonant of the first syllable is dropped, as shown by πέντος for πέμπτος, ϝέτος for ϝέκτος, hέδεμος for hέβδεμος, hόδος for hόγδοoς, almost unknown elsewhere (Fig. 12). The second one concerns the initial consonants /w/ of ϝέτος (=ϝέκτος ‘sixth’) and /h/ of hόδος (= hόγδοoς, ‘eighth’), which is paralleled, though not universally, in the Greek epigraphy of Southern Italy and Sicily. In this respect, the closest convergence is provided by the Herakleia tables, where both numerals for ‘six’ and ‘eight’ (i.e. ϝέξ and hοκτώ and their compounds) present the

  Paolo Poccetti same initial letters as in the tiles from Torre di Satriano. Such a convergence is not surprising, given that Herakleia was a Tarantine colony and the famous bronze tables reflect the dialect of its mother colony, although notably influenced by both Ionic-Attic at earlier stage and by the Koiné.42 Accordingly, the forms attested by tiles of Torre di Satriano, roughly two centuries earlier than the Herakleia tables, can be considered as the most archaic evidence for this phonological feature of the Tarentine dialect.

Fig. 12: Series of ordinal numerals from ‘fifth’ to ‘eighth’.

In fact, the initials of ϝέτος (=ϝέκτος ‘sixth’) and /h/ of hόδος ‘eighth’ result from different phenomena. As to the ordinal numeral for sixth, the spelling of the digamma is related to controversial outcome of the I.E. numeral for ‘six’, particularly concerning the sound cluster sw- of the reconstructed proto-form *(k)s(w)eks. The problem is much more complicated by interlacing three facts: a) the Greek proto-form is alternatively reconstructed *(k)sweks, *seks and *weks, basing on their distribution in the Indo-European languages and their different reflexes in the Greek dialects.43 According to Szemerényi’s view, the initial swas secondarily added to the Indo-European reconstructum *weks after the

 42 Uguzzoni-Ghinatti 1968, 75–78. Cassio 2002, 459; Tagliapietra 2018, 108. 43 Szemerényi 1960, 77; Lejeune 1987, 135; Viredaz 1997, 138.

Greek Numeral System and Language Contacts in Southern Italy  

initial of the numeral for ‘seven’, that is *septṃ;44 b) the possible remodeling of the reconstructed ordinal *suk-tos after the cardinal numeral *s(w)eks.45 c) the different treatment of sw- among the Greek dialects. In this respect, it is generally assumed that sw- shifted to /h/, which was standardized following the IonicAttic pattern, via /w/, so that an evolutionary sequence sw- > wh> ww > w is implied.46 The Mycenaean spelling 47 and the sign for digamma (i.e. ϝέξ ), continued in Creta, Delphi and the western colonies (e.g. Herakleia),48 argue for this phonological development. Nevertheless, the variants /w/ and /h/ in the initial letter of the numeral ‘six’ cannot be separated from the major problem raised by the interchange of those sounds, manifested by inconsistent outcomes in different words, such as in Attic ἕσπερος with respect to the reconstructed *wesperos and ὅρος arising from *wórwos reflected by Myc. wo-wo. As to the numeral for ‘six’, unlike the aspirate presented by other dialects, the spelling of the initial digamma, found in the Herakleia tables (ϝέξ), is convergent with ϝέτος (=ϝέκτος) from Torre di Satriano, so that it may be considered as a feature of the Tarantine dialect. In the spelling of the initial of the numeral for ‘six’, however, a clear distinction emerges among the Doric dialects of the western colonies. The spelling of the digamma distinguishes the Tarentine area, as convergently signalled by both Herakleia (ϝέξ) and Torre di Satriano (ϝέκτος), from Camarina, a Syracusan foundation, where the same ordinal numeral is spelled with the sign for the aspirate /h/ (hέκτα ‘sixth’).49 We may wonder, however, to what extent the signs and in the Herakleia tables did really match a phonetic distinction between /w/ and /h/, because of an alternating use of those signs evidenced by this text, such as πεντα├ετηρίς ‘period of five years’ with respect to ϝέτος ‘year’ and συν├ερξοντι (future tense of συνέργω) arising from *h1werg- with prothetic vowel εϝέργ- giving way to Ionic-Attic εἴργω.50 As to the numeral ‘eight’, the spelling with initial /h/ depends on an analogical remodeling after the numeral for ‘seventh’, which is convergently attested in Torre di Satriano, Herakleia and Camarina. Those sites, having in common Doric dialects, are featured by two facts, that differentiates from the Ionic-attic ones regarding the numerals for ‘seven/seventh’ and ‘eight/eighth’: a) the vow 44 Szemerényi 1960, 78. 45 Rix 1976, 172; Viredaz 1997, 142. 46 Lejeune 1987, 134. 47 Meier-Brügger 1992 I, 95. 48 Bile 1988, 218; Meier-Brügger 1992 I, 95. 49 Dubois 2008, n. 46, n. 26. 50 Arena 1971, 90.

  Paolo Poccetti el of the middle syllable of the ordinal hέ(β)δεμος ‘seventh’, unlike the IonicAttic hέβδoμος; b) the sign for the aspirate consonant as initial of the ordinal numeral for ‘eighth’, as shown by hόδος (=ὄγδοoς) in Torre di Satriano, and hoγδόα (=ὀγδόη) in Camarina.51 In the Herakleia tables the cardinal numeral for ‘eight’ is spelled in the same way, as proven by hοκτώ (=ὀκτώ) and related numerals, e.g. hoγδoήκοντα ‘eighty’ and hοκτακάτιοι ‘eight hundred’. From a comparative viewpoint the aspirate sound is unexpected, starting from the reconstructed proto-form *h3ektoH.52 Consequently, as generally recognized, the aspirate in the numeral for ‘eight’ resulted from an analogical remodeling after the numeral for ‘seven’. A different analogical reshaping of the numeral for ‘eight’ after that for ‘seven’ is shown by the Elean form ὀπτṓ imitating ἐπτά.53 The initial aspirate, spread from ‘seven’, attracted the numeral for ‘nine’ as well, as already noticed by Curtius with reference to the spelling of the cardinal hεννέα in the Herakleia tables.54 The same initial letter occurs in the ordinal counterpart, i.e. hενάτα ‘ninth’, found in both Lokroi tablets and in Camarina lead sheets. In this case the fact that the sign of the aspirate was nothing else than a conventional spelling is demonstrated by its inconsistent use even within the same text: both hενάτα and ἐνάτα are alternatively written in a lead sheet from Camarina55 and in two distinct tablets from Lokroi respectively.56 A comparison of the ordinal numerals from ‘fifth’ to ‘ninth’ evidenced by Doric dialects in Southern Italy and Sicily is summarized by the following table: Tab. 11: The ordinal numerals from ‘fifth’ to ‘ninth’ in the Doric dialects of Southern Italy and Sicily. Torre di Satriano

Herakleia

Camarina

th

πέντoς

πέμπτoς

πέμπτoς



Fέτoς

Fέκτoς

hέκτoς

th

hέδεμoς



hόδoς

[hoκτώ]

hόγδooς

th

[?hέ]νατος

[hεννέα]

hένατος / ἔνατος

th

th

Lokroi

hέβδεμoς

 51 Dubois 2008, n. 46, n. 131. 52 Waanders 1992, 373. 53 Waanders 1992, 373; Minon 2007, 176. 54 Baunack 1881, 230. 55 Dubois 2008, n. 46, n. 69, where both hενάτα and ἐνάτα occur. 56 Del Monaco 2013, n. 15, 11 [hενάτα] and n. 25, 9 [ἐνάτα].

hένατος / ἔνατος

Greek Numeral System and Language Contacts in Southern Italy  

As to the numeral series from Torre di Satriano, unfortunately, the loss of the initial part of the numeral for ‘ninth’, due to the fragmentary state of a single tile, prevents us to ascertain the spelling with the initial aspirate. Its occurrence, however, may be reasonably conjectured, on account of the spelling of the numeral for ‘eighth’, reshaped after ‘seven’, that could have attracted the spelling of the numeral for ‘nine/ninth’ in parallel to hενάτα in Camarina and Lokroi. Such an analogical process evidenced by epigraphic remains of diverse sites of the Doric speaking areas (Herakleia, Lokroi, Camarina) leads to consider the notation of the aspirate as initial letter in the numerals from ‘seven’ to ‘nine’ as the most common spelling of the sequence from ‘seven/seventh’ to ‘nine/ninth’ in Magna Graecia and Sicily until the Hellenistic age. Consequently, Torre di Satriano is likely to have taken part in the spelling of the numeral series at issue, so that the spelling [hε]νάτα may be reasonably restored in the fragmentary tile. Analogical processes are extremely common phenomena, that universally feature the numeral systems with different outcomes. In a multiplicity of languages, analogical remodeling of numerals results from reciprocal attraction within a series of units, tens, hundreds respectively. Morphology is mostly affected by analogical processes, that are frequently manifested by common endings shared by some series of both cardinals and ordinals. Ancient Greek numerals present some variants originated by analogical remodeling, whose effects are variously distributed according to dialects or local habits. Notoriously in Attic the numeral series for tens from ‘fifty’ to ‘ninety’ was morphologically joined after πεντήκοντα and ἐν(ε)νήκοντα basing on πέντε and ἐν(ν)έα, from which the morpheme -ήκοντα was spread. But the pair τετρώκοντα ‘forty’ and ὀγδώκοντα ‘eighty’ was created alongside, in parallel to the standard Attic numerals τεσσαράκοντα and ὀγδoήκοντα adopted by the Koiné. To be sure, τετρώκοντα and ὀγδώκοντα are reciprocally influenced with regard to morphology. It is controversial, however, which of them is prototypical, because the common pre-suffixal /ω/ could originate either from the numeral ὀκτώ ‘eight’ or from the numeral ‘four’, basing on its reconstructed form *kwetwō̌r.57 In any event the morphological parallelism of τετρώκοντα and ὀγδώκοντα does not depend on their proximity in the sequence of tens, but rather on reasons of counting, given that the former indicates the half of the latter. Moreover, the Greek ordinal numerals display manifold types of analogical remodeling, that yielded several doublets differently distributed, such as

 57 Szemerényi 1960, 17–18; Chantraine 1984, 1109, s.v. τέσσαρες; Lillo 1990, 11–13.

  Paolo Poccetti τρίτατος alongside τρίτος ‘third’ reshaped after τέτρατος a variant of τέταρτος, ἑβδόματος and ὀγδό(μ)ατος remodeled after ἔννατος and δέκατος.58 More generally, analogical remodeling in the morphology of numerals is remarkably widespread among the Indo-European languages. The most impressive effects are produced in the Celtic languages: e.g. the Gaulish ordinals from ‘seventh’ to ‘tenth’ (sextametos, oxtumetos, nametos, decometos),59 in parallel to Old Irish (sechtmad, ochtumad, nomad, dechmad).60 Some numeral pairs are reciprocally influenced, such as Old Irish seissed ‘sixth’ remodeled after cóiced ‘fifth’, Middle Welsh pedwerydd ‘fourth’ remodeled after ‘third’.61 Old Indic numerals also underwent multiple analogical attractions in both progressive and regressive directions, as shown by the sequence from ‘fourth’ to ‘seventh’ remodeled after ‘sixth’ (caturthá-, pañcathá-, sasthá-, saptathá-). Inversely, the ending of astamá- ‘eighth’ and navamá- ‘ninth’ was influenced by saptamá- ‘seventh’ and dašamá- ‘tenth’, that attracted also pañcamá ‘fifth’. In parallel to M.Welsh, turīya- ‘fourth’ was reshaped after trtīya- ‘third’. All that gave rise to doublets, differently distributed, such as turīya-, caturthá- ‘fourth’, pañcamá, pañcathá- ‘fifth’, saptathá- saptamá- ‘seventh’.62 Doublets are also found elsewhere, reflected by personal names, like in Italic languages Sextoand Sestumo- ‘sixth’. Noteworthy Sestumo- was reshaped after ‘seventh’ Septumo-63 closely paralleled by the Old Indic sasthamá- ‘sixth’ morphologically coupled with saptamá- ‘seventh’. The most striking feature of the numeral series from Torre di Satriano is the spelling of ordinals series from ‘fifth’ to ‘eighth’ that are πέντος, ϝέτος, hέδεμος, hόδος in comparison with the standard forms πέμπτος, ϝέκτος, hέβδεμος, hόγδοoς. A spelling mistake is excluded by two facts: repetition of the same mistake in several tiles and consistency of the phenomena underlying the spelling at issue. The handful of numerals convergently presents a reduction of the original consonant clusters, that are the voiceless /pt/ and /kt/, occurring in πέμπτος, ϝέκτος, and their voiced counterparts /bd/ and /gd/ occurring in hέβδεμος, hόγδοoς. Both sound pairs are simplified according to the same rule, i.e. by eliminating the first consonant, so that /pt/ and /kt/ resulted in /t/ (i.e. πέντος < πέμπτος, ϝέτος < ϝέκτος) and /bd/ and /gd/ resulted in /d/ (i.e. hέδεμος
πέντος) and, on the other hand, to open syllables (e.g. ϝέκτος> ϝέτος; hέβδεμος> hέδεμος; hόγδοoς > hόδος). In Ancient Greek sound changes of this sort are very rare and occur in a scattered way in various contexts and, most importantly, with different outcomes. For instance, a regressive assimilation of /kt/ and /pt/ >/tt/ (e.g. νυκτί > νυττί; ἔγρατται >ἔγρατται) is found in Creta and in Thessaly (e.g. Λεπτίνας Λεττίνας),66 in parallel to other consonant clusters, which were assimilated (e.g. /gn/, /gn/ > /nn/). Instead, a simplification of /pt/ >/t/ after nasal consonant is more common: e.g. πέμπτος > πέντος found in both Amorgos and Creta.67 It is questionable, however, whether the evolution of πέμπτος to πέντος took place via a regressive assimilation * πένττος, as assumed by Schwyzer.68 In the papyri of the Roman and Byzantine period, a regressive assimilation of /kt/ and /pt/ is signalled by the spelling of the initial consonant with .69 Similar outcomes are found in the Byzantine chronicles.70  64 Schwyzer 1968 I, 595. 65 Lejeune 1987, 69. 66 Dubois 2002, 76. 67 Lejeune 1987, 68–69. 68 Schwyzer 1968, 337. 69 Gignac 1977, 176. 70 Psaltes 1913, 93.

  Paolo Poccetti In Standard Modern Greek /pt/ is simplified in /t/ after a nasal consonant, such as Πέμπτη ‘Thursday’ ['pempti] or ['pemti], but the demotic variety developed a fricative after dropping the nasal, like Πέφτη (= Πέμπτη), in parallel to εφτά ‘seven’ and οχτώ ‘eight’.71 In antiquity a very interesting case of reduction of /pt/>/t/ not preceded by a nasal consonant is provided by an Archaic inscription dating back to the late 6th cent. BC, scratched in an Attic kylix unearthed in Pontecagnano, in the territory of Poseidonia in Southern Italy. In this epigraphic text, written in the alphabet of the neighboring Achaean colony, one reads the formulaic prohibitive expression με̄ δε̄̀ ς ἀνκλέτετō ‘nobody should steal (me)’,72 where the imperative ἀνκλετέτō figures instead of the regular ἀνακλεπτέτō. For this variant of the verb ἀνακλέπτω a twofold explanation has been suggested: on the one hand, the isolated occurrence in Magna Graecia was considered a spelling mistake and then corrected ἀνκλετέτō;73 on the other hand, a phonological change has been recognized as a reduction of the consonant cluster /pt/> /t/, which would have taken place through the regressive assimilation, like in Creta and Thessaly, with subsequent simplification of the geminate, that is /pt/> /tt/ > /t/.74 Now ἀνκλετέτō is closely comparable to the phenomena evidenced by the numeral series from Torre di Satriano, so that it cannot be considered any longer as the only one instance of the change of /pt/> /t/ in Magna Graecia. Further features characterize the data from Pontecagnano and Torre di Satriano: firstly, both finding spots are non-Greek settlements. Pontecagnano was a multilingual and multicultural center, as shown by a considerable quantity of inscriptions in Greek, Sabellian and (mostly) Etruscan language;75 secondly a chronological and geographical convergence emerges from the fact that both sites are located at the border lines of the territory of the Achaean colony Posidonia and all documents at issue date back to the late 6th cent. BC. Particularly the inscription with ἀνκλετέτō from Pontecagnano testifies to interaction of individuals, mentioned as owners of the kylix itself, whose different origin is revealed by their respective personal names: one is Greek (Παρμένων), the other one is probably non-Greek (Στρίμπων). The latter is comparable with Stremponius, occurring in a funerary inscription from Grumentum, a Lucanian site, not too far from Torre di Satriano. Στρίμπων was assumed as a

 71 Mackridge 1985, 25. 72 SEG XXXIV 1019. 73 Dubois 2002, 75. 74 Arena 1996, 55. 75 Pellegrino 2008; 2013.

Greek Numeral System and Language Contacts in Southern Italy  

Greek name adapted to the Latin morphology after Romanization.76 Actually, this personal name is unknown elsewhere: the Lexicon of the Greek personal names does not exhibit any occurrence except that on the kylix from Pontecagnano. Consequently, it is more plausible to envisage a non-Greek origin of Στρίμπων, that leads to consider Stremponius from Grumentum a Latin rendering of a local pre-Roman name. A further example of coupling Greek and non-Greek names is provided by another Archaic Greek inscription in Achaean alphabet again from the territory of Poseidonia. It is the love inscription on the olpe from Fratte, close to Pontecagnano,77 where an Etruscan name figures among Greek names. Both texts convergently evidence for non-Greek individuals fully integrated into multilingual and multicultural societies of this area, where the Greek language appears to play the most prominent role in the written communication. Within this frame, the effects of the language contacts are helpful to define the nature and context of the phonological changes evidenced by the Greek numeral series recorded in the tiles from Torre di Satriano. As already stressed, the epigraphic set from Torre di Satriano is featured by two facts: on the one hand, the use of the Greek language in a non-Greek settlement; on the other hand, an unprecedented picture of the consistent and systematic evolution of a pair of consonant clusters, namely /kt/ and /pt/ and their voiced counterparts, having in common both homorganic and heterosyllabic conditions. In other words, two homogeneous syllabic structures, formed by a velar or labial obstruent as coda and by a dental obstruent as onset, undergo the same treatment that resulted in a simplification of both consonant clusters, obtained by dropping the consonant coda of the first syllable. Sound changes of the same type are paralleled in late Latin and in early Romance languages, that are generally affected by the common feature of weakening of the obstruent coda, that caused a simplification of these syllabic structures. As synthesized by Loporcaro, unlike Classical Latin in the Romance languages “all heterosyllabic clusters of non-homorganic consonants containing a coda obstruent are modified”.78 This evolutionary path, common to all Romance languages, rests on a depletion of the obstruent feature of the syllabic coda, that gave rise to different results, like regressive assimilation in Italian (e.g. Lat. lacte > It. latte) or vocalization in the same word of French (lait) or affrication in Spanish (leche). The consonant clusters at issue were unstable  76 Ampolo 1992, 67. 77 Dubois 2002, n. 28. 78 Loporcaro 2011, 93.

  Paolo Poccetti already in spoken Latin, giving rise to sociolinguistic varieties, as evidenced by both epigraphic remains, especially from Pompei,79 and late texts, considered as sources of ‘vulgar Latin’, such as grammarians, who signalled incorrect spellings, (e.g. autor for auctor in the Appendix Probi)80 or medical treatises (e.g. the alternating spelling of /ct/ and /pt/ like ruptus/ructus).81 Entirety of the evidence for those phenomena from the perspective of both social varieties of Latin and Romance dialectology was scrutinized by Mancini.82 Similar patterns of phonological change of the consonant clusters /kt/ and /pt/ are found in the Sabellian languages, that parallel the tendency to weakening the obstruent coda of the heterosyllabic consonants. The development of a fricative from the first obstruent is revealed by spelling -ht- for the primary -ktcommon to Oscan and Umbrian (e.g. rehted corresponding to Lat. recte), whereas the original -pt- is spelled -ft- in Oscan and -ht- in Umbrian: e.g. O. scrift-; U. screht- corresponding to Lat. script-). The slight difference between Oscan and Umbrian with regard to the spelling -ft- and -ht- as outcome of /pt/ is probably illusory, given that clues for the loss of the fricative sound before /t/ in Oscan are provided by the numeral adverb pomtis (written in Latin alphabet) instead of the expected *pomptis ‘five times’ arising from the cardinal *pompe < *penkwe ‘five’. Analogously the personal name Púntiis passed to Latin Pontius, arising from *pompt-ii̯o testifies to the same phonological evolution, whereas Πομπτιες was analogically reshaped after the cardinal numeral.83 The loss of the fricative, resulting from the phonological modification of the first consonant in both clusters /pt/ and /kt/ is also manifested by personal names derived from numerals, borrowed by Etruscan, such as Seθume < *Septumo-, whose evolution Septumo>*Sehtumo> Setumo- is confirmed by the paleo-Sabellian Setums, and Uθave < *Octau̯ -(y)o- alongside the Oscan name Uhtavis. The loss of the fricative is very archaic, given that its earliest occurrence in the personal name Setums, basing on the ordinal numeral *septumo-, just mentioned, is found in a vase inscription dating back to 6th cent. BC.84 To sum up, the evolution of both series of consonant clusters shown by the numeral series from Torre di Satriano is paralleled by the Sabellian languages, following two steps: the development of the first obstruent into a fricative and

 79 Väänänen 1982, 120–127. 80 Baehrens 1922, 85. 81 Niedermann 1954, 87. 82 Mancini 2000a; 2000b. 83 ImIt III, 1515; Lejeune 1976, 69. 84 ImIt I 153.

Greek Numeral System and Language Contacts in Southern Italy  

its subsequent loss. This pathway, common to both consonant clusters /kt/ and /pt/, convergently yielded an identical result, to be reconstructed as follows: Tab. 12: Evolution of consonant clusters evidenced in Torre di Satriano. -kt-

>

-ht-

>

-t-

-pt-

>

-h/ft

>

-t-

In conclusion the ultimate outcome /t/, resulting from the evolution of original /pt/ and /kt/, matches data evidenced by the numeral series attested in Torre di Satriano. This convergence is unlikely to be fortuitous, considering that in Ancient Greek an evolution of both /pt/ and /kt/ according to structural principles is completely unknown and the respective modifications of those consonant clusters are scattered and differentiated each other without any consistent distribution. Consequently, a Sabellian influence seems to provide the most appropriate perspective to account for the phonetic features of the Greek numeral series attested in the non-Greek site, where a variety of the Sabellian languages was spoken.

 Language contact and bilingualism This solution is related to processes of language contacts, implied by the bilingualism of the Sabellian speaking populations, settled in the site at issue. Concretely, the phonological features of the Greek numerals from Torre di Satriano results from the impact of the phenomena typical of the Sabellian languages on Greek, learned as second language (L2) by the native people. Notoriously, bilingualism is among the most prominent features of the indigenous communities of ancient Southern Italy, that were in close contact with the Greek colonies. Noteworthy, however, this property is hitherto known almost uniquely in the reflexes of both Oscan epigraphy and literary sources, which are repeatedly investigated from this perspective.85 Its evidence very rarely precedes 4th cent. BC. Moreover, the Oscan-Greek bilingualism is mostly

 85 Among the basic references: Prosdocimi 1976; Poccetti 1988; Adams 2003; McDonald 2015; Zair 2016; Clackson/James 2020.

  Paolo Poccetti observed through the impact on the Oscan language rather than on the Greek language. The novelty offered by the epigraphic materials from Torre di Satriano is twofold: on the one hand, they allow for dating back the bilingualism to an earlier period than it is attested so far, that is to the pre-Oscan stage prior to 4th cent. BC; on the other hand, they give the opportunity to scrutinize the impact of the Sabellian languages on Greek and not inversely, as usually done. As to chronology, the epigraphic documents from Torre di Satriano corroborate the spread of the bilingualism among the native communities of the Oenotrian circuit earlier than the Oscan or Lucanian period. In this sense some clues are provided by the names of the Oenotrian settlements, labeled πόλεις τῶν Oἰνωτρῶν by Stephanus of Byzantium, whose source was the most ancient historian Hecataeus of Miletus. In the list of the πόλεις τῶν Oἰνωτρῶν names of both Greek and non-Greek origin are found: a considerable part of them are derivatives either from Greek god names (e.g. Ἀρτεμίσιον) or from terms referring to aspects of the natural environment (e.g. Δρῦς, Ἰξιάς, Πύξις),86 as it frequently happens in the onomastics of the Greek colonization, mostly derivatives through the suffix -went-/-wont-: e.g. Σελινόεις, Σηπιοῦσσαι.87 The set of data from Torre di Satriano enables us to paint a picture of language contacts in the Oenotrian area in a more vivid and detailed manner than the local names allow for. Firstly, the fact that the inscribed tiles were manufactured in situ makes clear the acquaintance with the Greek language in an indigenous site of the Oenotrian hinterland. Secondly, the Tarantine type of both alphabet and dialect reveals the influence of the Laconian colony, which is far away from the site at issue. As a result, the Oenotrian communities were open to multiple relations with their Greek neighborhood. Thirdly, the written materials manifest a level of literacy among the craftsmen appointed to manufacturing the roof tiles. Fourthly, the use of the Greek language and script is related to the art of building, that implies an acquaintance with discourse practices and terminology referring to the architectural techniques. Sociolinguistically, these documents are of greatest importance, in that they are relevant to a homogeneous context from a synchronic, diaphasic and diastratic viewpoint. Its cohesiveness rests on the common requirements of communicative function, social condition and cultural environment underlying this set of inscriptions. Thus, we may profile individuals, who were responsible for writing. They were not architects, but workers employed in a local brick factory,  86 Poccetti 2000, 92–93; 2001, 164–168. 87 Poccetti 1996, 52.

Greek Numeral System and Language Contacts in Southern Italy  

who scratched the inscriptions when manufacturing each tile. The complexity of numbering needed a strict collaboration among people appointed to this job, that probably was performed under instructions of an architect or expert in roof building. The handiwork in the whole was probably carried out in a relatively short time span, that argues for a synchronic consistency of the epigraphic materials in the whole. Those craftsmen spoke a variety of the Sabellian languages as first language and learned Greek as second language. Likely, their writing skills in the Greek language were acquired when learning abilities in building techniques through an oral medium. Their literacy, however, reveals no scholarly training, given that a great part of the numeral forms was written without any respect to the correct Greek spelling. The mistakes in spelling with respect to the Greek rules betray phonological features of their mother language, transferred from the oral performance of Greek in their own mouths to the written level. In conclusion, the inscribed tiles from the pre-Lucanian site make a significant contribution to enhancing our knowledge of the interaction between the native communities and Greek colonies of Southern Italy in the Archaic period and its repercussions on their bilingualism and literacy. Those materials paint a scenario, which is more vivid and intriguing than the picture build up so far.

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  Paolo Poccetti Capozzoli, V. (2012), “Tetti arcaici in area nord-lucana: un aggiornamento a seguito delle indagini 2009–2010 a Torre di Satriano”, in: M. Osanna/V. Capozzoli (eds.), 35–60. Cassio, A.C. (2002), “Il dialetto greco di Taranto”, in: Taranto e il Mediterraneo, Atti del 41° convegno di studi sulla Magna Grecia, Taranto 12–16 ottobre 2001, Taranto, 435–466. Chantraine, P. (1984 [1980]), Dictionnaire étymologique de la langue grecque. Histoire des mots, Paris. Clackson, J./James, P. (eds.) (2020), Migration, Mobility and Language Contact in and around the Ancient Mediterranean, Cambridge. De Simone, C. (1991), “La lingua messapica oggi: un bilancio critic”, in: I Messapi, Atti del 30° convegno di studi sulla Magna Grecia, Taranto 4–9 ottobre 1990, Taranto, 297–322. De Simone, C./Marchesini, S. (2002), Monumenta Linguae Messapicae, Wiesbaden. Del Monaco, L. (2013), Locri. Iscrizioni greche d’Italia, Rome. Dubois, L. (2002), Inscriptions grecques dialectales de Grande Grèce, Geneva. Dubois, L. (2002), Inscriptions grecques dialectales de Grande Grèce. Colonies Achéennes, Geneva. Duplouy, A./Capozzoli, V./Zambon, A. (2019), “Perspectives et outils du programme de recherche ‘La Lucanie antique: archéologie et patrimoine’”, in: O. de Cazanove/A. Duplouy/ V. Capozzoli (eds.), La Lucanie entre deux mers. Archéologie et patrimoine, Actes du Colloque international, Paris, 5–7 novembre 2015, Naples, 165–191. Ernout, A./Meillet, A. (2001), Dictionnaire étymologique de la langue latine, Paris. Gignac, F.Th. (1977), A Grammar of the Greek Papyri of the Roman and Byzantine Periods, I: Phonology, Milan. Ginouvès, R. (1992), Dictionnaire méthodique de l’architecture grecque et romaine. II. Eléments constructifs: supports, couvertures, aménagements intérieurs, Rome. Greco, E. (1990), “Serdaioi”, AION ArchStAnt 12, 39–57. Guarducci, M. (1995), Epigrafia greca I, Rome. ImIt = M. Crawford et al. (eds.) (2011), Imagines Italicae, London. Jeffery, L.H. (1990), The Local Scripts of Archaic Greece, Revised edition with a Supplement by A.W. Johnston, Oxford. Lambert, P.Y. (2003), La langue gauloise, Paris. Lazzarini, M.L./Poccetti, P. (2001), “L’iscrizione paleoitalica di Tortora”, in: Il mondo Enotrio tra VI e V secolo a.C., Atti dei seminari napoletani (1996–1998), (Quaderni di Ostraka 1,2), II, Naples. Lejeune, M. (1976), L’anthroponymie osque, Paris. Lejeune, M. (1987), Phonétique historique du mycénien et du grec ancien, Paris. Lewis, H./Pedersen, H. (1937), A Concise Comparative Celtic Grammar, Göttingen. Lo Porto, F.G./Ranaldi, F. (1990), “Le «lastre dei cavalieri» di Serra di Vaglio”, in: Monumenti Antichi Lincei LII, ser. misc., III.6, Rome. Loporcaro, M. (2011) “Syllable, segment and prosody”, in: M. Maiden/J.Ch. Smith/A. Ledgeway (eds.), The Cambridge History of the Romance Languages, vol. I: The Structures, Cambridge, 50–108. Psaltes, S.B. (1913), Grammatik der byzantinischen Chroniken, Göttingen. Mackridge, P. (1985), The Modern Greek Language. A Descriptive Analysis of Standard Modern Greek, Oxford. Mancini, M. (2000a), “Fra latino dialettale e latino preromanzo: fratture e continuità”, in: J. Herman/A. Marinetti (eds.), La preistoria dell’Italiano, Atti della Tavola Rotonda di Linguistica Storica, Università Ca’ Foscari, Venezia 11–13 giugno 1998, Tübingen, 41–59.

Greek Numeral System and Language Contacts in Southern Italy  

Mancini, M. (2000b), “Tra dialettologia latina e dialettologia romanza: sul trattamento di lat. -kt-”, Zeitschrift für Romanische Philologie 116, 107–140. McDonald, K. (2015), Oscan in Southern Italy and Sicily, Cambridge. Meier-Brügger, M. (1992), Griechische Sprachwissenschaft, Berlin/New York. Minon, S. 2007, Les inscriptions éléennes dialectales (VIIe-IIe siècle avant J.C.), Geneva. Niedermann, M. (1954), “Les gloses médicales du Liber Glossarum”, Recueil Max Niedermann, Neuchâtel, 65–135. Osanna, M. (2009), “Le terrecotte architettoniche dell’anaktoron di Torre di Satriano. Il fregio e la sfinge”, in: M. Osanna/L. Colangelo/G. Carollo (eds.), Lo spazio del potere. La residenza ad abside e l’episcopio a Torre di Satriano, Venosa, 157–175. Osanna, M. (2011), “La Sfinge di Torre di Satriano e il suo contesto architettonico”, in: P. Lulof/ C. Rescigno (eds.), Deliciae Fictiles IV. Architectural Terracottas in Ancient Italy. Images of Gods, Monsters and Heroes, Oxford, 351–358. Osanna, M. (2013), “Le coperture e le terrecotte architettoniche dell’anaktoron”, in: M. Osanna/ M. Vullo, Segni del potere. Oggetti di lusso dal Mediterraneo nell’Appennino lucano di età arcaica, Venosa, 83–98. Osanna, M./Capozzoli, V. (2012), Lo spazio del potere II. Nuove ricerche nell’area dell’anaktoron di Torre di Satriano, Venosa. Osanna, M. et al. (2011), “Sedi del potere di un insediamento italico nell’appennino lucano: Torre di Satriano in età arcaica”, Bollettino d’Arte 11, 1–26. Osanna, M./Colangelo, L./Carollo, G. (eds.) (2009), Lo spazio del potere. La residenza ad abside e l’episcopio a Torre di Satriano, Venosa. Pellegrini, G.B. (1990), Toponomastica italiana, Milan. Pellegrino, C. (2008) “Pontecagnano: la scrittura e l’onomastica in una comunità etrusca di frontiera”, Annali Museo ‘Claudio Faina’ 15, 423–463. Pellegrino, C. (2010), “Pontecagnano: l’uso della scrittura tra Etruschi, Greci e Italici”, Bollettino di Archeologia on line I 2010/ Volume speciale [www.archeologia.beniculturali.it/pages/ pubblicazioni.html Poccetti, P. (1988), “Lingua e cultura dei Brettii”, in: P. Poccetti (ed.), Per un’identità culturale dei Brettii, Naples, 3–158. Poccetti, P. (1996), “Aspetti linguistici e toponomastici della storia marittima dell’Italia antica”, in: La Magna Grecia e il mare. Studi di storia marittima, Taranto, 36–74. Poccetti, P. (2000), “Note sulla stratigrafia della toponomastica della Calabria antica”, in: J.B. Trumper/A. Mendicino/M. Maddalon (eds.), Toponomastica calabrese, Rome, 87–116. Poccetti, P. (2001), “Intorno ai problemi linguistici del mondo enotrio”, in: M. Bugno/C. Masseria (eds.), Il mondo Enotrio tra VI e V secolo a.C., Atti dei seminari napoletani (1996–1998), (Quaderni di Ostraka 1,1) I, Naples, 149–198. Poccetti, P. (2006), “Variazioni sul tema del numerale per ‘sei’ nelle lingue dell’Italia antica”, AIΩN 28, 245–269. Poulsen, F./Rhomaios, K. (1927), “Erster vorläufiger Bericht über die dänisch-griechischen Ausgrabungen von Kalydon”, in: Det Kgl. Danske Videnskabernes Selskab. Hist.-filol. Meddelelser XIV,3, Copenhagen. Prosdocimi, A.L. (1975), “Il conflitto delle lingue”, in: La Magna Grecia nell’età romana, Atti del XV Convegno di Studi sulla Magna Grecia (Taranto 5–10 ottobre 1975), Naples, 139–221. Renou, L. (1996), Grammaire sanscrite, Paris. Rescigno, C. (1998), Tetti campani, Rome.

  Paolo Poccetti Rix, H. (1992/1976), Historische Grammatik des Griechischen, Laut– und Formenlehre, Darmstadt. Sapirstein, Ph. (2016), “Origins and design of terracotta roofs in the seventh century BCE”, in: M.M. Miles (ed.), A Companion to Greek Architecture, London, 46–59. Schulze, W. (1904), Zur Geschichte lateinischer Eigennamen, Abhandl. Kön. Ges. der Wissenschaften. Phil.–Hist. Klasse N.F. V 5., Berlin. Schwyzer, E. (1968), Griechische Grammatik, I, Munich. Szemerényi, O. (1960), Studies in the Indo-European System of Numerals, Heidelberg. Tagliapietra, L. (2018), Greek in Early Hellenistic Magna Graecia. Dialect Contact and Change in South Italy, PhD thesis, Cambridge. https://www.repository.cam.ac.uk/ items/2691c8bdfaec-4653-b597-52d635402392. Thurneysen, R. (1970), A Grammar of Old Irish, Dublin. Tod, M.N. (1912), “The Greek numeral notation”, BSA 18, 98–132. Tod, M.N. (1954), “Letter-labels in Greek inscriptions”, BSA 49, 1–8. Uguzzoni, A./Ghinatti, F. (1968), Le Tavole greche di Eraclea, Rome. Väänänen, V. (1982), Introduzione al latino volgare, Bologna. Viredaz, R. (1997), “‘Six’ en indo-européen”, IF 102, 112–150. Waanders, F.M.J. (1992), “Greek”, in: J. Gvozdanović (ed.), Indo-European Numerals, Berlin/ New York, 369–388. Weiss, E. (2012), “Le système numéral du Grec d’Italie du Sud, de Rhégion à Tarente”, in: G. Vottéro/C. Brixhe (eds.), Folia graeca in honorem Edouard Will, Nancy, 161–186. Zair, N. (2016), Oscan in the Greek Alphabet, Cambridge.

Sara Kaczko

Non-Attic Vocalism, Epichoric Forms, and Attic Poetic Traditions Abstract: The phonological element /aː/ instead of the expected epichoric /εː/ in poetic genres associated with Archaic and Classical Attica is normally considered only with regard to the choral sections of tragedy. Also, it is usually agreed that the prestige of choral lyric, in which Doric features are prominent, accounts for the presence of /aː/. Although this interpretation is valid on a general level, it does not tell the whole story about instances of /aː/. First, tragedy is not the only poetic Attic genre in which /aː/ is found rather than the epichoric /εː/; worth mentioning are, inter alia, instances in Attic epigrams. Second, influence from choral lyric is possibly not the sole factor that determined the presence of /aː/ in Attic poetry. This paper presents an analysis of the use of inherited /aː/ in poetic genres tied to Archaic and Classical Attica that goes beyond the traditional scenario just mentioned and focuses chiefly on selected forms in /aː/ in Attic epigrams. Keywords: Attic, Attic epigrams, epichoric forms, Doric, Greek dialects

§ 1. The phonological element /aː/ instead of the expected epichoric /εː/ in the poetic genres associated with Archaic and Classical Attica is normally considered only with regard to the choral sections of tragedy. Also, it is generally agreed that the prestige of choral lyric, in which Doric features are prominent, accounts for the presence of /aː/.1 Although this interpretation is valid on a general level, it does not tell the whole story about instances of /aː/. First, tragedy is not the only poetic Attic genre in which /aː/ is found instead of the epichoric /εː/; also, worth mentioning are, inter alia, instances in Attic epigrams (§ 3). Second, the influence of choral lyric may not be the sole factor that determined the presence of /aː/ in Attic poetry (§§ 4–11). This paper presents an analysis of the use of inherited /aː/ in poetic genres tied to Archaic and Classical Attica that  1 Incidentally, /aː/ is non-Attic-Ionic, i.e. proper to all dialects aside from Attic-Ionic, including Doric, of course, and Aeolic (the dialect of prestigious lyric poetry, which also influenced choral lyric). Though not exclusively Doric, it was surely perceived as one of the most distinctive features of choral lyric; moreover, its wider dialectic scope likely favored its presence in high-register poetry with international aspirations (e.g. the odes of Simonides, Pindar, and Bacchylides). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111272887-015

  Sara Kaczko goes beyond the traditional scenario just mentioned and focuses chiefly on selected forms in /aː/ in Attic epigrams. § 2. Regarding the distribution of inherited /aː/ instead of the expected /εː/ in tragedy, such instances are attested mostly in choruses (retained /aː/ and ending -ᾶν of the gen. pl. of themes in -ā-, cf. also gen. sing. such as Ἀΐδᾱ with /aː/ < /aːo/).2 The inherited /aː/ appears also, albeit sparsely, in dialogue, e.g. in ‘technical’ or ‘polymorphic’ forms such as λοχᾱγός and τιμορος (for Att.-Ion. τιμωρός).3 Attic epigrams on durable materials are also important for the analysis of occurrences of /aː/ instead of the epichoric /εː/.4 Well attested but not pervasive, they are usually found in otherwise Attic(-Ionic) shaped epigraphic poems. Interestingly, as a result, inherited /aː/ usually appears in a single instance alongside Attic-Ionic /ɛː/. Examples include hιπ⌞ποσύνᾱ⌟ι alongside, possibly, ᾽Αθναίν in CEG 4 (458 or 457 BC), ᾱνọ[ρ|έ]ᾱν alongside hε̄λικίᾱς and σμα in CEG 31 (ca. 540–520 BC), ἐφμοσύνᾱι alongside σμα in CEG 61 (ca. 510–500 BC), ἐγρεμάχᾱι alongside στσε and δεκάτν in CEG 194 (ca. 525–510 BC), Ἀθᾱναίᾱͅ alongside ἀπαρχν and τι in CEG 205 (ca. 510–500 BC), Ἀθνα alongside μνμα, hδε, and πολιοχε in CEG 235 (ca. 500–480 BC), φρασμοσύνᾱι alongside μτρς in CEG 243 (ca. 500–480 BC), (Διὸς) κόρᾱι alongside εὐχσαμέν in CEG 284 (ca. 500–480 BC), and Ἀθναις and Λ]ᾱτ̣[οί]δᾱ alongside παν[γυρις] in CEG 302 (ca. 540 BC).5 In comedy, the instances of /aː/ include both imitations of Doric dialects used by Doric-speaking characters (Megarians and Laconians, including the well-known Spartan characters in Aristophanes’ Lysistrata) and allusions to and serious imitations of choral and religious poetry, e.g. Ἀθνᾱ, κόρᾱ, κόρᾱν and χρυσοκόμᾱς. Only these latter sorts of instances of /aː/, which are found in sung sections of Aristophanes (e.g. Nu. 563–574, 595–606, Thesm. 101–129 and 312– 330),6 are relevant to the present discussion. By contrast, forms featuring /aː/  2 As is well-known, tragedy drew on the prestige of choral lyric by lending a Doric patina to choral sections through the very selective use of the elements mentioned (and, occasionally, νιν), but, for example, the endings -τι and -ντι (the type λέγοντι) are never found, whereas the assibilated Attic(-Ionic) forms (the type λέγουσι) are. 3 On this question, see the extensive discussion by Björck 1950. 4 Incidentally, it must be kept in mind that epigrams and, as a consequence, their linguistic features, are not susceptible to the vagaries of literary transmission. 5 See the lists and discussion in Mickey 1981; Kaczko 2009 and 2018. 6 The ‘cult songs’ sung by the chorus in Aristophanes are listed and discussed by Furley/ Bremer 2001 I, 336–368; 2001 II, 331–371.

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uttered by Dorian characters in Archaic Attic comedies, since they probably represent an imitation of the ‘vernacular’ corresponding to the tendency of comedy toward realism,7 differ fundamentally from forms with /aː/ that echo literary poetry. Lastly, also deserving of mention here are instances in a few extant literary compositions relating to cultic contexts in Athens, such as Ἀθνᾱ, , χρυσοκόμᾱν, Λᾱτώ in some of the drinking songs in Aeolic meters — songs performed at symposia known as ‘Attic skolia’ and that possibly date to the late 6th and beginning of the 5th cent. BC8 — and κούρᾱ and μᾶτερ in Sophocles’ paean, which is preserved in a very fragmentary state in a later epigraphical record of the 5th cent. BC playwright’s original composition.9 § 3. Regarding the origin of /aː/ in Attic poetry, as just noted, it is generally agreed that the prestige of lyric, especially choral lyric, in which Doric features are prominent, accounts for the presence of /aː/ in tragic choruses, though occasionally other factors may have intervened — for example, some words may represent ‘technical borrowings’ (e.g. λοχᾱγός in tragic choruses and dialogue).10 The less likely hypothesis of a preserved Urattisch /aː/ has largely been abandoned.11 The same explanation, namely the influence of choral lyric, has been put forward by a number of scholars for most instances of /aː/ in other genres,12 including epigrams (for which, again, the Urattisch hypothesis was  7 On the imitation of non-Attic dialects in Aristophanes and the playwrights of Old Comedy, see in general Colvin 1999; cf. Palumbo Stracca 1991–1992. On the various questions regarding the usage of the dialect in the two ‘Spartan songs’ at the end of Lysistrata (1247–1272; 1296– 1321), see Colvin 1999, 260–263 and Willi 2002, 139–141. 8 Incidentally, with regard to the formation and transmission of the collection, these poems seem to have escaped philological-critical revision at the hands of the Alexandrians; cf. Fabbro 1995, xlii. 9 SEG 28.225, dating to the 3rd cent. AD and found near the Athenian Asklepieion, which is considered by most scholars to be an epigraphical record of Sophocles’ original composition, though some have argued against the identification of the paean with the 5th cent. BC playwright (see Furley/Bremer 2001 I, 260–262; Connolly 1998). The instances of /aː/ in Sophocles’ paean are expected as common features of the genre and will not be discussed in detail here. 10 The form λοχᾱγός is also found in Attic prose. Another technical borrowing is likely φραδ in Attic epigrams; on φραδ and its poetic variant φρασμοσύνᾱ, see Kaczko 2018; cf. also Cassio 2014. 11 Kock 1910, 29–35; cf. von de Mess 1898; Mahlow 1926; contra, e.g. Björck 1950, 133 and passim; Palumbo Stracca 1998, 241–242. 12 Regarding epigrams, see von de Mess 1898, 12–21; Buck 1923, 134–136; Mickey 1981, 44; Kaczko 2009; 2018; Lundquist 2016, 433 ff.; regarding comedy, see e.g. Colvin 1999, 138, 150, passim; regarding the Attic skolia, see Fabbro 1995, lii–liii.

  Sara Kaczko invoked, again, unconvincingly),13 though the question has not received much attention. As mentioned, this general explanation does not account completely for the selection and distribution of the forms in /aː/ across the various genres. Other influences may have intervened; for example, some scholars have invoked the influence of ‘religious poetry’ (discussed in detail below). Also, and obviously, each genre presents distinct characteristics that conditioned the distribution of /aː/. Lastly, specific factors requiring case-by-case evaluation may have been at work, including the impossibility of using the epichoric Attic equivalent in /εː/. § 4. The situation of tragedy seems clearest: as a high-register genre, the language tends to echo that of literary models such as epic and choral lyric, showing distinct stylistic and linguistic features in the dialogue and choral sections, on the latter of which the influence of choral lyric is, naturally, stronger. At any rate, forms in /aː/ may not derive exclusively from literary choral lyric, for cult songs have been also invoked to explain such forms. Cult songs were part of everyday life in Athens, performed at religious rituals and festivals (e.g. the Thargelia, Anthesteria, and Great Panathenaea), which also included performances and poetry competitions involving such genres as paeans and dithyrambs. A number of these compositions were performed as choral songs, so many of them — featuring ‘ritual and religious language’ — were possibly open to the influence of high-register poetry, especially that of lyric and, therefore, may have assimilated poetic usages (including forms in /aː/).14 In turn, poetry performed at religious events may be an important source of forms in /aː/ in poetic genres tied to Attica.15 In particular, religious poetry seems to be the source of a huge variety of lyric passages found in drama that “in being addressed to one or more gods, in an attitude of prayer or supplication, may be classed as hymns to the gods”16 and part of the dramatic imitation of life since hymns, as mentioned, were performed during everyday religious events. Of course, they were composed for the fictional action of the play; though not genuine hymns, they were based on them. These passages occur in drama generally and tragedy especially,17 but also in comedy.  13 See e.g. Kock 1910, 29–35; this theory seems to have been abandoned as well. 14 Of course, the presence of /aː/ is a result of many factors, starting with performance, and, obviously, not every cult song performed in Athens featured /aː/. 15 In other words, it is likely that choral lyric and ritual songs influenced each other. 16 Furley/Bremer 2001 I, 275. 17 See, e.g. Aesch. Ag. 160–183, Choeph. 783–818, Eum. 321–346, 1032–1047, Soph. Aj. 596– 608, OT 151–215 (identified as a “supplicatory paean” by Furley/Bremer 2001 I, 307), OC 1085–

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The aforementioned scenario may, then, account for a number of instances of /aː/ in comedy. That is, comedy was closer to the vernacular language but also incorporated imitation of the language of other genres, including tragedy, lyric poetry, and hymns, that reflect “in form and content the usages of actual life in Athens”18 and may be considered an aspect of the realism of comedy. As a matter of fact, in Aristophanes, especially the parabaseis, are hymns masquerading as genuine cult songs, displaying a serious and reverent tone and characteristics proper to cletic hymns;19 noteworthy examples include Nub. 563–574 and 595–606.20 Inherited retained /aː/ is also found in some of the Attic skolia; particularly relevant are the first four in the collection, which are devoted to Athena, Demeter and Persephone, Leto, Apollo, and Artemis, and Pan.21 Regarding their genre, it has been argued that these are traditional hymnic texts performed at symposia22 and, thus, document a sort of sympotic paean.23 These four ‘skolia εἰς θεούς’ display traditional elements, such as a solemn cletic opening (in those to Athena24 and to Pan), wording in common with the hymns (cf. the parallels between the skolion to Demeter and Persephone and the Hymn to Demeter and of that to Pan with a fragmentary Pindaric hymn, fr. 95 S.M.),25 and traditional

 1095, 1556–1578, Eur. Alc. 568–606, 962–983, Med. 824–845, Hipp. 58–71, 525–563, 1268–1281; see Furley/Bremer 2001 I, 279, 299, 312. 18 See e.g. Colvin 1999; Willi 2002; 2003. On prayers and hymns in Aristophanes, see Horn 1970; Furley/Bremer 2001 I, 337–343. 19 Cf. Furley/Bremer 2001 I, 340 ff. (also with a list of passages, e.g. Pax 974–998, Av. 737–751, 769–784). See Fraenkel 1962, 191–198; Dover 1968, 172–173; Parker 1997, 168; Furley/Bremer 2001 II, 332. On the serious tone and proper lexicon of some Aristophanic invocations to gods, cf. Pulleyn 1997, 33. 20 The only untraditional god mentioned in Nub. 563–574 is Aether, who, however, is assimilated to the traditional deities (Zeus, Apollo, Aphrodite, Athena, and Dionysus) in the traditional pantheon. In other words, the nature of the hymn is mimetic rather than satirical (Lomiento 2007, 324). 21 Fabbro (1995: nos. 1–4 = PMG 887–890). 22 Furley/Bremer 2001 I, 247–248: “since their performance at the symposion constituted some kind of prayer to the divinity addressed, perhaps accompanied by a wine libation, they may be seen as traditional hymnic texts.” 23 Fabbro 1995, xx–xxiii, argues that they were later included in the collection of skolia because of metrical similarities and positioned at the beginning because of their function during symposia. On their positioning, cf. also Furley/Bremer 2001 I, 260. 24 Παλλὰς Τριτογένει’ ἄνασσ’ Ἀθνᾱ Fabbro 1995, no. 1.1 = PMG 887. 25 According to Furley/Bremer 2001 I, 260, the skolion to Pan represents a re-elaboration of the Pindaric composition.

  Sara Kaczko epithets of the gods (e.g. Παλλάς, Τριτογένεια, ἄνασσα, χρυσοκόμᾱς, ἐλαφήβολος, ἀγροτέρᾱ, and Ἀρκαδίας μεδέων). Regarding the dialectal shape, as anticipated in § 2, the skolia εἰς θεούς feature some instances of the retained inherited /aː/ (Ἀθνᾱ, , χρυσοκόμᾱς and Λᾱτώ),26 alongside Attic-Ionic /εː/ (e.g. μήτηρ, Δήμητηρ, and ἐλαφήβολος).27 The presence of /aː/ has been explained variously: to the extent that these skolia are to be interpreted as sympotic paeans or that their performance is deemed not exclusively monodic but to include choral contexts, the influence of choral lyric and religious poetry may be invoked. Fabbro 1995, liii also argued that the artificial and composite language of the skolia may have been influenced by the Aeolic metrical tradition (glyconic and alcaic meters) since /aː/ is found in Aeolic as well as Doric dialects.28 Lastly, the influence of choral lyric29 and (by some scholars) of ‘religious poetry’ has been invoked also to explain instances of /aː/ in Attic epigrams, and this is my focus here. For example, Mickey 1981 argued that, since most of the instances of /aː/ in Attic epigrams refer to deities, being forms of the name of Athena, such as Ἀθνᾱ and Ἀθᾱναίᾱ, or epithets of the goddess, such as ἐγρεμάχᾱ, κόρᾱ, and ἁγν, alongside Λ]ᾱτ̣[οί]δᾱ referring to Apollo in the dedication of Alkmeonides on the Ptoion, “the /aː/ vocalism, which would have been familiar from the Doric choral lyric, had a high-style solemnity, and thus would have seemed particularly appropriate for references to deities.” D’Alfonso 1986 made similar observations about Ἀθνᾱ, Ἀθᾱναίᾱ, ἐγρεμάχᾱ, κόρᾱ, and ἁγν as part of a “vocabolario poetico sacro sul quale sembra essere stata più forte l’influenza della lirica corale.” § 5. However, /aː/ for /εː/ in Attic epigrams is also found in a number of substantives comparable to its appearances in the names or epithets of gods. I refer  26 The substantive ὀπᾱδός found in the skolion to Pan occurs with vocalism /aː/ also in Attic prose and is therefore not a poetical borrowing. 27 At PMG 884 = Fabbro 1995, no. 1 the MSS read Ἀθηνα or Ἀθηνᾶ, the latter being the normal form in Attic from the middle of the 4th cent. BC. Ἀθηνᾶ has, therefore, been interpreted as a banalization and corrected to Ἀθνᾱ by Hermann. The emendation is accepted by Fabbro ad loc., correctly, in my opinion, for a variety of reasons, i.e. linguistic considerations and the use of forms with the inherited /aː/ in Attic skolia, of which at least the four skolia εἰς θεούς dated from the end of the 6th to the beginning of the 5th cent. BC — all of which militates against Ἀθηνᾶ. 28 Fabbro ibid. also suggested, not very convincingly, a role for the northern-continental tradition (in Pavese’s terms). 29 See e.g. already Buck 1923, 132.

Non-Attic Vocalism, Epichoric Forms, and Attic Poetic Traditions  

specifically to σιδρεον in CEG 1(ii) (ca. 490–460 BC), ἱππ⌟οσύνᾱ⌞ι⌟ in CEG 4 (458/457 BC), Ἐρεχθειδᾶ̣[ν in CEG 7 (5th cent. BC),30 νορέᾱν in CEG 31 (ca. 540– 520 BC), ἐφμοσύνᾱι in CEG 61 (ca. 520–510 BC), φρασμοσύνᾱι in CEG 243 (ca. 400–480 BC, cf. also φραδ, CEG2 888, 4th cent. BC, Lycia, but in Attic dialect), Ἀθναις in CEG 302 (ca. 540 BC). Most do not refer to deities,31 so the influence of lyric seems more likely than that of religious poetry, a fact that confirms that the whole question of forms in /aː/ in epigrams is complex and manifold. A full discussion would be beyond the scope of the present study; therefore, I focus here on the names and epithets of the gods mentioned in § 4, Ἀθνᾱ, Ἀθᾱναίᾱ, κόρᾱ, ἐγρεμάχᾱ, ἁγν, and Λᾱτοίδᾱ. To explain the distribution of these forms in /aː/ in Attic epigrams, it is necessary to take into account the various factors mentioned above: the influence of lyric and religious poetry, the characteristics of the genre, specific factors such as the selection of technical forms, the influence of place, the impossibility of selecting the epichoric /εː/, and so on. The explanation should also account for the distribution of some forms that are found in tragedy but not in epigrams (e.g. the term ‘maiden’, κούρᾱ vs. κόρη, respectively) and vice versa (the name of Athena in the variant Ἀθήνη) and for their different frequency in each genre (e.g. that of Ἀθνᾱ), though both genres echo high-register literary poetry. These considerations form the basis for the following discussion of selected instances of /aː/ in Attic dedicatory epigrams. § 6. Ancient epigrams, which, in the Archaic and Classical periods, consisted largely of epitaphs or dedications, have long been considered something other than a literary genre, but it is now agreed that they do indeed constitute at least a minor and by no means a trivial genre that often featured distinct narrative strategies and literary elements.32 As a matter of fact, epigrams show specific, almost formulaic characteristics (such as the phrases ἐνθάδε κεῖται, μ᾽ ἀνέθηκε) alongside the influence of literary poetry. Likewise, regarding the language, the strength of the local context meant that the dialectal (and alphabetical) shape of an epitaph or dedication usually reflects that of the dedicator and/or the deceased.33 In the case of epigrams, however, the dialectal shape reflects more the  30 The ending of is the outcome of a contraction */aːɔːn/ (in Attic the ending of the genitive plural is the outcome of a contraction (/–eɔːn/ < */εːɔːn/ < */aːɔːn/). 31 For the oracular associations of φρασμοσύνᾱ (and φραδ), see Kaczko 2018. 32 See Baumbach/Petrovic/Petrovic 2010. 33 Buck 1913, 143–145. Some exceptions may occur when an artist signed the monument. Thus, since the artist’s signature was usually in his own alphabet and dialect, when the dedicator and the artist were of different origins, the alphabet and dialect of the dedication may differ

  Sara Kaczko influence of poetical models, mainly epic. Notably, the features of these models are preserved mainly in their original shapes when doing so is metrically convenient or necessary, whereas the models are adapted to the epichoric dialect when metrically possible; cf. μᾶνιν ὀπιδόμ̣[ενος], (scil. -δδ-) in CEG 373, Sparta, 6th cent. BC, echoing Διὸς δ’ὠπίζετο μῆνιν of Hom. Od. 14.283, and παιδὶ Διὸς μεγάλο̄ found in CEG 190 and CEG 202, Attica, 6th cent. BC, echoing epic παῖδα Διὸς μεγάλοιο of Hom. Od. 3.43,34 though there are a few exceptions to this marked tendency (e.g. -õσα metrically equivalent to the local -ονσα in CEG 117, Thessaly, 5th cent. BC).35 Lastly, while Attic epigrams expressed the literary and linguistic trends of Archaic and Classical Attica, in the case of epigrammatic poetry, the choices of a single individual, the patron (or, more rarely, the artist), often play a key role in shaping the message conveyed to the audience. § 7. Ἀθνᾱ and Ἀθᾱναίᾱ are found in Attic epigrams in a single instance each (CEG 235 and 205), being two of the five attested variants of the name of the goddess in the genre, along with the Ionic(-epic) Ἀθήνη, Ἀθηναίη, and the Attic Ἀθηναία, which is the most frequent form. In Attic poetry, parallels of Ἀθνᾱ and Ἀθᾱναίᾱ are found in tragedy, in which context their distribution differs markedly from that in epigrams — as does the distribution of the forms of the name of the goddess featuring Attic-Ionic /εː/, i.e. the Ionic Ἀθήνη (not found tragedy) and the Attic Ἀθηναίᾱ (rare in tragedy) — depending on a variety of factors, i.e. characteristics of the dialect and genre and the metrical shape. The original form of the name of Athena is usually reconstructed as Ἀθνᾱ (cf. Mycenaean a-ta-na-po-ti-ni-ja = Ἀθνᾱ πότνια), which appears as Ἀθήνη in Ionic. From this form derive both the name of the city Ἀθᾶναι (in non-Attic-Ionic dialects, e.g. Aeolic and Doric), Ἀθῆναι in Attic-Ionic and, through the suffix -ιος

 from those of the signature. However, there are several examples of the adaptation of the name of an artist working abroad to the dialect of the dedication, though sometimes the dedication is in the dialect of such an artist. 34 Cf. also ΠοτΕδϝο̄ν[ι ϝά]ν̣α̣κτι (CEG 357.ii, Penteskouphia, Corinth, ca. 7th cent. BC), which parallels the Homeric formula Ποσειδωνι ἄνακτι (Hom. Il. 15.57, 158); δίδοι χαρίϝετταν ἀμοιβ̣[ν] (CEG 326, Boeotia, 6th cent. BC); τὺ δὲ δὸ[ς χα]ρίεσαν ἀμοιϝᾱ́ν (CEG 360, Corinth, 6th cent. BC), echoing δίδου χαρίεσσαν ἀμοιβήν at Hom. Od. 3.58; ϝεκᾱβόλο̄ι Ἀπέλο̄νι (CEG 370, Delphi, 6th cent. BC); and ἑκηβόλο̄ι Ἀπόλλο̄νι (CEG 405, Delos, 525–500 BC), echoing ἑκηβόλωι Ἀπόλλωνι at Hom. Il. 1.428; 23.872, etc. Discussion in Buck 1923; Mickey 1981; Kaczko 2018, 29– 30. 35 Cf. Mickey 1981; Buck 1923, 134.

Non-Attic Vocalism, Epichoric Forms, and Attic Poetic Traditions  

(Ἀθηναῖος), -ια in the feminine, variants such as Ἀθαναία (in the “/aː/ Dialekte”), Ἀθηναίη (in Ionic), and Ἀθηναία (in Attic).36 Many dialects have both the ‘long’ and ‘short’ forms (cf. e.g. Dor. Ἀθνᾱ and Ἀθᾱναίᾱ, Ion. Ἀθήνη and Ἀθηναίη), whereas in Attic the ‘short’ form Ἀθήνη — which, from a phonological point of view, would have been perfectly Attic — never appears. Rather, the ‘long’ form Ἀθηναίᾱ is found in the earliest instances, both in prose (public and private) inscriptions and in poetic ones, mostly dedicatory epigrams. This ‘long’ form is the origin of all of the variants of the name Athena in Attic. Thus, Ἀθηναίᾱ soon underwent loss of intervocalic /i̯/, a phenomenon well paralleled in Attic,37 and eventually, by way of an intermediate form, Ἀθηνάᾱ, yielded the contracted form Ἀθηνᾶ.38 This latter form is the unmarked form in the Classical period as documented by Attic literary prose texts39 and private prose inscriptions.40 Inscriptions in general and especially public inscriptions tend to be conservative, so Ἀθηναίᾱ is still well attested during the 5th and 4th cent. BC, whereas Ἀθηνᾶ became standard around 360/350 BC in public inscriptions,41 but, as mentioned, this latter form was very likely the form in common use already in the 5th cent. BC. These considerations are important in determining the distribution of the variants of the name of the goddess in Attic poetry. In Attic epigrams, the most frequently attested form is the ‘long’ form Ἀθηναίᾱ, which is found in Attic inscriptions from the 6th cent. BC. Notably, this form can also be interpreted as the adaptation of the epic Ἀθηναίη to the local phonology, a phenomenon that, being customary in epigrams, likely favored its frequent use. Ἀθηναίᾱ occurs in more than thirty instances in dedicatory epigrams from the earliest evidence in the 6th cent. BC down to 400 BC.  36 DÉLG, s.v. Ἀθήνη, GEW, s.v. Ἀθήνη, EDG, s.v. Ἀθήνη. 37 Cf. e.g. /oi̯/ > /o/ in the forms of ποιέω in which /oi̯/ occurs before [e:], [ε:], [ei] and in substantives, such as ποίησις, ποιητής; cf. Threatte 1980, 211, 324–326; Schwyzer 1939, 195–196; Buck 1955, 32. 38 The form Ἀθηνάᾱ appears very occasionally in inscriptions dating to 500–480 BC (cf. IG I3, 583a, 534, cf. CEG 283, 500–480 BC). 39 The MSS variant Ἀθηνᾶ is on occasion corrected by some editors even though it is transmitted in all of the manuscripts and maintained by most editors; e.g. in Lys. 13.18 and 19.39, the MSS (L = consensus codicum) read Ἀθηνᾶ, which is corrected to Ἀθηναία by Hude 1912; also, in Thuc. 4.116, 5.10.2, and 5.23.6, the MSS read Ἀθηνᾶ, which is printed by Jones/Powell 1953– 19553, but emended to Ἀθηναίᾱ by Hude 1920–1929 and de Romilly 1968. 40 Ἀθηνᾶ is found around 510–490/500–480 BC in a few private texts, such as bronze inscriptions and red-figure vases, i.e. IG I3 527; 583x; SEG 31.53.2, 35.45a, probably dating to ca. 510/ 500–490 BC. 41 See Threatte 1980, 272; 1996, 725.

  Sara Kaczko Since most of these epigrams are, in fact, dedications to Athena, the majority of these instances occur in the dative case, Ἀθηναίᾱι (the goddess being, grammatically, the indirect object of the verb of dedication), though there are also three examples of the vocative form in the invocation πότνι᾽ Ἀθε̄ναίᾱ at the beginning of a hexameter (CEG 189, 197, and 260, dating between 510 and 490 BC).42 The model of the latter syntagma is Homeric (cf. Il. 6.305, where the formula πότνι᾽ Ἀθηναίη occurs in the same position in the line), with the important difference that, in Homer, the name of the goddess occurs with the Ionic phonology, i.e. πότνι᾽ Ἀθηναίη, whereas, in Attic dedications, the name is adapted to the local phonology.43 As a matter of fact, many instances of the name of Athena in Attic epigrams are equipped with a ‘poetic’ epithet44 and echo Homer, though there are also a number of instances in which Ἀθηναίᾱ stands alone.45 Along with πότνια, which is well attested in Homer and literature generally, παιδὶ Διὸς μεγάλο̄ is a frequent epithet of Athena in Attic dedicatory epigrams, often referring to the dative Ἀθναίᾱι in the first verse, for example at CEG 202 and 274; so also κρε̄ι παιδὶ Διὸς μεγάλ referring to Ἀθναίᾱι in the first line of CEG 215, Παλλάδι τριτογενεῖ in CEG 263 referring to Ἀθναίᾱι in the first line,46 and Ἀθναίᾱι πολιχι in CEG 198 and 296. In this respect, there is an important difference between these instances and the occurrences of Ἀθηναίᾱ in prose dedications, in which Ἀθηναίᾱ usually stands alone without an accompanying epithet, cf. for example, IG I3 538, Ἀθναίᾱι ἀν|έθκεν Κλεαρέτ or Ἐπιτέλς ἀνέθκεν ∶ ἀπαρχν  42 CEG 189, 197, and 260, respectively 510–500 BC, 510 BC, and 490–480 BC, all from the Acropolis; naturally, the name of the goddess is written in the Archaic Attic alphabet (Ἀθναίᾱι). 43 For example, the epic genitive in -οιο in the epic formula παῖδα Διὸς μεγάλοιο (Hom. Od. 3.43) is adapted to the genitive -ου proper to Attic and Ionic (and, as an Ionic form, already attested in Homer) in the formula παιδὶ Διὸς μεγάλο̄ at, e.g., CEG 202; similarly, παῖ Διὸς αἰγιόχο̄ based on the Homeric κούρη Διὸς αἰγιόχοιο (see Kaczko 2016, 98). 44 A poetic epithet refers to a god or hero (also for stylistic purposes); for example, ἑκήβολος is an epithet of Apollo (‘far-shooting Apollo’). The Greeks used cultic epithets to refer to the gods in the context of a specific cult or function, e.g. Ptoan Apollo (‘revered at the Ptoon’) or Athena Ergane (‘of handicrafts’); cf. Parker 2003. The distinction (for which see already Paus. 7.21.7) was, in fact, not absolute; cultic epithets are found in poetry and poetic epithets in addresses to the gods by individuals. 45 See e.g. CEG 209, 217, 224, 225, and 259. 46 In epigrams, there are also various ways to refer to Athena without mentioning her by name, e.g. the epithets Παλλάς, τριτογενής, Διὸς κούρη, and γλαυκῶπις, cf. Παλλὰδι τριτογενεῖ in CEG 269, Διὸς κούρηι in CEG 195 and 218, and the expanded version Διὸς γλαυκώπιδι κούρηι in, e.g., CEG 287 and 288; cf. Lazzarini 1976, 80–84.

Non-Attic Vocalism, Epichoric Forms, and Attic Poetic Traditions  

Ἀθε̄ναίᾱι.47 The ‘short’ Attic form, Ἀθηνᾶ, is never found in epigrams, possibly because it is a more recent form (this observation of course applies to earlier epigrams of the 6th cent. BC and in part also to those of the 5th cent. BC, considering that stone inscriptions, even the private ones, are conservative) and was perceived as too colloquial, especially in comparison with the preferred form Ἀθηναίᾱ, which was likely perceived as a ‘translation’ of the epic form. Attic epigrams also attest to a few non-epichoric variants of the name of the goddess. There are four instances of forms that display Ionic phonology, i.e. Ἀθήνη in CEG 187 and 258 and Ἀθηναίη in CEG 272 and 273, and, as mentioned, two instances of forms featuring non-Attic-Ionic /aː/, i.e. Ἀθνᾱ in CEG 235 and Ἀθᾱναίᾱ in CEG 205. Regarding all of these non-epichoric forms, the question is whether the non-Attic phonology is ascribable to the origin of the dedicator (or the artist) or, rather, to the Ionic or Doric influence of the literary tradition. Of the two instances of Ἀθηναίη, the former, in CEG 272, is likely attributable to the foreign origin of the dedicator, while the second, in CEG 273, is more difficult to interpret. In the former, a foreigner named Hegelochos offers a dedication to commemorate his distinguished military service in a conflict (presumably, the Persian War), as a consequence of which he was recognized as a member of the Athenian community (τνδε πόλιν νέμεται).48 The forms Ἀθναίι and φι|λοχσενίς indicate that the dialect of the dedication is Ionic, which is consistent with the foreign origin of the dedicator. The ethnicity of the dedicator of CEG 273,49 on the other hand, is uncertain. The artist, Euphron of Paros, was Ionian, and his signature and the dedication are both in the Ionic alphabet, as is, for the most part, the dialect (cf. Ἀθ]ηναίηι, though ἑαυτῆ[ς] is an Attic form). Accordingly, the Ionic dialect shape of Ἀθ]ηναίηι might reasonably be explained, as in CEG 272, as the language of a foreigner — the artist, at least — rather than as an imitation of the epics, though ἑαυτῆ[ς] points to the need for caution. Ἀθηναίη is, of course, also an epic form, so it is possible that it was perceived as lending a high-register nuance to both poems (CEG 272 and CEG 273). Regarding the two instances of Ἀθήνη, it is not easy to decide whether to attribute the Ionic phonology to the influence of the prestigious Ionic poetic tradition, chiefly epic, or to the origin of the dedicator (or artist). The earliest occur-

 47 The exceptions being τει Ἀθναίᾱι τει Ὑγιείᾱι at IG I3 506 and Ἀθναίαι ⋮ πολιχο̄ι at IG I3 776. 48 [Πα]ρθένο̄ι Ἐκφάντο̄ με πατρ ἀνέθ|̄κε καὶ hυιὸς / ἐνθάδ᾽ Ἀθε̄ναίε̄ι μνεμα | πόνο̄ν Ἄρεο̄ς / Ἑ̄γέλοχος, μεγάλ⟨ς⟩ τε φι|λοχσενίς ἀρετες τε / πάσς μοῖραν | ἔχο̄ν τνδε πόλιν νέμεται. vacat |

Κρίτιος : καὶ Νσιότς : ἐποισάτν. 49 [Μ]ικύθη μ᾽ ἀνέ[θηκεν | Ἀθ]ηναίηι τό[δ᾽ ἄγαλμα] | [εὐξ]α̣μ̣έ̣ν̣η δ̣[̣εκάτην | καὶ] ὑ̣πὲρ πα[ίδων | κ]αὶ ἑαυτῆ[ς]. vacat 5.5 (ii) Εὔφρων̣ [ἐπο|ί]ησεν.

  Sara Kaczko rence of the form is in a dedicatory epigram inscribed on a fluted column of Pentelic marble dating to ca. 550–540 BC (CEG 187). The fragmentary text has been reconstructed as [— ⏕ — ἐπο]ίσεν Ἀθνι [— ⏕ — —] / [— ⏕ — ⏕ ]μο̄ν hαγνι [⏕ — ⏕ — —]. Jeffery (ad IG I3 599) hypothesized that the artist was also the dedicator and was Ionian based on the dotted theta, which was found in the East Ionic alphabet at the time, and on the phonological form of Ἀθνε̄ι. However, the dotted theta was already in use in Athens in the third quarter of the 6th cent. BC, certainly owing to the influence of dipinti and Ionian artists; this would be a very early instance, but there are parallels (i.e. CEG 21 and CEG 302, dating to ca. 550–530 and ca. 540 BC, respectively).50 On the other hand, the eta with the value /h/ as in Attic, rather than that of /ε:/ as in East Ionic, suggests Attic patronage. Therefore, Ἀθήνη at CEG 187 may reference an epic form, though the evidence is inconclusive. The second instance, CEG 258, from Athens and dating to 490–480 BC, occurs on a marble pillar51 on which damage left lacunae in the inscription so that it reads [ — ⏕ — ⏕ — ⏕ — ⏕ hυὺς Ἀθνε̄ι / [ — ⏕ — ⏕ — — χ]άριν ἀντιδίδο̄, i.e. with Ἀθήνη metrically necessary at the end of the line. The alphabet is Attic while, with respect to the dialect, Ἀθήνη is clearly the Ionian form, the few other preserved forms occurring in both the Attic and Ionic dialects. The only possible indication in favor of one or the other is hυύς, the ancient form for ‘son’52 found in Attica,53 Crete (υἰύς, υἰύνς), and Laconia.54 Therefore, the evidence, though limited, points to Attica and, thereby, to the interpretation of Ἀθήνη in the pre-

 50 LSAG 66; Immerwahr 1990, 138–140. It should be also pointed out that fluted columns are of Ionic origin, though, at the time, such columns were well-represented among Attic dedicatory monuments. 51 Scholars are divided as to whether the marble is Parian (so Hiller ad IG I2 686), which would point to an Ionian origin for the dedicator, or Pentelic (cf. Jeffery/Lewis ad IG I3 791; Kissas 2000, B 122), which would point to an Attic origin. At any rate, even if the marble is Parian, there are instances of Attic dedicators commissioning monuments in prestigious Ionian marble. 52 The name for ‘son’ was originally of the so-called third declension but subsequently shifted to the declension in ‑o‑ by metaplasm, yielding υἱός, the normal form in most Greek dialects, including Attic. Already in Homer, various forms of υἱός scan with a short first syllable, suggesting that υἱός actually ‘covers’ for an original ὑύς. See Schulze 1934, 316–320; cf. Chantraine 1958, 227–229. 53 Cf. CEG 240 and three prose inscriptions, the dedication IG I3 865 and two vases (Immerwahr 1990, no. 442 and SEG 31.54). There are also very rare instances of dual and plural forms in dedications and decrees, respectively (cf. Threatte 1980, 340 and 1996, 220–222). Similarly, the contracted hῦς is found in a metrical inscription, no. 17, and one in prose, no. 75 (see below for discussion of the latter). See Threatte 1980, 340; 1996, 220–221. 54 Cf. also IED 24, Elis (end of the 5th to the beginning of the 4th cent. BC).

Non-Attic Vocalism, Epichoric Forms, and Attic Poetic Traditions  

sent epigram as an echo of epic poetry in an otherwise Attic epigram rather than an Ionic form reflecting an Ionian dedicator. If so, Ἀθήνη may be due to metrical necessity and to the fact that the epichoric metrical equivalent Ἀθηνᾶ was not used in Attic epigrams. The two variants of the name of the goddess featuring /aː/ are found in CEG 205 and CEG 235. The former is a dedication by a certain Lyson signed by the artist Thebades reading Παλάδι Ἀθᾱναίᾱι Λύσν ἀνέθκεν ἀπαρχν | hν αὐτ

κτ[εά]νν, τεῖ δὲ θει χαρίεν· | Θβάδς ἐπ[οίσεν hο K]ύ̣[ρ]ν παῖς τόδ᾽ ἄγαλμα. The text features literary echoes55 starting with the formula Παλάδι Ἀθᾱναίᾱι, which has parallels in epic Παλλὰς Ἀθηναίη, frequent at the beginning of the line, and in tragedy, cf. a choral passage of Euripides (Hec. 468), in which Ἀθᾱναίᾱ is also equipped with the epithet Παλλὰς. There are also other instances in which the goddess’ name takes the ‘short’ form, Ἀθνᾱ, which is more frequent in tragedy (e.g. Παλλὰς Ἀθνᾱ at Soph. OC 1090 and Eur. IT 1493, both in choruses; cf. also Pind. Pyth. 12.7–8).56 Most notably for the present discussion, the text also reads an admixture of Attic-Ionic /εː/ and ‘Doric’ /aː/, the latter being, in fact, limited to Ἀθᾱναίᾱι. Again, the issue is whether the nonepichoric feature (/aː/) is attributable to a poetical allusion57 or to the dialect of a foreigner. There is, however, no indication that the individuals mentioned in the text were from outside Attica, for the dialect is otherwise Attic-Ionic throughout, thus seeming to exclude a non-Attic origin for the dedicator. The name of the artist, who is otherwise unknown, could point to Boeotia,58 but this conclusion seems uncertain for numerous reasons. To begin with, Θηβάδης shows Attic-Ionic phonology (instead of Θηβάδᾱς),59 though the form may reflect adaptation of the name to the local context.60 In addition, based on this interpretation, the dedication would reflect the dialect of the artist only in the

 55 Theog. 1009 W.: τῶν αὐτοῦ κτεάνων. 56 This formula is found already in Homer; cf. Παλλὰς Ἀθήνη at the end of the line and Pind. Pyth. 12.7–8 Παλλάς … Ἀθνᾱ, with a strong hyperbaton. 57 Along with the formulas quoted above, the form Ἀθᾱναίᾱ (without epithets) also occurs in Pindar (Ol. 7.36; Nem. 10.84) and in poetic inscriptions that also feature Ἀθνᾱ; see, e.g. Ἀθᾱναίᾱ‹ι› πολιχο̄ι in a 5th cent. BC epigram from Sparta, CEG 378, dedicated to Ἀθνᾱ and on an epigram on the chest of Cypselus as transmitted in Paus. 5.19.5. 58 See in this sense DNO 415. 59 The personal name in either form is rare, Θηβάδης being found in three instances, of which this is the earliest, and Θηβάδᾱς being found in seven, the earliest dating to the 4th cent. BC, nine from Doric areas and one from Boeotia, cf. respectively LGPN II, IIIb, Va and LGPN I, IIIb. 60 See, for example, the signatures of the artists adapted to the local context in CEG 399 and at SEG 49.405; cf. Buck 1913, 138; Cassio 2007; Kaczko 2018.

  Sara Kaczko phonology of a single word and nowhere else in the otherwise Attic-Ionic dedication, which is, moreover, entirely engraved in the Attic alphabet. It seems, therefore, more probable that this is a case of the insertion of the ‘Doric’ /aː/ into an otherwise Attic(-Ionic) epigram to yield an admixture of /aː/ and /εː/. CEG 23561 is a dedication by a certain Smikros and his sons, perhaps artisans, for their flourishing affairs or trade that reads [ἔργο̄]ν̣ θαλόντν, πολιέχε πότνι’ Ἀθνᾱ, | Σμίκρ καὶ παίδν μνεμ’ ἔχοι hδε πόλις. The style shows elaboration62 and variation on the more common scheme of (joint) dedications set up on behalf of members of the same family (cf. e.g. CEG 207) and probably financed with profit from work (usually craftsmanship, e.g. in CEG 190 and 193). The epigram is structured as an indirect wish (ἔχοι) that is not, however, addressed, as usual, to the deity but to the polis, thereby both mentioning Athens and inserting an invocation to Athena. Moreover, instead of the simple reference to μνῆμα ἔργων, the latter word is joined with a participle of θάλλω most often found in poetry (starting with Homer). Finally, the goddess is addressed in the vocative case using the form with the inherited /aː/, i.e. Ἀθνᾱ. This form is noteworthy also because it occurs in a formula with an elevated nuance (in the general context of an epigram showing elaboration), being accompanied by πότνια and πολιήοχε and having several parallels in high-register poetry, not only lyric but also Attic drama, both in the dialectal shape and also in the structure as an invocation to the goddess, e.g. πολιοῦχος Ἀθνᾱ in Aristoph. Nu. 602 and e.g. ἄνασσ’ Ἀθνᾱ in Aesch. Eum. 235 and Eur. Trach. 52. As mentioned, this latter form of the name of the goddess and its context have been compared with those found in tragedy and interpreted not (only) as attributable to the influence of choral poetry but (also) as belonging to a lexicon of traditional religious formulas, along with Ἀθᾱναίᾱι (but also with ἐγρεμάχᾱ, κόρᾱ, ἁγν all featuring /aː/).63 There is indeed a strong similarity between Ἀθνᾱ in CEG 235 and its frequent instances in tragedy, especially in the vocative (in prayers or addresses to the goddess) and in combination with an epithet. On the other hand, there are also differences, both regarding the name of the goddess, in each of the two variants, Ἀθνᾱ and Ἀθᾱναίᾱ, found in epigrams and tragedy and also more broadly in regard to forms in /aː/. First of all, of the two instances in epigrams, Ἀθᾱναίᾱ is more surprising since one would have expected the epichoric form Ἀθηναίᾱ, which is commonly used in dedicatory epigrams. On the other hand, as mentioned, no Attic ‘short’  61 CEG 235; ca. 500–480 BC. 62 On the style of this epigram, see D’Alfonso 1986; Kaczko 2016, 220–223. 63 D’Alfonso 1986; cf. also Mickey 1981.

Non-Attic Vocalism, Epichoric Forms, and Attic Poetic Traditions  

form of the name of Athena was perceived as acceptable and therefore used in dedicatory epigrams down to the 5th cent. BC,64 so that this absence may have conditioned the usage of Ἀθνᾱ in CEG 235. Since the invocation reads two epithets, πότνια and πολιήοχε, along with the name of the goddess, taking up four dactyls up to the end of the line, only the ‘short’ form of the name would fit. In this situation, the options were either Ἀθήνη or Ἀθνᾱ, both non-epichoric. The former, as an epic form, is expected in Attic epigrams only when metrically necessary and, indeed, found in only two instances,65 in at least one66 of which it is metrically necessary (CEG 258, in which Ἀθήνη occurs at the end of the line). The latter, Ἀθνᾱ, was both prestigious owing to its use in choral lyric and at the same time possibly familiar from cult songs, especially, it seems, in contexts of invocation.67 It must be also stressed that, in the formula, the combination of Ἀθνᾱ with the epithet πολιοχε yields a mixture of /aː/ and /εː/ (on which see § 11). § 8. The combination of the two factors — the prestige of the variant in /aː/ and the impossibility of using the epichoric variant — likely determined the selection of the epithet κόρᾱ used in reference to Athena in two Attic epigrams (CEG 229 and 284). The usual variant in Attic epigrams for ‘maiden’, which is used exclusively as an epithet of Athena, is the Ionic-epic variant κούρη. This variant is used not only because of its epic flavor but also because it is metrically convenient or necessary (cf. the formula Διὸς γλαυκώπιδι κούρηι at the end of the line in CEG 181 and 18268 or the pentameter εὐχσ[άμ]ενος κρ[ι π]αιδὶ Διὸς μ̣εγάλο̄ in CEG 237). On the other hand, when a short first syllable was metrically necessary, the form with /aː/, κόρᾱ, was selected; cf. CEG 229 and 284. In my  64 As mentioned, Ἀθηνᾶ was possibly felt to be a too-colloquial form and Ἀθήνη, though phonologically compatible with Attic, was in fact never found in that dialect. 65 As discussed above, Ἀθήνη in CEG 187 and CEG 258 may have been an epic allusion, though it cannot be excluded that in both or at least one instance it is attributable to the origin of the dedicator. 66 Since in CEG 187 the final section of the hexameter is lost after Ἀθνι, it is impossible to ascertain whether the Ionic-epic form of the name of the goddess was metrically necessary (it is not even certain that Ἀθνι should be positioned in the middle of the hexameter). 67 Tragedy, in which, as mentioned, Ἀθνᾱ is the most frequent form of the name of the goddess and often appears in invocations (especially in Aeschylus and Sophocles), may also have been influential as a high-register genre prominent in Athens. This possibility is, however, difficult to assess since the earliest preserved plays predate many of the epigrams that feature /aː/ alongside /εː/. 68 The epigrams read Διὸς γλ]αυ̣ϙπιδι ϙ[ρεῑ] (CEG 181, cf. Διὸς γλαυϙ]πιδι ϙρι in CEG 182) in the Old Attic alphabet, also featuring koppa representing the velar sound /k/ before /o/ and /u/.

  Sara Kaczko opinion, a combination of factors explains this selection: κόρᾱ is a form from the prestigious lyric tradition, and the epichoric Attic form κόρη was avoided in Attic epigrams. The avoidance of κόρη here is probably attributable to the fact that it was perceived as too local to be suitable to the diction of epigrams, which are in dactylic hexameters, also in combination with pentameters,69 and that it served as the technical term for the maiden statues frequently found as votive objects on the Acropolis (as it still does in modern scholarship) at least from the 5th cent. BC, a usage that is found in a dedicatory Attic epigram, which states that a certain (Hege)lochos offered a kore to Athena (CEG 266). Therefore, when a short syllable for the word ‘maiden’ was needed in Attic epigrams, the only high-styled option was κόρᾱ. It must be stressed, then, that considerations about the counterparts in /εː/ need to be considered when discussing instances of /aː/. § 9. As for ἐγρεμάχᾱ, this epithet appears in an epigram dedicated to Athena, CEG 194, ca. 525–510 BC, [Παλ]άδι μ᾽ ἐγρεμάχᾱι Διονύσιο[ς ἐν|θά]δ᾽ ἄγαλμα στεσε / Κολοί παῖς [εὐχσ]|ά̣μενος δεκάτν. The dedication features a formula that combines high-styled archaic and poetic forms, such as στῆσε without an augment and two epithets of Athena, Παλλάς and ἐγρεμάχη. The latter of these, meaning ‘fight-rousing,’ notably features retained inherited /aː/ (ἐγρεμάχᾱ), which again yields a combination Att.-Ion. /εː/ and non-Att.-Ion. /aː/. At first glance, the vocalism of ἐγρεμάχᾱ seems less expected than ἐγρεμάχη with Att.-Ion. /εː/, but its distribution helps to explain its use. The epithet ‘fightrousing’ is infrequent in literary and epigraphic poetry and, unfortunately, the other sole instance in Attic dedicatory epigrams, also combined with Παλλάς,70 is fragmentary and does not preserve the ending. In literary poetry, ἐγρεμάχη is found at Hom. Hymn Cer. 424 (with Παλλάς τ᾽ ἐγρεμάχη also at the beginning of the verse), and Phoronis 6.2 B.; the masculine ἐγρεμάχης, with /aː/ vocalism, occurs in a choral passage of Sophocles (OC 1054, the accusative ἐγρεμάχᾱν in reference to Theseus) and is seldom found later. Again, the influence of ritual songs or “a Doric α possibly from lyric hieratic poetry,” in the words of Friedländer and Hoffleit,71 has been invoked to explain the vocalism of ἐγρεμάχᾱ in this epigram. This possibility cannot be excluded, of course, but perhaps more important is that a form in /aː/ has been used instead of  69 The Attic form κόρη is regularly found in dialogic sections of tragedy, but the iambic meter is, of course, a different matter. 70 CEG 277, ca. 450–440 BC. 71 Friedländer/Hoffleit 1948, 118.

Non-Attic Vocalism, Epichoric Forms, and Attic Poetic Traditions  

what is, in terms of phonology and distribution, the Ionic-epic counterpart in /εː/, ἐγρεμάχη. One possible explanation is that the epithet ‘fight-rousing’ is clearly poetic, and it seems, as far as the evidence goes, that no actual counterpart was used in the Attic dialect. Therefore, the choice was between one or the other of the two poetic variants hallowed by the literary tradition: the Ionic-epic ἐγρεμάχη or the non-Attic-Ionic lyric ἐγρεμάχᾱ. However, the former was possibly already obsolete besides being infrequent in epic poetry (appearing in neither the Iliad nor the Odyssey but rather in a Homeric Hymn and local epic). By contrast, the form ἐγρεμάχᾱ, though also not frequent, as far as the (in fact, very poor) evidence goes, may have been favored by the fact that a category of adjectives with the second member in -μαχᾱς is well attested in lyric poetry (cf. e.g. the accusatives εὐθυμάχᾱν in Pind. Ol. 7.15 and ἀναιδομάχᾱν in Bacch. 5.105).72 A second possible explanation arises from the consideration that the variant in /εː/ of the epithet ‘fight-rousing’ is not only Ionic-epic but also compatible with Attic phonology. This is, perhaps, a less likely explanation than the first for ἐγρεμάχᾱ in CEG 194 but may be valid generally, for some phonological similarities between Attic and Ionic (the latter being also, of course, the dialect of the final phases of the epic) provide another reason for Attic epigrams to resort to forms featuring /aː/ instead of the Ionic-epic forms featuring /εː/. Indeed, since Attic and Ionic share many characteristics, including the development of /aː/ > /εː/, it is often the case that an epic form coincides with the Attic one from a phonological point of view.73 So, for example, ἁγνή is both Attic and Ionic in terms of phonology and distribution, and Ἀθήνη would be, in this case, perfectly Attic from a merely phonological perspective.74 It is uncertain whether an epic form coinciding with the local one was welcomed in epigrams. Theoretically, such a scenario would be ideal, but it seems that the practice was often the opposite. Thus, for example, the patronymic adjective that was the unmarked form in Boeotian and Thessalian was regularly used as such in prose inscriptions and, while being found also in Homer and lyric — where it is considered an Aeolic trait — it was apparently avoided (almost) entirely in Thessaly and seldom used in Boeotian inscriptions (the few instances are moreover debated), possibly being considered too colloquial for

 72 D’Alfonso 1986, 90 n. 35. 73 This situation may have been frequent given that, usually, epic poetry was the most influential model for epigrams. 74 As mentioned, the case of Ἀθήνη is, moreover, peculiar because this form was not proper to Attic and its usage in Attic poetry was possibly also precluded by the association with the toponym.

  Sara Kaczko high-styled poetry.75 There was, naturally, no fixed rule; usage depended on how the epichoric form was perceived; so also, for example, Attic epigrams attest to genitives of the type μεγάλου, which is epichoric but coincides with the Ionic-epic form. It is, at any rate, possible that some epic forms in /εː/ that, for dialectal and phonological reasons, coincided with the local ones, were perceived as inappropriate since the corresponding and phonologically coincident epichoric form was perceived as too provincial. It may also be the case that some epic forms in /εː/ were perceived as not sufficiently marked, being too similar to the local phonology for dedicators who wanted a high-register tone. These considerations may have led to the choice of unmistakably poetic variants, i.e. forms in /aː/.76 § 10. The form hαγνᾶι is found in a very fragmentary epigram, printed as — ⏕ — ⏕ — ⏕ — ⏕ ἄνθεσαν hαγνᾶι / τριτογ[ενεῖ ⏕ — — ⏕ — ⏕ —] in CEG 261 (cf. IG I3 801). In literary texts, the adjective ἁγνός refers to places sacred to deities and to deities themselves (in Homer, usually Artemis);77 in Attic epigrams, it is associated with Athena in the present epigram and in CEG 187 (see above, § 7). Notably, ἁγν features /aː/ in CEG 261 alongside a form with a patently Attic-Ionic feature (‑σαν). The other instance of the adjective in Attic epigraphy, also fragmentary, is in the (Attic-)Ionic phonology, ἁγνή, and shows the Ionic form Ἀθήνη (Ἀθνε̄ι), which may be attributed either to the origin of the dedicator or as an allusion to epic poetry. The context of CEG 261 does not help to clarify why this form in /aː/, ἁγν, was selected, though the general considerations entertained above also apply, e.g. that ἁγν was a prestigious and perhaps highstyled form that, featuring /aː/, was perceived as more marked than the Ionic and also Attic ἁγνή. § 11. The instance of Λ]ᾱτ̣[οί]δᾱ differs from that of the forms discussed thus far in that it appears in an agonistic epigram dedicated to Apollo by Alkmeonides, a member of the genos of the Alkmeonidai, in the temple of Apollo Ptoios at

 75 Morpurgo Davies 1968, 96 n. 3. 76 This may also be the case of ἄ̄ματα πάντα for the Ionic-epic ἤματα πάντα in a Euboean inscription (CEG 108, ca. 450 BC); cf. Lundquist 2016, 437. 77 This adjective refers to Athena once, in a lyric passage quoted in a scholion on Aristophanes’ Clouds (by the dithyrambographer Lamprokles according to schol. vet. R s.v. Παλλάδα = schol. Nu. 967b. β H).

Non-Attic Vocalism, Epichoric Forms, and Attic Poetic Traditions  

Akraiphia in Boeotia around 540 BC.78 The dedication, notably, five lines long and in iambic trimeters,79 commemorates Alkmeonides’ victory in the chariot race at the Great Panathenaea. It was probably set up in an attempt to gain the favor of the oracle of Apollo Ptoios against the Peisistratids and the Thebans, both rivals of the Alkmeonidai. The epigram is refined and includes elements typical of epigrams, especially agonistic epigrams, as well as less standard ones. Thus, it combines a possession formula ([Φοί]βο̄ μέν εἰμ᾽) with literary elements, such as μέν coordinated with δέ, to create a balanced structure and reads elements typical of agonistic epigrams presented either with an epic flavor ([h]ίποισι νικ[σας … [ὀ̄κέαις], hὰ̄ς Κνο̄πι[̣άδᾱ]ς ἔ̄λαυν᾽) or in elaborate periphrasis (cf. hότ᾽ ν Ἀθναις Παλάδος παν[γυρις]). Importantly with regard to the present discussion, this poem blends elements featuring both Att-Ion. /εː/, i.e. νικήσας and πανήγυρις,80 and non-Attic-Ionic inherited /aː/, i.e. Λ]ᾱτ̣[οί]δᾱ and Ἀθναις. Therefore, this epigram not only includes two instances of inherited /aː/ rather than a single occurrence, as is the case with other epigrams showing the mixture of /εː/ and /aː/, but likely does so as a way of paying homage to and creating a powerful connection with the god Apollo, whose ties to the Doric world are well-known. Of course, these forms in /aː/ are also allusions to highregister literary poetry — Λ]ᾱτ̣[οί]δᾱ is found in lyric poetry and Ἀθναις in both lyric poetry and tragedy (choral sections)81 — that serve to elevate the style of the epigram. This effect was achieved possibly also because the forms yield a mixture of /aː/ and /εː/. This kind of mixture is also found in tragedy, on a general level (and as a consequence of the linguistic and dialectal features of the dialogic and sung sections, respectively), and in more specific contexts such as choruses.82 There

 78 CEG 302: (A) [Φοί]β μέν εἰμ᾽ ἄγαλ[μα Λ]ᾱ̣τ̣[̣οί]δᾱ καλ[ό]|ν· / [ho δ᾽ Ἀ]λκ̣μένος hυῒς Ἀλκμεο̄νίδς | (B) [h]ίποισι νικ[σας ἔ]θκέ μ̣᾽ [ὀ̄κέαις], | hὰ̄ς Κνο̄πι[̣άδᾱ]ς ἔ̄λαυν᾽ hο – ⏓ – ⏑ – (D) hότ᾽ ν Ἀθάναις Παλάδος παν[γυρις]. 79 The choice of meter was probably made on account of the personal names Ἀλκμέων and Ἀλκμεωνίδης (and perhaps the name of the father of Κνο̄πι[̣άδᾱ]ς), the prosody of which would have precluded or made difficult their expression in dactyls. 80 Another Ionic-epic form is ἵπποισι. 81 For Λ]ᾱτ̣[οί]δᾱ see Alcm. 48 PMG, Alc. 67.3 L.P., Pind. Pyth. 1.12, Pyth. 3.67, Bacchyl. 3.39, cf. Aristoph. Eq. 1081 (a passage imitating the language of oracles); for Ἀθναις see Pind. Ol. 7.82, Nem. 2.8, fr. 75.4 (Pindar’s dithyramb for the Athenians, cf. Furley/Bremer 2001 I, 257– 258; 2001 II, 207–214), Bacch. Dith. 5.10, Eur. Alc. 452, Ion 185, etc. 82 Cf. also contexts such as those of the parodos of Sophocles’ Ajax consisting of a series of anapaests (which favor an Ionic-epic diction) is followed by a lyric section (which favor choral lyric features) — cf. Soph. Aj. 134–171 and 172–200, respectively — and of the parodos of Soph-

  Sara Kaczko are also instances of the combination of /aː/ and /εː/ in the same word, which occur in choral contexts such as φήμᾱ in Bacchyl. 2.1, κυβερνήτᾱν in Bacchyl. 5.47, and in choral parts of tragedy; cf. e.g. ἡδονν in Soph. El. 1277, Ἀσιητᾶν Eur. IT 380, Ἀδριηνᾶς in Eur. Hipp. 736.83 Notably, the same kind of combination of /εː/ in the body of the word with /aː/ in the ending is found in the ethnic Κυδο̄νιτᾱς in a 5th-century BC Attic dedicatory epigram (CEG 280). Regarding the possible reasons for selecting /aː/ in the dedication by Alkmeonides, and as a general consideration, then, focusing on /aː/ exclusively as a high-register feature in Attic epigrams may also be reductive since it may represent (also) a combination of /aː/ and /εː/ that was perceived as lending an elevated tone.

References Barrett, W.S. (1964), Euripides. Hippolytos, Oxford. Baumbach, M./Petrovic, A./Petrovic, I. (2010), “Archaic Greek epigram and dedication: An introduction”, in: M. Baumbach/A. Petrovic/I. Petrovic (eds.), Archaic and Classical Greek Epigram, Cambridge, 1–19. Björck, G. (1950), Das Alpha impurum und die tragische Kunstsprache, Uppsala. Buck, C.D. (1913), “The interstate use of the Greek dialects”, CPh 8, 133–159. Buck, C.D. (1923), “A question of dialect mixture in Greek epigram”, in: Ἀντίδωρον. Festschrift Jacob Wackernagel, Göttingen, 132–136. Buck, C.D. (1955), The Greek Dialects, Chicago. Cassio, A.C. (2007), “Scultori, epigrammi e dialetti nella Grecia arcaica: la stele di Mnasitheos (SEG 49, 1999, no. 505)”, in: G. Lozza/S. Martinelli Tempesta (eds.), L’epigramma greco. Problemi e prospettive, Milan, 1–18. Cassio, A.C. (2014), “Innovazioni linguistiche e tratti locali nei più antichi oracoli delfici”, SemRom n.s. 3, 257–270. CEG = P.A. Hansen (1983), Carmina epigraphica graeca saeculorum VIII–V a. Chr. n., Berlin/ New York. CEG2 = P.A. Hansen (1989), Carmina epigraphica graeca saeculi IV a. Chr. n., Berlin/New York. Chantraine, P. (1958), Grammaire homerique. I. Phonétique et morphologie, Paris. Colvin, S. (1999), Dialect in Aristophanes, Oxford. Connoly, A. (1998), “Was Sophocles heroized at Dexion?”, JHS 118, 1–21. D’Alfonso, F. (1986), “Mistione dialettale in un’iscrizione attica del VI/V sec. (IG I2 643)”, RCCM 28, 83–90. DÉLG = P. Chantraine (1968–1980), Dictionnaire étymologique de la langue grecque, Paris.

 ocles’ Antigone in which lyric strophes (vv. 100–109 and 117–126; 134–140 and 148–154) alternate with anapaestic interludes (vv. 110–116 and 127–133; 141–147 and 155–161). 83 See Björck 1950, 160–162, 352–357; Barrett 1964, 301; cf. also πολιητᾶν in Carmina Popularia 10.2 = 856 PMG.

Non-Attic Vocalism, Epichoric Forms, and Attic Poetic Traditions  

De Romilly, J. (1968), Thucydides: La guère du Peloponnése, vol. 3, Paris. DNO = Hallof, K. et al. (eds.) (2014), Der Neue Overbeck. Die antiken Schriftquellen zu den bildenden Künsten der Griechen, I–V, Berlin/New York. Dover, K.J. (1968), Aristophanes. Clouds, Oxford. EDG = R.S.P. Beekes (2010), Etymological Dictionary of Greek I–II, Leiden. Fabbro, E. (1995), Carmina Convivialia Attica, Rome. Fraenkel, H. (1962), Beobachtungen zu Aristophanes, Rome. Friedländer, P./Hoffleit, H.B. (1948), Epigrammata. Greek Inscriptions in Verse from the Beginnings to the Persian Wars, London/Berkeley. Furley, W.D./Bremer, J.M. (2001), Greek Hymns, I–II, Tübingen. GEW = H. Frisk (1960–1972), Griechisches etymologisches Wörterbuch, 3 vols., Heidelberg. Horn, W. (1970), Gebet und Gebetsparodie in den Komodien des Aristophanes, Nuremberg. Hude, C. (1912), Lysias. Orationes, Oxford. Hude, C. (1920–1929), Thucydidis Historiae, Leipzig. IED: S. Minon (2007), Les inscriptions éléennes dialectales (VIe–IIe siècles avant J.–C.), Geneva. IG I3: Inscriptiones Graecae I: Inscriptiones Atticae Euclidis anno anteriores, 3rd ed. Fasc. I, ed. D. Lewis, Decreta et tabulae magistratuum (nos. 1–500); fasc. II, eds. D. Lewis/L.H. Jeffery, Dedicationes. Catalogi. Termini. Tituli sepulcrales. Varia. Tituli Attici extra Atticam reperti. Addenda (nos. 501– 1517), Berlin 1981–1994. Immerwahr, H.R. (1990): Attic Script: A Survey, Oxford. Jones, H.S./Powell, J.E. (1953–19553), Thucydidis Historiae, Oxford. Kaczko, S. (2009), “From stone to parchment: epigraphic and literary transmission of some Greek epigrams”, TC 1, 90–117. Kaczko, S. (2016), Archaic and Classical Attic Dedicatory Epigrams. An Epigraphic, Literary, and Linguistic Commentary, Berlin/Boston. Kaczko, S. (2018), “Faraway so close: epichoric features and “international” aspirations in Archaic Greek epigrams”, in: E. Santin/A. Alonso Déniz (eds.), Langue poétique et formes dialectales dans le inscriptions versifiées grecques, Lyon, RPh 92.2, 27–56. Kissas, K. (2000), Die attischen Statuen– und Stelenbasen archaischer Zeit, Bonn. Kock, B. (1910), De epigrammatum Graecorum dialectis, Göttingen. Lazzarini, M.L. (1976), Le formule delle dediche votive nella Grecia arcaica, Rome. Lomiento, L. (2007), “Parodie e generi intercalari nei corali di Aristofane”, in: F. Perusino/ M. Colantonio (eds.), Dalla lirica corale alla poesia drammatica. Forme e funzioni del canto corale nella tragedia e nella commedia greca, Pisa, 301–334. LSAG = L.H. Jeffery (1990), The Local Scripts of Archaic Greece (rev. edition), Oxford. LGPN = P.M. Fraser/E. Matthews/T. Corstern (1987–2010), A Lexicon of Greek Personal Names, vols. I–Vb, Oxford. Lundquist, J. (2016), “ΦΡΑΣΙΝ in Attica and the prehistory of the epic tradition”, CPh 111, 434–447. Mahlow, G.H. (1926), Neue Wege durch die griechische Sprache und Dichtung, Berlin/Leipzig. Mess v.d., A. (1898), Quaestiones de epigrammate attico et tragoedia antiquiore dialecticae, Bonn. Mickey, K. (1981), “Dialect consciousness and literary language”, TPhS 79, 35–66. Morpurgo Davies, A. (1968), “Thessalian patronymic adjectives”, Glotta 46, 85–106. Palumbo Stracca, B.M. (1991–1992), “Il megarese e il beotico nella testimonianza di Aristofane: problemi di vocalismo”, Helikon 31–32, 395–406. Palumbo Stracca, B.M. (1998), “Κάρ nel polyandrion di Ambracia e un’espressione proverbiale ateniese”, RCCM 40, 237–245.

  Sara Kaczko Parker, L. (1997), The Songs of Aristophanes, Oxford. Parker, R. (2003), “The Problem of the Greek Cult Epithet”, OAth 28, 173–183. PMG = D.L. Page, Poetae Melici Graeci, Oxford 1962. Pulleyn, S. (1997), Prayer in Greek Religion, Oxford. Schulze, W. (1934), “De reconditioribus quibusdam nominum in ‑υς exeuntium formis”, in: Kleine Schriften, Berlin, 314–320. Schwyzer, E. (1939), Griechische Grammatik, I, Munich. Threatte, L. (1980), The Grammar of Attic inscriptions, I. Phonology, Berlin/New York. Threatte, L. (1996), The Grammar of Attic inscriptions, II. Morphology, Berlin/New York. Willi, A. (2002), “Languages on stage: Aristophanic language, cultural history, and Athenian identity”, in: A. Willi (ed.), The Language of Greek Comedy, Oxford, 111–149. Willi, A. (2003), The Languages of Aristophanes, Oxford.

Julián Méndez Dosuna

Ἀμόργινος and ἀμοργίς: The Color of Olive Oil Lees and Aristophanes, Lysistrata 150 and 735, 737 Abstract: Since Antiquity scholars have been intrigued by the ἀμόργινα χιτώνια and the ἀμοργίς mentioned in Aristophanes’ Lysistrata 150 and 735, 737, respectively. A detailed analysis of the available scholarship establishes that the two interpretations most widely accepted in modern times (‘clothes from Amorgos’ or ‘clothes made of amorgis, a flax-like plant, native to Amorgos’) are incorrect. A third hypothesis connects both terms with ἀμόργη ‘amurca, olive oil lees’. I will show in this essay that ἀμόργινος denoted a dark purplish brown hue named after the color of amurca and that the ἀμόργινα χιτώνια and the ἀμοργίς are garments of that color. These meanings explain the humor of the two Aristophanic passages cited, which, in my opinion, has been missed by scholars. Keywords: adjectives of color, adjectives of material, Amorgina, ancient lexicographers, irrational polysemy, purple production, textiles in ancient Greece

 Introduction Among the different branches of linguistics, lexicography is demonstrably the most akin to philology in its methods, tasks and purposes. This essay stands at the crossroads of lexicography, etymology, and literature, and probes the

 Previous oral presentations of this paper were given at Seminario Permanente de Filología Clásica (Universidad de Salamanca, 12.2.2014), IV Jornada sobre epigrafía y dialectos griegos (Universidad Complutense de Madrid, 7.4. 2014), Séminaire de recherche «Linguistique comparée des langues indo-européennes» (Université Lyon 3, 6.12.2018), and XV Congreso de la Sociedad Española de Estudios Clásicos (Valladolid, 18.7.2019). I thank the respective audiences for their helpful comments. I am especially obliged to Alcorac Alonso Déniz, Miguel Ángel Artigas, Jaime Curbera, José Luis Melena, and David Pharies for valuable pieces of information. All Aristophanes quotes are from Wilson 2007a. Unless otherwise indicated, the translations of the Greek passages are mine. To avoid taking a stand prematurely before their true meaning is conveniently clarified (§§ 6–8), ἀμόργινος (adjective), ἀμόργινα (noun) and ἀμοργίς will be simply adapted as amorgine, amorgina and amorgis.

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111272887-016

  Julián Méndez Dosuna unsolved case of ἀμόργινος and ἀμοργίς with the goal of ascertaining their meaning and etymology.

 Ἀμόργινος and ἀμοργίς in modern dictionaries Following closely in the footsteps of ancient lexicographers, modern dictionaries of Ancient Greek record three different meanings for the adjective ἀμόργινος -η -ον: a. ‘made of some special fiber’: made of ἀμοργίς (LSJ); de lin fin (Bailly); hecho de fibra de malva (DGE); made of mallow fiber (BDAG); made of an expensive, delicate, perh[aps] silken textile [also interpr[eted] as flaxen] (CGD). b. ‘made in Amorgos’: made in Amorgos (LSJ); p[eut]-ê[tre] de l’î[le] Amorgos (Bailly); interpretado como hecho en Amorgos (DGE); made at Amorgos (BDAG). c. ‘purple-dyed’: purple (LSJ); de pourpre (Bailly); interpretado como de color púrpura (DGE); of purple (BDAG). These are the meanings for the noun ἀμοργίς: a. ‘stalk of flax (or mallow)’: stalks of mallow used like hemp or flax (LSJ); also interpreted as flax-like plant (CGD). b. ‘of fine linen or purple-dyed’: de lin fin ou de pourpre (Bailly).1 c. ‘garment made of flax (or mallow)’: túnica hecha de la fibra de malva (DGE). d. ‘a special fiber’: fibra de malva (DGE); mallow fiber (used like flax or hemp) (BDAG); material from which Amorgine textiles are made, perh[aps] silk (socalled because it was imported fr[om] the East via the island of Amorgos) (CGD). The multi-option gloss of the Etymologicum Magnum exemplifies the uncertainty of ancient and medieval lexicographers as regards the meaning of ἀμοργίς: ἀμοργίς δὲ, καλάμη τις, ἐξ ἧς ἐνδύματα ἀμόργινα· οἱ δὲ, λινᾶ ὑφάσματα· οἱ δὲ, ἀπὸ Ἀμόργου τῆς νήσου. οἱ δὲ, ἀμοργίνους, τοὺς ἐρυθροὺς τὸ χρῶμα.

 1 In Bailly, ἀμοργίς is incorrectly classified as an adjective.

Ἀμόργινος and ἀμοργίς  

‘Amorgis: the stalk of a certain plant, of which the amorgine garments are made; according to others, linen fabrics; according to others, [it takes its name] from the island of Amorgos; others [call] red-colored [chitons] amorgine’ (Etym. Magn. 86 s.v. ἀμοργίς Kallierges).

Undoubtedly, the meanings attributed to ἀμόργινος and to ἀμοργίς are inconsistent with one another. As in other cases of ‘unstructured’ or ‘irrational’ polysemy, the odds are that the precise meaning of the two words was unclear and, consequently, the meanings, or, at least, most of the meanings attributed to them must be pure guesswork based on phonetic similarity with some other word (in this case, Ἀμοργός) or on some clue(s), often illusory, picked up from the immediate context. This specious erudition is pervasive among ancient scholiasts and lexicographers, who preferred an explanation of sorts, however implausible and unsubstantiated, to no explanation at all.2 In our case, there can be little doubt that the scholiasts were not privy to information unavailable to us. Before proceeding further into the analysis of the data, a couple of issues must be touched upon. First, the identification of ἀμοργίς with the mallow (Malva silvestris) has achieved wide acceptance in recent times, so much so that, with the sole exception of Bailly (cf. also DÉLG, s.v. Ἀμοργός; EDG, s.v. ἀμοργίς), modern dictionaries present it as an indisputable fact. None of the Ancient Greek sources, however, glosses the word as ‘mallow’. They mention flax (λίνον, λινοκαλάμη) or, less frequently, βύσσος, which has been variously identified with flax, cotton, or silk of some sort (cf. DGE and BDAG, s.v.).3 The idea of a mallow fiber was first brought into play by Yates on the basis of a passage in Isidore of Seville’s Etymologies 19.22.11 in which the molochinia [uestis] is defined as a garment made of mallow (Gk. μολόχη or μαλάχη).4 The μολόχινα are also mentioned in the Periplus Maris Erythraei 6.3.3, 48.16.15, 49.16.29–30, 51.17.13 (1st cent. AD?).5 However, Isidore’s information is incorrect.6 The μολόχινα / molochiniae are much more likely to be ‘mallow-colored (i.e.  2 Henderson 1987, lxviii; see also Dyck 1987. For similar facts in Homer, see Le Feuvre 2015. 3 λίνον (Poll. 7.74; schol. Ar. Lys. 735); λινοκαλάμη (Paus. Gr. α 93 ἀμοργίς Erbse; Phot. Lex. α 1224 ἀμοργίς Theodoridis; schol. Ar. Lys. 735; schol. Aeschin. 214a Dilts); βύσσος (Harp. α 94 Ἀμοργός; Paus. Gr. α 92 ἀμόργινος Erbse; Clem. Al. Paed. 2.10bis.115.2; Phot. Lex. α 1223 ἀμόργινα Theodoridis; schol. Pl. Epist. 363a, etc.). 4 The molochina appear in a fragment of Caecilius Statius quoted by Nonius Marcellus (fr. 127 Pausimachus Warmington); a molocinarius is mentioned in Plaut. Aul. 514. 5 Yates 1843, 310–317. See also μολόχινος ‘made of mallow-fibre’ (LSJ), ‘of mallow, of mallow fiber’ (BDAG). 6 Richter 1929; Leon 1953; Casson 1989, 247; Mayerson 1998; Spantidaki 2016a, 24, 101; 2017, 293.

  Julián Méndez Dosuna mauve) garments’ and the molocinarius an ‘expert at producing mauve garments’.7 Second, Richter identified the aforementioned βύσσος as a kind of wild silk.8 She further assumed that this fiber was processed, woven, and made into garments at Amorgos. The whole hypothesis essentially depends on a Cratinus fragment quoted by Hesychius (s.v. βρυτίνη, β 1273 Latte-Cunningham): ἄμοργιν ἔνδον βρυτίνην νήθειν τινά (fr. 103 Μαλθακοί, Kassel-Austin, PCG). Hesychius glosses βρυτίνη as the thread of a silk produced by a beetle-like insect called βρῦτον,9 but βρῦτος (also n. βρῦτον) usually denotes a type of beer. The text transmitted is itself problematic.10 Therefore, despite some scholars’ efforts to make sense of it, the fragment remains far too obscure to be of any real use.11 More generally, Richter’s scenario is too speculative and the processing of wild silk that she describes could hardly produce a transparent fabric. Even more fatal to her hypothesis is the fact that some ἀμόργινα are said to be made of linen (see § 5). Finally, after reviewing the evidence of textiles unearthed in excavations, Brøns concludes that silk was unknown in Greece before the 1st cent. BC. The presumptive earlier testimonies are invalid because either the textiles have been proven not to be silk or have been redated to a later period.12 Ι omit from discussion the ἀμοργoί reportedly used by Cratinus (fr. 221 Σερίφιοι, Kassel-Austin, PCG) and glossed as πόλεως ὄλεθροι ‘plagues of the city’ by Paus. Gr. α 94 Erbse. The word might also occur in the phrase παντοίων ἀνέμων λαμπτῆρας ἀμοργούς (Empedocles, fr. B 84.3 Diels-Krantz = Arist. Sens. 437b.28 Bekker; v.l. ἀμουργούς in Alex. Aphr. in Sens. 23.18 Wendland). Dictionaries render this as “lanterns which protect [the light] from winds” (LSJ), “linternas provistas de pantalla contra los vientos” (DGE), “lamps that protect [the light] from the wind” (BDAG), “deflector or averter (w[ith] gen[itive] of

 7 Leon 1953. Cf. “molochinum, a Graeco, color flori similis malvae” (Nonius Marcellus 548.16 515M). 8 Richter 1929. Her explanation is endorsed by Forbes 1964, 50–52, Miller 1997, 77–78, the CGD, s.v. ἀμοργινός (sic), and considered plausible by Cleland et al. 2007, 5 s.vv. amorginion, amorginon, amorgina and amorgis, and Lee 2015, 91. 9 Cf. also βρυτίνην· βυσσίνην (β 1274 Latte-Cunningham). 10 The editors’ ἄμοργιν is a conjecture by August Meineke 1790–1870 for ἄμοργον, the reading of the Marcianus Graecus 622, corrected by Marcus Musurus to ἀμοργόν in the editio princeps of Aristophanes (Venice 1498), and recently accepted by Taillardat 1965, 132 and Luppe 1969, 209–210. 11 Luppe 1969, 209–210; Nelson 2005, 32; Storey 2011, 318–319. 12 Brøns 2015, 65–66; 2017a, 79–81; Spantidaki 2016a, 24.

Ἀμόργινος and ἀμοργίς  

winds, i.e. protecting its flame fr[om] them)” (CGD), but, in all fairness, its actual meaning remains unclear.

 The literary evidence . Lysistrata 150: ἀμόργινα χιτώνια Early in Aristophanes’ Lysistrata, the title character urges the women of Athens and the representatives of other Greek cities to deny sex to men until they renounce war. To this effect she gives her companions some useful tips on how to behave at home in order to maliciously entice and tease their husbands: εἰ γὰρ καθῄμεθ᾽ ἔνδον ἐντετριμμέναι, κἀν τοῖς χιτωνίοισι τοῖς Ἀμοργίνοις γυμναὶ παρίοιμεν δέλτα παρατετιλμέναι, στύοιντο δ᾿ ἅνδρες καὶ ἐπιθυμοῖεν σπλεκοῦν…

Ar. Lys. 149–152

If we sat around at home all made up, and walked past them [sc. our husbands] wearing only our diaphanous underwear and with our pubes plucked in a neat triangle, and our husbands got hard and hankered to ball us… (transl. Henderson 2000)

By capitalizing Ἀμοργίνοις, as some previous editors had already done (e.g. Hall and Geldart, Coulon, Henderson), Wilson makes clear that he is of the opinion that these short chitons were related one way or another to the island of Amorgos. At any rate, irrespective of the etymology favored,13 modern scholars without exception adopt the ancient lexicographers’ idea that the ἀμόργινα χιτώνια were gauzy negligees barely concealing the women’s pubes.14 These revealing mini-chitons are supposed to be identical with the διαφανῆ χιτώνια

 13 This issue will be taken up in § 5.1. 14 Cf. ἀμόργινον Ἀττικοί, λεπτὸν ὕφασμα Ἕλληνες ‘the Attic [speakers say] an amorginon, the Greeks [sc. Koine speakers, say] a thin fabric’ (Moeris 189.25); ἀμόργινα· λεπτυφῆ ἐνδύματα ‘amorgina: finely woven garments’ (Hsch. α 3747 Latte); ἔνιοι δὲ ἀμόργινα πάντα τὰ λεπτὰ ὑφάσματα ‘some [call] all thin fabrics amorgina’ (schol. Aeschin. 214a Dilts). In modern times, Yates 1843, 310–317; Mau, RE I.2 1894, s.v. ἀμόργινα; Wilamowitz-Moellendorff 1927, 132; Coulon and Van Daele 1928, 126 n. 1; Taillardat 1964, 132; Stone 1980, 173; Henderson 1987, 85; Sommerstein 1990, 162; Mayerson 1998, 225; Gil Fernández 2013, 38 n. 40; Spantidaki 2014, 42–43; 2016a, 100–102, 146; 2016b, 128; Compton-Engle 2015, 51; Lee 2015, 91; Prêtre 2018, 561; Marchiandi 2019, 91–92.

  Julián Méndez Dosuna mentioned by Lysistrata earlier in the play (l. 48) along with other items of sexy apparel which should help women to boost their relentless pursuit of peace. Such an identification is, however, not compelling (see § 7).15

. Lysistrata 735, 737: ἀμοργίς If we ignore the evidence of the lexicographers and the scholiasts, ἀμοργίς is only attested in Lysistrata. Midway through the play, the protracted sex strike is taking its toll on the women barricaded in the Acropolis. Lysistrata soon realizes that they crave for sex. She has already intercepted four defectors trying to get back home to satisfy their urges (ll. 719–727). Now another four women try to escape under flimsy pretexts (ll. 728–780). One must urgently take care of some Milesian wool in danger of being eaten by moths (ll. 728–34). Another suddenly remembers an amorgis that she has left unpeeled at home (ll. 735–741). A third woman pretends to be on the point of giving birth. When her lie is exposed, she complains of persistent insomnia caused by an accidental encounter with the guardian snake of the Acropolis (ll. 742–759). The fourth woman protests that Athena’s little owls do not let her sleep (ll. 760–761). However, beneath these ‘innocent’ excuses lurks a subtext of sexual innuendo that betrays the women’s true intentions. This is the dialogue between the second woman and Lysistrata:16 ΓΥ. B´ ΛΥ.

ΓΥ. B´

τάλαιν᾽ ἐγὼ, τάλαινα τῆς ἀμοργίδος, ἣν ἄλοπον οἴκοι καταλέλοιφ᾽. αὕτη ᾽τέρα ἐπὶ τὴν ἄμοργιν τὴν ἄλοπον ἐξέρχεται. χῶρει πάλιν δεῦρ᾽. νὴ τὴν Φωσφόρον, ἔγωγ᾽ ἀποδείρασ᾽ αὐτίκα μάλ᾽ ἀνέρχομαι.

 15 The adjective διαφανῆ (literally, ‘showing through’) is generally taken to mean ‘seethrough’, but it might also refer to garments clinging to the body and revealing the contours of female anatomy (much like the ‘wet-drapery’ of Phidias’ statuary). On transparent garments in Greece, see Lee 2015, 195–197. 16 For the recessive accent of ἄμοργιν, see Probert 2003, 101. Apparently, Herodian distinguished between oxytonic ἀμοργίς, which conforms to the default accentuation of polysyllables in -ις (Probert 2003, 100), and a presumptive ἄμοργις meaning ‘oil lees’ (ὑποστάθμη), but this form is an invention. No more acceptable is the accentuation ἀμόργιδος adopted for the genitive in Lys. 735 by some editors (Hall and Geldart, Coulon, Henderson, Sommerstein).

Ἀμόργινος and ἀμοργίς  

ΛΥ.

μή, μἀποδείρῃς· ἢν γὰρ ἄρξῃς τουτουί, ἑτέρα γυνὴ ταὐτὸν ποεῖν βουλήσεται. Ar. Lys. 735–739

2ND WIFE: Oh my god, my god, my flax! I forgot to shuck it when I left the house! LYSISTRATA: Here’s another one off to shuck her flax. March right back here! 2ND WIFE: By our Lady of Light, I’ll be back in a flash. Just let me do a little shucking. LYSISTRATA: No! No shucking! If you start doing it, some other wife will want to do the same (transl. Henderson 2000).

Given the general tone of the scene (on this see further § 7), it is only natural to assume that the second woman’s ἀμοργίς involves a risqué joke of some kind. Most modern scholars blindly accept the scholiasts’ explanation that the ἀμοργίς is a stalk of flax metaphorically representing a penis. Purportedly, the woman intends to masturbate her husband:17 τῆς ἀμοργίδος: τῆς λινοκαλάμης. ἔστι δὲ ἡ ἀμοργὶς ὅμοιον ἀλεπίστωι λινῶι. περιλεπίζουσι δὲ αὐτὸ καὶ ἐργάζονται. […] ἅμα δὲ καὶ ἐπὶ τοῦ ἀνδρείου αἰδοίου παίζει ὅτι καὶ βάμμα γίνεται ἐξ αὐτῆς ἐρυθρόν. schol. Ar. Lys. 735 RΓ Hangard Of the amorgis: of the flax-stalk. The amorgis is equivalent to unpeeled flax. They strip it all around and process it. […] At the same time [Aristophanes] makes a pun on the male organ because a red dye is obtained from the plant. τὴν ἄλοπον: ἀλέπιστον καὶ ἀκάθαρτον. πρὸς τὴν ὑπόνοιαν.

schol. Ar. Lys. 737 RΓ Hangard

Not scaled and not trimmed; it targets the innuendo. ἔγωγ᾽ ἀποδείρασ᾽: ἀποπλύνασα. δηλοῖ δὲ καὶ τὸ κακέμφατον. schol. Ar. Lys. 739 RΓ Hangard Washed out; it also conveys the risqué meaning.

The risqué metaphor is supposedly based on three similarities shared by its vehicle (a stalk of flax) and its tenor (a penis): (a) A flax stalk “is long and stiff and can be peeled back like a foreskin”.18

 17 Henderson 1987, 166; 1991, 47; Sommerstein 1990, 162–165; Mayerson 1998, 224–225; Gil Fernández 2014, 80–81; Caciagli 2022, 200. 18 Henderson 1991, 47.

  Julián Méndez Dosuna (b) The adjective ἄλοπος ‘unpeeled’ (cf. λέπω ‘to peel’) and the verb ἀποδέρω ‘to flay’ are believed to refer to the dressing of flax and metaphorically to masturbation.19 (c) As for the red dye supposedly obtained from flax, the scholiast might have had in mind the rubefaction of an erect penis. Despite its widespread acceptance, the phallic metaphor is unconvincing for several reasons: (a) There is no hint in the whole scene of any man to whom the ‘stalk of flax’ supposedly belongs. (b) Admittedly, ‘stalk’ and ‘stick’ are stock metaphors for ‘penis’ in many languages,20 but the tall slender stem of flax (Linum usitatissimum) ending in several flower stalks is hardly reminiscent of a penis. (c) In the dressing of flax, the stalks are not peeled or scraped one by one. To separate the useful fibers from the outer bark and the inner woody stem, the stalks are first retted (i.e. soaked in fresh water), then scutched (i.e. beaten or crushed) in bundles and finally hackled (i.e. combed) to eliminate all remaining impurities.21 The comparison of any of these actions to masturbation defies all logic. (d) No red dye is known to be obtained from flax. The scholiast probably knew of the meaning ‘purple-dyed’ atributed to ἀμόργινος (see §§ 2, 5) and tried to fit it, by hook or by crook, into the flax-stalk metaphor. (e) To all appearances, flax was neither cultivated nor processed in Attica.22 A joke based on some activity largely alien to the audience risked falling flat. (f) If the standard explanation were correct, the pun on the ἀμοργίς based on a phallic metaphor would be entirely disconnected from the ἀμόργινα  19 The verb (ἀπο)δέρω possibly refers to female masturbation in κύνα δέρειν δεδαρμένην ‘to flay a flayed female dog (= vulva)’ (Ar. Lys. 158), but the sexual overtones of ἀποδείρασ᾽ οἴχεται (Ar. Lys. 953) are much less clear than Henderson 1987, 166; 1991, 167 assumes. It may simply mean ‘my wife […] departed after flaying me off’, i.e. ‘beating me up’. Henderson’s idea of Philocleon masturbating his slave in Wasps 450 (ἐξέδειρ’ εὖ κἀνδρικῶς ‘I flayed you off right manfully’) seems even more improbable. 20 Cf. stalk in English slang, Ptg. pau ‘stick’, It., Sp. verga ‘rod, stick’ (Eng. verge), Fr. bâton ‘stick’ < Lat. palus ‘stake’, virga ‘twig, rod’, bastum ‘stick’. 21 For the processing of flax in ancient times, see Barber 1994, 185–206; Pekridou-Gorecky 2005. 22 The archeological evidence cited by Spantidaki 2016b, 129–130, is slim and dubious, at best. Building on Ar. Lys. 735, 737 and the other passages in which the ἀμόργινα are mentioned, Nosch 2014, 31–32, 36–37 wrongly concludes that “women in Athens did indeed process flax at home to obtain clean fibres, yarn and ultimately cloth”. Pace Nosch, Thuc. 4.26, Ar. Eq. 130 and Ra. 364 are entirely irrelevant to the issue.

Ἀμόργινος and ἀμοργίς  

χιτώνια, which supposedly lack any metaphorical meaning. In principle, the iteration of a joke in the same play is routine in Aristophanes.23 Thiercy and Cleland depart from common opinion by supposing that the ἀμοργίς denotes a linen fabric.24 Thiercy perceives a double entendre in the adjective ἄλοπον, which he translates as tillée ‘scutched’, evocative of titiller ‘titillate’, but his claim that linen cloths had to be scraped to remove any traces of bark remains unsubstantiated and, even worse, the presumptive joke is unintelligible and unfunny. In short, there is every reason to believe that the flax of Lys. 735 and the seethrough fabrics of Lys. 150 are nothing but a figment of the imagination of ancient scholars, who no longer knew the meaning of ἀμόργινος and ἀμοργίς.

. Further literary evidence While the noun ἀμοργίς is exclusive to Aristophanes,25 the adjective ἀμόργινος is attested in several texts of the 4th cent. BC. It occurs in a short Antiphanes fragment: ἦν χιτὼν ἀμόργινος, / ἕτερος δὲ περιηγητὸς ἐστιν οὑτοσί.

Ant. fr. 151 Kassel–Austin, PCG = Poll. Onom. 7.5726

There was an amorgine chiton, but this is another bordered all around.

More informative is a passage in Plato’s probably spurious Thirteenth Letter addressed to Dionysius II of Syracuse: δωρησώμεθα […] ταῖς Κέβητος θυγατράσι χιτώνια τρία ἑπταπήχη, μὴ τῶν πολυτελῶν τῶν ἀμοργίνων, ἀλλὰ τῶν Σικελικῶν τῶν λινῶν. [Pl.] Ep. 363A To the daughters of Cebes [we shall give] three short chitons of seven cubits, not the expensive Amorgian ones, but linen ones from Sicily (transl. Morrow 1962, my italics)

 23 Robson 2009, 69–70. 24 Thiercy 1997, 613, 1225; Cleland 2005a, 107; 2005b, 90. Also Nosch 2014, 31–32. 25 For a presumptive occurrence of ἀμοργίς in a Cratinus fragment, see § 2 above. 26 According to Harpocration α 94 Keany, the word was also used by Eupolis (Eup. fr. 256 Πόλεις, Kassel–Austin, PCG).

  Julián Méndez Dosuna The contrast is expressed brachylogically so that some omitted adjectives (supplied in brackets) are implied by their corresponding antonyms: expensive, [imported], amorgine short chitons vs [more affordable], local, non-amorgine short chitons. At first sight, the contrast between the two types of short chitons seems to concern either their origin (Amorgos vs Sicily) or their material (a special fiber vs common flax), but, as we will see later (§ 5), the real focus is on the price of the garments. In Aeschines’ Against Timarchus (345 BC), the defendant is said to have inherited a slave woman skilled in producing amorgina which she would sell on the market (γυναῖκα ἀμόργινα ἐπισταμένην ἐργάζεσθαι καὶ εἰς τὴν ἀγορὰν ἐκφέρουσαν, Aeschin. 1.97). The context suggests that the textiles were expensive, and the trade was very profitable. A fourth testimony occurs in the description of a sumptuous couch by Clearchus of Soli preserved in Athenaeus: τὸ μειράκιον (οὐ λέγων αὐτοῦ τοὔνομα) κατέκειτο δι’ ὑπερβάλλουσαν τρυφὴν ἐπὶ ἀργυρόποδος κλίνης ὑπεστρωμένης Σαρδιανῇ ψιλοτάπιδι τῶν πάνυ πολυτελῶν. ἐπεβέβλητο δ’ αὐτῷ πορφυροῦν ἀμφίταπον ἀμοργίνῳ καλύμματι περιειλημμένον. προσκεφάλαια δ’ εἶχε τρία μὲν ὑπὸ τῇ κεφαλῇ βύσσινα παραλουργῆ, δι’ ὧν ἠμύνετο τὸ καῦμα, δύο δ’ ὑπὸ τοῖς ποσὶ ὑσγινοβαφῆ τῶν Δωρικῶν καλουμένων. Clearch. fr. 19 Wehrli = Ath. 255e The young man — [Clearchus] omits his name — used to lie in extraordinary luxury on a silver-footed couch that was covered with an extremely expensive pileless Sardian carpet; on top of him was a purple double-pile carpet enclosed in an amorgine shell.27 He had three linen pillows with a violet border, which helped him avoid the heat, under his head, and two scarlet pillows of the so-called Doric type beneath his feet. (transl. Olson 2008 modified)

The literary evidence of the Classical period is unequivocal that, whatever their real nature may have been, the amorgina were deluxe products for the wealthy. After a gap of four centuries, the word re-emerges in two authors of the 2nd and 3rd cent. AD. Dio Cassius (Epit. 9.17.2.) reports a Roman law inspired by Cato the Elder that forbade women to adorn themselves with jewellery and ‘with flowery and amorgine clothes’ (ἀνθηροῖς καὶ ἀμοργίνοις ἐσθήμασιν). In his condemnation of luxury, Clement of Alexandria (Paed. 2.10bis.115.2) mentions τὰ ἀμόργινα (τὰ δὲ ἀμόργινα καὶ τὰ βύσσινα σιωπῶ) along with other expensive products.  27 Olson translates ἀμοργίνωι καλύμματι as ‘in a shell woven of mallow-fiber’, but the idea of a mallow fabric must be rejected for the reasons given above (§ 1).

Ἀμόργινος and ἀμοργίς  

By the 3rd cent. AD, the adjective was obsolete and its meaning had been forgotten, but to judge from the contexts in which it occurred, ἀμόργινος somehow connoted luxury and extravagance. Since both Cassius Dio and Clement of Alexandria were practitioners of Atticism, they may well have come across the word in Aristophanes, an author sanctified as a model of pure Attic.28

 The epigraphic evidence Several temple inventories inscribed on large stelae attest to the presence of garments dedicated as votive offerings to certain goddesses at various Greek sanctuaries, primarily by female worshippers.29 Some of these garments, for the most part chitons (χιτών, κιθών, κιτών) or short chitons (χιτώνιον, κιθώνιον, κιτώνιον), are labeled as amorgine.30 Both the garments and the accompanying adjective usually occur in the accusative since they depend on the formula ἡ δεῖνα ἀνέθηκε ‘Ms So-and-so offered’, in which the verb is usually omitted. Most numerous are the occurrences of ἀμόργινος in the inventories from the shrine of Artemis Brauronia on the Acropolis of Athens (IG I3 403–404, late 5th cent. BC; IG II2 1514–1525, 1528–1530; 349/348–336/335 BC).31 Like other easily recognizable terms, ἀμόργινον (22 occurrences) is often abbreviated to ἀμοργιν (1 instance?), ἀμοργι (10 occurrences), ἀμοργ (4 occurrences) or ἀμορ (7 occurrences). Ten further instances (two of them abbreviated) occur in a recently published inventory from Brauron dated to 353/352 BC.32 Three occurrences are documented in an inventory from Tanagra (SEG 43.212B, 3rd cent. BC)33 and another two in an Amphictyonic account from Delos (ID 104-26bis, ca. 340 BC).

 28 Wilson 2007b, 4; Willi 2010, 473. 29 On these inventories, see Linders 1972; Cleland 2005a; Casevitz 1993; Schachter 1997; Brøns 2015; 2017a; Marchiandi 2018; Kalliontzis 2021. My translation of some terms whose meaning remains unclear, is merely tentative. In cases of extreme uncertainty the words are simply transliterated. 30 The exceptions are two tryphēmata (IG II2 1524.195; Kalliontzis 2021, l. 167) and one kandys (IG II2 1524.217). 31 These inventories were copies of the originals displayed at the main sanctuary at Brauron, where the garments were also stored (Linders 1972, 70–73). Since the inventories were revised regularly, the same items often recur in different lists. 32 Kalliontzis 2021. The stone was found at Oropos, where it had been carried by sea in ancient times to be reused in a new cemetery. 33 The inscription is generally ascribed to a sanctuary of Demeter and Kore like the text on side A (Brøns 2017a, 37), but Schachter 1997 points to the sanctuary of Artemis Aulideia.

  Julián Méndez Dosuna I will look at the data more closely in section § 5. Here a few examples will suffice for illustration: Ἡδύλη Φρεαρ(ρία)∶ ἀμόργινον χιτῶνα, ῥάκος· Θ[αλ]λὶς τρύφημα ἀμόργι(νον) ∶ περιποίκιλον, ῥάκος. IG II2 1524.193–195 Hedyle of the deme Phrearroi, an amorgine chiton, in tatters. Thallis, an amorgine tryphēma with a patterned border all around, in tatters. Ἀρχίππη διπτέρυγον ἀμόργι(νον) : Ἱππίσκου θυγάτηρ χιτωνίσκον περιήγη(τον) : περι τῶι ἀγάλματι· Ἱππάρχη χιτῶνα ἀμόργι(νον) : Ὀλυμπιὰς κάνδυν ἀμόργι(νον) : περιποίκιλ(ον). ibid. ll. 214–217 Archippe, an amorgine dipterygon. Hippiskos’ daughter, a short chiton bordered worn by the statue [of Artemis]. Hiparche, an amorgine chiton. Olympias, an amorgine kandys, with a patterned border all around. Φιλοτίμα κιθῶνα πορφούριον παιδι̣ κόν· Δαμονίκα ἀμόργινον κιθῶνα κορικόν. SEG 43.212B.6–7 Philotima, a boy’s purplish chiton. Damonica, a girl’s amorgine chiton. Πουθὶς χιτῶνα κορικὸν κνώσ̣ιον τέλειον· Εὐτύχα ἀμόργινον.

ibid. ll. 21–2234

Puthis, a girl’s Cnossian chiton, in perfect condition. Eutycha, one amorgine. Δαμοκρίτα χιτῶνα λίνινομ παρπόρφυρον, χιτῶνα κοριδίω παρορφνιδωτόν, ἀμόργινον κοριδίω χιτῶ̣ν̣[α]. ibid. ll. 44–45 Damocrita, a girl’s linen chiton edged in purple, a girl’s chiton edged in dark gray, a girl’s amorgine chiton. χιτώνιον λι̣ νοῦν ἀμόργινον παιδεῖον. χιτών[ι]ον ἀμόργινον μ[εσ]αλουργές. ID 104–26bis.C7-11

 34 Pace Brøns 2015, 49, ἀμόργινον is not to be interpreted here as “an independent garment term”, but as an adjective qualifying an elliptical χιτῶνα, as the following items make clear: Καλλίχα ἀν[δρε]ῖο[ν· Φι]λ̣οτίμ̣α [μ]άλινον· Δ̣α̣μοτίμα λευκό[ν] ‘Calicha, a men’s [chiton]. Philotima, one apple-colored. Damotima, one white’ (ll. 22–23). A similar mistake is made by Kalliontzis 2021, 132.

Ἀμόργινος and ἀμοργίς  

A boy’s amorgine linen short chiton; an amorgine short chiton with a violet band in the middle.

In the inventories, besides the type of garment and the name of the donor, one or more defining characteristics are usually added to identify the different items:35 1. PLACE OF ORIGIN or TYPE OF WEAVE:36 Κνώσιος ‘of Cnossos’, ξενικός ‘foreign, imported’. 2. MATERIAL: στύππινος ‘of tow’, λινοῦς (Boeot. λίνινος) ‘linen’. 3. COLOR: λευκός ‘white’, ἀλουργός ‘violet’, βατραχειοῦς ‘frog-green’, πορφούριος (Boeot.) ‘purplish’, μάλινος (Boeot.) ‘apple-colored’. 4. DECORATION: ποικίλος ‘patterned’, κτενωτός ‘scalloped’, κατάστικτος ‘embroidered’, περιποίκιλος ‘with a patterned border all around’, περιήγητος ‘bordered all around’, παραλουργής ‘edged in violet’, Boeot. παρπόρφουρος ‘edged in purple’, μεσοπόρφυρος ‘with a purple band in the middle’, πλατυπόρφυρος ‘with a broad purple (border)’, etc. 5. GENDER AND AGE OF POTENTIAL USERS (≈ SIZE): ἀνδρεῖος (Boeot. ἀνδρῖος) ‘man’s’, γυναικεῖος (Boeot. γυνηκῖος) ‘woman’s’, παιδεῖος, παιδίου (Boeot. παιδικός, παΐλλω) ‘boy’s’, κορικός, κοριδίω (Boeot.) ‘girl’s’. 6. STYLE: χειρίδας ἔχων ‘sleeved’, ἰσοπτυχής ‘pleated’, διπλοῦς ‘double’, etc. 7. CONDITION: καινός ‘new, never worn’, τέλειος ‘in perfect condition’, ῥάκος ‘in tatters’, etc. 8. LOCATION: περὶ τῶι ἕδει ‘wrapped around the seat’, ἐν κιβωτίωι ‘in a small box’, etc. 9. OTHER: ἄγραφος, ἀνεπίγραφος ‘not (yet) inventoried’.37 It is important to clarify one point that will prove crucial to the argumentation in § 5. In compounds consisting of a first element μεσο-, παρα-, περι- and a color adjective, the first element demonstrably conveys a spatial meaning and refers to an area of the garment dyed a different color. That these adjectives fall under the rubric of DECORATION rather than COLOR becomes clear in combinations like, e.g., χιτωνίσκον βατραχειοῦν περιποίκιλ(ον) ‘a frog-colored short chiton with a patterned border all around’ (IG II2 1514.188–189) or τεγίδιον λευκὸν λίνινον παρπόρφυρον ‘a white linen veil with a purple border’ (SEG 43.212B.38–39), in  35 Similar taxonomies with slightly different names can be found in other studies of the inventories. 36 Fabrics frequently take their name from the places where they were originally made: cf. gauze (Gaza), museline (Mosul), denim (Nîmes). 37 For this meaning see Kalliontzis 2021, 133–134.

  Julián Méndez Dosuna which βατραχειοῦν and λευκόν refer to COLOR and περιποίκιλ(ον) and παρπόρφυρον to DECORATION. Coming back to the meaning of ἀμόργινος, it is evident that only the first three features of the list can be relevant to our issue. In the next section it will become clear that COLOR is the only reasonable option.

 Unsnarling the yarn: The etymology and meaning of ἀμοργίς and ἀμόργινος The issues of the meaning and of the etymology of ἀμοργίς and ἀμόργινος are inextricably interwoven.38 Three different (albeit not mutually exclusive) etymologies were considered by the ancient lexicographers: A. Both words derive from the place name Ἀμοργός (schol. Ar. Lys. 150; Poll. Onom. 7.74). B. The noun ἀμοργίς denotes a plant whose fibers could be woven into a delicate fabric and ἀμόργινος is the corresponding adjective of material (Hsch. α 3754 Latte-Cunningham; Harpocrat. p. 26, 13 s.v. ἀμοργός; Eust. ad Dion. perieg. 525; Photius α 1224; Suda α 1625, 1626; Etym. Magn. p. 85.15, 86.14; schol. Ar. Lys. 735; schol. [Pl.] Ep. 363A; schol. Aeschin. 214a-b Dilts). C. The adjective ἀμόργινος denotes a color and ἀμοργίς is a garment of that color (Etym. Gen. α 667; Suda, s.v. ἀμόργεια, α 1623; Etym. Gud. 182.2; Etym. Symeon. p. 414.13; Eust. ad Dion. perieg. 525; Et. Magn. p. 85.15, p. 86.15, 129.17). Some sources identify the color with red (ἐρυθρός, πορφυροῦς): οἱ δὲ ἀμοργίνους τοὺς ἐρυθροὺς τὸ χρῶμα.

EM 86.15 s.v. ἀμοργίς

Others [call] red-colored fabrics amorgine. ἔστι καὶ εἶδος βοτάνης πορφυρᾶς, ἐξ οὗ ἀμόργινα ἱμάτια λέγονται τὰ πορφυρᾶ. EM 129.17 s.v. ἀπομόρξατο There is also a type of purple plant, from which purplish cloaks took the name of amorgine.

 38 Brøns 2015, 62 and 2017a, 85 presents the different proposals without really taking sides with any of them. Schachter 1997, 278 cannot decide whether ἀμόργινος refers to the fabric or to the color of three chitons in the Tanagra inventory.

Ἀμόργινος and ἀμοργίς  

ἀμόργινα· τὰ πορφυροβαφῆ νήματα καὶ λεπτά.

Synagoge Κ α 396 Cunningham39

amorgina: the purple-dyed and thin threads.

As indicated above, these hypotheses are frequently presented as compatible with one another. Typically, the amorgis is considered to be a plant native to Amorgos, from which either a special textile fiber was obtained or a dye was extracted, with which the amorgina were woven or dyed red. Alternatively, the amorgis was considered to be a fabric imported via the island of Amorgos.40 Irrespective of the etymology adopted, the consensus among modern scholars is that the amorgina were expensive garments made of a fine fabric woven on Amorgos or, alternatively, an imitation of the textiles of the island.41 In the following sections I will assess the three etymologies in turn and will conclude that only the third qualifies as coherent and capable of accounting for the data.

. Hypothesis A: Ἀμοργός Despite its wide appeal, a connection with the island of Amorgos (Hypothesis A) is objectionable on several counts: (a) The place of origin and/or the type of weave are rarely mentioned in the temple inventories. (b) The suffix -ῐνος did not serve the function of deriving adjectives from place names.42 In fact, the ethnic (and ctetic) of Ἀμοργός was Ἀμόργιος (attested  39 Schol. Aeschin. 214a Dilts incorrectly opposes the ἀμόργινα, identified as πάντα τὰ λεπτὰ ὑφάσματα ‘all thin fabrics’, to the ἁλουργά, glossed as τὰ εὐανθῆ διὰ τὴν βαφήν ‘the [fabrics] lurid through dyeing’. 40 CGD, s.v. ἀμοργίς. 41 Cf. Taillardat 1964, 132; Stone 1980, 193; Thiercy 1997, 1218; Cleland 2005a, 107; 2005b, 90; Cleland et al. 2007, 5; Mastromarco 2014, 72–73; Compton–Engle 2015, 51; Prêtre 2018, 560–561; Davis/Llewelyn-Jones 2017, 52; Kalliontzis 2021, 130. Casevitz 1993 indifferently renders the adjective as ‘en lin d’Amorgos’ or ‘en amorgos’. Mayerson 1998 accepts the connection with Amorgos as a pis aller. Cf. also Chantraine 2009, s.v. Ἀμοργός and Beekes 2010, s.vv. ἀμέργω and ἀμοργίς, both with considerable reservations; Frisk 1960, s.v. ἀμέργω is even more skeptical. 42 This suffix should not be confused with the ethnic suffix -ῖνος, possibly of Italic origin (cf. Ταραντῖνος, Ἀκραγαντῖνος), which happens to be homophonous with another suffix of obscure origin, found in sobriquets (e.g. Κρατῖνος) and names of animals and plants (e.g. κορακῖνος ‘young raven’).

  Julián Méndez Dosuna in inscriptions from the 5th cent. BC onwards).43 Clearly, Ἀμοργῖνος (St. Byz. 1.275.3; Suda σ 446, Eust. ad Dion. perieg. 525; etc.), usually applied to Semonides of Amorgos (Σημωνίδης or Σιμωνίδης Ἀμοργῖνος), was secondarily modeled on ἀμόργινος. (c) Flax requires soil that is deep, well drained, and rich in organic matter, along with a large supply of water for cultivation and retting. Amorgos, an arid island with low rainfall and little cultivable land, could never grow flax. A flax industry operating with imported material is no more likely.

. Hypothesis B: ἀμοργίς In this case, morphology poses no problem since the names of plants formed with the suffix -ίς (-ίδ-) are numerous: e.g. ἀτρακτυλίς ‘spiny thistle’ (ἄτρακτος ‘spindle’), ἡμερίς ‘cultivated vine’ (ἥμερος ‘tame’), μηλίς ‘apple-tree’ (μῆλον ‘apple’). Likewise, -ινος formed denominal adjectives of material with recessive accentuation: σκύτινος ‘leathern’ (σκῦτος), ξύλινος ‘wooden’ (ξύλον), λίθινος ‘made of stone’ (λίθος), etc.44 This hypothesis is, however, much less satisfactory as regards semantics. On the one hand, there exists no root ἀμοργwith the appropriate meaning from which to derive the hypothetical plant name. On the other hand, the very existence of a plant of the name ἀμοργίς in Lysistrata is highly problematic (see §§ 2, 6). Furthermore, the idea that ἀμόργινος is an adjective of material is at odds with the evidence of already quoted χιτώνιον λι̣ νοῦν ἀμόργινον παιδεῖον (ID 104–26bis.C7–9), where, crucially, the field corresponding to MATERIAL is filled by the adjective λινοῦν ‘linen’. Cf. also λίνινον (MATERIAL) κιθῶνα πορφ[ού]ριον (COLOR) ‘a purplish linen chiton’ in the Tanagra inventory (SEG 43.212B.9).

. Hypothesis C: ἀμόργη Several arguments prove beyond reasonable doubt that ἀμόργινος denoted a very dark shade of red (blackish brown) and that ἀμοργίς is a garment of that color.45 To begin with, COLOR is the most prevalent feature in the description of  43 Cleland’s 2005a, 107, 127 and Prêtre’s 2018, 560 comparison of ἀμόργινος with the noun ταραντῖνον, which the first defines as ‘a garment of diaphanous material made of Tarentine cloth’, is beside the point. 44 Chantraine 1933, 200–203. 45 Ancient Greek notoriously lacked a specific term for ‘brown’.

Ἀμόργινος and ἀμοργίς  

the garments recorded in temple inventories. Thus, if only for statistical reasons, the default hypothesis is that, in the absence of positive evidence to the contrary, ἀμόργινος denotes a color. Another fact which has been repeatedly observed is that among the color adjectives found in the inventories, those denoting the different shades of red are by far the most common.46 Ἁλουργός (ἁλουργής) and its compounds (παραλουργής, μεσαλουργής, πλατυαλουργής) are most frequent: some thirty-five occurrences in the Brauron catalogues and two in Delos. Then comes πόρφυρος and its compounds: five occurrences in Tanagra. Finally, φοινίκιον occurs twice in the Brauron catalogues. Of equal significance is the fact that in Clearchus’ description of a luxurious couch quoted above (§ 3.3), the ἀμόργινον κάλυμμα occurs alongside other textiles invariably qualified with adjectives denoting different hues of red: πορφυροῦν ἀμφίταπον ‘a purplish double-pile (carpet)’, προσκεφάλαια… τρία… παραλουργῆ ‘three pillows bordered in violet’, δύο… ὑσγινοβαφῆ ‘two (pillows) dyed scarlet’. A similar ambiance with sumptuous, purple-dyed textiles is depicted in a fragment of Plato the Comic preserved in Athenaeus: κἆτ᾽ ἐν κλίναις ἐλεφαντοπόσιν καὶ στρώμασι πορφυροβάπτοις κἀν φοινικίσι Σαρδιακαῖσιν κοσμησάμενοι κατάκεινται. Pl. Com. fr. 230 Kassel–Austin, PCG = Athen. 48a And then they lie down on couches with ivory feet and on purplish coverlets, dressing themselves up in the crimson-red of Sardis (my italics).

It is assuredly not a coincidence that ἀμόργινος never co-occurs with any color adjective in the temple inventories. Combinations like τρύφημα ἀμόργι(νον) περιποίκιλον (IG II2 1523.195) and χιτών[ι]ον ἀμόργινον μ[εσ]αλουργές (ID 104– 26bis.C9-11) do not qualify as counterexamples since, as explained above, the compounds περιποίκιλος ‘with a patterned border all around’ and μεσαλουργές ‘with a violet [band] in the middle’ refer to DECORATION rather than to COLOR per se. Cleland cited an item in which ἀμόργινος allegedly co-occurs with μήλινος ‘quince-yellow’: ἀμόργ(ινον) χιτωνίσκον μήλινον.47 Such a combination would indeed contradict my claim that ἀμόργινος denotes a COLOR, but Cleland’s is a composite text obtained by combining fragmentary [ἀμόργ(ινον) χιτ]ωνίσκον

 46 Spantidaki 2016a, 86–87; 2016c, 211; Brøns 2017a, 89; 2017b: 112; Brøns/Droß-Krüpe 2018, 11. Needless to say, none of these authors include ἀμόργινον in their statistics. For ἁλουργίς and similar nouns see below (§ 5.3). 47 Cleland 2005a, 21, 50, 85.

  Julián Méndez Dosuna μήλιν̣ [ον] (IG II2 1524.132) and [χιτωνίσ|κον μήλ]ινον (IG II2 1525.6–7).48 Moreover, the restitution of ἀμόργ(ινον) in IG II2 1524.132 was called into question by Linders,49 and, on top of that, if correct, it would most probably refer to a different garment previously mentioned. Also according to Cleland, ἀμόργινος, which she glosses as ‘fine [cloth], made of a plant fiber of high quality’, contrasts in the Brauron inventories with στύππινος ‘made of tow’.50 This claim is also problematic. To all appearances, στύππινος never co-occurs with any color adjective. This incompatibility indicates that there was no profit in dyeing cheap coarse fabrics. This is further confirmed by a comment by Phrynichus the Atticist on an adespoton comic fragment which states that tow was never dyed (com. adesp. fr. *585 Kassel–Austin, PCG).51 From the viewpoint of morphology, the pieces of the puzzle fit perfectly together. Color adjectives derived from nominal roots by means of the suffix -ινος are abundant: e.g. θάψινος ‘orangey’ (θάψος ‘fustic, Cotinus coggyria’), κόκκινος ‘red’ (κόκκος ‘oak kermes, Kermes vermilio’), μήλινος ‘apple-colored’ (μῆλον ‘apple’), πράσινος ‘pale green’ (πράσον ‘leek’).52 As regards the suffix -ίς (-ίδ-), one of its functions is to derive names of garments from nouns: e.g. ἀλωπεκίς ‘cap of fox-skin’ (ἀλώπηξ ‘fox’), ἐξωμίς ‘tunic leaving a shoulder bare’ (ἐξ- ‘out’ + ὦμος ‘shoulder’), στολίς ‘robe’ (στολή ‘clothing’).53 Especially relevant to our issue are the numerous names in -ίς denoting a chiton of a particular color: ἁλουργίς ‘violet chiton’ (ἁλουργός), βατραχίς ‘frog-green chiton’ (βατραχειοῦς), πορφυρίς ‘purplish chiton’ (πορφυροῦς), φοινικίς ‘purplish chiton’ (φοινικοῦς), etc. From a strictly morphological perspective, βατραχίς derives from βάτραχος, but, notionally, it pairs with βατραχειοῦς. In other words, a βατραχίς is a ‘chiton of a frog-like color’, not a ‘frog-

 48 In both cases the adjective μήλινον was plausibly conjectured by Linders 1972, 48, 59. IG II2 has Μηλι[ὰς] and [ἀμόργ]ινον respectively. Μάλινος (= Attic μήλινος) occurs in the Tanagra inventory (SEG 43.212B.17, 23, 30, 34). 49 Linders 1972, 59: “The ca. five letter space […] may have contained [ῥάκος] as so often in this inscription”. 50 Cleland 2005a, 94; 2005b, 90. 51 Γέρων στύππινος· ἤτοι λευκὸς καὶ πολιός, ἐπειδὴ τὰ στύππινα λευκά εἰσιν. ἢ τὸν ἀσθενῆ δηλοῖ, ἐπειδὴ ἀσθενέστερά ἐστι τὰ στύππινα τῶν λινῶν (λευκῶν cód.) ‘a tow-like old man: Either ‘white-’ and ‘gray-haired’ since tow fabrics are white (i.e. not dyed), or it refers to the frail old man since tow fabrics are flimsier than linen’ (Phryn. Praep. Soph. 59.8 de Borries). 52 Chantraine 1933, 202. The base can refer either to the plant or the insect from which the dye was extracted (e.g. θάψος, κόκκος), or to some entity with a distinct hue serving as a color reference (e.g. μῆλον, πράσον). 53 Chantraine 1933, 343–344.

Ἀμόργινος and ἀμοργίς  

like chiton’.54 The type is well represented in Aristophanes and in other authors of the Classical period: ἁλουργίς (Ar. Eq. 967), βατραχίς (Ar. Eq. 1406), πορφυρίς (X. Cyr. 2.4.6), and the more frequent φοινικίς (Ar. Ach. 320, Pax 303 [conjecture], 1173, 1175, Lys. 1140, Plut. 731, 735; X. Cyr. 6.4.1, 8.3.3. 8.3.12; [Lys.] 6.51; Aesch. 3.76). Names of garments in -ίς also feature in textile inventories: ἁλουργίς (IG II2.1514.49, 56; 1517.155, 166; 1524.159; Kalliontzis 2021, ll. 100, 161), βατραχίς (IG II2.1514.16–17, 48; 1515.9; 1517.154), φοινικίς (ID 298.170; 300.137; SEG 28.53.10, shrine of an unidentified hero, Athens, after 328/327 BC; SEG 65.292, Arcadia, 500–450 BC). Cf. also the diminutives ἁλουργίδιον (Kalliontzis 2021, l. 121), παραλουργίδιον (IG II2.1514.54–55; 1516.31), φοινικίδιον (ID 399.139; 442B.200). Based on the foregoing arguments, we can safely conclude (a) that ἀμόργινος was an adjective denoting a very dark shade of red which I will try to roughly identify in the following section, and (b) that ἀμοργίς denoted a garment of that color and, consequently, must have been largely synonymous with an ἀμόργινον χιτώνιον.

 The color of ἀμόργη As some ancient etymologists already intuited,55 the obvious base for ἀμόργινος is ἀμόργη. This noun, glossed by the ancient lexicographers as ὑποστάθμη ‘sediment’ or τρυγία ‘dregs’,56 denoted the dark-colored watery sediment of unfiltered olive oil deposited on the bottom of storage containers (Eng. amurca, olive oil lees). Ἀμόργη pairs with the verb ἀμέργω (< PIE *h2merg-),57 which means ‘to pluck (fruits, flowers)’58 and, according to some ancient sources, ‘to squeeze, to

 54 Significantly, ἁλουργίς is not directly relatable to a noun. 55 Cf. e.g. Etym. Gen. α 667; Etym. Symeon. 1.414; Eust. ad Dion. perieg. 525.36; Etym. Magn. 85.15. Mayerson 1998, 225, noted this fact, but he failed to draw any conclusion from it. Some ancient sources wrongly hold that ἀμόργη (mistaken for ἀμοργίς) is equivalent to λινοκαλάμη (schol. Ar. Lys. 150) and βύσσος (schol. Aesch. 97; Etym. Magn. 85 s.v. ἀμόργινος Kallierges). 56 Dioscor. Ped. 1.102; Paus.Gr. α 91; Hsch. α 3746 Latte Suda α 1624; Eust. Il. vol. 1 p. 332.17, ad Dion. perieg. 525.36; Phot. Lex. α 1224 Theodoridis. Interestingly, *τρύγινον, a black dye made from the lees of wine (τρύξ) or, more probably, a purplish color, is indirectly attested as tryginon in Latin (Plin. HN 35.42). 57 Cf. e.g. στρέφω ‘turn’ / στροφή ‘turn’, κρέκω ‘to weave’/ κρόκη ‘woof’. For the accent of ἀμόργη and κρόκη, see Dieu 2016, 63. 58 Sapph. fr. 122 Voigt; Eur. HF 397; Ar. fr. 406 Kassel–Austin, PCG; Eq. 326 (conjecture); etc.

  Julián Méndez Dosuna press out’ (ἐκπιέζω).59 The semantic evolution of ἀμόργη may have proceeded through the following metonymic changes: ‘(olive) harvesting’ > ‘olive crushing’ (action) > ‘olive crushing’ (result) > ‘residue of olive oil extraction’ (olive pomace) > ‘sediment of olive oil’ (amurca). If not an accidental coincidence with a Pre-Greek name, the toponym Ἀμοργός can be interpreted as an agent noun of ἀμέργω:60 ‘one who presses (olives)’ > ‘olive-press’ > ‘place where olives are pressed’; cf. modern Πατητήρι in the island of Alonisos (ancient Halonnesos) (Mod.Gk. πατητήρι ‘place where grapes are trampled barefoot’). Eustathius already connected ἀμόργινος with ἀμόργη: Ἀμοργῖνος ἐντεῦθεν λεγόμενος προπερισπωμένως, τύπῳ ἐθνικῷ· τὸ δὲ Ἀμόργινος προπαροξυτόνως χιτῶνος ἐπίθετον ἀπὸ χρώματος ἴσως ἐλαιοχρόου τινός. Eustath. ad Dionys. Perieg. 525 = GGM II, p. 318 Müller From that [i.e., Ἀμοργός] [derives] Ἀμοργῖνος pronounced as a perispomenon in conformity with a type of gentilic. The form ἀμόργινος with proparoxytonic accentuation [is] an adjective said of a chiton, perhaps deriving by some color of an oil-/olive-shade.

His explanation is, however, misguided since ἀμόργινος neither derives from Ἀμοργός nor can be identified with the color of olives (green? black?), olive leaves, or olive oil. Recently, the etymological connection with ἀμόργη has been revamped by Marinatos and Spantidaki, but for the wrong reason.61 Both authors believe that amurca was used as a lubricant to enhance the softness, sheen, and transparency of fabrics.62 Semantically, this would not be impossible: cf. κάδος πίττινος ‘a crock treated with pitch (πίττα)’ (not ‘made of pitch’) (IG I3 425, 414 BC; Ar. fr. 280 Kassel–Austin, PCG). This notwithstanding, the use of olive oil lees as a lubricant

 59 Eust. Il. vol. 1 p. 332.17 van der Walk, EM, s.v. ἀπομόρξατο, but this sense could well have been tailored to justify the meaning of ἀμόργη. 60 Dieu 2016, 11. Cf. τροφός ‘nourisher’ / τρέφω ‘to nourish’, ἀγός ‘leader’ (*h2og–) / ἄγω ‘to lead’ (*h2eg–). 61 Marinatos 1967, A 4–5; Spantidaki 2014, 42–43; 2016a, 27, 100–102; 2016b, 128; 2017, 298–301. 62 Spantidaki 2016a, 101 is aware of the connection between the amorgina and purple, but fails to draw the correct conclusion from this fact: “it seems that amorgina fabrics were commonly dyed purple, but it is not clear if this was already the case in Classical Athens”. Furthermore, she unnecessarily assumes that the amorgina were related to the island of Amorgos, and that the amorgis was a fiber plant.

Ἀμόργινος and ἀμοργίς  

is unlikely and, even more crucially, it fails to explain why a waste product could possibly make the amorgina so outrageously unaffordable.63 In my opinion, the link that connects ἀμόργινος and ἀμόργη is indubitably color. In ancient Greece, where olive oil production was a major staple of the economy, amurca must have been widely known and, consequently, may have served as a convenient color reference. Two ancient texts provide valuable clues to identifying this enigmatic color. In Hippocrates’ Aphorisms 7.45.3, the pus of minor liver infections flowing clean and white (πύον καθαρὸν […] καὶ λευκόν) is contrasted with a dark pus predictive of an impending death, which looks like amurca (ἢν δὲ [τὸ πύον] οἷον ἀμόργη ῥύῃ). In modern medical literature, this brownish mixture of pus and necrotic tissue formed in amoebic liver abscesses is compared to anchovy paste. The pseudo-Aristotelian treatise On Colors explains that, in the natural process of progressive oxidation, the ἀμόργης (masc.!)64 undergoes successive changes of hue: τὰ δὲ καὶ πλείους ἐπ᾽ αὐτοῖς ἔχει χρόας, καθάπερ […] τῆς ἐλαίας ὁ ἀμόργης· καὶ γὰρ οὗτος τὸ μὲν πρῶτον γίνεται λευκός […], λευκανθεὶς δὲ πάλιν εἰς τὸ φοινικιοῦν μεταβάλλει χρῶμα, τὸ δὲ τελευταῖον πολλῷ τῷ μέλανι κραθεὶς γίνεται κυανοειδής. [Arist.] Col. 796A.25–30 Other [parts of plants] have a number of shades, for example the sediment of olive oil (amurca), for this is white at first, but, after becoming white,65 it turns crimson, and finally mingling with a large quantity of black, it darkens to a bluish-black hue.

Pliny the Elder compared the color of Tyrian purple to clotted blood, blackish at first sight, but gleaming when held up to the light (laus ei summa in colore sanguinis concreti, nigricans aspectu idemque suspectu refulgens, Plin. HN 9.135). Taken together, these three passages point toward a very dark shade of purplish brown in the range of modern Maroon, Dark Aubergine, Black Bean, or Raisin Black. The evidence of Aristophanes’ Lysistrata is congruent with this conclusion (see § 7).

 63 Ancient medical treatises (Hippoc., Diosc., Gal., etc.) prescribed amurca as an ointment. Dried olive pomace served as a fertilizer, as fodder for livestock, and as fuel. 64 An accusative ἀμόργητα seems to be documented in P.Cair.Zen. V 59839.3 (3rd cent. AD). 65 The initial white phase is illusory. The author of the treatise plainly mistook the whitish cloudiness of olive oil stored at low temperatures due to the congealing of triglycerids for the turbidness of unfiltered new oil containing microparticles of sediment and microdroplets of water.

  Julián Méndez Dosuna A striking parallel for ἀμόργινος as a color adjective is provided by Medieval and Modern Greek, where an adjective μοῦργος ‘bay’ (said of horses and mules)’ was derived from μούργα ‘amurca’.66 The noun μούργος currently denotes ‘a large shepherd dog having a dark brown coat’ (ΛΚΝ, s.v.).67 Their dark hue also holds the key to explaining why ἀμόργινα were so expensive. Contrary to widespread belief, the reason for their high price was neither the fiber used nor the thinness of the fabric, but the dyeing process. True purple obtained from various sea snails (Hexaplex trunculus, Stramonita haemostoma, and, especially, Bolinus brandaris) was a highly prized commodity and purple-dyed garments remained a major status symbol throughout Antiquity. Depending on various factors like the species of murices used, the concentration of the dyebath, and the number of baths, the hue of purple-dyed fabrics ranged from pale pink to dark brown or purple. A darker color required a more concentrated dye bath of costly murex purple and a longer soaking time. The process had to be repeated several times to achieve the desired result. All this had an enormous impact on the final price of the product.68 There existed cheaper alternatives to murex purple, but they were not color fast. It seems likely that the Sicilian linen chitons mentioned in Plato’s Thirteenth Letter as an alternative to the expensive imported amorgine chitons had been dyed with some affordable substitute for murex purple. In short, ἀμόργινος denoted a dark purplish brown hue during the Classical period. In time, the adjective probably went out of use and, for this reason, was capriciously reinterpreted by later lexicographers as meaning ‘made in Amorgos’, ‘linen’, ‘thin’, or ‘expensive’.69 Curiously, βύσσινος, originally an adjective of material (from βύσσος, a Semitic word denoting first ‘flax, fine linen’ and

 66 Anc. Gk. ἀμόργη entered Latin as amurca probably via Etruscan to judge from the devoicing of /g/. According to common opinion (Andriotis, ΛΚΝ), its descendant It. murga found its way back to Greek as μούργα, but this explanation is questionable if only because murga is exclusive to some Southern Italian dialects and the voicing /k/ > /g/ is unexpected. Standard Italian has morchia from VLat. murcula. In all probability, Mod. Gk. μούργα directly descends from Anc. Gk. ἀμόργη (for ‘Doric’ /a/ in Modern Greek, cf. Holton et al. 2019, 24–26). Southern Italian murga must be a loan from the neighboring Greek–speaking areas. 67 For the etymology of μούργος, cf. Meyer 1894, 42–43 and Kapsomenos 1936. Dialect variants include μούργκος, μούρκος, μούρτζιους, μούργας, μούργκας. Cf. also Roman. murg, Arouman. murgu ‘bay (horse)’, Alban. murg ‘brown’. In present-day use the noun μούργος commonly refers to ‘a rude and surly person’. 68 On murex purple see, e.g., Karali/Megaloudi 2008; Machebœuf 2008; Spantidaki 2016a, 25– 26; Brøns 2017a, 89, 93; 2018, 9–10; 2019, 287–288. 69 For the similar case of Gk. μολόχινος and Lat. molochinus, see § 1 above.

Ἀμόργινος and ἀμοργίς  

later ‘cotton’ and ‘silk’),70 followed the reverse route and became a color adjective synonymous with πορφυροῦς.71

 Unraveling the thread of Aristophanes’ joke Having concluded that ἀμοργίς and ἀμόργινα χιτώνια denoted chitons of a dark brown hue inclining to black, we can now look afresh at the two Lysistrata passages in which these words occur and which are believed to provide incontestable evidence for ἀμόργινος meaning ‘made of a transparent fabric’ and for ἀμοργίς denoting a plant. In my opinion, the two jokes — or rather, the two versions of one and the same joke — rely on a sexual double entendre of ἀμόργινα χιτώνια and ἀμοργίς metaphorically referring to female pubic hair trimmed short and neatly styled. The metaphor builds on two features shared by its vehicle and its tenor: a dark color and, secondarily, a smooth texture. As for the color, Aristophanes refers to a woman’s pubes as τὸ μέλαν τοῦτ(ο) ‘that black thing’ in Wasps 1374.72 Here is the first passage repeated for convenience. Henderson’s translation has been slightly modified to fit my interpretation as explained in the subsequent commentary: εἰ γὰρ καθῄμεθ᾽ ἔνδον ἐντετριμμέναι, κἀν τοῖς χιτωνίοισι τοῖς ἀμοργίνοις γυμναὶ παρίοιμεν δέλτα παρατετιλμέναι…

Ar. Lys. 149–151

 70 Cf. βυσσίνοις δ᾽ ἐν πέπλοις ‘in fine linen robes’ (Aesch. Pers. 124–5), σινδόνος βυσσίνης τελαμῶσι. 71 Cf. βύσσινον· πορφυροῦν (Hsch. β 1336 Latte–Cunningham) and ἀμόργεια· χρώματος βυσσίνου εἶδος ‘amorgeia: a type of cherry-red color’ (Ps.-Zon. α 149). This semantic change accounts for Mod. Gk. βύσσινο ‘sour cherry, Prunus cerasus’. For resemantization with color adjectives, see Méndez Dosuna 2012 on ἀργός ‘white’ > ‘fast’ and (2015a) on αἰόλος ‘patterned, variegated’ > ‘swift’ (pace Dale 2021, 76–80); also, with a different approach, Silk 1983, 317–319, on ξουθός (‘golden yellow’ > ‘quick’, ‘resounding’). Outside Greek, cf. Lat. fulvus ‘tawny’ > Fr. fauve ‘tawny’ > ‘wild’ (adj.) > ‘wild beast’ (noun); Arab. al–ʔazʕar ‘reddish’ > Sp. alazán ‘sorrel’ > ‘sorrel horse’ > ‘steed’ (stigmatized). 72 Cf. also κοραξοί· Σκυθῶν γένος καὶ τὸ γυναικεῖον αἰδοῖον ‘koraxoi: a tribe of the Scythians and the female genitals’ (Hsch. κ 3583 Latte) from κοραξός ‘raven-black’. Neither φοινικιοῦς nor ἁλουργός were adequate options for the metaphor: τῶν δὲ τριχωμάτων οὐδὲν οὔτε φοινικιοῦν οὔθ’ ἁλουργὲς […] γίνεται ‘no hair is crimson or violet’ ([Arist.], Col. 799b).

  Julián Méndez Dosuna If we sat at home all made up, and passed by naked wearing only our dark brown short chitons and [with our pubes] plucked delta-style…

In this passage genital depilation is overtly mentioned (δέλτα παρατετιλμέναι). In a literal interpretation ἐν τοῖς χιτωνίοισι τοῖς ἀμοργίνοις γυμναί means ‘(half-) naked in our dark brown mini-chitons, wearing our dark brown mini-chitons and nothing else’. Here γυμναί does not mean ‘stark naked, nude’, but ‘undressed, with no outer garment’, a sense well documented in passages like the following:73 νῦν δ’ οὖν οὔ σε περιόψομαι / γυμνὸν ὄνθ’ οὕτως. […] / ἀλλὰ τὴν ἐξωμίδ’ ἐνδύσω σε προσιοῦσ’ ἐγώ. Ar. Lys. 1019–102174 I won’t suffer seeing you undressed, but I will approach you and put your exōmis on. ἐγὼ μὲν ἀπεκομίσθην ὑπὸ τῶν παρατυχόντων γυμνός, οὗτοι δ’ ᾤχοντο θοἰμάτιον λαβόντες μου. Dem. 54.9 I was taken home by some passersby undressed as I was, for these men had stripped me of my cloak and gone away.

However, the women’s pubes could hardly show through a fabric dyed dark brown and their χιτώνια were not short enough for their ‘deltas’ to be exposed. Thus, the audience could easily realize — possibly with the help of some clue furnished by the actor playing Lysistrata in the form of a wicked tone of voice or a hand gesture — that the ἀμόργινα χιτώνια involved a naughty joke: ‘clad only in our dark brown short chitons (i.e. our pubic hair) and plucked [down there] in a triangle’.75 In this metaphorical reading, the women happen to be stark naked

 73 See further Hes. Op. 391; Ar. Nub. 497–498; Pl. Resp. 474a; Dem. 21.216; [Theoc.] Id. 27.59. Cf. also ἐν χιτῶνι μόνον ἀνέβη ‘He climbed up clad only in his tunic’ (Xen. An. 5.2.15). 74 On this passage, see Henderson 1987, 188. 75 Contrary to the scholiast’s assumption, ἀντὶ τοῦ “τὸ αἰδοῖον τὸ γυναικεῖον”· τοιοῦτον γὰρ τὸ σχῆμα ‘[it stands] for “the female genitals” for the shape is similar’, Schol. Ar. Lys. 151 Hangard), δέλτα is not an accusative of respect referring to the area plucked, but a loosely constructed predicative describing the styling of the pubes; cf. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff 1927, 132; Henderson 1987, 85; 1991, 248. For the construction, cf. σὺ δὲ κοψίχωι γε σκάφιον ἀποτετιλμένωι ‘and you [look] like a blackbird plucked bowl-style’ (Ar. Av. 806); for an even closer parallel in Ar. Eccl. 724, see below. The ‘delta-style’ is the equivalent of a modern ‘bikini waxing’.

Ἀμόργινος and ἀμοργίς  

much like Marilyn Monroe, who reportedly claimed to have worn to bed “just a few drops of Chanel No 5… and yet, I don’t want to say ‘nude’.” The connection between the amorgine short chitons and the revealing short chitons (τὰ διαφανῆ χιτώνια) mentioned in line 48 has been cited frequently, but two other possible intratextual echoes have been overlooked. A few lines earlier, Cleonice described women as incapable of achieving anything of worth because ‘we sit all preened, dressed in yellow-dyed chitons and made up’ (καθήμεθ᾽ ἐξηνθισμέναι, / κροκωτοφοροῦσαι καὶ κεκαλλωπισμέναι, lines 43–45). Later on, when Lysistrata puts the women under oath, the same participles recur in the singular: οἴκοι δ᾽ ἀταυρώτη διάξω τὸν βίον / κροκωτοφοροῦσα καὶ κεκαλλωπισμένη ‘I shall lead my life in abstinence from men dressed in saffroncolored chitons and made up’ (lines 217, 219 and 218, 220). The lure is no transparent garment, but a chiton dyed saffron-yellow (in this case, with no obvious second meaning). Like murex purple, saffron was an expensive dye accessible only to an exclusive few.76 A similar analysis might hold for some lines in an extensive fragment rich in sexual imagery from Pherecrates’ Miners, in which the underworld is described as a land of Cockaigne:77 κόραι δ᾽ ἐν ἀμπεχόναις τριχάπτοις ἀρτίως ἡβυλλιῶσαι καὶ τὰ ῥόδα κεκαρμέναι πλήρεις κύλικας οἴνου μέλανος ἀνθοσμίου ἤντλουν διὰ χώνης τοῖσι βουλομένοις πιεῖν. Pherecr. fr. 113.28-31 Μεταλλῆς, Kassel–Austin, PCG = Athen. 269B Girls in dresses fastened with hair and recently come to womanhood with their roses shorn were ladling out cups full of flower-scented dark wine through a funnel for those wishing to drink.

It is widely accepted that the roses stand for the girls’ genitalia. In the same vein, the ampekhonai fastened with hair are likely to refer to their pubic hair.78 The verb κείρω is often used for the shearing of hair.  76 Benda-Weber 2014. 77 The parallel with Ar. Lys. 149–151 is aptly noted by Mastromarco 2014, 73, who clings to a literal reading of both passages. Pherecrates’ theatrical career extended from c. 450 to c. 410 BC. For a detailed commentary of the fragment, cf. Franchini 2020, 100–116. 78 The nouns ἀμπεχόνη (also in Aristophanes, Xenophon, and Plato), ἀμπέχονον in some inventories of Brauron (e.g. IG II2.1514.34, 36, 50), and ἀμπεχόνιον in Tanagra (SEG 43.212B.11) are usually interpreted as meaning ‘shawl’ or ‘veil’ (cf. e.g. ἀμπεχόνην· λεπτὸν ἱμάτιον, Hsch. α 3793 Latte–Cunningham), but the actual nature of these garments remains uncertain.

  Julián Méndez Dosuna Let us now revisit the second passage about the woman who had forgotten an unpeeled amorgis at home (again Henderson’s translation has been slightly modified): ΓΥ. B´ ΛΥ.

ΓΥ. B´ ΛΥ.

τάλαιν᾽ ἐγὼ, τάλαινα τῆς ἀμοργίδος, 735 ἣν ἄλοπον οἴκοι καταλέλοιφ᾽. αὕτη ᾽τέρα ἐπὶ τὴν ἄμοργιν τὴν ἄλοπον ἐξέρχεται. χῶρει πάλιν δεῦρ᾽. ἀλλὰ νὴ τὴν Φωσφόρον, ἔγωγ᾽ ἀποδείρασ᾽ αὐτίκα μάλ᾽ ἀνέρχομαι. μή, μἀποδείρῃς· ἢν γὰρ ἄρξῃς τουτουί, 740 ἑτέρα γυνὴ ταὐτὸν ποεῖν βουλήσεται. Ar. Lys. 735–741

2ND WIFE: Oh my god, my god, my dark brown chiton! I have left it unpeeled at home! LYThat’s another coming out to look for her unpeeled brown chiton. Come back here! 2ND WIFE: But, by the Bringer of Light, I’ll flay it and come back up straightaway. LYSISTRATA: No! Don’t flay anything! If you start doing that, some other wife will want to do the same.

SISTRATA:

Here genital depilation is not explicitly mentioned, but the actions denoted by the adjective ἄλοπος (lines 150, 151) and the verb ἀποδέρω (lines 153, 154) are easily relatable to the plucking and shearing of a cloth as metaphors of hair removal. In addition, the context replete with sexual overtones invites a risqué reading of the amorgis. Curiously, textiles play a prominent role in Lysistrata, both factually and metaphorically.79 It is also worth noting that a φοινικίς has a metaphorical meaning, albeit of an entirely different kind, in Acharnians: εἰπέ μοι, τί φείδομεσθα τῶν λίθων, ὦ δημόται, μὴ οὐ καταξαίνειν τὸν ἄνδρα τοῦτον εἰς φοινικίδα.

Ar. Ach. 319–320

Tell me, fellow villagers, why are we sparing the stones and why do we refrain from thrashing this man and making him into a crimson chiton (i.e. ‘stone him until his body is covered with blood and bruises’).

 Τρίχαπτος (a transparent compound of θρίξ and ἅπτω) is arbitrarily translated as ‘see-through’ or ‘fine-spun’ (cf. also τριχαπτόν· τὸ βαμβύκινον ὕφασμα ὑπὲρ τῶν τριχῶν τῆς κεφαλῆς ἁπτόμενον, ἢ πολύτιμον ‘The cotton fabric attached over the hair of the head, or a precious one’, Hsch. τ 1462 Alpers–Cunningham). 79 Compton–Engle 2015, 48–58.

Ἀμόργινος and ἀμοργίς  

More to the point, the excuses of the four deserters in Lysistrata seem to be arranged in pairs. The third and the fourth woman complain of insomnia. By the same token, since the first woman’s Milesian wool must stand for her pubic hair,80 a fortiori the second woman’s amorgis should convey a metaphor of a similar type. Paradoxical as it may seem, both women are doing their best to put Lysistrata’s grooming tips into practice: a stylish dark brown mini-chiton should make a woman irresistible to her husband. On a more general note, genital depilation is obsessively recurrent in Lysistrata and in Aristophanes’ later comedies: Lys. 825–828; Thesm. 215–216, 236, 536–543, 590; Ra. 422–423; Eccl. 12–13, 724.81 All through his career, Aristophanes displayed a startling array of botanical and furry metaphors for (usually shaggy) female and male pubic hair: τἄνθεα τῆς γλάχωνος ‘the pennyroyal flowers’ (Ach. 869),82 τὴν βληχὼ παρατετιλμένην ‘with her pennyroyal styled by plucking’ (Lys. 89), τὴν λόχμην πολλὴν φορεῖς ‘that’s an abundant bush you’re sporting’ (Lys. 800), ἐγὼ δὲ Μενελέῳ σ᾽ ὅσα γ᾽ ἐκ τῶν ἰφύων ‘I [saw] in you [the spitting image of] Menelaus, to judge from your topped lavender stems’ (Thesm. 910),83 κῳδάριον καὶ ληκύθιον καὶ θυλάκιον ‘a little fleece, a little flask and a little bag’ (Ra. 1203),84 κατωνάκην τὸν χοῖρον ἀποτετιλμένας ‘[slave women] with their piglet plucked in the style of a sheepskin coat’ (i.e. au naturel) (Eccl. 724), πήραν ἔχοντα λάχανά τ᾽ ἄγρια δροσερά ‘[you the Cyclops] with your saddlesack and your damp wild greens’ (Plut. 298).85

 Conclusions Contrary to prevalent opinion, ἀμόργινος and ἀμοργίς bear no connection whatsoever either with the island of Amorgos (‘Amorgian’) or with any plant or fiber. Ἀμόργινος denoted a very dark purplish brown named after olive oil lees (ἀμόργη). An ἀμοργίς was a chiton of that color.

 80 See Méndez Dosuna 2021. 81 For genital depilation in Greece, Bain 1982; Kilmer 1982; Henderson 1991, 52, 131; 2015, 79–81; Lavergne 2011; Robson 2013, 48–49; Brulé 2015, 413–428. 82 Méndez Dosuna 2017. 83 Méndez Dosuna 2016. 84 See, e.g., Whitman 1969; Griffith 1970; Penella 1973; Dover 1993, 338; Gerö/Johnsson 2002; Méndez Dosuna 2021, 672–673. Henderson’s 1972, 133–43; 1991, 120 n. 71 and Bain’s 1985 arguments to deny the presence of a double entendre are insubstantial. 85 Méndez Dosuna 2015b.

  Julián Méndez Dosuna The exorbitant price of the ἀμόργινα was the inevitable result of their being dyed with precious murex purple. The darker the hue, the larger the amount of dyestuff required and the higher the price of the final product. In Aristophanes’ Lysistrata the ἀμόργινα χιτώνια and the ἀμοργίς are metaphors for well-groomed dark female pubic hair, the basis of the comparison being a dark brown hue and an even and smooth texture. In both cases the metaphors stand against a background of genital depilation and covert obscenity, which function as catalysts of the risqué reading. The legendary fabrics of Amorgos, the sexy transparent baby-doll lingerie of Lysistrata’s companions and the phallic stalk of flax of the second woman are pure fabrications woven in the unbridled imagination of ancient and modern scholars.

Abbreviations (dictionaries) Bailly BDAG CDG DÉLG DGE EDG LSJ ΛΚΝ

Bailly, A. (1963), Dictionnaire grec-français (26th ed.), Paris. Montanari, F. (2015), The Brill Dictionary of Ancient Greek, Leiden. Diggle, J. et al. (2021), The Cambridge Dictionary of Greek, Cambridge Chantraine, P. et al. (2009), Dictionnaire étymologique de la langue grecque. Histoire des mots, 2nd ed., Paris. Rodríguez Adrados, F./Rodríguez Somolinos, J. (eds.), Diccionario griego-español en línea, . Beekes, R.S.P. (2010), Etymological Dictionary of Greek, 2 vols., Leiden. Liddle, H.G./Scott, R./Jones, H.S. (1940), A Greek-English Lexicon (9th ed.), Oxford. Ινστιτούτο Νεοελληνικών Σπουδών (1998), Λεξικό της κοινής νεοελληνικής, Thessaloniki.

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Panagiotis Filos

Some Remarks on Ancient Epirote Glosses Abstract: Ancient glosses are an important source of information for Ancient Greek, particularly as regards some of its lesser known features and varieties. In this paper, I examine a few glosses attributed to the ancient variety of Epirus, e.g. δάξα ‘sea’, δράμιξ ‘(type of) bread’, etc. The goal is twofold: on the one hand, I aim to demonstrate that interdisciplinary approaches (linguistics, philology, but also palaeography, epigraphy, onomastics, etc.) can lead to more nuanced and thorough conclusions; on the other, I mean to underscore that modern studies of ancient dialectal glosses, especially forms with an obscure linguistic character and/or of disputed provenance, ought to rely on wellestablished principles of (historical) linguistics and (classical) philology, and operate on the basis of all available evidence (literary, epigraphic, onomastic, etc.), rather than be dependent on subjective ancient views and/or unfounded modern theories. Keywords: Epirote, glosses, Greek dialects, Hesychius, historical linguistics, Macedonian

 Introduction Philology, not only as a concept but also in terms of its various modern branches and meanings (‘classical’, ‘comparative’, etc.), which essentially correspond to its long-term development since antiquity (especially in Hellenistic times), is nowadays a broad scholarly field open to textual, mostly literary, but also linguistic and other studies.1 Hence, (classical) philology and (historical) linguistics are two intersecting fields, while they can also interact with other disciplines (e.g. epigraphy, palaeography, etc.).

 I would like to thank the audience of my online talk, and particularly, Georgios Giannakis, Emilio Crespo, Julian Méndez Dosuna, and Daniel Kölligan for their useful remarks.  1 This is at least the modern perception of the term, although we know nowadays of similar developments at different times and in other parts of the world, e.g. the ancient Indian tradition, which was marked by the presence of distinguished grammarians like Pāṅini (ca. 5th cent. BC). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111272887-017

  Panagiotis Filos Ancient scholia and glosses are a case in point since they often require a more holistic approach comprising a philological knowledge of ancient texts but also a linguistic capacity in assessing the evidence itself as well as ancient metalinguistic views (grammarians, lexicographers and other literary authors). In that respect, the topic of this paper, the study of a small set of ancient Epirote glosses will also serve as a way to demonstrate the potential of these two intersecting scholarly fields, and even more their various synergies.

 Glosses and Ancient Greek dialectology . Ancient Greek glosses Ancient Greek glosses (γλῶσσαι) were largely words or phrases/expressions characterized by a number of common features: less common use, obscure meaning, dialectal or foreign provenance. Glosses had a lengthy history in Ancient Greek literature, and Ancient Greek literary criticism in particular, but their collection and study became more systematic from ca. the 1st cent. BC onwards (cf. OCD, s.v. gloss; Dickey 2007, 11 n. 25). Glossaries, namely collections of glosses may refer to literary works (e.g. Homer) but also to dialects, a trend that became more evident in the first centuries AD when the Atticist movement favored in particular the compilation of Attic glossaries for the purpose of ‘appropriate’ language usage (i.e. in contrast to current Koine forms). But glossaries were also compiled for other dialects: for instance, the Macedonian lexicographer Amerias (3rd cent. BC) reportedly produced the first compilation of Macedonian glosses (see also in 4.1). The later lexicographer Hesychius (5th/6th cent. AD), whose lexicon is of paramount importance for the study of Ancient Greek dialectology but also for the lexicon of other ancient languages, incorporated into his work a great amount of information from previous glossaries, including that one by Amerias. But as mentioned before, Ancient Greek dialectal glosses can be retrieved from a variety of texts and not only from lexicographical works, even though the last category, notably Hesychius, is the largest one: note e.g. grammarians like Herodian or even literary authors like Athenaeus. Hesychius in particular is a key source of linguistic information for ancient fragmentary languages (or Restsprachen, e.g. Illyrian, Thracian), but also for ancient languages with an extant, however limited epigraphic corpus (e.g. Phrygian, Lydian, Iranian, etc.). The same remark holds true for some less wellattested Ancient Greek dialects (cf. literature, epigraphy), such as Aeolic, Laconi-

Some Remarks on Ancient Epirote Glosses  

an, Elean, but also for some ‘aberrant’ ones, such as Macedonian, Pamphylian, Epirote, etc. Finally, some lesser known linguistic features of Ancient Greek (e.g. sociolinguistic varieties, special registers, etc.) may also be detected sometimes in the glosses. On the other hand, one ought to keep in mind that the use of glosses for linguistic study may also present certain difficulties. For instance, information provided by Hesychius, especially in the case of glosses relating to less wellknown Ancient Greek dialects and other largely unbeknownst languages, must be examined with some caution (cf. also Dickey 2007, 88–90): (a) the text has largely been transmitted through only one, late manuscript (15th cent. AD); (b) there is some degree of textual contamination due to scribal errors in the Middle Ages; (c) terms like ‘Epirote’, ‘Macedonian’, ‘Illyrian’ cannot always be taken at face value.

. Macedonian glosses: a show-/test-case of modern philological-linguistic approaches The most well-known set of dialectal glosses in Hesychius’ lexicon are probably the so-called ‘Macedonian’ glosses. There has been continuous scholarly interest in these forms over almost the past two centuries, which makes them a good case for showcasing both the potential of and the problems with an interdisciplinary study (philological-linguistic) of dialectal glosses in Hesychius, but also of any obscure glosses in general. To this purpose, I will refer briefly below to a few selected Macedonian glosses, which have been examined in the recent literature too, before I move on to revisit a far-less studied set of Epirote glosses. (a) ἀβροῦτες· ὀφρῦς Μακεδόνες. ‘abroûtes: eyebrows among the Macedonians’.

The Macedonian gloss ἀβροῦτες shows a (a voiced labial stop /b/ or perhaps already a fricative /v/, see Crespo 2018, Hatzopoulos 2018, 305–310) instead of a Greek (a voiceless aspirate labial stop /ph/). The unexpected initial A- can be interpreted in various ways (e.g. substrate influence, different phonological makeup/change; but Cypr. ἄβροτες rather challenges a ‘substrate’ hypothesis). Moreover, the spelling in place of could be an indication of /u/ pronunciation, while Attic-Ionic (and Koine Greek) had adopted a /y/ pronunciation for . On the other hand, the rather odd letter is probably

  Panagiotis Filos a later palaeographic mistake, i.e. a former digamma (/w/) (cf. letter similarity). Finally, some later, Modern Greek dialectal evidence adduces further insights: the dialectal form φρούτα ‘knitted decorations at the border of a garment’ (Pieria, in Macedonia) could represent a partial morphosemantic continuation of the Macedonian gloss (Tzitzilis 2008 apud Méndez Dosuna 2012, 136, 138). In conclusion, the combination of philological and linguistic expertise (palaeography, etymology, dialectology, ancient and modern alike) provides some useful clues about and insights into the interpretation of the gloss. (b) βλαχάν· ὁ βάτραχος. ‘blakhán: the frog’.

This Ancient Greek gloss corresponds to a Macedonian form occurring in an epigraphic text: Ἄρτεμις Βλαγαν(ε)ῖτις, namely an epithet of the goddess Artemis, obviously deriving from a place name ἐν Βλαγάνοις (cf. ) where she was worshipped (Hatzopoulos 2018, 305). (c) γoλα (γoδα ms.)· ἔντερα. ‘gola: guts’.

The form γoλα probably stands for an original (oxytone ?) γολᾱ = Att. χολή ‘gall (bladder)’; cf. also masc. χόλος, Homeric χολάδες ‘guts’. The final long ᾱ corresponds to Att. -η, while Macedonian instead of Greek is once again a case of a voiced stop (or fricative) in place of a Greek voiceless aspirate. On the other hand, instead of is a palaeographic matter, i.e. the two quasiidentical letters have caused some confusion (cf. Méndez Dosuna 2012, 133). The apparently misplaced accent (maintained in all modern editions), must be due to a misunderstanding that γολα is a thematic neut. pl. form; cf. also the word ἔντερα (neut. pl.) following γολα in the gloss. (d) δανῶν· κακοποιῶν. κτείνων. ‘danôn: knave, killer’.

The Macedonian gloss, a pres. ppl. of a denominative verb *δανόω corresponds to the Attic denominative verb θανατόω ‘to kill’ (< θάνατος ‘death’; note also Mac. δάνος ‘death’, which is reportedly the equivalent to Att. θάνατος ‘death’ (Plut. Mor. 2.22c)). The use of instead of is once again due to Macedonian consonantism, while the absence of the morpheme -ατ- from the Macedonian form is a more challenging matter. A philology-inclined explanation, i.e. palaeographic (haplography) does not seem feasible here, since Plutarch (δάνος) corroborates Hesychius (δανῶν) here. Hence, a linguistic explanation seems

Some Remarks on Ancient Epirote Glosses  

more plausible: morphological remodeling (for instance, a stem-extension in the Attic form), e.g. Att. θάνατος (< *dhnh2-tos) vs. Mac. δάνος (< *dhn-os < *dhnh2-os (?)); cf. also Beekes 2010, s.v. θάνατος. By contrast, haplology, i.e. the loss of -ατ- due to preceding, quasi-similar -αν- is hardly feasible since the two elements are neither identical nor do they stand for syllables as is usually the case with haplology (e.g. *ἀμφιφορεύς > ἀμφορεύς). (e) δώραξ· σπλὴν ὑπὸ Μακεδόνων. ‘dṓrax: spleen (sc. called in this manner) by the Macedonians’.

The main problem is semantic since Mac. vs. Att. is the common issue of special Macedonian consonantism: Att. θώραξ ‘trunk, chest’ has an ostensibly different meaning. Attempts to bridge the gap through elaborate linguistic arguments (e.g. semantic extension, metonymy, etc.) are no clear-cut proofs, although they may offer some possible explanations (cf. Kalléris 1954, 160–162). In sum, it is evident that when philological knowledge is matched by linguistic expertise (cf. other disciplines too, such as palaeography, epigraphy, etc.) the interpretation and sometimes also the emendation of ancient glosses becomes a more feasible task. We will now turn our attention to the Epirote glosses, but before that a short reference to the linguistic profile of ancient Epirus, largely on the basis of ancient testimonies and available epigraphic evidence, is in order here.

 The linguistic character of ancient Epirus The linguistic identity of ancient Epirus has been a matter of debate since ancient times. Ancient Greek sources, which actually represent an outsider’s perspective (cf. Malkin 2001; Davies 2002), present a non-uniform picture of the linguistic and ethnic background of the region: they range from the belief that Epirus was the birthplace of the Greeks (cf. Arist. Mete. 352a33–b3, Ptol. 3.13) to views suggesting, directly or indirectly, that Epirus was hardly a proper part of the Greek world, at least until Classical times (cf. Thuc. 2.80.5–6). In the PostClassical period, however, most ancient authors shared a view favoring the Greek character of the area (e.g. Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 20.10.1, Strabo 2.5.40, 16.2.43, Paus. 1.11.7–1.12.2, Eutrop. 2.11.5–6), even though a few deviating views remained, apparently on the basis of previous accounts (e.g. Steph. Byz. 105.20, 214.9). Similarly, modern accounts of ancient Epirus have not adopted a unanimous stance with regard to the ethnic and linguistic background of the region, even though they lean in their majority towards a (predominantly) Greek back-

  Panagiotis Filos ground, while ancient testimonies are now examined more critically (for a short overview, with basic bibliography, see Filos 2018a, 216–224).2 The division of ancient views largely relates to the long-term isolation of Epirus until nearly the early Hellenistic times. As a consequence, the language of the earliest epigraphic, yet non-oracular texts (4th cent. BC), which mostly come from Molossia (or Molossis), the central and most prominent region of

 2 A good number of modern scholars have supported the predominantly Greek character of Epirus, not only on linguistic merits, including proper names (e.g. Georgiev 1966, 180–187; Hammond 1967, 394–395; Katičić 1976 I, 120–127), but also on account of the archaeological evidence (cf. Hammond 1967, 423). However, other modern studies (cf. e.g. Witczak 1995; 2018; Kokosczko/Witczak 2009) play down these arguments, also ignoring the large number of Greek inscriptions now available from Epirus on account of their ‘late’ date, and have opted instead for a later ‘Hellenization’ hypothesis on the basis of a number of selective ancient testimonies (e.g. Hecataeus of Miletus, Herodotus, Thucydides, Ps.-Scylax, Ps.-Scymnus, Strabo), despite the fact that some of these references at least as well as some other ancient passages (cf. e.g. Plut. Vit: Pyrrh. 1.4, Strabo 7.7.8) are open to different interpretations (cf. also the ‘outside perspective’ highlighted in Malkin 2001, Davies 2002). Note here a similar case with modern studies on other areas, e.g. Macedonia, although the epigraphic evidence in that case has redressed the balance (for a critical overview of the literature on Macedonia, see Hatzopoulos 2018). Nonetheless, one ought to point out a number of facts that challenge any approach based solely on part of the ancient accounts, even though substrate influence and/or some degree of bilingualism cannot be excluded, at least in some parts (Chaonia) of Epirus (see Filos forth.): (i) the oldest Epirote inscriptions (Dodona) date to the early 4th cent. BC, a rather early date for a ‘Hellenization’ hypothesis, while the language of them shows NW Doric features, a rather ‘odd’ choice for any alleged (top-down) ‘Hellenization’ process, i.e. neither the ‘dominant’ Attic-Ionic — cf. its introduction to Macedonia by Philipp II at around the same time — nor Doric proper (cf. the several nearby Corinthian colonies) nor Elean (cf. the Elean colonies in Epirus); (ii) the oracular lamellae from Dodona are even earlier (ca. 6th cent. BC onwards), and despite the fact that they do not seem to reflect some local variety, they are all written in Greek and contain very few (safe) non-Greek names; see DVC 2013, including the Appendix (in English) on personal names by J. Curbera; in fact, the presence of the ancient oracle of Zeus at Dodona, mentioned already in Homer (e.g. Il. 2.749–750, 16.233–235) and considered in antiquity the oldest Greek oracle (cf. e.g. Hdt. 2.55–57), is also indicative since one can hardly think of its continuous presence and unhindered function amidst a foreign-speaking land (cf. also the unearthed votives from southern Greece since the Archaic period already, Hammond 1967, 399 ff.); (iii) Epirote delegates (theō-/thearodokoi) are listed in inscriptions for delegates from Greek cities in the sanctuary of Epidaurus, which would be impossible otherwise (cf. Funke et al. 2004); (iv) personal names (cf. LGPN III.A. 1997, but also the Appendix in DVC 2013 mentioned above), including royal names (e.g. Ἀλέξανδρος, Πύρρος), ethnics and place names show in their majority a Greek character (Georgiev 1966, 180–187; Hammond 1967, 394–395; Katičić 1976 I, 120–127; Filos 2018a; 2018b; forth.). On the other hand, one need not point out that the nonepigraphic evidence, part of which is revisited in this paper (cf. 4), is meager and often doubtful as regards etymology and provenance, a fact that leaves little room for any firm conclusions.

Some Remarks on Ancient Epirote Glosses  

Epirus, and particularly from the oracle of Dodona located at the heart of this region,3 does not really display any epichoric features since it was redacted in a generic Doric(izing) language (see Filos 2018a, 227 ff.; Cabanes 1995–2020 IV). On the other hand, the corpus of the oracular lamellae from Dodona (6th c. BC onwards) is of a special, multidialectal character,4 while the earliest inscriptional texts from southern Greek colonies (Corinthian, Elean) alongside the Epirote coast, particularly Ambracia (ca. 6th cent. BC onwards) are not of much help either since their dialectal features and type of alphabet mostly reflect respectively the contemporary epigraphic corpus of the metropolis, notably Corinth (cf. Filos 2018a, 225 ff.). As a matter of fact, the epigraphic texts from Epirus show a form of Greek akin to NW Doric (or NW Greek), namely a Doric dialectal variety also used in many neighboring areas, such as Aetolia, Acarnania as well as in various parts of central Greece (cf. Locris, Phocis, Phthiotis, and Delphi), and to some degree in Macedonia too. In terms of vocalism, the earliest Epirote epigraphic texts (Dodona, early 4th cent. BC)5 point to a Doris mitior variety.6 In general, Epirote inscriptions do not deviate significantly from NW Doric (cf. Filos 2018a, 233– 240). But in fact, it is difficult to pinpoint with much certainty any exclusively Epirote features within the NW Doric group, except for the fact perhaps that Epirote texts do not show many of the NW Doric shibboleths, such as PP ἐν + acc. (direction/movement, e.g. ἐν Ἀκαρνανίαν), athematic dat. pl. -οις (e.g. ἀγώνοις), 3rd pl. imp. ΄- ντων (but cf. e.g. παραμεινάντω in the epigraphic record of Bouthrotos (Chaonia)), the forms ἱαρός and μάρτυροι as well as the contracted medio-pass. ppl. forms in -ει-. On the other hand, some other NW Doric traits do appear, though rarely (e.g. definite article τοί, i.e. in the form of the pronoun τοίδε (Dodona)). Finally, the change εο > ευ (‘height dissimilation’ or ‘right-

 3 Dodona was close to the original capital of Molossia, Passaron (its precise location not safely identified yet) but was previously (ca. before 400 BC) considered part of Thesprotia, another major Epirote region alongside Molossia and Chaonia (see Davies 2002, 234–237; OCD, s.vv. Chaones, Molossi, Thesproti). 4 See DVC 2013. For later studies, see Filos 2018a. 5 Note also a number of earlier oracular lamellae from Dodona (6th cent. BC), although not of Epirote provenance necessarily. 6 The vocalic inventory of the Doris mitior varieties included two additional, mid-close long vowels /eː/ () and /oː/ ( (also called mistakenly ‘spurious diphthongs’) which had derived from compensatory lengthening (first, second), contraction or gradual monophthongization of the respective diphthongs /ei̯/ and /oṷ/. A similar number of short and long vowels existed in Classical Attic too although the quality (‘pronunciation’) of some of them was somewhat different, e.g. was pronounced as /y/, while in Doric it had remained /u/.

  Panagiotis Filos edge synizesis’) in compound anthroponyms starting with Θεο-, Kλεο- and Nεο(e.g. Κλεύμαχος) is in fact recorded in Epirus, most often in the gen. sg. of anthroponyms (in *-es and *-ewes) (cf. Bubenik 1989, 134). In the early Hellenistic times (ca. 3rd – 2nd cent. BC), a new, supradialectal NW Doric variety, namely a NW Doric koina made its appearance, particularly in written speech (cf. official epigraphic texts of the Aetolian League) through dialect leveling and koineization (see Bubenik 1989, 193–213, 296; Filos 2018a, 227 ff.). It was both a rival to Attic-Ionic Koine and a variety modeled upon it. It was marked by certain features (e.g. athem. dat. pl. -οις, PP ἐν + acc.) and seems to have spread into Epirus too, although Epirote texts deviate, to some extent, by avoiding some of the most salient features of this variety (see above), which was mostly, yet not exclusively associated with the texts of its rival Aetolian League.7 The sizeable epigraphic corpus from Epirus (Cabanes 1995–2020) has now become the basis for linguistic studies of the region — note also the onomastic evidence, especially the Epirote personal names (LGPN III.A 1997, to be supplemented by the Appendix on the onomastics (Epirote names only) of the lamellae in DVC 2013) as well as ethnics and place names (cf. Georgiev 1966, 180–187; Hammond 1967, 394–395; Katičić 1976 I, 120–127; Filos 2018a, 240; 2018b). Nonetheless, a few alleged Epirote glosses still attract scholarly attention.

 Epirote glosses The paucity of ancient literary evidence regarding the linguistic profile of ancient Epirus has maintained some small-scale scholarly focus on the ancient glosses labeled ‘Epirote’, even though the label ‘Epirote’ can hardly be confirmed by any other ancient sources on most occasions. Restelli (1969) examined in a short, yet interesting study a small number of Epirote glosses. Some other, and more recent studies (e.g. Witczak 1995; 2018; Kokosczko/Witczak 2009) have also made use of this material, but in the context of the so-called ‘Palaeo-Balkan’ languages. In this paper, I am going to revisit the Epirote glosses, alongside a few glosses labeled ‘Athamanian’, given  7 The Epirote ‘exception’ was probably a matter of plain linguistic deviation, although there is also some degree of scholarly speculation about some possible political aspects, namely the Epirotes supposedly avoided certain salient ‘Aetolian’ features of the NW Doric koina due to the traditional rivalry between the two neighboring areas and frequently opposing political (con)federations/alliances.

Some Remarks on Ancient Epirote Glosses  

that this area belonged geographically to (southeast) Epirus.8 Similarly, I will refer briefly to a couple of ‘Ambracian’ (or ‘Ambraciot(e)’) glosses too, although this term is even more controversial, given also that Ambracia was a Corinthian colony since the late 7th cent. BC, and only became really integrated into the Epirote socio-political settings in the early 3rd cent. BC when it assumed the role of the new capital in Pyrrhus’ Epirote kingdom (cf. OCD, s.vv. Ambracia, Athamanes). On the other hand, I will refrain from the discussion of proper names (personal names, ethnics, place names) since these terms require a special treatment, while they are often even more obscure in terms of provenance and etymology. Hence, proper names discussed in other studies (e.g. Δευάδαι, Σελλοί (?), etc.) have been left out of this paper; the reader may look out for some of them in Restelli 1969; Katičić 1976 I, 122–124; Witczak 1995; 2018; Kokosczko/ Witczak 2009.9

. Epirote ‘proper’ glosses A very few glosses labeled ‘Epirote’ or inferred as such in the literature are listed here. i. Hesychius lists a gloss γοβρίαι (nom. pl.) ‘torches’ but without making any reference to any specific dialect(s).

 8 Athamanians (or Athamanes, Gk. Ἀθαμᾶνες) inhabited the southeastern-most part of Epirus between the Arachthos River and the Pindus mountain range. They were usually considered an Epirote tribe, although not unanimously (e.g. Plut. De fluviis (Περὶ ποταμῶν καὶ ὀρῶν ἐπωνυμίας), 15.6 associates them with Thessaly). After the collapse of monarchy in Epirus, around 230 BC, Athamanians continued as an independent kingdom and later as an autonomous political entity until the early 1st cent. BC when they came under direct Roman control (OCD 2012, s.v. Athamanes). 9 The Epirote glosses discussed in section 4 are largely those found in Restelli 1969 – barring proper names – along with a few additions (e.g. Beekes 2010). Hence, there is no actual claim of a ‘comprehensive’ coverage of all possible ‘Epirote’ glosses lato sensu. In that sense, forms that may indirectly be associated with a broader corpus of Epirote glosses have been left out of the discussion here; note, for instance, the dubious form ἕλλα – cf. inter alia its striking resemblance to the quasi-identical and homonymous Lat. sella ‘seat’ – which is implicitly linked by Hesychius to Epirus via its alleged association with Dodona: ἕλλα· καθέδρα. Λάκωνες. καὶ Διὸς ἱερὸν ἐν Δωδώνῃ ‘hélla: seat, among the Laconians, and Zeus’ sanctuary at Dodona’. Restelli 1969, 822 accentuates the word as ἑλλά and associates it with Hesychian Ἑλλοί = Ἕλλᾱνες/ηνες (?), but such a claim requires too detailed a discussion to be examined here.

  Panagiotis Filos γοβρίαι· φανοί, λαμπτῆρες. ‘gobríai: ‘lights, torches’.

On the other hand, a similar form γράβιον ‘firebrand, torch, oakwood’ is mentioned in Athenaeus (Deipnosophistae 699e (15.57)) but without any particular reference to Epirus.10 In fact, Athenaeus notes in that same passage the names of Amerias — a Macedonian grammarian (3rd cent. BC) and an author inter alia of a dialectal glossary (Γλῶσσαι), mostly on Macedonian, whose contents were partly preserved in the works of Athenaeus and Hesychius (cf. also 2) — and Seleucus (of Alexandria, fl. 1st cent. AD), also a grammarian. These grammarians are mentioned alongside the names of the poets Theodoridas of Syracuse (3rd cent. BC) and Strattis of Athens (late 5th – early 4th cent. BC):11 Ἀμερίας δὲ γράβιον τὸν φανόν. Σέλευκος δὲ οὕτως ἐξηγεῖται ταύτην τὴν λέξιν· «γράβιόν ἐστιν τὸ πρίνινον ἢ δρύινον ξύλον ὃ περιεθλασμένον καὶ κατεσχισμένον ἐξάπτεσθαι καὶ φαίνειν τοῖς ὁδοιποροῦσιν. Θεοδωρίδας γοῦν ὁ Συρακόσιος ἐν Κενταύροις διθυράμβῳ φησίν· «πίσσα δὲ ἀπὸ γραβίων ἔσταζεν, οἷον ἀπὸ... λαμπάδων». μνημονεύει δὲ γραβίων καὶ Στράττις ἐν Φοινίσσαις». But Amerias for phanós uses the word grábion. And this word is explained by Seleucus as follows: “grábion is a stick of ilex or oak, which, being pounded and split, is set on fire and provides light to travellers. Accordingly, Theodoridas of Syracuse, in his Centaurs, which is a dithyrambic poem, says: “The pitch dropped down beneath the grábia, as if from torches”. Strattis too mentions the grábia in his Phoenician Women”.

A common scholarly hypothesis is that the word γράβιον may be an Illyrian loanword (Illyrian *grabu- ‘beech’ < *grēbh-?).12 The root has also been traced in the Illyrian ethnonym Grabaei as well as in the form of the Illyrian personal names Γράβος, Γράβων which occur in Ancient Greek texts too. In addition, Gk. κράββατος and Lat. grabatus ‘bed’ have been associated with the Illyrian root, and thus they are often deemed Illyrian loanwords (cf. Restelli 1969, 820, 827; Beekes 2010, s.v. γράβιον). Nonetheless, the same root also appears also in Ital-

 10 Despite the apparently different morphophonological makeup of the two stems (γράβ-ιον, *γοβρ-ίαι), one cannot rule out a common root (*gṛbh- ?) remodeled through different vocalization (o/a) of the root but also due to consonantal metathesis afterwards. 11 Note also here that the term γράβιον implies a form *γράβος, while it seems that a form γραβδίς may have existed too (Etymologicum Magnum, s.v.). 12 Tzitzilis 2007, 746 argues in favor of an IE root *grōbh-(os).

Some Remarks on Ancient Epirote Glosses  

ic: note Umbrian Grabovius, an epithet of Jup(p)iter in Umbrian (cf. the Iguvine Tablets, VIa, l. 27), and perhaps also of Mars.13 Overall, the root appears in a few Indo-European languages in the area of the Balkans and in Italy; hence, it may be a substrate rather than an IndoEuropean proper root, i.e. Illyrian.14 The apparently cognate forms γοβρίαι — γράβιον, with their different, yet not incompatible phonotactic makeup, seem to enhance the substrate (: Pre-Indo-European) hypothesis (cf. Beekes 2010, s.v.; see additional bibliography there). As far as Ancient Greek itself is concerned, the form γράβιον (cf. also γοβρίαι) seems to appear in Attic literature from as early as the 5th cent. BC (cf. Strattis 50, but also a Sophoclean fragment (S.Fr. 177 Rad), cf. Chantraine 2009, s.v.); this rather early date makes an Illyrian hypothesis less plausible. Note also that similar forms appear in some Modern Greek dialects, i.e. γάβρος (Epirus) (metathesis and/or confusion over some other form(s) ?) and γράβος (Arcadia). This evidence provides some (very) limited corroboration perhaps for a hypothesis that the word γράβιον (cf. also γοβρίαι) may have existed in ancient Epirus too alongside the fact that it was present in Illyrian, and (probably) also in Macedonian (cf. also Restelli 1969, 820, 827).15 ii. A verb γνώσκω is labeled as Epirote by Orion of Thebes (Etymologicon, ed. Sturz, s.v. γινώσκω), a 5th-century AD grammarian in Roman/Byzantine Egypt: γινώσκω...καὶ κατὰ Ἠπειρώτας γνώσκω. ‘ginṓskō...and among the Epirotes gnṓskō’.

The verb γιγνώσκω ‘I know’ (in Ionic and in Hellenistic Koine often as γινώσκω, obviously due to dissimilation) was a very common Ancient Greek verb, marked by present reduplication and the presence of the usually ‘iterative’ suffix -sk-. The verb is of undisputed Indo-European provenance (*gneh3- ‘to (get to) know’:

 13 Note here the morphosemantically equivalent Ancient Greek epithet φηγωναῖος (sc. Ζεύς) < φηγός ‘beech’. 14 A few other possible instances in other Indo-European languages, notably in Balto-Slavic (e.g. Russian grab ‘hornbeam’, Old Prussian wosi-grabis ‘spindle tree’, etc.) have not led to any radical reassessment of the etymology in favor of Indo-European, since the Balto-Slavic attestations have been considered of lesser importance and have tacitly been classified as secondary, i.e. as possible loanwords. 15 Tzitzilis 2007, 751 argues, however, that the Modern Greek forms may have alternatively derived from the Slavonic cognate grabă, obviously in Medieval times.

  Panagiotis Filos note e.g. Lat. (g)nōsco, OPers. xšnāsa-, etc.; see more cognates in Beekes 2010, s.v. γιγνώσκω). The Epirote variant, i.e. a form lacking present reduplication was tentatively considered by Restelli 1969, 813 as an indication of a possible isogloss, namely in connection with Lat. (g)nōsco but also Alb. njoh (and ultimately with Illyrian perhaps, which would be an extrapolation anyway). Nonetheless, this is a rather far-fetched hypothesis, since the form may be explained otherwise, and in fact within Greek: for instance, γιγνώσκω has been considered an early fusion form of *γίγνωμι and γνώσκω; in that case, Epirote would have simply retained an original Proto-Greek form (Leumann apud Giannakis 1992, 167); besides, the form γνώσκω also occurs in the epigraphic corpus of Epidaurus (cf. Chantraine 2009, s.v.), which renders a posited non-Greek provenance even less plausible. iii. The gloss δάξα ‘sea’ is listed by Hesychius as explicitly Epirote: δάξα· θάλασσα Ἠπειρῶται. ‘dáxa: sea, Epirotes’.

The form δάξα presents some challenging morphophonological features in comparison with the common Greek word for ‘sea’, i.e. θάλασσα, despite their similarity in terms of vocalism: an initial δ- in Epirote in place of θ-; second, δάξα lacks -λα- (an element more akin to a syllable rather than a morpheme); finally, the ending -ξα in lieu of -σσα. The differences between the Epirote form and the more common Greek word require a more complex philological-linguistic explanation. (a) the presence of an initial δ- in Epirote in lieu of θ- — cf. also the form δαλάγχαν listed in Hesychius as an adespoton: δαλάγχαν· θάλασσαν — may be due to the origin of the word itself: the word θάλασσα is a Pre-Greek form, probably deriving from *thalakh(y)- + -yǎ (an IE suffix, i.e. -ih2, originally used for a-stem feminines and collectives). The voiced alternative /d-/ in Epirote could be explained in a number of ways: substrate origin (cf. also other possible Pre-Greek words showing a similar oscillation, e.g. κριξός / κρισσός (= κιρσός) ‘vein enlargement, oak knot’, see Beekes 2010, xxvi); alternatively/ consequently, it may relate to an apparent inclination of Epirote, among other dialects (cf. also Macedonian, etc.), towards the use of voiced stops (see 2.2). (b) a second discrepancy, namely the apparent lack of -λα- can be explained in philological terms: the shorter form δάξα may be the result of a palaeographic error (haplography) due to the similarity of the capital letters

Some Remarks on Ancient Epirote Glosses  

and , as it has been argued already (Restelli 1969, 819),16 rather than a matter of haplology, i.e. syllabic dissimilation/simplification (cf. pronunciation), which is not a systematic phenomenon anyway and thus more difficult to account for in this case.17 (c) a final point requiring our attention concerns the ending -ξα instead of -σσα in θάλασσα. Since the assumed Pre-Greek stem was perhaps *thalakh(y)(cf. also the cognate form δαλάγχ-α), the ending -ξα may point to a -kh(y)-sa sequence (or perhaps a different outcome of the -kh-yǎ sequence); a sigmatic ending might either relate to an epichoric feature (cf. also sigmatic ‘Doric’ verbal forms in -ξεω, e.g. πραξέω) or be due to some other reason (e.g. substrate influence, conflation/analogy), although there is hardly any reliable basis for firm arguments.18 iv. The forms πέλειος (masc.), πέλεια (fem.) — note also the alternative forms πελιός, πελιά — are listed by Hesychius, with the note that they reportedly had the meaning ‘old man’, ‘old woman’ respectively in Epirus as well as on the Doric-speaking island of Cos: πελείους καὶ πελείας· Κῷοι καὶ οἱ Ἠπειρῶται τοὺς γέροντας καὶ τὰς πρεσβύτιδας. ‘peleíous and peleías: Coans and Epirotes [sc. call this way] old men and women’.

The geographer Strabo (ca. 1st cent. BC – 1st cent. AD), who wrote ca. 4–5 centuries before Hesychius, confirms this testimony and informs us that this was indeed the meaning of these two words (spelled πέλιος, πελία (?) in his text) in parts of Epirus (Thesprotia, Molossia), but also in Macedonia; Strabo adds that in Macedonia, Laconia and Massalia there was in currency a cognate form πελιγόνες (nom. pl.): ὅτι κατὰ Θεσπρωτοὺς καὶ Μολοττοὺς τὰς γραίας πελίας καὶ τοὺς γέροντας πελίους ὀνομάζουσιν, καθάπερ καὶ παρὰ Μακεδόσι· πελιγόνας γοῦν καλοῦσιν ἐκεῖνοι τοὺς ἐν τιμαῖς, καθὰ παρὰ Λάκωσι καὶ Μασσαλιώταις τοὺς γέροντας· ὅθεν καὶ τὰς ἐν τῇ Δωδωναίᾳ δρυῒ μεμυθεῦσθαι πελείας φασίν. (Epitome 7.a.1.2)

 16 I would also like to thank J. Méndez Dosuna for drawing my attention to this palaeographic aspect. 17 Note also the discussion about palaeographic vs. phonological reasons in (2.2) with regard to Mac. δάνος vs. Att. θάνατος. 18 Explanations involving language contact, e.g. ‘Illyrian’ (cf. e.g. Illyrian names like Δάξ-ος whose stem shows a superficial resemblance), seem rather unlikely, given also the fact that all these ‘sea’ meaning variants occur within Ancient Greek exclusively.

  Panagiotis Filos since among the Thesprotians and Molossians old women are called peliai and old men pelioi as is also the case among the Macedonians; these call peligones those held in esteem (: in office ?) as is also the case for old men among the Laconians and the Masssaliots; hence they claim that are fabulously called peleiai those (sc. priestesses) at the (sacred) oak of Dodona.

Strabo’s testimony enhances the credibility of Hesychius’ account, while it also informs us of an apparently cognate form, πελιγόνες ‘elderly men held in esteem (and in office ?)’. It is worth noting here that πέλειος/-α, πελιός/-ά (or πέλιος/-ία) and πελιγών appear to have been in use in predominantly Doric areas, by and large, be it Doric proper regions (Laconia, Cos) or NW Doric lands (Epirus, and to some extent Macedonia). Most importantly, however, Strabo offers some insight into the formation and etymology of the Epirote glosses, which he lists as πέλιος/-ία (or πελιός/-ά).19 To begin with, the apparent stem fluctuation (πέλει- vs. πελι-, cf. Hesychius vs. Strabo) is hardly a matter of orthography, e.g. due to the impact of PostClassical iotacism. Instead, it is most likely a reflection of the different morphophonological makeup of these two stems: the form πέλεια must have been built upon an athematic u-stem adjective *πελύς ‘gray’ (cf. Frisk 1960–1972, s.v.; note also Chantraine 2009, s.v.; Beekes 2010, s.v.);20 masc. πέλειος seems to have derived from the feminine form: note the -ε-ι(α) ending and the semantics, i.e. ‘(wild) pigeon’ but also ‘old woman, (elderly ?) Dodona priestess’,21 apparently both meanings due to the gray feather and hair color respectively.22 On the other hand, the forms πέλιος/πελιός (masc.) and πελία/πελιά (fem.) seem to have been built upon an old athematic i-stem, i.e. *peli- ‘pale, gray’ (plus a dental -αδ- extension); originally, the form πέλιος/πελιός may have been *πελι-ϝ-ος (cf. also πελλός (< *pel-i̯os ?) ‘dark-colored’).23 One may also recall here the common Αncient Greek adj. πολιός ‘old man (with gray hair)’, appar-

 19 Note that most modern editors and scholars opt for the oxytone forms πελιός, πελιά (vs. πέλιος, πελία). 20 There are also derivates, such as πελειάς (gen. -άδος) (fem.), mostly attested in the plural, i.e. πελειάδες ‘priestesses at Dodona’; this form must be distinguished from the homonymous star name Πελειάδες ‘Pleiads’, a secondary formation of Πλειάδες (unsafe etymology); cf. Chantraine 2009, s.v. Πλειάδες. 21 In addition to Strabo (Epitome 7.a.1.2), note Herodotus (2.57) and Pausanias (7.21.2–3, 10.12.10). 22 Cf. similarly in Latin: palumbes ‘dove’ and palleo ‘to be pale’. 23 The form πελλός ‘dark-colored’ ( ἑορτήν. καὶ ἄρτον τινὲς τὸν ἄζυμον (‘dáraton: a feast; some people call in this way unleavened bread too’). 35 However, it is somewhat striking that Skt. dṹrvā ‘wheat, millet-grass’, as an assumed cognate of Gk. δράμις, δάρατον, shows a long -ū(r)- (in lieu of an expected -ī(r)-, given that the preceding consonant is d- rather than a labial or (former) labiovelar) as the result of a long syllabic /r/ (lengthening of syllabic r due to an assumed following laryngeal) in the root *dṛ(H)- (cf. also Beekes 2010, s.v.); hence, the association of the Greek forms with the Sanskrit word seems problematic. 36 The second /a/ in the forms δάρατος, δαράται may have derived from a laryngeal root suffix; in that case both /a/ vowels of each Greek form would count as short. Note that Pokorny 1959, s.v. d(e)rī- (: *derēi-?), as usual, does not make use of any laryngeals in the reconstructed root, which in any case is considered a later root-suffix by some scholars (cf. Beekes 2010, s.v. der-). 37 Other etymologies seem to be unfounded: Kalléris 1954, 147–151 assumed a root *dar- ‘hard’ for Mac. δράμις, but also for δράμιξ and δαρόν, δάρατον, δάρατα. Other scholars (e.g. Fick, Pisani, see Kalléris 1954, 158–159) have posited a derivational process δράμις means ‘immediately followed by’. HEALTH stands for health wish, PROSK for proskynema, and SAL for salutation.

A Typology of Variations in the Ancient Greek Epistolary Frame (I–III AD)  

Fig. 19: Order of closings.78

An issue that is not integrated in Kuiper’s framework is the degree to which the different discourse constituents are connected to each other: in the Ancient Greek epistolary frame, very often two discourse constituents are found connected to each other through the use of the conjunction καί. Figs. 20 and 2179 give an indication of the degree of connectedness of discourse constituents in the opening and closing: Fig. 20 shows, for example, that when the prescript is followed by another discourse constituent, it is most often not connected to it. The health wish, on the other hand, can be found more often connected to another discourse constituent, typically one that follows; the proskynema, on the contrary, is very often connected to a preceding constituent. When we turn to the closing, we see that connectedness is much less at play: the postscript and date are mostly unconnected; the farewell greeting and salutation are infre 78 In this figure, FAREW stands for farewell greeting. Otherwise, the same conventions as in Fig. 18 have been followed. 79 Discourse constituents that occur multiple times in one and the same text have all been taken into account in these figures.

  Klaas Bentein quently connected to a discourse constituent which follows, whereas the health wish is sometimes connected to a discourse constituent that precedes it.

12

105

365

Fig. 20: Connectedness of discourse constituents in the opening.

527

103

642

Fig. 21: Connectedness of discourse constituents in the closing.

A Typology of Variations in the Ancient Greek Epistolary Frame (I–III AD)  

 Towards a typology In what follows, I present a typology of the variations that are found in the epistolary frame, distinguishing between six types of procedures. As will become clear throughout the discussion, most of these procedures apply to several levels: not only to the abstract level of discourse structure and discourse constituents (terminal and non-terminal), but also to the more specific level of formulaic expressions and their components.

. Reformulations Contrary to most of the other procedures that I will be outlining, reformulations80 concern the level of specific formulaic expressions. As I briefly indicated in (2.3), such expressions were standardized, with lexical differentiation between constituents that occur both in the opening and closing, such as the greeting (χαίρειν in the opening vs. ἐρρῶσθαί σε εὔχομαι in the closing) and the health wish (εὔχομαί σε ὑγιαίνειν in the opening vs. ἐπιμελοῦ σεαυτοῦ ἵν᾽ ὑγιαίνῃς in the closing). In many cases, however, lexical variants are attested in our corpus. So, for example, letter writers sometimes use εὖ πράττειν, εὐθυμεῖν or εὐψυχεῖν rather than the usual χαίρειν for the opening greeting,81 the latter two verbs, literally meaning ‘to be of good heart’, ‘to be of good courage’, being used in particular in letters of condolence.82 Similarly, one finds the use of προσαγορεύω or ἐπισκοπέομαι83 instead of ἀσπάζομαι for the salutation,84 and of ὁλοκληρεῖν or ἐρρῶσθαι instead of ὑγιαίνειν for the health wish.85 For the farewell greeting,

 80 Discourse analysts have engaged in creating a typology of so-called ‘reformulative strategies’, and have paid particular attention to the linguistic devices (‘discourse markers’) involved in such operations. I will not go further into this strand of research here. 81 See e.g. P.Mil.Vogl. I 11, l. 2 (II AD) = TM 78532; P.Ross.Georg. III 2, l. 1 (AD 270) = TM 17952; PSI XIV 1445 (III AD) = TM 30476 (εὖ πράττειν); P.Oxy. I 115, l. 2 (II AD) = TM 28407 (εὐψυχεῖν); PSI XII 1248, l. 2 (AD 235) = TM 17411 (εὐθυμεῖν). 82 See e.g. Luiselli 2008, 695–696. 83 For an overview of the different lexical forms involved, see Nachtergaele 2015, 69–75. 84 See e.g. P.IFAO II 17, l. 14 (III AD) = TM 30347 (ἐπισκοπέομαι); P.Oxy. XVII 2150, l. 3 (III AD) = TM 30673 (προσαγορεύω). 85 See e.g. P.Fuad.I.Univ. 6, l. 3 (III AD) = TM 31431; P.Oxy. VIII 1158, l. 3 (III AD) = TM 31724; P.Oxy. XIV 1668, l. 3 (III AD) = TM 31779 (ὁλοκληρεῖν); P.Mich. XV 751, ll. 2–3 (II AD) = TM 28820 (ἐρρῶσθαι).

  Klaas Bentein writers could vary the matrix verb, sometimes preferring ἐρρῶσθαί σε θέλω, βούλομαι or ἐπεύχομαι over the more regular εὔχομαι.86 The same is found, but less frequently, with the health wish, where εὔχομαι is sometimes replaced by an impersonal construction such as διʼ εὐχῆς ἐστί.87 For the farewell greeting, εὐτύχει or διευτύχει are attested as an alternative to ἔρρωσο.88 In one, exceptional text, O.Florida. 17, ll. 12 & 17 (AD 175–199) = TM 74511, the subjunctive form εὐφρανθρῶμεν ‘let us be happy’ is used twice, seemingly with the value of a farewell greeting. While variation in verbs is perhaps most noticeable, we also see other types of variation: so, for example, in P.Lond. III 899, l. 2 (II AD) = TM 29246, ἀπό is used instead of the more common παρά to specify the name of the initiator in the opening.89 The person in whose honor one performs a proskynema is usually expressed as an object genitive, but sometimes a preposition is used, as in P.Mert. II 82, l. 4 (II AD) = TM 28784 (ὑπέρ σου). In P.Fuad.I.Univ. 6, l. 2 (III AD?) = TM 31431, the health wish is complemented by the intensifier πρό γ̣ε πάντων, instead of the more common πρὸ μὲν πάντων. Also interesting is the use of uncommon adjectival epithets (mostly superlative forms), such as ἀσύγκριτος ‘incomparable’, ἀξιολογώτατος ‘most remarkable’, γλυκύτατος ‘sweetest’, θειότατος ‘most divine’, παράδοξος ‘incredible’, σπουδαιότατος ‘most excellent’, and φιλοστοργότατος ‘most affectionate’ in the opening, but also the closing, including the address.90 In some cases, the receiver is addressed with a derogatory epithet, rather than a honorific one: in SB X 10557, l. 1 (III AD) = TM 30640, for example, the receiver is addressed as τῶι ἀληθινῷ μωρῷ ‘the true fool’. In another example, O.Did. 415, l. 1 (AD 140–150) = TM 144976, the receiver is referred to as ‘the one who is unworthy’ (τῷ μὴ ἀξίῳ). Comparable is the use of unusual intensifiers, such as as προηγουμένως with the health wish;91 μεγάλως ‘greatly’

 86 E.g. P.Brem. 6, l. 6 = TM 19591 (AD 117–119) (βούλομαι); P.Flor. II 242, ll. 15–16 (AD 254) = TM 11123 (ἐπεύχομαι); O.Claud. II 358, ll. 9–10 (AD 138–161) = TM 24008 (θέλω). 87 E.g. SB V 8002, ll. 3–4 (III AD) = TM 30792. 88 See e.g. P.Oxy. III 526, l. 13 (II AD) = TM 28366 (εὐτύχει); P.Rein. II 113, l. 29 (AD 263) = TM 12879 (διευτύχει). 89 The preposition ἀπό was more commonly used in the address on the verso side: see e.g. BGU II 602, v, l. 1 (II AD) = TM 28190; P.Giss.Apoll. 2, v, l. 1 (AD 113–120) = TM 19424; P.Giss.Apoll. 26, v, l. 1 (AD 113–120) = TM 19427. The preposition παρά could be used in this context, too: see e.g. BGU III 844, v, l. 1 (AD 83) = TM 9379. 90 See e.g. BGU XVI 2660, l. 1 (AD 1) = TM 23384; P.Oxy. XIV 1759, l. 10 (II AD) = TM 29022; P.Oxy. III 587 (II AD) = TM 28381; P.Warr. 14, l. 2 (II AD) = TM 27220; P.Giss.Apoll. 4, l. 2 (AD 113–120) = TM 27581; P.Flor. II 140r, l. 10 (AD 264) = TM 10996. 91 See e.g. P.Oxy. XIV 1770, l. 4 (II AD) = TM 31812.

A Typology of Variations in the Ancient Greek Epistolary Frame (I–III AD)  

or θερμῶς ‘warmly’ with the salutation,92 and ὁλοκλήρως ‘healthily’ or εὐτυχῶς ‘prosperously’ with the farewell greeting.93 It happens quite often that such a lexical alternative is coordinated with the standard form: in a letter from Claudius Terentianus, for example, we find the extended health wish εὔχομαί σε ὑγιαίνειν καὶ εὐτυχεῖν (P.Mich. VIII 479 (II AD), ll. 3–4 = TM 27092) ‘I pray that you are healthy and well’. Another extended health wish can be found in P.Oxy. XIV 1678, ll. 2–3 (III AD) = TM 31786: πρὸ μὲν πάντων εὔχομέ (l. εὔχομαί) σε ὁλοκληρεῖν καὶ ὑειενειν (l. ὑγιαίνειν) παρὰ τῷ κυρείῳ (l. κυρίῳ) θεῷ ‘before all else I pray that you are healthy and well before our lord God’. In a letter from the late 2nd/early 3rd cent. AD, two lexical alternatives are coordinated: εὐχόμενός σε σώζεσθαι  πανοικησίᾳ καὶ εὖ διάγειν (P.Oxy. XIV 1664, ll. 2–3 (ca. AD 175–225) = TM 21964) ‘praying that you may be preserved and prosper with all your household’ [tr. Grenfell & Hunt]. Such usages are relevant to our third type of procedure, repetitions, too.94 Next to lexical variation, we also find elaborate morpho-syntactic variation. So, for example, writers could vary their word order: sometimes they inverse the word order of the farewell greeting, writing εὔχομαί σε ἐρρῶσθαι,95 with the main verb in front of the AcI clause, a word order that mimicks that of the initial health wish (εὔχομαί σε ὑγιαίνειν).96 Conversely, the verb is sometimes fronted in health wishes.97 In other cases, the subject of the AcI construction is fronted: in SB X 10278, l. 2 (AD 114–119) = TM 16755, for example, the writer first included a standard health wish, but then corrected the position of the pronoun: πρὸ πάντων σε εὔχομαι ⟦σε⟧ ὑγιαίνειν.98 In other texts, one also finds a subtle play with morphological categories such as mood, tense and voice: so, for example, the greeting verb χαίρω, which typically occurs in the infinitive, is sometimes found in the optative (χαίροις) or the imperative (χαῖρε).99 Greetings are usually

 92 See e.g. BGU IV 1079, l. 33 (AD 41) = TM 9456; BGU III 822, ll. 21–22 (AD 105) = TM 28093. 93 See e.g. P.Bas. 16, v, ll. 19–21 (AD 200–239) = TM 30799; P.Oxy. I 118, ll. 41–42 (III AD) = TM 31345. 94 For an example involving the opening greeting, see P.Iand. VI 115, l. 2 (III AD) = TM 30602 (χαίρειν καὶ εὖ] π̣ρά̣[ττ]ειν). 95 E.g. P.Oxy. XLII 3062, l. 12 (I AD) = TM 25082. The uncommon word order was also noted by Nachtergaele 2015, 247 n. 17. 96 On the fixed word order of the farewell greeting, see e.g. Nachtergaele 2015, 247. 97 See e.g. P.Mert. II 85, l. 3 (AD 229) = TM 21320, where the health wish is partly reconstructed. 98 Compare P.Giss.Apoll. 23, l. 2 (AD 113–120) = TM 19416. 99 Cf. Nachtergaele 2015, 50–54. Examples include P.Ryl. IV 691, l. 1 = TM 30590 (χαῖρε); P.Brem. 19, l. 1 (AD 113–120) = TM 19604; PSI IX 1049, l. 1 (AD 260) = TM 13766; SB XIV 12082, l. 1 (III AD) = TM 30112 (χαίροις).

  Klaas Bentein made in the present tense, but exceptionally a past tense form, such as ἤσπάζετο or ἤσπασα, is found.100 Similarly, the proskynema, which is ususually referred to in the present tense (ποιῶ), is attested in the past tense (ἐποίησα).101 For the proskynema, the verb ποιῶ is typically used in the active voice, but in one text the medial form ποιοῦμε is found.102 The wish verb εὔχομαι, which is found in health wishes and farewell greetings, is usually followed by the infinitive, but some authors use a different type of construction, such as the accusative and participle or ἵνα with the subjunctive.103 It is worth noting that we also find more extensive elaborations, which have been personalized to a higher degree.104 So, for example, some writers take the effort to reformulate standard phrases: they can do so by rephrasing, as in, P.Oxy. LV 3812, ll. 13–14 (III AD) = TM 31913, where the initiator has opted for the rather uncommon farewell greeting, θεοί σε σώσειαν διὰ παντὸς πανοικησίᾳ ‘may the gods preserve you forever with all the household’ [tr. Rea]. An extensive rephrasing of not only the health wish, but also the proskynema and salutation can be seen in the following example, the beginning of which is fragmentary: … χ̣[α]ί̣ρ̣[ειν] καὶ διὰ παν[τὸς ἐρρωμ]ένον διαμένειν ὅ̣ λῳ̣ [τῷ] σώματι ἰς (l. εἰς) μακροὺς χρόν̣ο̣υ̣ς̣, ἐπεὶ ἡ τ̣ύ- χη σου ἐπέτρεψε ἡμῖν ἵνα σε προ̣σκυνήσωμεν καὶ ἀσπα-σώμεθά σε (CPR V 19, ll. 1–8 (AD 75–199) = TM 24981) ‘greetings and that you may always remain in good health throughout your body for many years to come, as your benevolence has allowed us to pay our respects and salute you’. Other writers stay closer to the original formulaic phrase, maintaining for example the standard wish verb εὔχομαι in the health wish, but nominalizing the complement, as in O.Claud. II 299, ll. 2–3 (II AD) = TM 29712): πρὸ παντὸς  εὔχομαί σου τὴν σωτηρίαν ‘before all else I pray for your well-being’, or rephrasing the complement phrase, as in O.Claud. II 234, ll. 10–11 (II AD) = TM 29657:

 100 See e.g. P.Oxy.Hels. 46, l. 13 (I–II AD) = TM 24976; P.Ryl. IV 691, l. 17 (III AD) = TM 30590. Nachtergaele 2015, 64 n. 4 refers to these examples as “indirect salutations”. 101 SB VIII 9903, l. 5 (AD 200?) = TM 22926. Nachtergaele 2015, 216 notes that there are four examples in total with the aorist. 102 P.Mich. XV 751, l. 3 (II AD) = TM 28820. See also Nachtergaele 2015, 216–217. Conversely, ἀσπάζομαι sometimes occurs in the active voice. 103 P.Mich. III 208, l. 2 (II AD) = TM 28797 (AcP); O.Claud. II 303, ll. 2–3 (II AD) = TM 29716 (ἵνα + subjunctive). 104 Nachtergaele 2015, 234 n. 3 refers to the phenomenon, but does not pay any further attention to it: “only a handful of writers do not use the formulaic phraseology, but express a wish in their own words at the end of the letter; these have not been taken into account”. White 1986, 201 notes that especially the health wish could be expressed with a certain degree of individuality.

A Typology of Variations in the Ancient Greek Epistolary Frame (I–III AD)  

[εὔχομαι τὴ]ν σωτηρίαν ἡμῶ̣ν̣  [καλ]ῶς̣ διακεῖσ̣θ̣αι ‘I pray that our (?) well-being is in a good position’. Another option is to rephrase by closely modeling one’s expression to the occasion: for example, in P.Brem. 63, ll. 3–6 (AD 116) = TM 19648, instead of using the regular health wish, the initiator, Eudaeomonis, refers to the receiver’s pregnancy: εὔχομαί σε πρὸ πάντων εὐ-καίρως ἀποθέσθαι τὸ βάρος  καὶ λαβεῖν φάσιν ἐπὶ ἄρρε-ν[ο]ς ‘above all, I pray that you may give birth in good time, and that I shall receive news of a baby boy’ [tr. Bagnall/Cribiore]. Another example of a reformulated health wish can be found in SB III 6823, ll. 3–7 (AD 41–54) = TM 18827, which includes a reference to gladness experienced at news of the receiver’s good health, as well as that of his child and wife: πρὸ μὲν πάντων ἐχάρην μεγάλως λαβών σου [ἐ]πιστο-λήν, ὅτι ὑγειαίνεις (l. ὑγιαίνεις) καὶ ὅτι τὴν σύνβιόν σου καὶ τὸ [τέ]κ̣νον εὗρες ἰσχύοντες (l. ἰσχύοντας) ‘above all, I was very happy when I received a letter from you that you are healthy and that you have found your wife and child in good health’. Such personalized reformulations can, on occasion, become very extensive, as can be seen in P.Oxy. VII 1070 (III AD) = TM 31317, the opening section of which contains twelve lines, and includes the content of the prayer made by the initiator to Sarapis.105

. Additions Writers may also vary their expression by adding information to standard discourse constituents through apposition or coordination/subordination. For example, we find private letters where elements of identification such as descent, origins, or function are added to the names of the initiator and/or receiver,106 as they would be in formal contexts of writing.107 For example, in P.Tebt. II 593 (AD 115–116) = TM 13628, a letter in which Eutychos asks Paopis to pay the rent due to him to his brothers instead, not only the patronymic is added to the name of the initiator, but also the papponymic, and the name of the receiver is followed by his function: Εὔτυχος Εὐτύχου τοῦ Σωτηρίχου Παῶπις (l. Παώπει) γεωρ(γῷ) χαίρειν (l. 1) ‘Eutychos, son of Eutychos, grandson of Soterichos to Paopis the farmer

 105 See further Hull 1997. 106 There is also variation in naming practices: most letters contain a single name, but double and triple names are also attested. I will not go further into this here. 107 Cf. (2.3).

  Klaas Bentein greetings’.108 In some letters, not only a person’s descent but also his/her origins are indicated: so, for example, in PSI XVI 1646, ll. 5–6 (AD 255–260) = TM 316284, a fragmentary letter from a soldier to an inhabitant of Oxyrynchos concerning money, the receiver is addressed as Αὐρηλίῳ̣ .[ -ca.?- ] [Ἀπολ]λ̣ωνίου ἀπ’ Ὀξυρύγχω̣[ν πόλεως] ‘to Aurelius (?) son of Apollonius from Oxyrynchus’. Somewhat more common is the addition of the initiator’s or receiver’s function:109 in several private letters from the archive of Apollonios of Bakchias,110 Apollonios adds his correspondent’s function of gymnasiarch to the opening greeting.111 Similarly, in the archive of Apollonios the strategos,112 Apollonios is addressed as strategos even in informal communications: so, for example, Χαιρήμων ἱστωνάρχης Ἀπολλω-νίωι στρατηγῶι χ(αίρειν) (P.Giss.Apoll. 20, ll. 1–2 (AD 113–120) = TM 19414) ‘Chairemon, head of the weaving workshop, to Apollonios the strategos, greetings’.113 Even in letters between family members, a function is sometimes mentioned: for example, in P.Tebt. II 412 (II AD) = TM 28425, Damas asks his sister to meet him in Arsinoe in the new year, referring to himself as Δαμᾶς ὑπηρέτης ‘Damas assistant’ in the opening. An element that is uncommon in the closing section is an explicit reference to the name of the receiver:114 when the receiver is addressed in the closing section, it is usually through a honorific epithet (noun or adjective) or kinship term. In several letters, a name is nevertheless added, as in P.Sarap. 83a (AD 90–133) = TM 17104, a letter which starts with Σαραπίω̣ν̣ Εὐ̣τυχίδῃ̣ τῶι  υἱῶι χαίρειν ‘Sarapion to Eutychides his son, greetings’ (ll. 1–2) and ends with ἔρρωσο Εὐτυχ(ίδη) τέκνον ‘farewell, Eutychides, child’ (l. 17).115 Sometimes even the name of the initiator is repeated, as in SB VIII 9843 (AD 135) = TM 29268, a letter which starts with Σου[μαῖ]ος Ἰωναθῆι Βαιανοῦ καὶ Μα-[σ]αβάλα χαίρειν

 108 Other examples where the descent is included: O.Leid. 38, ll. 1–2 (199 BC – AD 99) = TM 5942 (initiator and receiver); SB VIII 9843, ll. 1–3 (AD 135) = TM 29268; SB III 6299, l. 1 (II AD) = TM 27794 (receiver). 109 See e.g. P.Oxy. XII 1480, ll. 1–4 (AD 32) = TM 21878; P.Amh. II 130, ll. 1–2 (AD 70) = TM 21700; P.Giss.Apoll. 20, ll. 1–2 (AD 113–120) = TM 19414; P.Oxy.LVI 3854, l. 1 (III AD) = TM 31654. 110 See further https://www.trismegistos.org/archive/16. 111 See e.g. BGU II 594, ll. 1–2 (AD 76–84) = TM 9250; BGU II 595, ll. 1–2 (AD 76–84) = TM 9251. 112 See further https://www.trismegistos.org/archive/19. 113 See also P.Brem. 5, ll. 1–2 (AD 117–119) = TM 19590; P.Brem. 6, ll. 1–2 (AD 117–119) = TM 19591. 114 See also Nachtergaele 2015, 370, who notes that this practice is particularly common in two archives, namely the archives of Eutychides and Apollonios strategos. 115 Other examples include: P.Giss.Apoll. 25, ll. 18–19 (AD 115–117) = TM 19428; P.Giss.Apoll. 37, ll. 10–11 (AD 117) = TM 19460; P.Sarap. 80, l. 24 (AD 90–133) = TM 17100.

A Typology of Variations in the Ancient Greek Epistolary Frame (I–III AD)  

‘Soumaios to Ionathes son of Baianos and Masabala, greetings’ (ll. 1–3) and ends with Σουμαῖος ἔρρωσο ‘Soumaios, farewell’ (ll. 20–21).116 The optional structural elements which we discussed in (2.3), such as honorific epithets, kinship terms, intensifiers, etc., in themselves form a type of addition, but one that has been standardized, at least in certain contexts. Here, too, however, we see an attempt to add and vary. So, for example, in P.Oxy. XLII 3059, ll. 1–2 (II AD) = TM 26811, the receiver is uniquely addressed not only as Didyme’s brother but also as her sun: Ἀπολλωνίωι τῶι ἀδελφῶι καὶ ἡλίωι ‘to Apollonius (her) brother and sun’. Similarly, in O.Claud. I 155 (II AD) = TM 29814, the receiver is referred to as both ‘brother’ and ‘fellow citizen’: Ἀμμώνις Ἀπολλωνίωι τῷ συνπολίτῃ (l. συμπολίτῃ) καὶ ἀδελφῷ χ(αίρειν). Another type of addition can be found in P.Oxy. I 118 (AD 275–299) = TM 31345, where the farewell is complemented not just by a first-person (ethical) dative, but also by a second-person form, and an unusual adverb: ἔρρωσο ἐ̣ μ̣οί τε καὶ σοὶ εὐτυχ[ῶς] ‘be well in good health for me and you’. Various other innovative adverbs/adverbial phrases, functioning as intensifiers, can be found too: for example, some writers add εἰς αἰῶνα117 ‘in eternity’ or εἰς μακροὺς αἰῶνας118 ‘in the long eternity’ to the farewell greeting. Christian elements, which become much more common at a later time,119 can be mentioned too: in P.Nekr. 28 (III AD) = TM 31940, for example, both in the opening and farewell greeting ἐν κ(υρί)ῳ ‘in the Lord’ is added, and the address contains a third instance.120 Writers sometimes attempt to qualify/intensify standard phrases by adding subordinate clauses.121 So, for example, in P.Mich. VIII 466, ll. 3–4 (AD 107) = TM 17240, both a relative clause and a causal clause have been added to the health wish: πρὸ τῶν ὅλ[ων εὔχομ]αί σε ἐρρῶσθαι, ὅ μοι εὐκτόν  ἐστιν, [ὅτι σέβομ]αί σε μετὰ τοὺς θεούς ‘before all else I pray for your good health, which is my wish because I revere you next to the gods’ [tr. Campbell]. Similarly, in P.Oxy. XXXVI 2783, ll. 27–28 (III AD) = TM 30385, the farewell greeting is preceded by a purpose clause: ἵνα μὴ δοκῶ  πολλὰ γράφιν (l. γράφειν), ἐρρῶσθαί σε χομαι (l. χομαι) ‘so that you won’t think I’m writing too long a letter, I’ll bid you keep well’ [tr. Trapp].122 In SB XVIII 14052, ll. 4–7 (AD 212–299) = TM 30991, a comparative clause is added to the proskynema: καὶ τὸ προσκύνημά σου ποιῶ πρὸς τοῖς  116 Another example is SB VIII 9844, ll. 6–7 (AD 135?) = TM 29269. 117 E.g. P.Mich. VIII 481, l. 36 (II AD) = TM 27094. 118 E.g. P.Oxy. XLI 2982, l. 28 (AD 150–299) = TM 26862. 119 See e.g. Luiselli 2008, 694. 120 Compare P.Mert. II 82, l. 22 (II AD) = TM 28784. 121 On the addition of relative clauses to the initial health wish, see Nachtergaele 2015, 183–185. 122 Another such purpose clause can be found in P.Koeln. VI 278, ll. 7–8 (I AD) = TM 25884.

  Klaas Bentein πατρῴοις θεοῖς καθὼς ἐνέτειλάς μοι ‘and I offer prayers for you before our ancestral gods as you asked me to’. One can also note an attempt to intensify standard phrases by making them dependent from complement-taking verbs, as in P.Giss.Apoll. 23, ll. 4–5 (AD 113–120) = TM 19416, where the proskynema has been made dependent from οὐ διαλείπω ‘I do not stop’: οὐ διαλείπω ⟦τὸ⟧ ποιῶν τὸ προσκύνημα παρὰ τῷ κυρίῳ Ἑρμῇ καὶ παρὰ πᾶσι τοῖς θεοῖς ‘I do not stop making obeisance to our lord Hermes and all the gods’.123 In another text, P.Koeln. VI 278, ll. 3–4 (I AD) = TM 25884 the salutation has been made dependent: [πρὸ μὲν] παντὸς ἀναγκαῖον ἡγη-[σάμην διʼ] ἐπιστολῆς σε ἀσπασαθαι (l. ἀσπάσαθαι) ‘before all else I considered it necessary to salute you through a letter’.124 Other writers vary their expression by coordinating or subordinating personal elements to standard phrases.125 Such elements include references to the time and place of writing,126 as in P.Brem. 48, ll. 29–32 (AD 118) = TM 19632, where the initiator explains why he has not made a proskynema at the time of writing: πρὸ πάντων αὔριον τὸ προσκύνημά σου ποιήσω ἐν τῶι Σαρα-[π]είωι, ἐπεὶ σήμερον οὐκ ἀνέβην ἀπὸ  ἁδρῶν σκυλμῶν καὶ κινδύνων ‘above all, tomorrow I will intercede for you in the Serapeum, because today I did not go up because of the hardships and dangers’. The same can be seen in P.Amh. II 136, ll. 3–8 (AD 196–198?) = TM 21701, where the salutation and proskynema are preceded by the initiator’s note that he has arrived in Alexandria: γενόμενος τῇ κθ´ ἕωθεν ἐν τῇ  Ἀλεξανδρείᾳ γράφω σοι, τέκνον,  ἀσπαζόμενός σε καὶ τὴν ἀδελφήν σου, καὶ τὸ προσκύνημα ὑμῶν  ποιῶ καθʼ ἑκάστην ἡμέραν παρὰ τῷ κυρίῳ Σαράπιδι ‘I arrived in Alexandria on the morning of the 29th, and I now write to you, my son, to salute you and your sister, and every day I supplicate the lord Sarapis on your behalf’ [tr. Grenfell & Hunt]. Such additions may also refer to the emotions the initiator is experiencing, as in P.Sarap. 98, ll. 3–5 (I – II AD) = TM 17123, where the initiator notes that despite the fact that Heliodorus has forgotten about him, he sends him his greetings: [ ̣ ̣ ̣] [τυγχά]ν̣ ε̣ ι̣ ς ἐ̣ πιλελῃσμένος [sic] ἡμῶν  [νῦν συνεχ]ῶ̣ς ο̣ὐ̣δὲν ἧττόν σε ⟦νῦν⟧ ἀσπά-[ζομαι ‘you have now continuously forgotten us, but I nevertheless salute you’, or in P.Mich. VIII 497, ll. 3–9 (II AD) = TM 27107, where  123 For a similar example, see SB X 10278, ll. 4–5 (ca. AD 114–119) = TM 16755. 124 Compare P.Corn. 49, ll. 3–5 (I AD) = TM 25711. 125 One can also note the use of the older health wish in this regard, which makes reference to the writer’s own health (an uncommon practice in the Roman period, see Nachtergaele 2015, 180). For an example, see SB XX 14295, l. 2 (III AD) = TM 31838. 126 Or information the initiator received about the receiver’s health: see e.g. O.Did. 325, ll. 2–3 (AD 77–92) = TM 144888; O.Did. 350, l. 3 (AD 77–92) = TM 144911.

A Typology of Variations in the Ancient Greek Epistolary Frame (I–III AD)  

the initiator first stresses his care for the receiver, and then uses the standard health wish: εἰ μὴ ἐμάθομεν σὺν θεοῖς σε κα-λῶς ἐ̣σχηκέναι μεθʼ ἃ γράφεις πεπονθέναι, πάντα ἂν καταλιπ-όντες ἐσπεύσαμεν πρὸς σέ, σοῦ γὰρ τιμιώτερον οὐδέν ἐστιν. ἀλλαὶ (l. ἀλλὰ) καὶ ἐνθάδε ὄντες εὐχό-μεθά σοι ὑγείαν (l. ὑγίειαν) ἀξίῳ ὄντι ‘if we had not learned that with the gods’ help you are now well after what you wrote you have suffered, we would have left everything and hastened to you; for nothing is more precious to us than you. But even though we are here, we pray for your health, for you deserve it’ [tr. APIS].127

. Omissions Apart from reformulating standard elements, or adding information to them, writers could also decide to omit them.128 So, for example, in a number of texts the opening greeting129 does not contain the name of the initiator,130 and/or the greeting verb χαίρειν.131 In some texts, both elements are missing: so, for example, in P.Oxy. LXXVIII 5179 (II AD) = TM 170062, the prescript simply consists of Ἀττίωι ‘to Attius’; the same can be seen in P.Oxy. LXXVIII 5180, l. 1 (II–III AD) = TM 170063, where the prescript is limited to the names of the receivers, too: Ἰσιδώρῳ [κ]α̣ὶ Τυράννῳ ‘to Isidorus and Tyrannus’.132 Other texts only contain the name of the initiator: so, for example, P.Gen. II.1 72, l. 1 (AD 211?) = TM 32143, which has π̣(αρὰ) [Φ]ι̣ [λο]ξ[έ]ν̣ ου ‘from Philoxenus’ as a prescript; many examples

 127 For other additions relating to the initiator’s emotions, compare P.Turner. 18, ll. 3–7 (AD 89–96) = TM 15688; P.Mil.Vogl. I 24, ll. 3–6 (AD 117) = TM 12344; P.Mich. VIII 494, ll. 3–7 (II AD) = TM 27104. 128 Omissions are also relevant to specific formulaic phrases. For example, variations of the standard farewell greeting ἐρρῶσθαί σε εὔχομαι are attested, where the pronoun has been omitted, and sometimes even the matrix verb. See e.g. P.Wisc. II 73, l. 23 (AD 122–123) = TM 26688; O.Claud. II 225, l. 20 (II AD) = TM 29648 (pronoun); SB XII 11021, l. 15 (I–II AD) = TM 25066; O.Krok. I 73, l. 11 (AD 109) = TM 88664 (matrix verb). 129 Luiselli 2008, 693 argues for a set of four different opening formulae. 130 E.g. P.Brem. 19, l. 1 (AD 113–120) = TM 19604; P.Mil.Vogl. I 24, ll. 1–2 (AD 117) = TM 12344; P.Flor. III 345, l. 1 (ca. AD 249–268) = TM 11172. 131 E.g. P.Rein. II 113, ll. 1–2 (AD 263) = TM 12879; P.Tebt. II 424, l. 1 (ca. AD 248–265) = TM 31368; P.Flor. II 235, ll. 1–2 (AD 266) = TM 11115; P.Lond. III 964, l. 8 (II–III AD) = TM 29251. Compare Ziemann 1910, 284–285. 132 For other texts where only the name of the receiver is mentioned, see e.g. SB XIV 11903, ll. 1–2 (AD 175–199) = TM 26550; P.Rein. I 48 (II AD) = TM 29446; SB XIV 12176, l. 1 (II AD) = TM 27526; P.Princ. II 71, l. 1 (III AD) = TM 30615. Compare Ziemann 1910, 296 for some examples with χαῖρε.

  Klaas Bentein of this phenomenon can be found in the Heroninos archive,133 in particular in letters written by Alypios.134 Alternatively, the name of the initiator, or more frequently that of the receiver, may be replaced by a kinship term or honorific epithet: an example is Σέξτος Οὐαλέρ[ιος] τ[ῶι] π̣ατρεὶ (l. πατρὶ) χαίρει[ν] (P.Athen. 62, ll. 1–2 (II AD) = TM 25231) ‘Sextus Valerius to his father, greetings’.135 In other texts, identification of the participants is even more minimal: in P.Rein. II 118, ll. 1–2 (AD 275–299) = TM 32063, for example, no explicit reference is made to either the initiator or receiver, and only kinship terms are used: κυρίᾳ μου μητρὶ ἡ θυγάτηρ χαίριν (l. χαίρειν) ‘to my lady mother, your daughter, greetings’. In another text, P.Fay. 129, l. 1 (III AD) = TM 31421, only a honorific epithet refers to the receiver, and there is no mention of the initiator: χαῖρε, κύριε τ[ι]μιώτατ[ε] ‘greetings, most honorable lord’; the name of the receiver (Serenos) is specified in the address, however. Similarly, in P.Stras. IV 170, l. 1 (II AD) = TM 26968, there is only a honorific epithet used as vocative: χαίροις κυρία ‘greetings, lady’. The same pattern occurs in the closing of this text (ἐρρωσς (l. ἔρρωσο) κυρία). As we have seen in (2.3), only the prescript and farewell greeting seem to have been more or less mandatory, so it is difficult to refer to other discourse constituents as being ‘omitted’. There are examples of letters, however, which contain a constituent in their opening or closing frame which from a statistical point of view is less expected to occur than another: so, for example, some letters contain a proskynema or a salutation in the opening greeting, without a health wish being present (despite health wishes’ tendency to occur more consistently). An example is P.Tebt. II 412, ll. 1–2 (AD 175–199) = TM 28425: the second line starts out as if it were a health wish, with the intensifier πρὸ μέν πάντων, but then the proksynema follows instead: Δαμᾶς ὑπηρέτης Ἀρτεμιδώρᾳ τῇ ἀδελφῇ μου ⟦π⟧ χαίρειν. πρὸ μὲν πάντων τὸ προσκύνημά σου κατʼ ἑκάστην ἡμέραν ποιῶ ‘Damas, assistant, to Artemidora my sister, greeting. Before all else I make supplication for you every day’.136 The same can be seen in SB XX 15069,  133 See further https://www.trismegistos.org/arch/detail.php?arch_id=103. 134 See e.g. P.Flor. II 120, l. 1 (AD 254) = TM 10972; P.Flor. II 123, l. 1 (AD 254) = TM 10976; P.Flor. II 118, l. 1 (AD 260) = TM 10971. Alypios’ preference for this format was already noted by Ziemann 1910, 297; see more recently Clarysse 2018, 244–245. For an example outside the Heroninus archive, see e.g. SB VI 9439, l. 1 (III AD) = TM 31104; P.Prag. I 99, l. 1 (III AD) = TM 30067. 135 For other examples, see P.Ryl. II 242, ll. 1–2 (III AD) = TM 31172; P.Mich. III 213 (III AD) = TM 31546; P.Mich. VIII 511, l. 1 (III AD) = TM 30511. For an example where only the function of the receiver is named, see O.Bodl. II 1992, ll. 1–2 (II AD) = TM 72668. 136 For other examples with only a proskynema and no health wish, see e.g. O.Claud. II 270, ll. 1–4 (II AD) = TM 29687; SB XX 15081 (II AD) = TM 29517; SB XVI 12981 (AD 191–209) = TM 26759.

A Typology of Variations in the Ancient Greek Epistolary Frame (I–III AD)  

ll. 1–5 (III AD) = TM 32206, where the health wish seems to have been replaced by a salutation: Ἰσιδώρα Ἄνιτι φιλτάτ̣ [ῃ] πλεῖστα χαίρειν. πρὸ πα[ντὸς] ἀσπάζομαί σαι (l. σε) καὶ τὰ ἀβά̣[σκαν-]τά σου τέκνα καὶ τὸν πατ̣[έρα αὐ-]τῶν ‘Isidora to Anis her dearest, many greetings. Before all I greet you and your children, who are free from the evil eye, and their father’ [tr. Bagnall/Cribiore]. Omissions of the opening or closing section, or even the entire epistolary frame, are also attested. Various letters end in medias res: so, for example, P.Oxy. III 528, ll. 24–25 (II AD) = TM 28368 ends with ἔρχῃ [εἴτε] οὐκ ἔρχῃ δήλοσόν (l. δήλωσόν) μυ̣ (l. μοι) ‘tell me if you are coming or not’; P.Tebt. II 424, ll. 6–9 (ca. AD 248–265) = TM 31368 with ἴσθι δὲ ὅτι ὀφίλις (l. ὀφείλεις) φόρους καὶ ἀπο φορὰς ἑπτὰ ἐτῶν, ὡς ἐα̣ (l. ἐὰ) μὴ ἀποκα-ταστ̣ασίας {[μ]ὴ} πέμψῃς [ο]ἶδάς σου τὸ[ν]  κίνδυνον ‘let me tell you that you owe seven years’ rents and dues, so unless you now send discharges you know your danger’ [tr. APIS]. Similarly, in P.Oxy. LIX 3995 (III AD) = TM 31127, the body only consists of a single sentence, and is not concluded by a farewell greeting.137 In other texts, the farewell greeting is absent, but other discourse constituents, such as the salutation or final health serve to conclude the text. P.Oxy. VIII 1159, ll. 27–33 (II AD) = TM 31725, for example, ends with ἄσπασαι τὰ ἀβ[άσ-]καντά μου παιδία καὶ τὴν μητέρα ἡμῶν καὶ τὴν ἀδελφήν σου καὶ τοὺς ἡμ[ῶν] πάντας ‘salute my children, whom the evil eye shall not harm, and our mother and your sister and all our friends’ [tr. Hunt].138 A short letter preserved on ostracon, O.Wadi.Hamm. 22 (I AD) = TM 79148, ends with the politeness phrase ἐάν τι θέλης γράψ[ον] ‘if you want something, write’ (l. 11), instead of the conventional farewell greeting. Unusual is P.Leid.Inst. 42 (II AD) = TM 27729, which contains two letters, the second of which ends with a brief proskynema (ll. 26– 27). In the opening section of letters, too, one can see a similar phenomenon, whereby the conventional opening greeting is replaced (so to speak) by a salutation: this can be seen in P.Oxy. XX 2275, ll. 1–2 (III AD) = TM 32726, where a salutation verb functions as the greeting verb: [κυρίῳ μου] ἀδελφῷ Τιμοθέῳ Θεωνᾶς [πολλά σε π]ροσαγορεύω ‘Theonas to my lord brother Timotheus many greetings’. Letters without an opening frame are rarer than those that lack a closing frame, but there are some examples.139  137 For similar examples, see O.Claud. I 160 (AD 100–120) = TM 24168; SB V 7575 (I–II AD) = TM 25301; P.Oxy. III 532 (II AD) = TM 28372; P.Oxy. LXXVIII 5180 (II–III AD) = TM 170063; SB XXII 15350 (III AD) = TM 31352; P.Oxy. XLIX 3995 (III AD) = TM 31127. 138 Other texts that close with salutations include SB V 7576, ll. 4–6 (I AD) = TM 25302; P.Princ. II 70, ll. 12–15 (II–III AD) = TM 27168; O.Did. 459, ll. 9–10 (III AD) = TM 145020. For the health wish as closing, see O.Did. 19, ll. 6–7 (AD 88–96) = TM 144586. 139 See e.g. P.Louvre. II 99 (II AD) = TM 88765.

  Klaas Bentein Letters without an epistolary frame altogether, so without an opening and closing, are rare but not unattested.140 Party-invitations are a well-known case,141 but there are also longer private letters that are limited to the body: apart from texts such as P.Stras. IV 170 (II AD) = TM 26968,142 which, as mentioned above, only have a honorific epithet in the opening and no closing, previous scholarship has made reference to texts such as P.Lips. I 105 (I–II AD) = TM 25947; P.Oxy. III 525 (II AD) = TM 28365; and P.Oxy. LI 3645 (III AD) = TM 30074.143 Older scholarship attributed the omission of the prescript, which started to become more general from the 4th cent. AD onwards, to overlap between the prescript and the external address,144 which would have increased with the loss of the greeting verb χαίρειν.145 More recent scholarship has argued against this position: Llewelyn,146 for example, shows that the presence of an address did not influence the addition or omission of details of initiator and recipient in the letter proper, and that there was no increased use of addresses on the back of letters preceding the loss of the prescript.147

. Repetitions Repetitions148 have some affinity to both reformulations and additions: with this type of procedure, too, another element is added to an existing formulaic element, but unlike additions it is semantically/functionally identical; the repeated element is often a reformulation of the first element, but it may also be formally identical. One place where repetitions are found are closings: in her 2018 monograph, Sarri149 mentions the existence of double farewell greetings, typically  140 A couple of texts have a very minimal frame, being limited to the name of the receiver: see e.g. O.Claud. II 296, l. 1 (II AD) = TM 29709; O.Bodl. II 2000, l. 1 (II–III AD) = TM 72676. 141 For background literature on party invitations, see a.o. Kim 1975; Pruneti 2016; Hussein el-Mofatch 2016. 142 LLewelyn 1998, 123 also mentions P.Tebt.II 417 (AD 175–225) = TM 31361, but this text is fragmentary. 143 See Ziemann 1910, 285; LLewelyn 1998, 123. Other texts include P.Oxy. III 525 (II AD) = TM 28365; P.Oxy. XLVI 3291 (AD 258–260) = TM 15756; P.Oxy. LI 3645 (III AD) = TM 30074; SB XXII 15357 (III AD) = TM 31355; SB VI 9229 (III AD) = TM 30757. 144 See Ziemann 1910, 284. 145 See Koskenniemi 1956, 155–158. 146 LLewelyn 1998. 147 For further discussion, see Fournet 2009. 148 For more extensive discussion of repetitions in private letters, see Bentein 2023. 149 Sarri 2018, 184–188.

A Typology of Variations in the Ancient Greek Epistolary Frame (I–III AD)  

consisting of the longer farewell greeting, ἐρρῶσθαί σε εὔχομαι, followed by the shorter greeting ἔρρωσο. Ziemann,150 who also noted the phenomenon, explained it in terms of the co-existence of two diachronic stages, with a younger and an older variant being used concurrently (the long and the short form respectively).151 Sarri takes a different approach in viewing the double farewell greeting as a form of ‘authentication’, whereby not only the scribe signed the document, but also the initiator, with his/her personal handwriting functioning as an important factor of verification for the receiver. Most examples come from the early 2nd cent. AD, the archive of Apollonios the strategos in particular: Sarri therefore suggests that we may be dealing with “a scribal trend imitated and furthered by secretaries belonging to the same social circle”.152 The occurrence of repetitions in the epistolary frame is more extensive than Sarri’s discussion would lead us to believe, however. Repetitions do not seem to be limited to the farewell greeting: there are also examples of repeated dates and addresses,153 and of multiple salutations and postscripts.154 In the opening section of documents, too, repetitions seem to occur: SB VI 9466, ll. 1–3 (AD 255) = TM 14238, for example, starts as follows: Ἡρωνείνῳ φρ(οντιστῇ) Θεαδελ(φείας) παρὰ Σύρου. Σύρος Ἡρωνείνῳ τῷ φιλ(τάτῳ) χαίρειν ‘to Heroninos the phrontistês of Theadelpheia from Syros. Syros to his dearest Heroninos greetings’. Another text, P.Oxy. LV 3809, ll. 3–7 (II – III AD) = TM 29103, contains a double proskynema: τὸ [προ]σκύνημα ὑμῶν ποιῶ [πα]ρ̣ὰ τοῖς ἐνθάδε θεοῖς καὶ [τὸ] π̣ροσκ[ύ]νημά σου ἑκάσ[τη]ς̣ ἡμέρ̣α̣ς ποιῶ ‘I make obeisance for you before the gods here and I make your obeisance every day’.155 One can find repetitions across the opening and closing sections, too, whereby the same sort of expression is used twice. For example, in his letter to his mother Taesion, P.Mich. VIII 490 (II AD) = TM 27100, Apollinarius uses the combined health wish and greeting ἔρρωσό μοι ὑγιαίνουσα twice, once on line 3 (in the opening section), and a

 150 Ziemann 1910, 337. 151 Nachtergaele 2015, 244 n. 4 is critical of Ziemann’s argument, although she invokes the same sort of explanation (“the old and the new variants can even appear together in one letter”, Nachtergaele 2015, 244). 152 Sarri 2018, 184. 153 E.g. PSI IX 1050, r. l. 15 & v. l. 1 (AD 262) = TM 13767 (date); P.Oxy. XII 1483, v (AD 175–225) = TM 28995; P.Oxy. LVI 3854 (III AD) = TM 31654 (address). 154 E.g. BGU I 93, ll. 25–31 (II–III AD) = TM 24885; PSI IX 1054, ll. 9–11 (III AD) = TM 30664 (salutation); P.Oxy. LIX 3990, ll. 12–20 (II AD) = TM 27846; P.Muench. III 1 121, ll. 28–34 (II AD) = TM 28893 (postscript). 155 Interestingly, the document has a third reference to making obeisance in ll. 11–12.

  Klaas Bentein second time on line 20 (in the closing section).156 In SB XXIV 15909 (AD 6) = TM 41420, the verb ὑγιαίνω is used in both the opening and closing, but in a different context: χαίρε̣ι̣[ν] κ̣α̣ὶ̣ ὑ̣γιαίνειν (l. 2) ‘greetings and good health’ versus ὑγίαινε καὶ̣ σε(αυτοῦ) ἐ̣πιμέλ(ου) ‘good health and take care of yourself’ (l. 8).157 Most intriguing — and most relevant in the context of our current discussion — are those cases where there is little difference between the repetend and the repetition in terms of informational value, handwriting and place in the document. There are, in fact, quite a few cases where repetitions occur in nearly identical circumstances. The farewell greeting, for example, sometimes appears to have been repeated by one and the same hand:158 Sarri159 assumes that in such cases the scribe wrote both farewells, one on behalf of the initiator, and one on his own behalf. The repetition then seems to function less as a form of authentication, and more as a way of individualization, that is, of indicating that multiple parties had a role to play in the coming-into-being of the written artifact. The same can be seen in letters with multiple initiators:160 here, the farewell greeting may be repeated to individualize each of the initiators. For example, SB VI 9415 (30) (AD 256) = TM 14209, is sent by two persons, who collectively refer to themselves as Σιλβανοί, to Horion the phrontistes. There are two farewell greetings in ll. 17–18, which highlight the fact that the letter originates with multiple initiators.161 Arguably of a different nature are those cases where the farewell greeting is repeated after intervening material. For example, in P.Oxy. XXXVI 2787, ll. 11 & 16 (II AD) = TM 26871, ἐρρῶσθαί σε εὔχ(ομαι) is used twice, but with a four-line postscript in between.162 This could be seen as a case of reframing, whereby the postscript prompted another farewell.163 In cases with a single initiator, emphasis, rather than individualization, seems to be at play. In P.Hamb. I 54, 2, ll. 10–18 (ca. AD 212–219) = TM 28695, the short farewell greeting ἔρρωσό (μοι) is used twice, nearly with the same value: ἔρρωσό μοι σὺν καὶ τῇ συν-βίῳ σου καὶ τοῖς τέκνοις καὶ τῷ οἴκῳ σου. ἔρρω-

 156 Compare P.Palaurib. 28, ll. 2 & 12 (I AD) = TM 26157 (salutation). 157 Compare BGU XVI 2620 (21 BC – AD 5) = TM 23344 (ὑγιαίνω); P.Mert. II 85 (AD 229–230) = ΤΜ 21320 (ὁλοκληρέω). For an example with a double proskynema, see O.Heid. 428 (I–II AD) = TM 80117. 158 P.Oxy. LIX 3989, ll. 15–17 (II AD) = TM 27845; P.Oxy. LIX 3992, ll. 18–21 (AD 142–199) = TM 27848. 159 Sarri 2018, 186. 160 Compare Ziemann 1910, 364. 161 Compare P.Oxy. XLII 3070, ll. 8–9 (I AD) = TM 25083. 162 For a similar example, see P.Mich. VIII 482, ll. 7–18 (AD 133) = TM 17241. 163 Compare Luiselli 2008, 707–709.

A Typology of Variations in the Ancient Greek Epistolary Frame (I–III AD)  

σό μοι πολλοῖς χρόνοις ὑγια̣ί̣ -νων μετὰ καὶ τῶν σῶν ‘be well with your wife, your children and your household. Be well and in good health for many years with yours.’ The same seems to be true for other types of formulaic elements: for example, in P.Oxy. LV 3806, ll. 12–14 (AD 15) = TM 22528, the health wish is repeated twice in three lines: first we read τὰ ἄλλα σεατοῦ (l. σεατοῦ) ἐπιμελοῦ ἵνα ὑγιαίνῃς̣ ‘for the rest take care of yourself so that you are well’, which is followed by ὑγίαινέ μοι ψυχῆι ‘keep well in spirit’.164 In P.Oxy. XLI 2981 (II AD) = TM 26861, the receiver’s children are greeted twice: first we read ἄσπασαι Ὡρίωνα καὶ Τασσευοῦν καὶ Ἀμμώνιον καὶ Ἑλένην \καὶ Ἀπολλώνιον/ καὶ τὰ ἀβάσκαντά σου παιδία ‘greet Horion, Tasseuous, Ammonius, Helene, Apollonius, and your children — may they be free from harm’ (ll. 22–25), and at the end again ἄ[σ]π̣ασαι τὰ ἀβάσκαντά σου παιδία ‘I salute your children — may they be free from harm’ (l. 30).165 It is interesting to note that in most of these examples the formulation is slightly different, which seems to indicate that the initiator repeated in order to highlight it. In other examples, two alternative formulations are combined: so e.g. in the opening greeting166 χαίρειν καὶ ἐρ[ρῶσθαι] (SB XVIII 13614, l. 2 (I AD) = TM 27702) ‘greetings and good health’;167 in the health wish εὔχομαί σε ὑγιαίνειν καὶ εὐτυχεῖν (P.Mich. VIII 479, ll. 3–4 (II AD) = TM 27092) ‘I pray that you are in good health and prosperous’;168 in the proskynema προσκύ-νημά σου ποιῶ καὶ χάριτα\ς/ ὁ-μολογῶ παρὰ τῷ κυρίῳ Σαράπιδι (SB XXIV 16338, ll. 3–5 (III AD) = TM 31477) ‘I make your obeisance and I give my thanks to the lord Sarapis’; in the farewell greeting ἔρρω(σο) καὶ καλ̣ῶ̣ς ἔχε ‘farewell and be well’ (P.Oxy. XLVII 3357, l. 19 (I AD) = TM 25948).169 In several texts, the farewell greeting is combined with a participle that makes reference to health; these participles, in turn, may be repeated, as in P.Oxy. XIV 1766, ll. 16–18 (III AD) = TM 31808: ἐρρῶσθαι [καὶ ὁλοκληρεῖν?] σ̣ε̣ εὐδοξοῦντα καὶ εὐτυ-[χοῦντα καὶ εὐπρα]γ̣ο̣ῦ̣ντα θεοῖς πᾶσι

 164 Compare BGU III 845, ll. 3–7 (II AD) = TM 28096. 165 For the repetition of the same salutation verb (ἀσπάζομαι, ἀσπάζου, ἀσπάζεται) but with different complements, see e.g. P.Cair.Mich. II 20 (II–III AD) = TM 397543; O.Did. 330, ll. 11–16 (AD 88–96) = TM 144893; BGU I 261, ll. 28–34 (AD 105) = TM 41596. 166 In such cases, we may actually be dealing with a combined opening greeting and health wish, on which see further (3.5). 167 Compare P.Erl. 117, ll. 1–2 (I AD) = TM 25716; P.Sarap. 91, ll. 1–2 (II AD) = TM 17116; SB IV 7354, ll. 1–3 (II AD) = TM 27385. 168 Compare P.Mich. VIII 510, ll. 2–3 (II AD) = TM 27120; CPR VII 55, ll. 2–3 (II AD) = TM 26668; SB XXII 15380, ll. 3–4 (II AD) = TM 78969; PSI VIII 943, ll. 3–5 (II AD) = TM 27224. 169 Compare P.Sarap. 100, ll. 14–15 (AD 90-133) = TM 17125; P.Mich. VIII 465, ll. 45–46 (AD 108) = TM 17239; P.Select. 5, ll. 12–13 (III AD) = TM 30422.

  Klaas Bentein εὔχομαι ‘I pray to all the gods that you are well and healthy, being honored and prosperous and flourishing’.170 One could debate whether these participles repeat the farewell greeting, or rather serve as a sort of health wish: in one example, the verb ἐρρῶσθαι is repeated as a participial form: [ἐρρῶ]σθαί σ̣ε̣ εὐχ(όμεθα),  κύρ̣ιε π̣άτερ, ἐ̣ρ̣ρ̣ω̣μ(ένον) εὐτυχ(οῦντα) (P.Haun. II 16, ll. 18–19 (II–III AD) = TM 26598) ‘I wish you well, lord father, being in good health and prosperous’. In one, exceptional example, it is the matrix verb that is alternated and repeated: ἐρρῶσθαί σε εὔχομαι πανοικεὶ βούλομαι (P.Bon. 44, l. 9 (II AD) = TM 27068) ‘I pray and wish that you are well together with all of your household’. It is worth noting that optional structural elements may be repeated, too: for example, in BGU XVI 2614, ll. 1–2 (21 BC – AD 5) = TM 23338, three intensifiers are used in the opening greeting, which has only partially been preserved:171 … πλεῖστα χαίρειν καὶ δι[ὰ παντὸς]  ἐρρωμένῳ ἄριστα ἐπανάγειν ‘many greetings, (continual) health and prosperity’ [tr. Brashear]; the same phenomenon can be observed in the salutation of P.Oxy. XVII 2150, l. 3 (III AD) = TM 30673, πρὸ μὲν πάντων σε πολλὰ προσαγορεύω ‘before all else I send you many salutations’.172 An exact repetition of intensifiers is attested, too, as in P.Mich. III 201, ll. 15–16 (AD 99) = TM 21340: ἀσπάζεται ἡμᾶς (l. ὑμᾶς) Θερμουθᾶς πολλὰ π\ο/λλὰ ‘Thermouthas sends you many many greetings’.173 Kinship terms, too, can be emphasized through repetition, as in P.Mich. III 214, ll. 1–3 (AD 297) = TM 21344, where Paniskos addresses Ploutogenia both as his wife and the mother of his children: Πανίσκο[ς] τῇ σοιμβίῳ (l. συμβίῳ) μου  Πλουτογενίᾳ μητρὶ τῆς θυγατρός μου πλῖστα (l. πλεῖστα) χαίρειν ‘Paniskos to my wife Ploutegeneia, mother of my daughter, very many greetings’.174 An exact repetition of a kinship term can be seen in O.Did. 389, ll. 1–2 (AD 115–120) = TM 144950: Φιλοκλῆς Ἀρρίῳ τῷ ἀδελ-φῷ χ(αίρειν) ἄδελφε ‘Philokles to Arrios his brother greetings brother’.

 170 See further Nachtergaele 2015, 261–266. Ziemann 1910, 343 also mentions some examples. 171 Compare SB IV 7354, ll. 1–4 (II AD) = TM 27385. 172 Other examples include BGU XVI 2617, ll. 1–3 (7 BC) = TM 23341 (opening greeting); PSI XVI 1645, ll. 3–5 (I AD) = TM 316283 (health wish); SB V 7600, ll. 2–3 (AD 16) = TM 17990; SB XXVI 16608, ll. 3–6 (I AD) = TM 16846 (salutation); P.Mich. III 213, ll. 2–4 (III AD) = TM 31546 (proskynema). 173 Compare BGU III 845, ll. 1–2 (II AD) = TM 28096; O.Claud. I 176, ll. 1–4 (II AD) = TM 29820. 174 In other texts, we see that the reciprocality of family ties is emphasized, as in the address of P.Mich. III 221, v (ca. AD 297) = TM 21351: ἀπ(όδος) τῇ μητρί μου π(αρὰ) ☓ Πλουτογενια (l. Πλουτογενίας) θυγατρι (l. θυγατρὸς) ‘deliver to my mother, from Ploutogenia, her daughter’.

A Typology of Variations in the Ancient Greek Epistolary Frame (I–III AD)  

. Combinations Another tendency that can be observed is for writers to combine constituents. As we have seen in (2.3), such combinations are extremely common in some cases: in the opening section, for example, the health wish and proskynema175 are very often combined. Similarly, the opening greeting and health wish are often combined, as in SB XII 10799, ll. 1–2 (AD 14–41) = TM 16075: Ἡρακλᾶς Ὥρωι καὶ Ταχώνει, χαίρε̣ ι̣ ν καὶ  ὑγειαίνειν (l. ὑγιαίνειν) ‘Heraklas to Horos and Tachonis, greetings and good health’. Other such combinations are rarer: in some openings, for example, the greeting is combined with the salutation (either προσαγορεύω or ἀσπάζομαι).176 In such cases, the names of the initiator and receiver are often spread over the two formulaic elements: an example can be found in P.Flor. II 140 r, ll. 1–2 (AD 264) = TM 10996, which reads [χαίρ]οις κύριέ μου Ἀλύπι. [Ἀν]ουβίων σε προσαγορεύω ‘greetings my lord Alypios. I, Anoubion, salute you’.177 In some cases, multiple constituents are coordinated in a single sentence, making the combination unusual: one can note, for example, the repeated use of καί in the opening of SB VI 9122, ll. 1–2 (AD 31–64) = TM 25289: Ἑρε̣ [ννία] Π̣ομπηίῳ τῷ [ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣] [π]λεῖστα χαίριν (l. χαίρειν) καὶ διὰ παν[τὸς] ὑ̣γενειν (l. ὑγιαίνειν), κα[ὶ τὴν] [μη]τ̣έραν (l. [μη]τέρα) μου ἀσπάζομαι ‘Herennia to Pompeius ... very many greetings and all good wishes for his health, and I salute my mother’ [tr. Bagnall & Cribiore].178 In the closing section, examples of such combinations through καί are more uncommon. In the Heroninos archive, there are several examples of the signature being connected to the postscript: so, for example, σεση(μείωμαι) καὶ δὸς τὸ τοῦ οἴνου μονόχ(ωρον) ἓν (P.Flor. II 235, ll. 7–9 (AD 262) = TM 11115) ‘I have signed and give the one monochoron of wine’.179 A similar connection is sometimes made between the farewell greeting and the postscript: ἔρρωσό μοι, γλυκύτατε, καὶ τὰ ὀξείδιά (l. ὀξίδιά) μοι κόμισον (BGU II 417, ll. 31–32 (II–III AD) = TM 28136) ‘farewell, my dearest, and bring me the vinegar’. An alternative option is for combinations to be made through subordination: various examples are attested, for example, of the subordination of the

 175 For the close connection between the health wish and the proskynema, compare Ziemann 1910, 319–320. 176 On the combination of χαίρειν with ἀσπάζομαι/προσαγορεύω, see Ziemann 1910, 297. 177 Compare PSI Congr. XI 11, ll. 1–2 (III AD) = TM 30425 (with ἀσπάζομαι). 178 Compare SB V 8027, ll. 1–5 (II–III AD) = TM 27373. 179 Other examples include P.Flor. II 136, ll. 11–13 (AD 262) = TM 10990; P.Flor. II 141, ll. 10–11 (AD 264) = TM 10998; P.Flor. II 143, ll. 10–12 (AD 264) = TM 11000.

  Klaas Bentein farewell greeting to the salutation through relativization.180 An example can be found in P.Oxy. XIV 1668, ll. 32–35 (III AD) = TM 31779, which reads ἀσπαζόμεθα τὰ παιδία, μεθʼ ὧ(ν) ἐρρῶ[σθ]αι ὑμᾶς εὔχομ(αι) ε[ὖ διάγ]ον-τας ‘we salute the children. I pray for your and their health and prosperity’ [tr. Grenfell & Hunt]. The same type of clause linkage can be found with elements that are usually coordinated, rather than subordinated, such as the health wish and the proskynema. In the opening section of P.Giss.Apoll. 23, ll. 1–5 (AD 113–120) = TM 19416, for example, the proskynema is made dependent from the health wish through relativization: πρὸ πάντων σε εὔχομαι ὑγιαίνειν μετὰ τοῦ κυρίου μου Ἡρακλᾶ Ἀπόλλωνος καὶ τῆς κυρίας μου Ἀλινῆς ὧν οὐ διαλείπω ⟦τὸ⟧ ποιῶν τὸ προσκύνημα παρὰ τῷ κυρί- ῳ Ἑρμῇ καὶ παρὰ πᾶσι τοῖς θεοῖς ‘above all, I wish that you are healthy with my Lord Heracles Apollon and my mistress Aline, for whom I do not fail to perform the proskynema in front of Hermes and all the gods’ (ll. 2–5).181 In such cases, one could say that we are dealing with a reformulation — an alternative formulation of something that is common — rather than a combination.182 Less frequent than relativization is the integration of constituents in an existing infinitival complement structure, as in P.Oxy. XLI 2980, ll. 8–12 (II AD) = TM 26860 where a politeness phrase is coordinated with a health wish: πρὸ τῶν ὅλων εὔχομαί σε ὑγιαί-νειν σὺν τοῖς ἀδελφοῖς καὶ γράφειν μοι περὶ ὧν βούλει ἡδέως ποιήσον[τ]ι̣ ‘I pray above all that you are well, and your brothers with you; and that you should write me your wishes, which I’ll gladly carry out.’ [tr. Browne et al.]. Writers also made use of the participle to subordinate one constituent to another. An example can be found in P.Brem. 56, ll. 1–5 (AD 113– 120) = TM 19640, which contains a combined greeting and salutation, from which a health which is made dependent through the use of a participial form: χαῖρε, κυρι (l. κύριέ) μου ἀδελφέ  Ἀπολλώνιε. Ἀσίννις σε ἀσπάζομαι σὺν τοῖς ἐμοῖς  ἐρρωμένος καὶ τὰ αὐτὰ εὐχόμενός σε ‘rejoice, my lord brother Apollonios. I Asinnius greet you, who am well with my family and wish you the same”. An in-between case is found in P.Mich. VIII 502, ll. 3–5 (II AD) = TM 27112, where the proskynema is participial, but still preceded by καί: πρὸ παντὸς [ὑγιαίνειν σε] εὔχομαι καὶ τὸ προσκύνημά σου ἀδιαλείπ[τως ποιούμε-] νος παρὰ τοῖς τριχώ-

 180 E.g. P.Oxy. XXXVI 2786, ll. 7–9 (I AD) = TM 25100; P.Michael. 15, ll. 7–9 (ca. AD 76–84) = TM 25895; P.Oxy. XXXVIII 2862, ll. 7–9 (III AD) = TM 31832. 181 A very similar expression can be found in SB X 10278, ll. 2–5 (AD 114–119) = TM 16755. 182 For another example where the proskynema follows the health wish as a participle, see P.Bingen. 74, ll. 2–4 (AD 130–199) = TM 78042.

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μασι ἐν Κοπτῷ ‘before all else, I pray [for your health] and continuously make obeisance for you in the presence of the hair at Koptos’.183 On some occasions, the boundaries between discourse constituents become difficult to distinguish. So, for example, the farewell is often combined with verbs that are commonly used for health wishes, as in ἐρρῶσθαί σεύχομαι (l. σε εὔχομαι) φί(λτατε) καὶ καλῶς ἔχειν πανο(ικεί) (P.Flor. II 230, ll. 22–25 (ca. AD 255–265) = TM 11109):184 one could debate whether we are dealing here with an extended farewell (to be included in our ‘repetitions’), or with a combination of a farewell and a health wish.185

. Displacements One last type of procedure which I want to discuss here is that of displacement: as we have seen in (2.3), the order of discourse constituents was not entirely fixed, but there certainly was some patterning. In the opening, we see that when the prescript is combined with other elements, it is typically done in the order prescript > salutation > health wish > proskynema, an order which seems to be followed even when one of these constituents is not present. The order seems to be slightly less fixed in the closing section: here, the tendency is for the salutation, politeness expressions, and the health wish to precede the farewell, often in the order politeness > salutation > health wish. The signature, postscript, date, and address tend to follow the farewell (often in that order), although the postscript can also occur before the farewell, when it is not too long (mostly combined with the salutation).186 Occasionally, however, writers go against this order, placing constituents where we would not expect them. So, for example, in the opening the salutation can follow the health wish or the proskynema.187 In

 183 For the proskynema as participle, also see P.Mich. VIII 476, ll. 4–5 (II AD) = TM 27089; P.Mich. VIII 495, ll. 5–8 (AD 107–185) = TM 27105. 184 Compare P.Sarap. 100, ll. 14–15 (AD 90–133) = TM 17125; P.Iand. VI 116, ll. 12–14 (ca. AD 200–240) = TM 45340. 185 For the affinity of the farewell and the health wish, see Nachtergaele 2015, 231, who notes that “the final health wish had more or less the same meaning as the closing formula, which is also concerned with the addressee’s health”. 186 See e.g. P.Mich. VIII 477, ll. 39–43 (II AD) = TM 27090. 187 See e.g. SB VI 9122, ll. 1–2 (AD 31–64) = TM 25289; PSI XIV 1420, ll. 2–6 (III AD) = TM 30470; P.Haun. II 18, ll. 4–6 (III AD) = TM 30121.

  Klaas Bentein the closing, politeness and/or the salutation can be placed after the farewell,188 or even after the postscript.189 The date can precede the farewell.190 In a few cases, we find elements that are expected in the opening but occur in the closing, and vice versa. In P.Brem. 15, ll. 31–34 (AD 118) = TM 19600, for example, a proskynema occurs at the end of the letter, instead of being found at the beginning.191 Similarly, in O.Did. 19, ll. 6–7 (AD 88–96) = TM 144586, the letter ends with the type of health wish that we usually find in the opening.192 In another letter, from Ammonios to his teacher Theon, we find a politeness phrase in the opening, rather than in the closing, where it more often occurs: πρὸ πάντων εὔχομαί σε ἐρρῶσθαι σὺν τοῖς σοῖς καὶ ἐπιτρέπειν μοι περὶ ὧν βούλει ‘Ammonios to the teacher Theon, greetings. Before all I pray that you and all of yours are in good health and that you leave to me whatever you want’ (P.Oslo. III 156, ll. 3–5 (II AD) = TM 28917). This is an unusual phrasing for multiple reasons: the intensifier does not contain the usual particle μέν, ἐρρῶσθαι is used instead of ὑγιαίνειν, and the health wish is coordinated with a politeness phrase.193 Salutations are not entirely absent from openings, but occur less frequently, as we also saw in (2.3): so, for example, the opening of O.Krok. I 98, ll. 1–2 (ca. AD 109) = TM 88695, with the second-person imperative ἀσπάζου right after the opening greeting, is somewhat unusual: Δεκιναις Καικεισα τῷ ἀδελφῷ χ(αίρειν).  ἀσπάζου Ζουτουλα̣ καὶ Πουριδουρ ‘Dekinais to Kaikeisa his brother, greetings. Salute Zoutoula and Pouridour’. In some texts, two core elements that are usually found together, namely the names of the initiator and receiver, are split over the opening and closing section, with the initiator in the opening and the receiver in the closing.194 Several examples of this phenomenon can be found in the Heroninos archive.195 The reverse strategy is also attested: so, in O.Bodl. II 1999 (II–III AD) = TM 72675, the

 188 E.g. P.Oxy. XLIX 3504, ll. 5–9 (salutation and politeness after farewell); P.Fay. 123, ll. 25–27 (AD 110) = TM 10788; P.Giss.Apoll. 7, ll. 4–8 (AD 115) = TM 19426 (salutation after farewell). 189 E.g. P.Oxy. III 530, ll. 29–31 (II AD) = TM 28370. 190 E.g. PSI XII 1259, ll. 26–27 (AD 120–225) = TM 27174; SB XVIII 13332, ll. 8–9 (AD 257) = TM 14742. 191 For similar examples, see P.Oxy. LIX 3992, ll. 13–17 (AD 142–199) = TM 27848; P.Oxy. XII 1482, ll. 22–24 (II AD) = TM 28994; P.Oxy. LIX 3988, ll. 16–19 (II AD) = TM 27844. 192 On the ‘final health wish’, see Nachtergaele 2015, 231–242. 193 Compare with P.Oxy. XLI 2980, ll. 8–12 (II AD) = TM 26860, where we find the same unusual combination, but in the farewell greeting, and with the verb ὑγιαίνειν instead of ἐρρῶσθαι. 194 A usage also noted by Luiselli 2008, 692. 195 See e.g. P.Flor. II 120 (AD 254) = TM 10972; P.Flor. II 124 (AD 254) = TM 10977; P.Fay. 133 (AD 260) = TM 10987.

A Typology of Variations in the Ancient Greek Epistolary Frame (I–III AD)  

name of the receiver functions as the opening, and that of the initiator as the closing, no other formulae being present.196 Very unusual is also P.Ryl. II 245 (III AD) = TM 31174, where the opening consists of the name of the initator,197 and the closing of the short farewell ἔρρωσο. Oddly, however, the farewell is then followed by the rest of the usual opening, namely the name of the receiver accompanied by the greeting verb: Λου[κ]ρητίῳ π̣λ̣ε̣ ῖ̣ σ̣[τ]α χαίρ̣ε̣ [ιν] ‘to Lucretius many greetings’ (ll. 25–26). When the names of the initiator and receiver are found together, their usual order is sometimes reversed, the receiver being placed before the initiator, as a sign of courtesy.198 Occasionally, even the position of the greeting verb varies: so, for example, in P.Oxy. XL 2926, ll. 1–3 (III AD) = TM 24887, the greeting has been inserted in the between the names of the initiator and the receiver, rather than after these two elements, as would be common: Πλουτίωνος (l. Πλουτίωνι) γραμματευς (l. γραμματεῖ) σιτηρεσίου \πολλὰ χαίρειν/ παρὰ Ὡριων (l. Ὡρίωνος) κυβερνητης (l. κυβερνήτου) Ἀρσενίου ‘to Plution, secretary of the corn dole, many greetings from Horion, shipmaster of Arsenius’ [tr. Rea].199 In some texts, the receiver is not only addressed explicitly by his/her name in the opening, but again in the closing, as in P.Alex.Giss. 38, ll. 20–21 (AD 113–120) = TM 27560: ἐρρῶ̣σ̣θ̣ [αί] σε εὔ̣[χ]ο̣μαι, τιμιώτατε Ἀπόλλωνε (l. Ἀπολλώνε)  μετὰ τῶν ἀβ[ασκά]ντων ‘I pray that you are well, most honorable Apollonius, with your family — may they be free from harm’.200 The notion of displacement is also relevant to optional structural elements. These often had a specific distribution, too: whereas the opening greeting, farewell, and address were often accompanied by honorific epithets and kinship terms, intensifiers are more often found with health wishes, and to some extent also salutations and proskynêma formulae. On some occasions, however, we see that such elements are used where we would not expect them: so, for example, salutations and health wishes occasionally contain kinship terms and honorific

 196 Compare O.Bodl. II 1992 (II AD) = TM 72668. 197 Compare P.Gen. II 1.72 (AD 211) = TM 32143. 198 Sarri 2018, 42–43 notes that the names of the initiator and receiver are ordered according to their hierarchical relationship, starting from the Ptolemaic period. Fournet 2009, 43 specifies that this was particularly the case in official letters, but that the practice was extended to private letter writing starting from the 3rd cent. AD, and was systematized in the 4th cent. AD. 199 Compare P.Oxy. XLI 2985, v, l. 1 (II–III AD) = TM 26865. 200 Other examples include P.Giss.Apoll. 25, ll. 18–19 (AD 115–117) = TM 19428; P.Ross.Georg. III 3, ll. 24–25 (III AD) = TM 30783; P.Harr. I 105, ll. 14–15 (III AD) = TM 28711.

  Klaas Bentein epithets.201 Similarly, the ethical dative, which usually occurs with the farewell greeting, can sometimes be found with the salutation, as in P.Euphrates. 17, ll. 26–27 (AD 232–256) = TM 44675: ἄσ̣πασόν μοι Σαδαλ-λαθην τὸνμ ἀ̣δελφόν μου ‘embrace for me Sadallathes my brother’. Conversely, the farewell may contain an intensifier that we usually find in the opening greeting or health wish, such as πολλά or πρὸ πάντων.202 The same can be seen with other types of intensifiers: for example, we sometimes find καθʼ ἑκάστην ἡμέραν, which is normally used with the proskynema, with the health wish;203 conversely, πρὸ μὲν πάντων, which usually occurs with the health wish, is sometimes used with the proskynema or salutation.204

 Concluding remarks Whereas scholarship has engaged in depth with the formulaic structure of nonliterary texts such as private letters, it has paid less attention to the variations we can find to that fixed structure. In this contribution, I have proposed a framework to describe such variations, distinguishing between reformulations, additions, omissions, repetitions, combinations, and displacements. I have embedded my discussion of these procedures in an approach that is not only more quantitative than has been the case in previous research, but also more aware of the different levels that are involved in the description of epistolary patterns. An important distinction in this regard is that between discourse structure on the one hand, and the formulaic realization of that discourse structure on the other. What I have presented here is of course only the groundwork, so to speak: now that we can objectively describe how writers varied their expression in the

 201 See e.g. O.Did. 358, l. 3 (AD 77–92) = TM 144919; O.Claud. I 165, ll. 2–3 (II AD) = TM 24172; P.Mert. I 28, l. 3 (III AD) = TM 31542. Uncommon is also the use of a kinship term with the name of the initiator, rather than, or together with, that of the receiver. See e.g. P.Lond. III 899, ll. 1–2 (II AD) = TM 29246; P.Ross.Georg. III 4, ll. 1–2 (AD 200–225) = TM 30784; P.Stras. I 37, ll. 1–3 (III AD) = TM 31020. 202 See e.g. P.Flor. II 148, ll. 15–16 (AD 265–266) = TM 11005 (πολλά); SB IV 7461, ll. 12–13 (AD 45) = TM 18055; P.Giss.Apoll. 40, ll. 9–10 (AD 113–120) = TM 19464; P.Mil.Vogl. VI 281, l. 15 (AD 108–176) = TM 28874 (πρὸ πάντων). 203 See e.g. P.Tebt. II 413, ll. 1–3 (II AD) = TM 28426. 204 See e.g. P.Brem. 61, ll. 46–47 (AD 113–120) = TM 19646; SB XIV 12594, ll. 2–4 (III AD) = TM 30292.

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epistolary frame, we should try to get a better synchronic205 understanding of why they did so: previous scholarship has mostly tried to account for variations by attributing them to static factors: so, for example, the absence of (part of) the epistolary frame has been related to the fact that not enough space would have been available to the writer, that the messenger would deliver the greetings, or that the document was a draft text that had not entirely been finished yet. From a historical sociolinguistic point of view, it would be interesting to go beyond such factors, and try to relate the variation we find to the specific context of writing, in particular the way in which the initiator linguistically constructs his/her identity, and how s/he uses language to relate him/herself to the receiver. A key element which we need to understand better before engaging with such questions is how much cognitively salient the variations I have described were: the more noticeable, the more motivation one can attribute to the person making it, and the more certainty that the receiver will actually have noticed it. An interesting way of exploring this question would be to develop a cline of cognitive saliency, along which the various procedures outlined in this contribution (including, perhaps, the different levels to which they are relevant) can be situated. But this will be the task of future research.

References Agha, A. (2004), “Registers of language”, in: A. Duranti (ed.), A Companion to Linguistic Anthropology, New York/Oxford, 23–45. Agha, A. (2007), Language and Social Relations, Cambridge/New York. Aitchison, J. (2001), Language Change: Progress or Decay?, 3rd ed., Cambridge/New York. Andersen, H. (2009), “Living norms”, in: I. Lunde/M. Paulsen (eds.), Poets to Padonki: Linguistic Authority and Norm Negotiation in Modern Russian Culture, Bergen, 17–33. Bax, M. (2010), “Epistolary presentation rituals: Face-work, politeness, and ritual display in Early Modern Dutch letter-writing”, Linguistic Insights - Studies in Language and Communication 65, 37–85. Bentein, K. (2016), “Διό, διὰ τοῦτο, ὅθεν, τοίνυν, οὖν, or rather asyndeton? Inferential expressions and their social value in Greek official petitions (I – IV AD)”, Acta Classica 59, 23–51. Bentein, K. (2023), “Why say goodbye twice? Repetition and involvement in the Greek epistolary frame (I-IV AD)”, in: M. Dana (ed.), La correspondance privée dans la Méditerranée antique, Bordeaux, 173–206.

 205 From a diachronic point of view, it would be worth exploring which procedures become established over time: the omission of the epistolary frame, for example, becomes much more frequent in the Late Antique period (Fournet 2009).

  Klaas Bentein Bhatia, V.K. (1993), Analysing Genre: Language Use in Professional Settings, London/New York. Brennan, G. (2013), Explaining Norms, Oxford. Campbell, L./Harris, A.C. (1995), Historical Syntax in Cross-linguistic Perspective, Cambridge. Chapa, J. (1998), Letters of Condolence in Greek Papyri, Florence. Clarysse, W. (2018), “Letters from high to low in the Graeco-Roman period”, in: J. Cromwell/ E. Grossman (eds.), Scribal Repertoires in Egypt from the New Kingdom to the Early Islamic Period, Oxford, 240–250. Cribiore, R. (2001), Gymnastics of the Mind: Greek Education in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt, Princeton. Dickey, E. (2016), “Emotional language and formulae of persuasion in Greek papyrus letters”, in: E. Sanders/M. Johncock (eds.), Emotion and Persuasion in Classical Antiquity, Stuttgart, 237–262. Exler, F.X.J. (1923), The Form of the Ancient Greek Letter: A Study in Greek Epistolography, Washington, D.C. Fendel, V. (2018), Coptic Interference in the Syntax of Greek Letters from Egypt, PhD thesis, Oxford. Fournet, J.-L. (2009), “Esquisse d’une anatomie de la lettre antique tardive d’après les papyrus”, in: R. Delmaire/J. Desmulliez/P-L. Gatier (eds.), Correspondances. Documents pour l’histoire de l’Antiquité tardive. Actes du colloque international, université Charles-deGaulle-Lille 3, 20-22 novembre 2003, Lyon, 23–66. Fournet, J.-L. (2015), “At the desk of a man of letters: Literate practices in Byzantine Egypt according to the dossier of Dioscorus of Aphrodite”, in: S.F. Johnson (ed.), Languages and Cultures of Eastern Christianity: Greek, Farnham/Burlington, VT, 221–248. Goffman, E. (1974), Frame Analysis: An Essay on the Organization of Experience, New York. Goffman, E. (1981), Forms of Talk, Philadelphia. Gordon, C. (2009), Making Meanings, Creating Family: Intertextuality and Framing in Family Interaction, Oxford/New York. Hanks, P. (2013), Lexical Analysis: Norms and Exploitations, Cambridge, MA. Hoyle, S. (1993), “Participation frameworks in sportscasting play: imaginary and literal footings”, in: D. Tannen (ed.), Framing in Discourse, Oxford, 114–144. Hull, Jun. R.F. (1997), “A Prayer to Sarapis in P. Oxy. 1070”, in: M. Kiley (ed.), Prayer from Alexander to Constantine, London/New York, 181–184. Hussein el-Mofatch, R. (2016), “Where is the party?”, in: T. Derda/A. Łajtar/J. Urbanik (eds.), Proceedings of the 27th International Congress of Papyrology Warsaw, 29 July - 3 August 2013, Warsaw, 1993–2010. Keller, R. (1994), On Language Change: The Invisible Hand in Language, Routledge. Kim, C.-H. (1975), “The papyrus invitation”, Journal of Biblical Literature 94 (3), 391–402. Kim, C. (2011), ‘Grüße in Gott, Dem Herrn’. Studien Zum Stil Und Zur Struktur Der Griechischen Christlichen Privatbriefe Aus Ägypten, PhD Thesis, Trier. Klauck, H.-J. (2006), Ancient Letters and the New Testament: A Guide to Context and Exegesis, Waco, TX. Koroli, A. (2020), “Imposing psychological pressure in papyrus request letters: A case study of six Byzantine letters written in an ecclesiastical context (VI–VII CE)”, in: K. Bentein/M. Janse (eds.), Varieties of Post-Classical and Byzantine Greek, Berlin, 75–114. Koskenniemi, H. (1956), Studien zur Idee und Phraseologie des griechischen Briefes bis 400 n. Chr., Helsinki.

A Typology of Variations in the Ancient Greek Epistolary Frame (I–III AD)  

Kruschwitz, P./H. Halla-aho (2007), “The Pompeian wall inscriptions and the Latin language: A critical reappraisal”, Arctos: Acta Philologica Fennica 41, 31–49. Kuiper, K. (2000), “On the linguistic properties of formulaic speech”, Oral Tradition 15 (2), 279–305. Kuiper, K. (2009), Formulaic Genres, Basingstoke [England] ; New York. Leiwo, M. (2005), “Substandard Greek. Remarks from Mons Claudianus”, in: N.M. Kennel/ J.E. Tomlinson (eds.), Ancient Greece at the Turn of the Millennium. Recent Work and Future Perspectives, Publications of the Canadian Institute at Athens 4, 237–261. LLewelyn, S.R. (1998), “Prescripts and addresses in ancient letters”, New Documents Illustrating Early Christianity 8, 122–128. Logozzo, F. (2015), “Register variation and personal interaction in the Zenon archive”, Studi e Saggi Linguistici 53 (2), 227–244. Luiselli, R. (2008), “Greek letters on Papyrus: First to eighth centuries. A survey”, Asiatische Studien: Zeitschrift Der Schweizerischen Asiengesellschaft 62 (3), 677–737. Malherbe, A.J. (1988), Ancient Epistolary Theorists, Atlanta, GA. Martin, J.R./D. Rose (2008), Genre Relations: Mapping Culture, London/Oakville, CT. Nachtergaele, D. (2015), The Formulaic Language of the Greek Private Papyrus Letters, PhD thesis, Ghent. Nachtergaele, D. (2016), “Variation in private letters: The papyri of the Apollonios Strategos archive”, Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 56 (1), 140–163. Papathomas, A. (2007), “Höflichkeit und Servilität in den griechischen Papyrusbriefen der ausgehenden Antike”, in: B. Palme (ed.), Akten des 23. internationalen Papyrologenkongresses. Wien, 22.–28. Juli 2001, Vienna, 497–512. Papathomas, A. (2018), “Das Ringen um korrekte Sprache, guten Stil und rechten Sinn. Grammatische und stilistische Verbesserungen auf spätantiken griechischen Papyrusbriefen (5.– 8. Jh. n.Chr.)”, in: P. Swiggers (ed.), Language, Grammar, and Erudition: From Antiquity to Modern Times. A Collection of Papers in Honour of Alfons Wouters, Leuven, 145–166. Parsons, P. (1980), “Background: The papyrus letter”, Didactica Classica Gandensia 20–21, 3–19. Porter, S.E./Adams, S.A. (2010), Paul and the Ancient Letter Form, Leiden. Poster, C. (2007), “A conversation halved: Epistolary theory in Greco-Roman antiquity”, in: C. Poster/L.C. Mitchell (eds.), Letter-writing Manuals and Instruction from Antiquity to the Present. Historical and Bibliographic Studies, Columbia, S.C., 21–51. Pruneti, P. (2016), “Alcune considerazioni sui bigliettini d’invito”, Analecta Papyrologica 28, 117–128. Rutten, G.J./M. van der Wal (2012), “Functions of epistolary formulae in Dutch letters from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries”, Journal of Historical Pragmatics 13 (2), 173–201. Sarri, A. (2018), Material Aspects of Letter Writing in the Graeco-Roman World 500 BC – AD 300, Berlin. Trapp, M.B. (2003), Greek and Latin Letters: An Anthology with Translation, Cambridge/New York. White, J.L. (1986), Light from Ancient Letters, Philadelphia. Wolf, W. (2006), “Introduction: Frames, framings and framing borders in literature and other media”, in: W. Wolf/W. Bernhart (eds.), Framing Borders in Literature and Other Media, Amsterdam/New York, 1–40. Wood, J.L. (2009), “Structures and expectations: A systematic analysis of Margaret Paston’s formulaic and expressive language”, Journal of Historical Pragmatics 10 (2), 187–214.

  Klaas Bentein Worp, K.A. (1995), “Letters of condolence in the Greek papyri: Some observations”, Analecta Papyrologica 7, 149–154. Wray, A. (2002), Formulaic Language and the Lexicon, Cambridge/New York. Ziemann, F. (1910), De epistularum Graecarum formulis sollemnibus quaestiones selectae, PhD thesis, Halle.

Marja Vierros

Transposition of Nominal and Verbal Bound Morphemes: The Case of -ες and -ας in Greek Documentary Papyri Abstract: The study examines the variation of the Greek inflectional endings -ας and -ες, specifically the transposition of -ες for -ας in nominal and verbal morphology attested in the documentary papyri from the Hellenistic period on and especially in the Roman and Byzantine periods, a phenomenon that displays the long period of variation between these endings before the generalization of ες alone in Modern Greek. The attestations and their frequency in different forms and their chronology are examined by querying two morphosyntactically annotated corpora of Greek papyri and discussing possible phonological factors behind the transposition. The results show that the transposition appears first in the nominal inflection, with numerals, nouns, and participles, and only later in the verbal inflection, where the two endings are in fact allomorphs of the second person singular in active past tense inflection. Keywords: allomorphy, corpora, digital grammar, documentary papyri, Hellenistic Greek, historical linguistics, Koine, nominal case, variation

 Introduction: status quaestionis In so-called Koine Greek, there are two, more or less, simultaneous processes concerning the occasional replacement of the inflectional ending -ας (-as) by the ending -ες (-es).1 One takes place in nominal morphology, while the other in verbal morphology. These two developments eventually led to the regular use of the ending -ες in Medieval and Modern Greek. We have adequate evidence of the early transposition of these morphemes in ancient texts, especially in primary sources like papyri and ostraca in which we can trace the ongoing language change more closely than in other types of written sources, such as literature.

 1 This article is an outcome of the project “Digital Grammar of Greek Documentary Papyri” that has received funding from the European Research Council (ERC) in the context of the European Union Horizon 2020 research and innovation programme (grant agreement No 758481). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111272887-019

  Marja Vierros In nominal morphology there is a grammatical (bound) morpheme -ες, i.e. a nom. pl. case ending, replacing the morpheme -ας, an acc. pl. case ending, in the consonant-stem paradigm of the third declension.2 As Bubenik has phrased it: In nominal morphology, various trends ushering in the Medieval (and ultimately Modern) state of affairs are observable in private inscriptions and Egyptian papyri. Here belongs the use of -es for -as in the accusative plural of athematic nouns. (Bubenik 2014, ch. 2.c, my italics).

According to Gignac 1976–1981 II, 46–47, the nom. pl. ending -ες of the masculine and feminine nouns of the third declension is used instead of the acc. pl. ending -ας occasionally in papyri of the Roman and Byzantine period papyri. Gignac further states that this phenomenon is a middle stage of the process whereby the nominative supplanted the accusative in the plural. He continues by adding that the variation occurs most often with numerals and quantifiers displaying its first attestations of such forms in various ancient dialects. He especially notes about the quantifying adjective πᾶς, πᾶσα, πᾶν ‘all’ (Gignac 1976–1981 II, 134): “The acc. pl. masc. is frequently replaced by the -ες of the nom. as in dental stem noun of the third declension. […] Conversely, the acc. pl. -ας is used sporadically for the nom.” (my italics). Gignac provides some twenty examples of πάντες/πάντας that date to AD times, except for the earliest one which is dated to the year 2 BC.3 We may also note that the inflectional paradigm for the masculine participle (present, future, and aorist active) follows the inflectional pattern of the third declension forms with a consonantal stem; thus, there is another widely used part of speech that makes use of the morphemes (i.e. endings) in question. A caveat concerns the first declension nouns, where we also come across the ending -ας — in fact, it appears in two grammatical cases of the feminine (gen. sg., acc. pl.) and in two of the masculine (nom. sg. and acc. pl.); but in this instance there was originally a long vowel; hence, we

 2 Other declensions used the ending -ας, too, for other cases: feminine nouns of the first declension used a genitive in -ας for certain types of words (note that it was originally a long vowel [-a:s], but after the loss of vowel-length distinctions the words with a nom. sg. -α [-a] had a gen. sg. (and acc. pl.) in -ας [-as], see Horrocks 2010, 285–286; the masculine and neuter nouns of the first declension have a nom. sg. (+ acc. sg.) ending -ας. 3 The work of Gignac focuses on the Roman and Byzantine periods, but as we will see later, there are no instances of papyri from the Ptolemaic period for this quantifier with the transposed ending.

Transposition of Nominal and Verbal Bound Morphemes  

may exclude those cases here since it is the topic of another study where the loss of vowel quantity also needs to be considered.4 As mentioned already, these specific morphemes do not represent exclusively a nominal acc. pl. ending being overruled by a nom. pl. ending, since the same morphemes are also sometimes transposed in verbal morphology. These are allomorphs of the 2nd sg. ending in two separate conjugation groups; the two verbal paradigms merged in Late Antique and Early Medieval Greek (Horrocks 2010, 318). Bubenik considers their mixed use as a case of interparadigmatic leveling of irregular morphology; the irregular ‘strong’ (or ‘second’) aorist has its Classical forms, such as εἶπον (1st sg.), εἶπες (2nd sg.) ‘said’ replaced by εἶπα, εἶπας respectively by means of analogy to the regular sigmatic (i.e. ‘weak’ or ‘first’ aorist) endings -σα, -σας. I find it problematic, though, that both Bubenik and Horrocks are presenting the direction of change in the same manner for both the 1st and 2nd sg. (i.e. analogical pressure on the ‘strong’/‘second’ aorist), even though they assert that in Modern Greek the -ες ending prevails in the 2nd sg. person.5 Gignac discusses these endings in connection with evidence from papyri; there are examples of second aorist verbs with the ending -ας (instead of -ες), but then he says that the ending -ες of the second aorist and the imperfect was quite often used instead of the ending -ας for the verbs of the first aorist throughout the Roman and Byzantine periods (but this was not very common in Ptolemaic papyri or in Koine literature); he argues in a similar manner about the perfect, especially 2nd sg. -ας was frequently replaced by -ες.6 So, we seem to have more cases where -ας is being replaced by -ες in the aorist and perfect tenses, i.e. just like in nominal morphology. In Modern Greek, the -ες ending for the 2nd sg. in the active past tense has prevailed; but in fact, this was

 4 Neither Gignac 1976–1981 II nor Bubenik 2014 consider the first declension nouns in connection with the phenomenon we are dealing with here. 5 Bubenik 2014, ch. 2.c; the 3rd sg. ending -ε is the same in both the ‘regular’ and ‘irregular’ inflectional paradigms (e.g. εἶπε). For certain verbs (e.g. εἶπον) the paradigmatic shift from second to first aorist endings was present already in Classical Ionic and made its way into Koine too where it became a common feature of the middle-to-low register (Horrocks 2010, 109–110). Note that the secondary endings (of the first aorist) were also used for the active perfect. 6 Gignac 1976–1981 II, 335–336, 348–349, 353–354, 418–419; Gignac 1976–1981 II, 336–345 lists examples of different verbs with the replacement of mostly the 1st, but also 2nd and 3rd sg. endings, including εἶπον/εἶπα/, ἤνεγκον/ἤνεγκα, ἦλθον/ἦλθα, ἔλαβον/ἔλαβα, etc.

  Marja Vierros already the case in Byzantine (Medieval) Greek (see Table 13 for an overview of the past tense endings).7 Tab. 13: Past tense personal endings in the active indicative. Imperfect and nd aorist endings8

st aorist, kappa-aorist and perfect endings9

Combined pattern of later Greek

 sg

-ον [-on]

-(σ)α / -(κ)α [-sa/-ka]

-α [-a]

 sg

-ες [-es]

-(σ)ας / -(κ)ας [-sas/-kas]

-ες [-es]

 sg

-ε(ν) [-e(n) ]

-(σ)ε(ν) / -(κ)ε(ν) [-se(n)/-ke(n)]

-ε(ν) [-e(n)]

 pl

-ομεν [-omen]

-(σ)αμεν / -(κ)αμεν [-samen/-kamen]

-αμεν [-amen]

 pl

-ετε [-ete]

-(σ)ατε/ -(κ)ατε [-sate/-kate]

-ατε / -ετε [-ate / -ete]

 pl

-ον [-on]

-(σ)αν/ -(κ)ασι(ν) / -(κ)αν [-san/-kasi(n)/-kan]

-αν(ε) / -ασι(ν) [-an(e) / -asi(n)]

There is a difference, of course, between the developments in nominal and verbal morphology, since in nominal morphology there is no such prehistory in Classical times for an -ες ending being a standard acc. pl. ending, while the blending of the nominative and accusative cases is understood to be a very late phenomenon;10 but in verbal morphology both endings were perfectly correct for 2nd sg. indicative endings of the past tense: the selection of one over another was supposed to be made according to which stem type a verb was associated

 7 Holton et al. 2019, 1613; Horrocks 2010, 144, 318–319, from which Table 13 is taken in a modified form. Horrocks 2010, 144 remarks on the mixed choice of endings from two paradigms: “Eventually, however, the strong aorist/imperfect paradigm, including the innovative 3pl. forms, succumbed to the model of the numerically superior weak aorists, but as often happens in cases of paradigm interference, the final product in the Byzantine period shows that the process was in fact a two-way one”. 8 So-called secondary endings of thematic inflection, i.e. using a thematic vowel ε/ο. 9 Also so-called ‘secondary’ endings, but with a secondary theme vowel, and the suffix consonant /s/ indicating the aorist stem in sigmatic aorist, or /k/ for the perfect and kappaaorist (of which there are three verbs: τίθημι: ἔθηκα, ἵημι: ἧκα, δίδωμι; ἔδωκα), which in the plural may leave the -κα- element out. 10 The process in third declension influenced first declension plural forms, thus resulting in a mixed paradigm of the first and third declensions in the Byzantine period: the first declension nom. pl. -αι and acc. pl. -ας forms were remodeled analogically with the use of the endings -ες and -ας, and eventually of -ες/-ες (Horrocks 2010, 286–287).

Transposition of Nominal and Verbal Bound Morphemes  

with and which so-called ‘past tense’ indicative form was the norm in each period. But what was the acceptable norm to speakers of any given time, this is not easily traceable from the long temporal distance of our time. What was the reason for these morphological developments, and was there really some cross-paradigmatic influence between the nominal and verbal morphological categories? Was there perhaps a phonological reason (i.e. confusing /a/ and /e/ in the final, usually unstressed, syllable) that affected both nominal and verbal developments in the same way, or were there still some other aspects at play? Dahlgren/Leiwo 2020 have discussed the endings -ον/-ε/-αι in verbal inflection asking if the variation of these endings in papyri is a mark of confusion about the phoneme or over difficulties in understanding the precise Greek mood. They pay attention to language contact reasons and describe how the Coptic stress system had an effect on scribes who wrote L2 Greek and could easily confuse vowels, especially in the unstressed final syllable (i.e. morphemes indicating case, person or mood), which meant that the letters used to mark unstressed vowels in Coptic, i.e. , were used alternatively, all representing the unstressed reduced final vowel /ə/ (schwa).11 They also mention that /a/ especially could easily move towards /e/ in connection with or following velar consonants (κ /k/, χ /kh/, γ /g/). A most useful piece of information for our discussion here is the fact that the most commonly used neutral vowel was depicted with .12 Since the changes to verbal past tense morphemes are not limited only to 2nd sg. (-ας >-ες), but concern other personal endings as well (see Table 13), it is all the more interesting to discuss the reasons for it; can we find one reason for the parallel development in this ending or can we see the development starting in one group and then transferring to another? Perhaps the vowel was not deemed an important meaning bearer. Most grammars and studies discuss these processes separately (past tense conjugation system as one phenomenon and nominal inflection as another), but in this paper I want to examine the ending -ας/-ες from a more general viewpoint and see if one development could lead the way to/for another, while I also aim to determine the time frame of the  11 Dahlgren/Leiwo 2020, 286–287. Vowel inventories of Coptic vary from scholar to scholar; Loprieno 1995, 48 states that only two unstressed vocalic phonemes exist, /ə/ and /a/, which are marked either with or ; Peust 1999, 201, 250–254 on the other hand, points to the graphemes ⲁ-ⲉ-(ⲉ)ⲓ-ⲟⲩ as marking unstressed syllables, depending on dialect. Dahlgren/Leiwo 2020 mention the Greek acc. pl. ending of the third declension specifically in this connection. 12 Dahlgren/Leiwo 2020, 297–298. We may also take note of the epenthetic or subphonological ⲉ, which means that in unstressed syllables, Coptic tended to insert the vowel in the neighborhood of sonorants (ⲙ, ⲛ, ⲗ, ⲣ, ⲃ /m, n, l, r, b/) (Peust 1999, 251).

  Marja Vierros attestations found in documentary papyri. On top of this, I also plan to reconsider the possible impact of language contact on this linguistic process since papyri come mainly from Egypt and were often written by native Egyptian speakers (see below).

 Tools and data In this paper, I am using several digital corpora and tools for studying my topic on the basis of Greek documentary papyri, and so I will shortly present them here before moving on to results. Papyrological data is especially suited for studying linguistic variation and language change, because it is a category of primary sources written by people of different backgrounds and education, where linguistic variation can first be detected (since we only have written sources). Within the sphere of literary texts there is a more complicated transmission process, and the texts we have readily at hand present an editorial view of the standard language; at any rate, the study of variation in manuscripts of literary texts would be a very different study altogether. As for epigraphical sources, we do not yet have tools and digital corpora with a similar overall coverage and proper linguistic annotation as we now have for documentary papyri, albeit the inscriptions can cover a wider geographical area. Documentary papyri have been recognized for a long time as an important source for linguistic variation,13 and there is now important scholarship and expertise in using this material.14 Despite these works, linguistic studies in An-

 13 Adolf Deissman, in his book Licht vom Osten. Das Neue Testament und die neuentdeckten Texte der hellenistisch-römischen Welt (Tübingen 1908), used recently — at the time — discovered papyrological material, discussing also language and style to some extent, even though the focus of the work was on New Testament studies; the papyrologist Ulrich Wilcken had hoped that his own Urkunden der Ptolemäerzeit (UPZ) edition (Berlin 1927) would be especially a resource for studies in language and scribal practices, apparently because those texts include a lot of variation; Robert Helbing in his Auswahl aus griechischen Papyri (Berlin 1924) states: “What the reader of papyri immediately sees, are the countless idiosyncrasies in orthography, morphology, syntax, word formation and semantics, which completely differ from the language of the classics taught in school”. 14 Both Mayser’s and Gignac’s grammars focus on papyrological material — Mayser 1926–1936 and 1970 for Ptolemaic times and Gignac 1976–1981 for the Roman and Byzantine periods; but these works, as invaluable as they still are, need updating and revision on many topics; Gignac’s two volumes, for example, do not cover syntax at all. Mandilaras 1973 studied the Greek verb in papyrological texts in detail.

Transposition of Nominal and Verbal Bound Morphemes  

cient Greek have made relatively little use of this data until the past ten or twenty years.15 But now the situation is rather the opposite and we are witnessing a rising linguistic interest in using this data, and also have at our disposal a growing number of digital tools. They enable us to not only take into consideration newly published material, which was not available in the times of Mayser or even Gignac, but also bring to the fore of research the quantitative aspect since computers can retrieve results from our searches (queries) in digital databases very fast. But it must also be emphasized here that linguistic, philological and papyrological analyses are as important as before in order to (1) have data correctly annotated, (2) design and formulate meaningful queries that generate sensible results and (3) calculate and analyse the results correctly. We must also be aware of the traditions of the academic field, as is pointed out below with regard to editorial practices. The knowledge of the context of our sources is vital for interpreting the outcome of our queries correctly. I have used the available data and tools of the Digital Greek Grammar of Documentary Papyri (PapyGreek) project, enhanced and compared with data from Alek Keersmaekers’ project (see further details on both below). The papyrological source data is the same for both projects and it comes from the Duke Databank of Documentary papyri (DDbDP).16 There are three different levels in querying, all of them relating to a different amount of data because different methods have been used to gather, build and compile this data. For this reason, I will provide a short overview of the tools and data since this is important for understanding the limits and possibilities of each dataset and tool. The questions we can ask can be phonological, morphological or syntactic, or a combination of these.

 15 Verhoogt 2010, 67 stated that “the attention of linguistic specialists to this wealth of material is relatively minimal”; G. Horrocks’ seminal work Greek. A History of the Language and its Speakers appeared in a second edition in 2010; he took papyrological texts into account on many occasions, but these are naturally not the only sources and focus of the book, while he relied in fact on the restricted number of previous studies available (e.g. for phonology on Teodorsson 1977; for verbs, on e.g. Mandilaras 1973). Trevor Evans and Dirk Obbink edited a book called The Language of the Papyri that came out in the same year (Oxford 2010); it was an important collection of studies that made the field more visible. More linguistic studies concentrating on papyrological material (including ostraca and tablets) have appeared in growing numbers since the beginning of the millennium. 16 Papyrological Navigator (PN), which hosts the DDbDP, is available online at http://papyri. info (last accessed 22/12/2021); the source data is retrieved from https://github.com/papyri/ idp.data (last accessed 22/12/2021) (PapyGreek uses the latest updates available; Duke-nlp extracted the data in 2016).

  Marja Vierros I will begin with the possibilities we now have for studying morphology and syntax. The Ancient Greek Dependency Treebank framework (AGDT)17 has been applied to the two above-mentioned corpora of Greek documentary papyri. The first is much smaller, but annotated (semi)manually with a review process (PapyGreek). The first stable data release of PapyGreek Treebanks consists of ca. 44000 tokens.18 The second corpus of documentary papyri is much larger and has been annotated for morphology and syntax using an automatic parser by A. Keersmaekers: this corpus (Duke-nlp) includes almost the whole DDbDP (ca. 5 million tokens).19 The corpora annotated within the AGDT framework includes the morphological information of each word, their syntactic functions in the sentence, as well as the sentence structure (the heads and dependents of each word). Papyrus texts include variation, and the language has often been edited before publication: if the words found in the original papyrus are something different from what is expected in a standard sense, their regularized forms are given in the critical apparatus by the editors of the texts. These regularizations are extremely useful for linguists looking for variation, and they are considered in the process of annotating the papyrus texts in both corpora, although in a slightly different manner. PapyGreek has two versions annotated for each text: the original and the regularized one, and these can be kept separate and be compared to one another when performing queries.20 Since we have two options for searching linguistic phenomena and syntactic structures, namely a small, manually annotated and vetted corpus on the one hand, and a large automatically produced one on the other, it is sensible to use both in the present study, compare their

 17 Version 2.0 Celano 2014; version 1.1 Bamman/Crane 2008. See also Vierros 2018 for the PapyGreek usage of the framework. 18 More details on the data release in Vierros/Henriksson 2021; data at DOI: 10.5281/zenodo. 5074307. 19 Keersmaekers/Depauw 2022 and at: https://github.com/alekkeersmaekers/duke-nlp (last accessed 22/12/2021). 20 Some other differences beyond linguistic variation are visible through the two different versions: in the regularized text the abbreviated or restored word forms have been annotated fully; so, for instance, case endings have been marked in the way the editor has opened up the abbreviation or restored the word, but in the original the case has not been marked, if the ending was not fully written or preserved in the papyrus. In this way we can be sure that we count only existing forms by using the orig-corpus, so that we do not analyse and count supplied forms that have come from the pens of different editors. In the case of the Duke-nlp corpus it has been proven to be more difficult (at least for me) to compare original with regularized forms in any convenient manner.

Transposition of Nominal and Verbal Bound Morphemes  

respective results as much as possible, and finally check the querying process in the case of smaller samples.21 For studying phonological issues we can look up cases of orthographic regularization in the papyri. As said before in this paper, we use the orthographic search tool, which is available on the PapyGreek portal.22 It can be used to look up orthographic variants in the whole corpus of Greek documentary papyri (DDbDP), including the latest updates; in addition, morphological (and syntactic) information (taken primarily from the PapyGreek Treebanks, and secondarily, also from the Duke-nlp) can be combined to carry out orthographic search. This enables us to pursue an orthographic query and then organize and analyse our data by also considering some morphological aspects. Some caveats — arising mostly from the editorial process — must, however, be stated first, as far as this and other orthographic search tools are concerned.23 In documentary papyri, we may find instances where a writer has written something else, and not what would really be expected, mainly from the regularizations provided to us by the editor of the papyrus text in the critical apparatus (see above). Through these regularizations we can trace linguistic variation in the digital editions of papyri. This method is by no means ‘bullet-proof’, since different editors have made their own individual decisions with regard to what to regularize and what not; some have not felt the need to opt for a ‘regular’ variant, at least in the case of some phenomena, which would normally be expected of the language of the text in the time of its writing. The question of what is ‘regular’, the ‘norm’, or ‘standard’, is not straightforward and the practices of different editors vary almost arbitrarily.24  21 The Duke-nlp can be queried, e.g. by means of DendroSearch, a tool also provided by Alek Keersmaekers et al. 2019 (available for download in https://github.com/alekkeersmaekers/ dendrosearch; last accessed 22/12/2021). The PapyGreek online portal includes a simple query interface, mainly designed for orthographic queries (see below). The treebanked data can be downloaded and queried by means of external tools, e.g. the Kiln platform (https://kiln. readthedocs.io/en/latest/; last accessed 22/12/2021), customized for querying treebanked data by Polina Yordanova. For more details and issues of differences between automatically vs. manually compiled annotations, see Vierros/Yordanova 2022. 22 See https://papygreek.com/search (last accessed 22/12/2021). A new version of the tool will be presented in Henriksson/Dahlgren/Vierros forth. and it will become available at a new address in 2023 (https://papygreek.com/search). 23 The same applies to another, similar tool, Trismegistos Text Irregularities (TMTI), as is also discussed in Depauw/Stolk 2015. 24 Moreover, the degree of regularization may differ between the printed edition and the electronic version of a text, since the so-called Papyrological Editor provides a possibility for anyone to suggest changes in the electronic transcripts (a review board approves the changes

  Marja Vierros Let us now look at one example where both endings -ας/-ες have and have not been regularized. BGU.1.261 (date: after May 5, AD 105) includes many regularizations suggested by the editor Fr. Krebs,25 and the critical apparatus in the electronic version available in PN follows the original printed edition very well.26 The editor has regularized two nouns where -ες was written instead of -ας in the text (l. 10 τὰς χε͂ ρες, read: χεῖρας (NB: the article has -ας), l. 15 στατῆρες, read: στατῆρας), but left several verbal forms unregularized (l. 14 δ̣εκες (in PN: δέκες), l. 14 δέδωκες, l. 18 ἔλαβα, l. 21 δίδω (regularized into διδωμι in ed. pr.; nothing in PN), l. 23 οἶδες, ll. 24–25 ἔγραψες). Some verb forms were regularized, apparently because they needed some other orthographic corrections as well (l. 17 ἤρηχές read: εἴρηκάς, l. 20 ἐλεγει read: ἔλεγεν, l. 22 ἤρηχεν read: εἴρηκεν, l. 23 διδι read: δίδε in PN, read: δίδει = δίδωσι in ed. pr.) It seems clear that the editor was thinking that the ending -ες was acceptable for a 2nd sg. verbal form, since in four instances he did not correct it (but he did so in one instance on l. 17). He also left 1st sg. ἔλαβα in place (instead of regularizing it a the more Classical 1st sg. ending -ον of the second aorist). The form οἶδες is sometimes regularized into the Classical form οἶσθα, but perhaps more generally it changes into οἶδας. The form οἶσθα occurs very rarely in papyri (once in O.Claud.1.173, for example) and sometimes the editors opt to be on the safe side by presenting both forms in the apparati (οἶδες read: οἶδας, i.e. οἶσθα). It is not difficult to find similar examples: e.g. O.Claud.1.160, where the editor regularized, in one and the same sentence, a so-called phonetic spelling (ει for ι in the word εἱματείων), but not the 2nd sg. ending of the perfect form ἀπέ-

 in the corpus); hence, some new regularizations may appear through that process for certain documents (but not for others). Moreover, when the electronic transcripts migrated from the old PHI CD-ROM to Unicode Greek and the online version, some ‘unification’ was performed by means of ‘regularizations’ (Gabriel Bodard, personal communication). 25 Aegyptische Urkunden aus den Königlichen Museen zu Berlin, Griechische Urkunden, Berlin, vol. I was published in 1895. 26 See http://papyri.info/ddbdp/bgu;1;261 (last accessed 22/12/2021). Only in l. 14 is there an addition in angle brackets for the word 14 δέκες, when on the BGU page there is only δέκες (note that in the same line the form δέδωκες appears also written in full, so it seems that the omission of the syllable δω is merely a writer’s lapse). Bagnall/Cribiore 2008, 188–189, state that “...the writer’s use of Greek is colloquial and wastes no words. Spelling is frequently phonetic and occasionally unclear. Thematic forms of didomi appear”; they also note that the writer might have been the female sender Thermouthes herself.

Transposition of Nominal and Verbal Bound Morphemes  

σταλκες, which in Classical (Attic) Greek would be ἀπέσταλκας (verb ἀποστέλλω has a perfect ἀπέσταλκα).27 There is no way of knowing to what extent exactly this kind of lack of regularization happened, and currently we cannot use digital queries for orthographic issues in a meaningful manner without the help of editorial regularizations. Nonetheless, we are able to find many instances of mixed-up ending usage based on the regularizations through our orthographic search tools: (1) a mixed-up usage of / (/a/, /e/) generally; (2) a mixed-up usage of the endings -ας/-ες (-as/-es). We can analyse the results, with the hope that they may give us a representative enough picture of the state of affairs, even if we know that there would have been more instances like those in the papyri which we cannot track down due to the lack of regularization.28

 What can the digital queries tell us? . Phonemes and morphemes First, we should try to see if the cause for the confusion over the endings lies at the level of phonology. We will therefore try to find out how often the vowels /a/ (α) and /e/ (ε) replaced one another in general, and then we must attempt to see how this relates to the variation noticed in the inflectional endings. In the vowel system of Koine and Byzantine Greek, these two vowels represent the regular open and front middle sounds respectively of the Greek vowel system;29 however, they are also occasionally mixed up in the documentary papyri. When a writer of a papyrus text often uses the letter /α/ instead of /ε/ , or vice versa, we can assume that they were confused in speech due to their sounds being close to one another; this confusion has occasionally spread to the written  27 O.Claud. 1.160, ll. 2–4 (ca. AD 100–120): ἀπέσταλκές μ\ο/ι ἤδη τρὶς ὑπὲρ τῶν εἱματείων (l. ἱματίων) σου ὅτι φορεῖται. “You have already thrice sent to me about your clothes, to have them brought”. 28 In section 3.2.1, where I discuss finite verb forms, I present some results from my searches. As a matter of fact, I performed some searches in PN in order to go around this problem by looking up certain specific verbal forms with the ending -ες, while -ας would have been expected instead; the results are mentioned in the footnotes. Roughly speaking, we could double the number of instances with 2nd sg. endings showing transposition of endings due to the lack of editorial regularizations. 29 See a description of the development of the vowel system in Horrocks 2010, 160–163 and Bubenik 2014, ch. 2a.

  Marja Vierros form too. We must also consider here the fact that the main language spoken in Egypt was of course Egyptian (Coptic), which had a possible impact on the writing of the Greek papyri, since many writers of Greek were L1 Egyptian speakers or had lived in Egyptian-speaking surroundings throughout their lifetime.30 As a matter of fact, Egyptian was a language where consonants carried more functional load than vowels.31 For the question at hand, let us remember that Coptic unstressed vowels were often reduced to /ə/, whose standard realization (in Sahidic) was ⲉ.32 In seems likely that in Coptic the situation for unstressed, especially word-final vowels could be described as “when in doubt, use ⲉ”. Results for vowels /a, e/ (see also Fig. 22): a. original papyrus has α, regularized into ε: 619 instances,33 only 72 are BC;34 b. original papyrus has ε, regularized into α: 1433 instances,35 out of which 96 are from BC years,36 820 from AD 1–299, 349 from AD 300–699;37

 30 Multilingualism in Egypt has been discussed, among others, in Papaconstantinou 2010 and Torallas Tovar/Vierros 2019. 31 Dahlgren 2017, 34. Vowels were not written before the Greek alphabet was employed for writing the Egyptian language (Coptic). See also Dahlgren 2017, 41–52 for a thorough discussion of the impact of the mother tongue. Her work as a whole concentrates on the impact of Coptic Egyptian phonology in Greek texts in the Roman period. 32 See above (1), and Peust 1999, 253. 33 See PapyGreek Search (https://papygreek.com/search) with the search string “form=-α+ε”. All numbers used in this article were accessed on 22/12/2021 using an older version of the search. 34 The date can be restricted using a timeline slider in the above search. 35 See PapyGreek Search with search string “form=-ε+α”. 36 See above, n. 34 on restricting the query according to the datings of the papyri; we have noted 13 undated ones. 37 The numbers of the preserved papyri per century fluctuate greatly: for instance, the numbers of tokens per period (cf. the duke-nlp corpus on the Kiln platform) are as follows (counts includes only real tokens (words), i.e. not punctuation or gaps or artificial tokens): all centuries BC: almost 600000; 1st to 3rd cent. AD: over 2 million; 4th to 7th cent. AD: almost 1 million. In other words, if we want somewhat comparable numbers for these periods, we should multiply the numbers from BC years by 3.4 and double (x2) the numbers from the 4th–7th cent. AD years. This is a very rough calculation and used only to illustrate that the uneven distribution of preserved texts must always be kept in mind while looking at the numbers of the query results. Hence, in the case of the vowels in question: BC: 326; 4th–7th cent. AD: 698; in other words, the interchange is relatively stable in the centuries AD, but rarer in the Ptolemaic period.

Transposition of Nominal and Verbal Bound Morphemes  

Results for the endings -ας/-ες (see also Fig. 23): c. original papyrus has -ας, regularized into -ες: 65 instances38 out of which 13 are from BC years; d. original papyrus has -ες, regularized into -ας: 870 instances,39 out of which 42 are from BC years. As mentioned above, the phonetic context may influence the pronunciation of a vowel. The following consonant is in this case always the sibilant, but the preceding consonant varies. Most often, an ending -ες is written instead of -ας before the liquid (and sonorant) sound /r/ (ca. 470 times); this is due to the overwhelming presence of the word τέσσαρες among our search results (see below). The second largest group are dentals, (τ) /t/, (δ) /d/ and (θ) /th/, namely two hundred instances. Velars are ca. 70 and sibilants, (σ) /s/, (ξ) /ks/, (ψ) /ps/), amount to a similar number — note that the perfect tense marker is most often represented by the velar sound (κ) /k/, while in the first aorist it is the sibilant that is used instead — whereas nasals are used to an even lesser extent.40 Since there is a very common orthographic variation between ε and αι, we must take into consideration the fact that occasionally the ending -ες pro -ας might realize as -αις. However, a search for cases where a papyrus text has -αις regularized into -ας gives only 37 hits, and these are mostly first declension feminine forms.41 The overall misspelling numbers pointing to confusion between the vowels /a/ and /e/ are smaller when compared to other cases of vowel confusion, such as the more common (mis)spelling variation between and or and ;42

 38 See PapyGreek Search with search string “regex:form=-α$+ε$ obey’ is rendered by ὑπακούω (< ὑπὸ + ἀκούω) with its cognate forms, the noun ὑπακοῆ and the adjective ὑπήκooς, and by the analogous derivative εἰσακούω; – ‘obeying’, understood as ‘being led’, is rendered by the passive of διευθύνω; – ‘obeying’ as a consequence of respecting is represented by ἐντρέπω; – ‘obeying’ as an act of submission, on the other hand, is present in the form of ὑποτάσσω (< ὑπό + τάσσω), with ὑποταγῆ, and not obeying in the form of ἀντιτάσσω; – in one case (62.3), the Greek perfect ἐγκεκυφόσιν ‘to those who have paid attention to the words of divine teaching’ (ἐγκεκυφόσιν εἰς τὰ λόγια τῆς παιδείας τοῦ θεοῦ) is rendered in Latin as oboedientibus eloquiis doctrinae Dei. In the Latin translation, however, there is no trace of this diversification, as can be seen from the data given in Table 14:

 12 Various proposals have also been put forward regarding the unity and/or scansion of the Letter; here we follow the proposal of Jaubert 2010, 24–28, regarding the final parts shared by Prinzivalli, in Prinzivalli/Simonetti 2010, 117–120. 13 We summarize here what has been argued in Molinelli 2018. For the question of etymology, see Giura 2016.

New Concepts in Ancient Languages  

Tab. 14: The semantic field of ‘listen/obey’ in the Greek text and the Latin translation. 

(.) οἱ ὑπακούσαντες

qui obaudierunt



(.)

mansuete obaudiunt



(.) Ἐπειδὴ ἐκάλουν καὶ οὐχ ὑπηκούσατε

Quoniam vocabam et non obaudiebatis



(.) ὑποτασσέσθω ἕκαστος τῷ πλησίον αὐτοῦ

obaudiat quisque proximum suum



(.) εἰσακούσητέ μου

obaudieritis mihi



(.) ὑποτάσσονται αὐτῷ

obaudiunt illi



(.) εἴ τίς σοι ὑπακούσεται,

si quis tui obaudiat



(.) ὐπακούσωμεν ... βουλήσει

obaudiamus ... voluntati



(.) ἀντιτασσόμενοι τῷ θελήματι

non obaudiunt ... voluntati



(.)

qui obaudiebant voluntati Dei



(.) ὑπηκόους ὄντας τοῖς ... λόγοις

obaudiamus verbo



(.) Ὑπακούσωμεν οὖν τῷ παναγίῳ καὶ ἐνδόξῳ Obaudiamus ergo sancto et glorioso ὀνόματι αὐτοῦ nomini eius



(.) ὑποταγῇ μιᾷ χρῆται

eodem iussu obaudiunt



(.) ταῖς αὐταῖς ταγαῖς τοῦ δεσπότου διευθύνονται

eisdem iussis Domini Dei obaudiunt



(.) ἐντρεπέτω τὸν ἰσχυρόν

obaudiat forti

Prinzivalli’s comment on the lemmas in Greek focuses once again on the value of the Latin translation; the scholar stresses the importance of ὑπακούω and ὑπακοῆ “because they express care (coming from the root of hearing) towards God with a precise nuance of religious obedience.... Obedience is always to God, and only in the final prayer (60:4) does 1 Clem extend it to earthly authorities. With regard to presbyters, however, he always speaks only of submission”.14 Thus, the writers who translated the Epistle into Latin some decades after the original no longer made the same fine distinction between ‘listening to’ or ‘obeying’ God (ὑπακούω) and ‘submitting to’ to the presbyters (ὑποτάσσω, ἐντρέπω); it is as if listening and submission were one and the same thing, and both were to be addressed to God and the presbyters or to authority more generally. The theme obaudi- corresponds to Greek lemmas made up of ὑπο + ταγand not only ἀκού-, thus showing a wider use of the military metaphor.

 14 Prinzivalli also refers to other studies on this point (cf. Prinzivalli/Simonetti 2010, 472 n. 78).

  Piera Molinelli The analysis of syntactic contexts does not appear to be significant and useful in differentiating semantic values. From a semantic point of view, a continuum can be seen with regards to the uses of obaudio: 1. contexts such as 57.4, where the auditory valence is strong (ἐκάλουν καὶ οὐχ ὑπηκούσατε, vocabam et non obaudiebatis), 2. bridging contexts such as 13.3, where listening to the word means obedience (ὑπηκόους ὄντας τοῖς ... λόγοις, obaudiamus verbo) 3. contexts such as 36.6, where the auditory valence is completely absent from the context (ὐπακούσωμεν ... βουλήσει, obaudiamus ... voluntati) The interpretive certainty that the value of obedience was clear in obaudio comes from the antonymic relationship we find in example 31 (2.1) between obaudientes and iubentes, which translate the present passive and active participle of the Greek ὑποτασσόμενοι and ὑποτάσσοντες: 31) Πάντες τε ἐταπεινοφρονεῖτε μηδὲν ἀλαζονευόμενοι, ὑποτασσόμενοι μᾶλλον ἢ ὑποτάσσοντες, ἥδιον διδόντες ἢ λαμβάνοντες. Clem. ad Cor. 2.1 Omnes enim vos humiliabatis, nihil in superbia facientes, obaudientes magis quam iubentes, et libenter dantes magis quam accipientes, All of you will be humble without showing any pride, obeying rather than giving orders and more willing to give than to receive.

If we examine biblical texts, obaudio appears in about 70 occurrences, of which five are in the Itala but are corrected in the Vulgate.15 At the same time, we observe a clear reduction in Cyprian and even more in Ambrose which is not only quantitative in nature, but also qualitative, since the form is often contained in quotations of passages from Holy Scripture. Obaudio gives way to oboedio in the last two parts of the Epistle, which could be interpreted as a minute trace of the later reworking of the final part, the so-called Great Prayer (Ch. 59.2–61) and the Conclusion (Ch. 62–65), exactly as happens in the Vulgate and in Christian literature from the 3rd–4th cent. AD. In summary, the Latin translation of the concept ‘to listen to/obey’ is less rich than the original concept found in Greek and entails an interpretive choice, obaudio. What is obaudio?

 15 A study of variants in Itala, or Vetus Latina, is conducted in Jülicher/Matzkow/Aland 1963– 1976.

New Concepts in Ancient Languages  

If we look briefly for some possible explanations, one possibility is that it was a socially low variant, or a calque from the Greek, or a case of paretymology. Or it could be a combination of all three reasons: in early Latin translations of ancient Christian documents obaudio can be motivated by the reclaiming of a variant in use in socially low registers ‘ennobled’ by the strength of the corresponding Greek form, ὑπακούω, and its transparency. This transparency can also be read as a classic case of popular etymology or paretymology, made plausible by the presence and frequency of use of the lexical family of audio.16 The influence of translation diminished in the 3rd and 4th cent. AD with the differentiation of different registers in the Christian sphere (e.g. liturgical, literary, spoken) and the spread of Christianity to the educated classes. These factors led to the creation of a high literary register which to some extent leveled out the specific variants in use in the Christian community in favor of the Latin of the learned tradition: from the 3rd cent. AD onwards obaudio appears almost exclusively in quotations from ancient Christian texts.

 The multicultural construction of Latin Christian lexicon as an identity marker In the formation of the Christian lexicon, the interplay between different languages and cultures is manifest in the effort to create new concepts capable of both interpreting the new doctrine and marking distance from the pagan world. In this sense, the Epistle is grafted onto the biblical tradition, so that the Greek version and obviously the Latin translation incorporate language and quotations that are now well-known. The drafting of the Epistle belongs to the initial phase of bilingualism, serving the purpose of communicating between communities and people of different origins and languages, and its semantic and lexical characteristics are anchored in the Greek context of the κοινή and the Hebrew context of the Holy Scriptures. The text shows great adherence to the Septuagint, so much so as to suggest that the author may have consulted scrolls of Scripture. The Hebrew component is represented by the extraordinary importance the text attributes to the Old Testament, considered by the author to be the only inspired scripture. Indeed, the Epistle contains more biblical quotations than the books of the New Testament: in at least a quarter of the Epistle there are quotations from the  16 See also Molinelli 2018.

  Piera Molinelli Old Testament, even long ones, and these are not just formulaic parts, but actual content. On the other hand, the relationship between the Epistle and the New Testament texts is more complex and the subject of debate; in a nutshell, for the purposes of this study, the central point is that the author of the Epistle refers more freely to New Testament writings, such as Paul’s First Epistle to the Corinthians and the Epistle to the Romans, sometimes imprecisely reported, as in a quotation from memory. The Latin translation belongs to the later phase of content appropriation that led to the Latin monolingualism of the Church of Rome. This process, however, was not without consequences for the Latin language, which emerged already shaped in a multicultural direction even in this new religious and social sphere. The Latin text of the Epistle is the product of a specific historical moment, and it bears witness to the search for fidelity to the Greek text, but also to a deliberate choice of maintaining Graecisms, usually linked to particular semantic and lexical content. Some choices made by the translator show the Christian lexicon in the making. The term μαρτύριον (5.4; 5.7) is translated as martyrium and testimonium martyrii, but in both cases the lemma retains its original meaning of ‘testimony’, far from the meaning it later takes on of the ‘sacrifice of one's life in the name of God and faith’. This concept is clearly difficult to render if we consider its distance from the Roman religious context. The Greek verb βλασφημεῖν (1.1) ‘to gravely disparage, to blaspheme’ and the related noun, βλασφημία ‘blasphemy’ (47.7) are translated in two different ways depending on their referent: in the first case, βλασφημεῖν refers to discredited men, and is rendered with the corresponding Latin verb, laedere, without any particular religious connotation; in the second case, on the other hand, βλασφημία refers to the name of the Lord, so the Graecism blasphemia is used in Latin. Again, what is culturally closer appears more readily translatable without resorting to loanwords. Finally, the author of the Epistle uses the term σχίσμα to designate an internal division within the community in five passages, and the translator chooses to translate this term as scissura. Subsequently, this Graecism passes into Latin and is preserved in ecclesiastical Latin to this day. Alongside these as yet unestablished translations, in the Epistle there are also several so-called lexical Christianisms (García de la Fuente 1994), which testify to the fact that by the 2nd cent. AD, some central doctrinal concepts had already become stabilized. The Greek verb ταπεινόω, used in several passages

New Concepts in Ancient Languages  

of the Epistle,17 is systematically translated as humilio; its meaning ‘to make humble’ is specific to Christian Latin (TLL, s.v. humilio). Graecisms that relate to the root of ‘announcement’ are recurrent: angelus (34.6; 36.2.3; 39.4), evangelium (47.2) and evangelizare (42.1 and 3). Angelus occurs three times out of four in contexts in which the author cites Holy Scripture, and it is likely that it had already permanently entered the Latin lexicon precisely via the mediation of the biblical text. Evangelizare, a calque from the Greek εὐαγγελίζομαι ‘to announce the good news’, is borrowed to express the concept of preaching the message of salvation, central to Christian doctrine but distant from the Roman notion of religion. The clearly cognate noun evangelium εὐαγγελίος is particularly interesting in that it is used only once by the author to designate the process of Paul’s evangelization of the Corinthians.18 Thus, it seems reasonable to think that at the time of Clement it had not yet been chosen to refer to the New Testament — since the New Testament canon had not yet been formed — and, in all probability, not even at the time when the Latin translation was made was the term used to define ‘the corpus of the New Testament writings’, otherwise the translator would have resorted to another expression to refer to Paul’s preaching and conversion work. Other lexical Christianisms present in the Latin translation of the Epistle are the translations of σῴζω and σωτήρ: salvare and salvator,19 words used to convey the complex meaning of ‘salvation’ in the Christian faith. The Greek σωτήρ — a word inherited from the Septuagint to define Christ as the Savior of humanity — would have (con)servator as a literal translation, which the Latin Christian community chose to discard in favor of salvator. In addition to more or less direct Graecisms, the Epistle presents three Semitisms, one direct, levita, and two indirect, propheta, prophetia, derived from the language of the Septuagint. Propheta is a loanword from the Greek word προφήτης used to render the Hebrew word nâbi. Latin would have had words semantically similar to the Hebrew noun, such as vates or fatidicus, but too closely related to paganism; therefore, the translator prefers a Greek loanword with the culturally neutral meaning ‘one who speaks before someone’ and gives it the new meaning of ‘one who speaks in the name of God’. In the formation of the Christian lexicon, the Epistle also bears witness to Latin words that underwent resemantization; in addition to the aforementioned

 17 16.17; 17.2; 18.8; 18.17; 19.1; 30.3; 59.3; 62.2. 18 The topic is discussed in Prinzivalli/Simonetti 2010, 515. 19 Salvare: 58.2; 59.3, 59.4. Salvator 59.3.

  Piera Molinelli semantic field of family (God the father and brothers), the rendering of ἀγάπη20 with caritas ‘brotherly love’ deserves some mention. The translator uses caritas to translate a term not found in any pre-Christian or secular writings. Initially, it is used indistinctly to indicate both carnal and spiritual love; the New Testament writings inherit it from the Septuagint and specialize it with reference only to spiritual love. Similarly, the Latin verb confiteri is used to translate the Greek ἑξομολογεῖσθαι, which inherits the double meaning of the Hebrew hôdâ(h) ‘to confess sins’ and ‘to give glory to God’, both absolutely foreign to the mentality of classical culture. These few examples suffice to show how the translators of the 2nd cent. AD were still working on the configuration of the Church’s Latin in the space between doctrinal specificity, more inclined to maintain fidelity to the original and favor borrowings, and adaptation to Latin culture and language.

 Closing remarks As is well known, the relationship between Greek and Latin in Roman society was a long-standing one, both because of the arrival of Greek-speaking slaves in Rome and because of the prestige enjoyed by Greek culture, which lent itself to providing models for the Roman world as well. With Christianity, the same pattern seemed to repeat itself: the new religion was brought to Greek, but, after the first translations, the new linguistic apparatus necessary for the spread of the new religion in the Roman West was developed in Latin. Chronologically speaking, in the 1st cent. AD, Greek was the language of communication and preaching, even in Rome. The Latinization of both Scripture and communication began in the middle of the 2nd cent. AD: examples are translations of the Bible and texts such as the Epistle of Clement.21 In the 3rd cent. AD, Latin became the language of the official documents of the Church of Rome; however, it was not until the 4th cent. AD that the liturgy was Latinized, which certainly represented the most conservative register of the Christian world. The definition of the role of different languages in Christendom was interwoven with several religious-social and linguistic issues: the construction of the

 20 Mohrmann 1957, 22; Prinzivalli/Simonetti 2010, 518. 21 On early Christian Latinity in Rome, the studies of Mohrmann 1949a, 1949b and Schrjinen 2002 remain fundamental.

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identity of Christians and the structuring of the community. The Epistle of Clement was relevant to this process both at the time of its writing in Greek at the end of the 1st cent. AD and at the (probable) time of its translation into Latin in the mid-2nd cent. AD. The translation of the hierarchies shows lexical features that were still in the process of formation (there is no unambiguous definition of roles) that probably reflect the ongoing hierarchical elaboration. The original Greek text of the letter bears witness to the end of the 1st cent. AD in Rome, with the presence of a collectivity ruling the community and a partisan relationship between different communities (Rome and Corinth); the Latin translation made a few decades later testifies to a move towards a hierarchical pyramid in which Rome probably sought primacy both as one community over the others and as an internal organization (the reference to a single individual with mihi emerges). Moreover, the Epistle, as the earliest testimony to the Roman community, shows the formation of the Christian lexicon in Rome at a time when the various Christian communities and their leaders were still exchanging letters in Greek. The Latin translation of the Epistle of Clement is therefore based on the Greek model and the centrality of the Christian message, but it is not without intrinsic interest because many of its features add something to the original text, which is in itself a foundational text both in terms of community governance and in term of communication and preaching. If Greek is the language of origin, aspects of content and language refer to the Hebrew world and, in an important way, to the biblical texts. However, lexical reworking also plays an important role — see the sport and the military metaphors, also present in classical culture — which is strategically reinterpreted by Christianity as a metaphor for Christian life. The military metaphor entered the early Christian lexicon, having already been used frequently in the biblical texts in Greek. When the Church of Rome embarked on the linguistic transition from Greek to Latin as the most suitable language for spreading the Christian message in the West, translators retained the military lexicon, both because the art of war was very present in the Roman world and because the image of militia Christi was a constitutive part of the very image of the Christian community that arose out of the Sacred Scriptures. The naming of the leaders in the Epistle follows biblical forms, but uses terms that were not widely used in Greek, and is then translated into Latin with a prevalence of traditional terms and roles. The lexeme obaudio also testifies to the fact that the relationship between the source text and the translation cannot be deterministic and taken for granted: the translators of the Epistle into Latin were not simply looking for lexical correspondence, given that Greek had a wealth of terms not replicated in Latin. The

  Piera Molinelli translators reclaimed the value of listening as a prerequisite of obedience and did so systematically, regardless of whether the recipient thereof was God or the presbyters. It seems plausible to think that this equalization was intentional and functional to the construction of authority in the Christian community of Rome in the 2nd cent. AD. In other words, listening (audio) and submission (ob), i.e. obedience, had to bind the members of the communities to their leaders and was no longer to be directed only towards God. Besides its function of defining the identity of Christians and the Christian community, common to the Greek and Latin versions, the Latin text of the Epistle is also interesting because it shows how different translation strategies were adopted to meet the expressive needs of the new religion. This shows how the Epistle of Clement, and in particular its Latin translation, plays a key role in defining the Christian lexicon as well as in the conceptual construction through images of the hierarchy of the Roman Christian community — a genuine bridge between East and West.

Abbreviations (conform to TLL) Clem. ad Cor. Eph. Luc. 1 Petr.

Clementis epistula ad Corinthios Pauli epistula ad Ephesios evangelium secundum Lucam I epistula Petri

References García de la Fuente, O. (1994), Introducción al latín bíblico y cristiano, Madrid. Giura, F. (2016), “Latin ‘oboedio’: Between phonological explanation and diastratic variation”, Studi e Saggi Linguistici 54.2, 45–64. Hagner, D.A. (1973), The Use of the Old and the New Testament in Clement of Rome, Leiden. Jaubert, A. (1964), “Les sources de la conception militaire de L’église en 1 Clément 37”, Vigiliae Christianae 18, 74–84. Jaubert, A. (2010), Clemente di Roma. Lettera ai Corinzi. Introduzione, testo, traduzione e note di A. Jaubert (trad. it. di M.B. Artioli, ed. fr. 2000), Bologna. Jülicher, A./Matzkow, W./Aland, K. (1963–1976), Itala: das neue Testament in altlateinischer Überlieferung, Berlin/New York. Lampe, G.W.H. (1961), A Patristic Greek Lexicon, Oxford. Mohrmann, C. (1949a), “Les origines de la latinité chrétienne à Rome”, Vigiliae Christianae 3.2, 67–106.

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Mohrmann, C. (1949b), “Les origines de la latinité chrétienne à Rome”, Vigiliae Christianae 3.3, 163–183. Mohrmann, C. (1957), “Linguistic problems in the early Christian Church”, Vigiliae Christianae 11.1, 11–36. Molinelli, P. (2018), “Contesti plurilingui, trasformazioni sociali e mutamenti linguistici: obaudio / oboedio”, in: R. Bombi/F. Costantini (eds.), Percorsi linguistici e interlinguistici. Studi in onore di Vincenzo Orioles, Udine, 65–79. Molinelli, P. (2019), “Il rapporto tra greco e latino nelle lettere cristiane dei primi secoli”, Res Publica Litterarum 62, 76–97. Norelli, E. (2006), “Scrivere per governare. Modi della comunicazione e rapporti di potere nel cristianesimo antico. Introduzione al convegno”, Storia del cristianesimo 3.1, 5–30. Peretto, E. (1999), Clemente Romano. Lettera ai Corinzi. Introduzione, versione, commento, Bologna. Prinzivalli, E. (2009), “La ‘Prima Lettera di Clemente’: le ambiguità di un conflitto”, Annali di storia dell’esegesi (ASE) 26.1, 23–46. Prinzivalli, E./Simonetti, M. (2010), Seguendo Gesù - Testi cristiani delle origini, Vol. I, Milan. Quasten, J. (1980), Patrologia. Vol. I. I primi due secoli (II-III), Torino. Schneider, G. (1994), Clemens von Rom. Epistola ad Corinthios. Brief an die Korinther, Freiburg. Schrijnen, J. (2002), I caratteri del latino cristiano antico, con un’appendice di C. Mohrmann, a cura di S. Boscherini, Bologna (original ed. 1932 Charakteristik des altchristichen Lateins, Nijmegen).

Giovanbattista Galdi

Searching for Order in the Rule: The Contribution of Philology and Linguistics to the Study of Saint Benedict’s Latin Abstract: Benedict’s Regula (ca. AD 540) was handed down by hundreds of manuscripts dating from the early 8th cent. AD onwards. Many of them display a large number of non-standard linguistic features, but it is unknown how many of them were extant in Benedict’s original. Our contribution discusses three interrelated questions. First, we focus on the most authoritative manuscript (Sangallensis 914), illustrating a new methodological approach that allows us to better assess its reliability. Second, we examine various instances of variation in the text, suggesting that they can be attributed to the author himself. Finally, we show how the study of Benedict’s Latin can greatly benefit from the application of some criteria recently established in historical linguistics studies. Keywords: Benedict of Nursia; Christian Latin; Regula Magistri; colloquial Latin; language variation and change; textual transmission

 Introduction Referring to 6th-century AD culture, Arnaldo Momigliano wrote: “Two members of the Italian aristocracy of that time — Boethius and St. Benedict — have been chosen by universal consent to represent and symbolize what is highest in the Italian contribution to mediaeval civilization. Nobody will dispute this choice”.1 Indeed, Saint Benedict’s Rule, probably written around AD 540, constitutes one of the most disseminated and influential Latin works throughout the Middle Ages and beyond.2 Accordingly, it caught the attention of scholars from different disciplines, being the object of an impressive number of studies since at least

 1 Momigliano 1955, 208. 2 See for instance Clarke 1931, vi: “Mediaeval history cannot be understood if monasticism is ignored, and at the base of all Western monasticism lies the Rule of St. Benedict”. Similarly, Hanslik 1972, 207 refers to the Rule as “ein[es] der wichtigsten Zeugen abendländischen Geistes”. Stotz 2002, 71 notes that even the type of Latin found in Benedict’s manuscripts had a significant impact on later Medieval literature. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111272887-026

  Giovanbattista Galdi the second half of the 19th century.3 Some of these contributions have been specifically devoted to Benedict’s Latin and its relation both to contemporary sources and, more generally, to the development of the Romance languages. Surprisingly, however, after the strong initial interest, which resulted, among others, in the seminal studies by Wölfflin 1896, Linderbauer 1922, Mohrmann 1952 and Hanslik 1960, almost nothing has been published on the subject over the last sixty years, with the important exception of Coleman 1999, which we shall discuss in detail.4 The purpose of the present chapter is to fill this gap, at least partly, by examining questions related to the text and language of the Rule. The discussion consists of three main sections. In the first, we dwell on the manuscript tradition, focusing on the codex Sangallensis 914. We illustrate here a new methodological approach allowing us to better assess the reliability of this testimony. In the second section, we examine various instances of variation in the text of the Rule, showing that they can often be attributed to the author himself and suggesting a possible explanation for many of them. In the last part, we show how the study of Benedict’s Latin can greatly benefit from the application of certain criteria recently established in historical linguistics studies. The main outcomes are resumed in the concluding paragraph.

 The transmission of the Regula and the Sangallensis 914 . Status quaestionis Any scholar dealing with the language of late, notably non-literary Latin sources is aware of the fact that the facies of these texts and their degree of linguistic (in)correctness may vary consistently depending on the manuscript(s)  3 Already in the early 1930s, Albareda, in his impressive bibliography of the Rule (consisting of more than 650 pages!), noted: “La Regula S. Benedícti ha estat profundament estudiada, minuciosament anotada, amplament glossada i comentada; ha estat compendiada, adaptada, concordada, metrificada, versiculada, fins illustrada amb multitud de gravats” (1933, xii). Similarly, under the entry “Benedict, Rule of St.”, the ODCC reports that “there is an immense literature” (p. 183). 4 Worth mentioning is the edition by De Vogüé/Neufville 1972 as well, especially for their remarks on Benedict’s lexicon as compared to the Regula Magistri (on which see 2.2. below) and for the grammatical index (pp. 245–267, 861–879).

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on which the editors choose to rely.5 This is particularly true for the Regula, which has been handed down by hundreds of codices scattered all over Europe and dating from the early 8th cent. AD down to the late Middle Ages.6 Within this large variety, however, Schmidt 1880 recognized two main classes of testimonies, based on the form of the opening word, that is, the (a) ausculta and the (b) obsculta type. The main representatives of these groups are the Oxford Codex Hatton 48 or O (the oldest surviving codex, dating around AD 710) and the Sangallensis 914 or A (ca. 820–830), respectively.7 Wölfflin 1895 originally regarded O as the best extant testimony and largely relied on it in his reconstruction of the text, but since Traube’s ground-breaking study on the textual history of the Rule (1898), nearly all scholars agreed in considering A as the most authoritative testimony.8 In what follows, we shall thus restrict our attention to this single manuscript. The history of the Sangallensis is well known. According to Traube, it was written in Aachen by the monks Grimalt and Tatto at the request of their librarian Reginbert. It would represent a faithful copy of the so-called Normalexemplar, which is the text of the Rule copied in Montecassino probably by Paul the Deacon from Benedict’s own autograph (also known as ‘Urexemplar’) and then sent to Charlemagne in Aachen. Although Traube’s historical reconstructions have been subject to some criticism,9 there is nowadays general consensus on the exceptional paleographic value of A among all manuscripts of the Regula, since it is “only two, or at most three, steps removed from the Cassinese manuscript that […] was then believed to be St. Benedict’s autograph”.10 However, this is not

 5 This problem emerges, for instance, in the transmission of the works of Chiron, Jordanes, the Anonymous Valesianus, the Anonymous of Placentia and Gregory of Tours. See Adams 1994, 7 f., n. 36; 1976; Haverling 2008; 2012; Galdi 2014; 2015, with further references. 6 Cf. Fry 1980, 102: “Except for the biblical literature, probably no other text from antiquity was copied in the Middle Ages as often as the R[egula]B[enedicti]”. 7 Additionally, there are at least twelve further authoritative manuscripts dating before AD 850. 8 Notoriously, even Wölfflin admitted the superiority of A in his later review of Traube’s monograph (1900, 295). 9 For an overview, see Fry 1980, 107–108. 10 Fry 1980, 106. One of the strongest arguments in favor of Traube’s thesis is that A also includes a letter in which Grimaldo and Tatto state that the text of the Rule they were sending to Reginbert had been transcribed “from that exemplar which was copied from the very codex that the blessed Father took care to write with his own sacred hands” (de illo transscripta est exemplare, quod ex ipso exemplatum est codice, quem beatus pater sacris manibus suis exarare ob multorum sanitatem animarum curauit (transl. Fry 1980, 106); for the full text of the letter, see Traube 1898, 95). Scholars commonly agree that the text referred to here corresponds to A. For a

  Giovanbattista Galdi to say that it reproduces Benedict’s archetype ad litteram. For, despite Grimalt’s and Tatto’s claim that their copy corresponds to the model sensibus et sillabis nec non etiam litteris, this codex displays a large number of errors as compared to standard Latin and it is controversial whether all of them were extant in Benedict’s ‘Urexemplar’. Most of these features involve the orthography of the text (confusion e ~ i,11 o ~ u, b ~ u,12 omission or hypercorrect addition of h-, -m, etc.), but many of them are of morpho-syntactic nature (interchange among cases or conjugations, non-classical use of participles and gerunds, anacolutha, etc.). Such traits, often referred to as ‘vulgarisms’, are not restricted to A, but are paralleled in many other manuscripts, especially from the earlier period. Conversely, later testimonies tend to reproduce a linguistically more correct version. Thus, for nearly each error occurring in A and/or other older manuscripts, one can find at least one, often more recent, manuscript transmitting the corresponding classical form. There is, however, no consistency in the distribution of the standard and non-standard forms among the codices.13 In front of this remarkable textual variation, scholars reacted in two different ways. On the one hand, Mohrmann 1952, starting from the assumption that Benedict deliberately adopted a language close to the everyday speech of his time, believed that A accurately reproduces the original text. She considered nearly every linguistic deviation extant in this manuscript (and often also elsewhere) as reproducing “la langue vivante”, and she thus constantly looked for reflexes in the language evolution. The confusion b ~ u, for instance, very common in A (see also below), mostly occurs according to the same criteria that will later generalize in the Romance languages: nearly all instances are found either in intervocalic position (both b > u and u > b), or between liquid and vowel (almost exclusively u > b).14 Similarly, Hanslik 1960, xxviii regarded the Sangallensis as “longe praestantissimus omnium codicum manuscriptorum” and based his critical edition almost

 detailed reconstruction of the genesis of this manuscript, see Traube 1898, 61 f.; Hanslik 1960, xxvi–xxix; De Vogüé/Neufville 1972, 320–327. 11 Here and elsewhere, the sign ~ is used to indicate the alternation or confusion between different linguistic types. 12 In line with previous studies, when referring to this confusion, I use the grapheme to indicate the labiovelar approximant /w/. 13 On this point, see Coleman 1999, 353. Similarly Adams 2013, 242 observes: “A problem […] for anyone attempting to analyse the language of this text [i.e. the Rule] is the messy manuscript tradition, and the distinct possibility that vulgarisms have been introduced by scribes”. 14 An analogous argumentation applies to the palatalization of ti (e.g. 57.22 praeciis for pretiis), the exchange o ~ u (e.g. 54.16 diabulo), the use of the accusative after de (e.g. 9.21 de sedilia sua), etc. See Mohrmann 1952 for further examples.

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entirely on it. More cautious are the positions of Linderbauer 1922 and De Vogüé/Neufville 1972, though they still considered most of the non-standard readings in A to be genuine, especially when paralleled in other authoritative manuscripts.15 On the other hand, Paringer 1951, 125 ff. was firmly persuaded that the linguistic aberrations in A and in other codices of the Germanic area could barely be attributed to the author himself and thus all constitute scribal intrusions.16 An analogous view is shared by Coleman 1999, which requires special attention as both the last study on Benedict’s language and one of the most influential on later scholarship. Coleman’s starting point is the remarkable linguistic inconsistency found both “within and across manuscripts”.17 Given “that so much that is not vulgar remains all over the tradition and that this is unlikely to be the result of sporadic and inconsistent correction of an originally vulgarized text” (p. 345), it is, in his view, more plausible to consider the nonstandard variants as scribal intrusions. Thus, based on the assumption that “what is vulgar at one period may become the norm of elite usage at another, and vice versa” (p. 346), Coleman reviews a large sample of linguistic anomalies found in the Rule, distinguishing between those that may have been accepted into formal literate Latin at Benedict’s time and the sub-elite ‘vulgarisms’ introduced by the copyists between the 6th and 8th cent. AD. In his analysis, however, he proceeds quite radically: barring a very few exceptions, all discussed features are considered as vulgarized forms that should be “relegated […] to the apparatus, where they belong” (p. 356).18

 15 De Vogüé/Neufville, however, also acknowledged that it is impossible to reconstruct Benedict’s original text with certainty, especially in its orthography. Therefore, they attempted to establish “l’orthographe des copies intermédiaires de la fin du VIe siècle” (1972, 399), normalizing the text whenever any of the above-mentioned graphical deviations occurs (confusion b ~ u, e ~ i, drop of -m, etc.). 16 Paringer’s study was also ideologically motivated, for the ‘bad Latin’ of the manuscripts could negatively affect people’s devotion to Saint Benedict (1951, 140). His views and argumentation were subject to deep criticism by Mohrmann 1952. 17 Coleman 1999, 353. The picture is further complicated by the fact that the two best testimonies, A and O, exhibit on the margin second–hand variants normalizing the text. 18 Coleman’s approach was steadily criticized by Löfstedt 2001, 455 f.: “Coleman now wants to relegate most of the vulgar features to the apparatus […] But in all Latinity there is hardly any text that is consistently vulgar; everyone who writes has some knowledge of Classical orthography and grammar, and vulgarisms are mistakes”. An extra-linguistic argument put forward by both Coleman 1999, 355 and Paringer 1951, 84 and 140 in support of their thesis is the fact that Gregory the Great refers to the Regula as “notable for discretion and clear in language” (dial. 2,36) a definition that, in their view, would hardly fit to the Latin of A. See however the discussion in section 3.

  Giovanbattista Galdi From this overview it becomes evident that the two positions on Benedict’s language are hardly compatible with each other and that, despite Traube’s meticulous reconstruction, it is very difficult to assess the degree of trustworthiness of A. An important clue, however, may be found in the comparison with the text of the Regula Magistri, a text composed a few years earlier. In the following section we focus on this aspect, which has been entirely overlooked in linguistic scholarship so far.

. The relation between the text of Benedict and the Regula Magistri It has long been known that Benedict’s Rule (henceforth, RB) displays several remarkable correspondences, both in its contents and structure, with the Regula Magistri (RM), a monastic rule of unknown authorship written most likely between 500 and 530. The two texts are so closely linked that nearly each chapter (and almost each chapter’s section as well) of Benedict’s work has a counterpart in the RM.19 Particularly, and more to our point, the long introductory section, which includes the prologue and the first seven chapters, largely corresponds word for word to the RM. For a long time, these analogies have been neglected because scholars universally accepted that the RM was composed later and thus represented only one of the many texts profoundly inspired by Benedict’s work. However, after Genestout’s suggestion to reverse the perspective by considering the RM as the main source of the RB,20 an impressive number of publications appeared in support of either view.21 A fundamental contribution to the controversy was provided by De Vogüé/Neufville 1972, 245–314, who were able to confirm Genestout’s hypothesis also in the light of linguistic arguments. Of special importance is their lexical analysis relying on a comparison between (a) the passages that are identical in the two rules (they call them MB) and (b) the remaining parts of both the Master’s Rule (labeled as Mp) and Benedict’s own text (Bp). From this comparison it appears that a large number of words often occurring in MB are found in Mp as well, but only occasionally or never in Bp, whereas several words characteristic of Bp are nearly absent in MB and in Mp.  19 Cf. the analytic comparison in De Vogüé/Neufville 1972, 174–185. An exception is represented by the last six chapters (78–83), which have no direct correspondence in the RM. 20 Genestout 1940. This view had possibly been influenced by previous studies. See Pricoco 1995, xl, n. 1 for details. 21 Thirty-five years after the publication of Genestout’s paper, Jaspert 1975 counted 600 studies devoted to this debate.

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This distribution applies to both lexical and grammatical terms, such as autem, cum and dum. The correspondences in vocabulary between MB and Mp along with the profound differences between MB and Bp led De Vogüé/Neufville to three central conclusions nowadays accepted by most scholars: (a) the RB is posterior to the RM, on which it draws, (b) the two works were written by different authors and (c) the identical passages can hardly originate from a common source.22 Surprisingly, these results went unnoticed in later linguistic research on the RB, even though they are of crucial significance for testing the reliability of A. For, if we accept that the RB draws on the RM in the introductory chapters, it would be odd that Benedict, while transcribing his source verbatim (except for a few deliberate changes and additions, which have been long identified by the editors), inconsistently altered and ‘vulgarized’ its orthography and grammar. Therefore, one can safely guess that the discrepancies between A and the RM’s manuscripts are due to scribal intrusions. According to the type and number of aberrations found in the former, we can establish with a fair degree of probability its tendency to modify the model and thus its level of trustworthiness. Since the passages copied from the RM cover about one fourth of the entire RB (23%), the results obtained for this section can reasonably be generalized to the rest of the work. In our analysis, we considered any kind of slippage extant in A in comparison to the RM.23 Additionally, for five specific phenomena particularly widespread in Late sub-standard sources a comparison was made between the overall number of linguistically standard readings and the corresponding deviating non-standard ones.24 These are: (a) the preservation of final -m vs. its drop (including the instances -um > -o in the accusative singular of the second declension), (b) the regular spelling -a, -o, -e/i in the ablative singular vs. the erroneous addition of -m (including -um for -o), (c) the diphthongs ae, oe vs. the monophthong e, (d) the retention of h (in initial and internal position) vs. its deletion and (e) the correct writing of b and u before vowel and after vowel or liquid (i.e. in the two word-positions analyzed by Mohrmann) vs their replacement by u and b, respectively. Given that the monophthongization of ae, oe and the drop of h were widespread in the pronunciation since at least the Early Em 22 In this case, one would not expect so many lexical correspondences between MB and Mp. 23 We based our analysis on the text of the RM edited by de Vogüé 1964, who generally follows the manuscript P (beginning of the 7th cent. AD). The text of P is not identical to the earlier one transcribed by Benedict in his Rule. However, the differences between the two manuscripts only consist of “quelques retouches et complements” (De Vogüé/Neufville 1972, 313). 24 For reasons of space, the same comparison could not be made for other well-known colloquial features, such as the merger between ē/ĭ and ō/ŭ.

  Giovanbattista Galdi pire, the correct spelling of these phonemes has a purely graphical relevance. Less common (or at least less systematic) is instead the confusion b ~ u and therefore errors in (e) may give us specific indications about the pronunciation of both phonemes in that geographic area where the Rule was written. Finally, slippages in (a) and (b) can either be regarded as graphical-phonetical (omission / hypercorrect use of -m fostered by pronunciation) or may be given a morphosyntactic significance (confusion between ablative and accusative). The outcomes of this contrastive analysis are twofold: 1. Certain misspellings that are very common in earlier and contemporary sources, are nearly non-extant in this section. For instance, none of the 112 diphthongs (96x ae, 16x oe) herein occurring is monophthongized, whereas h is dropped in solely 1 of its 130 occurrences (prol. 35 is for his). Similarly, all instances of -m attached to words not preceded by preposition (e.g. in the genitive plural or in the accusative singular in its direct object function) are regularly spelled (217 times).25 Conversely, the grapheme is deleted in 2 of the 64 occurrences of an accusative singular preceded by a preposition (7.4 retribues in anima mea, 7.40 induxisti nos in laqueo). Although the incidence of error remains very low (3%), these figures indicate that the copyist may be responsible for some of the instances of drop of -m after preposition in the rest of the work. The hypercorrect uses of -m in the ablative singular show an analogous pattern: when found alone (91 times), the morpheme is always spelled regularly (-a, -o, -e), while after preposition, -m is erroneously added in 2 of the 139 instances (= 1,4%26). 2. Markedly higher rates of misspellings appear in group (e).27 In intervocalic position, the two changes b > u and u > b occur 10 and 8 times, respectively, which corresponds, to 5% and 13% of the overall occurrences of the two graphemes in that specific word-position (e.g. prol. 39 tauernaculi, 2,7 obibus, 7,55 octabus). Additionally, and more remarkably, between liquid and vowel

 25 This is particularly remarkable in the case of the accusatives -am (46x) and -em (56x) because with both endings the drop of -m is very common in non-literary documents (notably in documentary sources) throughout the Empire. 26 See prol. 14 in multitudinem, 7.68 non sine formidinem. 27 We included four instances of the confusion b ~ u also attested in the manuscript P of the RM (prol. 23 habitauit (future), 1.8 obilibus, 2.15 trauem, 7.66 incurbatus). In such cases, however, one cannot rule out the possibility that the misspelling was already extant in the archetype of the RM used by Benedict.

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the spelling b for u is found 4 times out of 21, that is, in ca. 20% of the cases28 (e.g. 7.11 euolbat).29 These results are of crucial significance for the reconstruction of Benedict’s ‘Urexemplar’. They reveal that in the chapters transcribed from the RM, the scribe of A reproduces the text of the model with a high degree of accuracy. Only occasionally he introduces misspellings possibly reflecting the late Latin pronunciation. This observation applies particularly to the exchange b ~ u that appears with a significantly higher frequency as compared to all other errors. The latter finding deeply undermines Mohrmann’s theory outlined above. The Dutch scholar is certainly right in stating that the distribution of the confusion b ~ u is not random and may reflect “l’état linguistique de la fin de l’antiquité” (1952, 116). However, given its frequency in the introductory section, in which Benedict copies his source ad litteram, the chance is high that here — and, accordingly, in the rest of the work — the scribe has to be blamed for the slippages.30 Consequently, this type of errors probably tells us little or nothing about the author’s own language.31 More generally, Mohrmann’s claim that Benedict adapted his orthography to the “langue vivante” of his times appears very questionable in the light of our results. For even if we assume that the author is responsible for the various misspellings extant in the chapters transcribed from the RM (which, as we have seen, is highly unlikely), why would he have preserved intact the writing of ae, oe, h and -m, whose pronunciation had evolved or even disappeared in the everyday speech since at least five centuries? Why change ouibus in obibus (2.7), saluus in salbus (7.36), prouincias in prouintias (1.10), etc., while consistently sticking to the Classical spellings saeculo (1.6), habet poenam (7.33), haec … oboedientia (5.14), etc., which in Benedict’s time probably nobody pronounced the way they were written anymore? It is not easy, perhaps impossible to identify

 28 The absence of the opposite phenomenon (b > u between liquid and vowel) is not relevant in terms of frequency, because there is only one instance of b in that position. 29 Among the few other misspellings, worth mentioning are the exchange ti ~ ci (1.10 prouintias, 4.30 pacienter) and the strong dominance of the confusion e ~ i (13 times) over o ~ u (only prol. 37 apostulo and 54.4 diabulo). 30 We cannot assess with certainty whether these and other graphical deviations found in the initial paragraphs should be put down to A or were already extant in the ‘Urexemplar’, whose scribe, according to Mundó 1966 and De Vogüé/Neufville 1972, 326 f., 354, had already introduced several changes in the original text. 31 The same argumentation applies, in different degrees, to other deviations found with a relatively high incidence in the beginning chapters, such as the confusions e ~ i or ti ~ ci.

  Giovanbattista Galdi decisive reasons for such inconsistencies, but based on what we have seen above, it is much safer to ascribe them to the copyist and to assume that, despite managing the Classical orthography very well, he was not immune from errors, notably those arising in the dictating process.32 On the other hand, our findings do not allow to subscribe to Paringer’s and Coleman’s views either. Both scholars (as was said) argue for the correctness of Benedict’s Latin, claiming that nearly all deviations found in A and in other manuscripts should be expunged from the text. However, the examination of the beginning chapters shows that the inaccuracies of the copyist are either of pure graphical nature (prol. 25 iustiam for iustitiam, 5.14 cum murrio for cum murmurio, 7.34 oboens for oboediens etc.) or appear related to the pronunciation of single phonemes (e.g. b ~ u, e ~ i). Barring four non-Classical uses of the accusative and ablative after a preposition easily attributable to the instability of -m,33 no morpho-syntactic errors appeared in this section. Likewise, the vocabulary is left untouched in A. Hence, one never comes across any of the many lexical and grammatical aberrations found in the rest of the work, which Coleman attributes to the manuscript tradition, such as the use of ipse for ille, instances of gender variation, the extension of the accusative to the detriment of other cases and the confusion between prepositional cases.34 These results impose a deep reassessment of the value of A. If its scribe never modifies the lexicon and grammar of the text in the more than 3000 words drawn from the RM, it is very unlikely that he did it so extensively as assumed by Paringer and Coleman in the ca. 10500 words found in the rest of the work. In other words, one fails to see why he would have transcribed so accurately the text of the introductory chapters, at least as far as lexicon and grammar are concerned, while changing it so often and inconsistently in the remaining parts. We cannot of course rule out the possibility that some of these errors are indeed traceable to the copyist,

 32 In such cases Coleman 1999, 346–347 (and n. 4) speaks of “aural” errors, which he distinguishes from the visual ones. It should be noted, incidentally, that while the relatively high incidence of the confusion b ~ u in A possibly reflects the pronunciation of the two phonemes and thus hints to a dictating process, the nearly total absence of other typical aural errors, such as the drop of h-, the reduction ae, oe > e and the deletion of -m in MB (as well as their rare appearance in the rest of the work) seems rather to indicate that the scribe was copying his model from a written source. 33 prol. 14 quaerens … in multitudinem, 7.68 non sine formidinem, 7.4 retribues in anima mea, 7.40 induxisti nos in laqueo. 34 For more examples, see Coleman 1999, 348–352. The entire list of the grammatical deviations extant in A can be found in Hanslik’s Index grammaticus (1960, 349–376).

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but the correctness of the beginning section strongly suggests that the vast majority of them were already extant in the ‘Urexemplar’. Based on this assumption, and keeping in mind the reliability of A, we discuss in the following sections certain non-standard features occurring in the text.

 Variation in the Rule Benedict’s Latin is characterized by a remarkable degree of variation.35 For one thing, we come across a large group of alternations which, though nonClassical, may have found their way into late standard Latin. Cases in point are the interchange septimana (e.g. 18.24) ~ ebdomada (e.g. 18.22), dominicus dies (e.g. 11.1) ~ dominica (e.g. 13.1), egredior + (a) de (e.g. 29.1) ~ (b) acc. (67.7), iungo + (a) dat. (e.g. 25.3) ~ (b) ad + acc. (48.39), rationem reddere + (a) genitive (e.g. 64.7) ~ (b) de (e.g. 63.2) ~ (c) pro (31.9), comparative + (a) a (e.g. 18.24) ~ (b) de (8.2), si + (a) anterior future ~ (b) indicative present,36 etc. For another, a good deal of variation found in orthography, morphology (e.g. changes of declension or grammatical gender) and syntax (e.g. prepositions governing more than one case) may have been considered anomalous even in the late period, at least in more formal registers.37 Paringer (1951) and, more systematically, Coleman 1999 regarded such features as scribal intrusions, but this view appears highly controversial, and this for several reasons. First, from section 2 it became evident that the scribe of A, despite sporadic misspellings, was quite meticulous in copying his archetype, notably as concerns vocabulary and grammar. Second, recent contributions, particularly by Haverling, have shown that late Latin is characterized by a considerable degree of variation both among different authors and within the production, or even the same text, of a single

 35 Cf. Linderbauer 1922, 415: “Endlich ist zu bemerken, daß die Latinität des h. Benedikt in Orthographie und Grammatik nach den besten Handschriften eine auffallende Ungleichmäßigkeit zeigt”. 36 Remarkable are the instances in which the change is found in the same context and even with the same (or synonymous) words, e.g. 58.11 si adhuc steterit ~ 58.13 si adhuc stat (‘if he is still determined’), 41.2 si labores agrorum non habent ~ 41.4 si operis in agris habuerint (‘if they are not working in the fields’). See Linderbauer 1922, 126–129. 37 Many of these features are collected in Linderbauer 1922, 415–416.

  Giovanbattista Galdi author.38 Due to the uncertainty of the manuscript tradition, the main problem for modern philologists and linguists is to assess which features of contemporary spoken language were acceptable in higher registers and which, instead, kept being regarded as incorrect and were thus avoided. Coleman attempted such a distinction for Benedict’s Rule, but (as seen) his choice of relegating to the apparatus nearly all non-Classical features extant in A is hardly tenable.39 Third, Paringer and Coleman do not provide compelling arguments as to why one should assume that Benedict wrote his work in formal literate Latin. What little we know about the author’s education comes from the initial paragraphs of his biography by Gregory the Great (dial. 2). His often-quoted reference to the Rule as sermone luculentam can readily be understood as an allusion to the clarity of the language, without any specific reference to its grammatical correctness or consistency.40 In the Rule itself we find no evidence that the author had literary ambitions or adopted a formal register. Widhalm convincingly argued that Benedict was an educated man, acquainted with the principles of the ‘Schulrhetorik’,41 but she also stressed that the rhetorical devices are unequally distributed over his work. While they are absent or very rare in the liturgical and organizational chapters, which cover the largest part of the Rule, they largely predominate in the so-called parenetical (or exhortatory) chapters. However, the overwhelming bulk of these chapters is constituted by the long introductory section, which (as was noted) mostly matches word for word with the RM and therefore does not reflect Benedict’s Latin.42 Moreover, Widhalm (1974, 218) also observed that the motivation behind the use of rhetorical means is not ornamental, but purely functional, in that they aim at highlighting adequately

 38 See Haverling 2008 and 2012, with references therein. 39 Coleman’s criteria are not straightforward as well, for he labels as vulgarisms a number of phenomena that can easily be paralleled in earlier and contemporary literary texts. To these belong, among others, the use of the accusative as second argument of verbs classically governing other cases (e.g. indigeo, utor), the prepositional expression comparative + de ~ ab or the use of the nominative and accusative within absolute constructions. 40 In the same chapter, Gregory writes that Benedict came from a noble family and had been introduced in the study of liberal arts in Rome, which he later quitted because of his religious conversion. 41 Widhalm 1974, 218. 42 For details, see Widhalm 1974, 33, 40, 50, 53–56, 114, 122, 146–148, 218. The parenetical parts include, apart from the introductory section, ch. 20, 27, 28, 31, 34, 52, 57, 61, 63, 64, 65, 72 and the epilogue.

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specific contents.43 It might be added that some of these devices, such as anaphors, polysyndeta or antitheta probably helped the monks to memorize parts of the text.44 At any rate, Benedict’s purpose was certainly not to please the readers or listeners with the elegance of the language, but to provide large groups of monks of various educational backgrounds45 with specific guidelines for their everyday life in the monastery.46 His language and style should not be related to high-literate contemporary authors such as Ennodius, Cassiodorus or Boethius, but rather to the writers of technical works who likewise had very ‘concrete’ purposes and no (or little) literary pretences.47 Finally, for a good deal of these apparent inconsistencies a possible explanation can be found, which suggests that they are not due to changes made by scribes. These instances are discussed in the following two paragraphs.

. Variation triggered by the Regula Magistri The RM (as the previous section showed) represented a constant reference point for Benedict who either copied it literally (in almost one fourth of his text) or was largely inspired by its contents. We can thus reasonably assume that, despite several discrepancies in vocabulary,48 Benedict was also influenced by the language of the model and partly reproduced it (deliberately or not) in his Rule. This assumption applies in the first place to the introductory chapters. Two types of variation can be distinguished here.49 The most noteworthy instances are those in which Benedict adopts a standard form or construction when copying from the Master and deviates from it elsewhere in the text. A case in point is the spelling of admonere. In both in 43 See also Widhalm 1974, 147: “Rhetorik wird in der RB nie um ihrer selbst willen angewendet, sondern ist stets Dienerin des Inhalts. Rhetorische Mittel werden dann gebraucht, wenn der Autor Gedanken besonders eindringlich gestalten und hervorheben will”. 44 A similar point is made by Lentini 1942, 107 regarding the clausulae. 45 The presence of illiterate monks is explicitly mentioned at 58.20 si non scit litteras, alter ab eo rogatus scribat (“if [the monk] is illiterate, another one shall write at his request”). 46 On this crucial point, see also Linderbauer 1922, 26: “Es war eben nicht seine Absicht, den Bedürfnissen der Philologen zu dienen, sondern nur denen der Mönche”. Likewise, De Vogüé 1964, 204, referring to the RM, notes: “Son style est souvent celui d’un abbé parlant à ses moines, avec tout ce que cette situation comporte de laisser-aller et de liberté”. 47 Cf. Clackson/Horrocks 2007, 297. 48 This aspect has been discussed in depth by De Vogüé/Neufville 1972, 245–267. See also section 2. 49 The comparison with the RM is here based, once again, only on A.

  Giovanbattista Galdi stances found in the section transcribed from the Master (MB), A exhibits the etymological cluster -dm- (pr. 9 admonet, 2.25 admonemus) that corresponds to the reading of the main codex of the RM (P). Elsewhere, we only found the assimilated variant -mm-50 (23.2 ammoneatur, 40.9 ammonentes, 62.9 ammonitus, 65.18 ammoneatur).51 The same distribution characterizes the writings intelleg(7.7 intellegitur, 7.27 intellegens, both copied from the Master) and the less standard intellig- (23.4 intelligit, 30.2 intelligere, 63.12 intelligitur).52 Two striking examples of gender variation that can be explained in the same way involve the nouns euangelium and seruitium. The former occurs four times in the nonstandard syntagm de euangelia (11.9, 12.4, 13.11, 17.8),53 which Paringer 1951, 127 regards as indicative of the deterioration of the text. In both instances within MB, conversely, the noun is regularly inflected (pr. 21 per ducatum euangelii, pr. 33 in euangelio). Likewise, seruitium is used as a neuter in MB (5.3 propter seruitium sanctum, quod), but switches to the masculines in 18.4 (nimis inertem … seruitium).54 Finally, some cases of syntactic variation appear to follow the same pattern. The adjective contentus, for instance, is used once with the accusative at 61.2 (contentus est consuetudinem loci), and twice with the regular ablative at 7.49 (si omni uilitate uel extremitate contentus sit), in agreement with the Master. Similarly, the syntagm a uitiis is found consistently in the section copied from the RM (2.40; 7.12; 7.70), while elsewhere A has either the ablative (49.4 a uitiis) or the accusative (72.2 separat a uitia).

 50 Note that in all these passages De Vogüé does not accept the spelling of A and accordingly edits either admon- (23.2; 40.9; 62.9; 65.18) or amon- (62.9). 51 It is possible that the noun admonitio followed the same pattern, but we cannot prove it because the word only occurs in the introductory section. The spelling admonitionem in pr. 1 reflects that of Basilius (cf. the remarks by De Vogüé/Neufville 1972, 412, n. 1), whereas admonitione in 2.27 does not depend on external sources but may have been influenced by the spelling admonemus (copied from the RM) occurring a few lines earlier (2.25). 52 Also in this case, De Vogüé generalizes the Classical spelling intelleg– outside of MB as well. 53 The reading de euangelia is also accepted by the TLL (V 998.36). Moreover, the gender shift euangelia, -orum > euangelia, -ae is perfectly in line with the reanalysis of neuters as feminines, which “is particularly observable with old neuter plurals of nouns whose referents typically occurred in groups or sets [as indeed is the case with euangelium/-a], and therefore had greater frequency of occurrence (and hence prominence) in the plural” (Maiden 2011, 172). 54 In theory, this instance may be a scribal error, with a hypercorrect addition of -m in inertem. However (as seen in section 2), this sort of miscopying is nearly non-existent in A (the only two exceptions are found after preposition).

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Second, variation is often found within the RM itself,55 and in many of these cases, just as in the RB, an alternation appears between linguistically correct and incorrect readings. Interestingly, a good deal of such inconsistencies are of the same type as those found the RB and it is plausible that Benedict picked them up from the RM, or that he was at least deeply influenced by this text. In other words, since these alternations occurred in the RM, which constituted a constant model, Benedict may have felt ‘authorized’ to adopt them in his own work. For instance, the afore-mentioned alternations with contentus (+ accusative ~ ablative) and euangelium (in euangelio ~ de euangelia) are found in the RM as well: 10.66 si omni uilitate uel extremitate contentus sit ~ 53.13 contentus erit mensuram (cf. also 88.1), 16.12 in euangelio ~ 39.1 cum euangelia (cf. 36.7). Analogous cases of variation displaying exact counterparts in the RB include the genitive cibus, perhaps modeled on potus (RB 39 tit., RM 26 tit.)56 ~ cibi (e.g. RB 24.5, RM 1.62), the gender alternations responsorius (RB 10.1, RM 89.24) ~ responsorium (e.g. RB 9.5, RM 33.29), lecti/-os (e.g. RB 22.7, RM 11.108) ~ lecta (e.g. RB 22.1, RM 29.2),57 the constructions utor + abl. (e.g. RB 63.2, RM 81.30) ~ acc. (e.g. RB 55.8, RM 11.112), post + acc. (nearly standard in both works) ~ abl. (e.g. RB 11.4, RM 90.67), memor + gen. (e.g. RB 31.16, RM 33.14) ~ acc. (e.g. RB 31.8, RM 27.46),58 propter + noun (standard) ~ infinitive (RB 55.10, RM 69.27; 95.9),59 ablative absolute (standard) ~ accusative absolute (RB 18.10, RM 15.54)60 and the semantically non-motivated alternation between the active reficere (e.g. RB 24.6, RM 24.5) and the medio-passive refici (e.g. RB 39.2, RM 50.62). To this uncomplete list one might add those errors that do not alternate with the corresponding standard forms (not in both works, at least), such as the uninflected accusatives Pentecosten (e.g. RB 15.2 a Pentecosten, RM 28.45 sabbatus Penticosten) and Vitas (Patrum) (e.g. RB 73.5, RM 26.12), the third declension

 55 See, for instance, De Vogüé 1964, 196: “Rien n’est moins monotone que la RM. Des genres et des styles très divers s’y succèdent, au point que l’œuvre a pu paraître bigarrée, voire disparate”. 56 Both instances are found in the title De mensura cibus that Benedict probably transcribed from the Master. 57 This word is never found in the singular. The RM adopts the nominative lectus twice (1.22; 78.7), while lectum only occurs in the accusative. 58 In the common introductory section, we also encounter the construction memor quia (RB 2.6 = RM 2.6). 59 Prepositional infinitives are found in the RM also with ad (44.15 ad dormire, 58.1 ad inplere nocturnos). 60 While Benedict resorts to the construction only once, the RM exhibits several instances.

  Giovanbattista Galdi forms diaconem (RB 62.1) for diaconum, and diacones (RM 11.5) for diaconi,61 the gen. mensuum for mensum (e.g. RB 58.9, RM 88.3) and the form ipsud, coined on istud, illud (e.g. RB 42.6, RM 7.47).62 All instances of variation listed above (most of which find many parallels in contemporary sources) not only show that the RM likely had a significant influence on the RB also from the linguistic point of view, but also confirm once more the reliability of A. As discussed in section 2, Coleman assumes that these instances represent inconsistencies of the manuscript tradition, leading him to suggest eliminating all the non-standard variants. However, given that an analogous degree of variation is also featured in the RM, often involving the same forms as in the RB (e.g. memor + gen. ~ acc., responsorium ~ responsorius), we would have to suppose that the text of the RM, of which the transmission is fully independent from the RB, has been subject to the same inconsistent miscopyings hypothesized by Coleman for the RB. This seems highly unlikely, also because the RM was handed down in its entirety by only two manuscripts;63 hence, the risk of scribal intrusions was far more remote as it was for the RB.

. Further instances of variation In several cases, the alternation between two different types seems to obey to precise rules or tendencies. For instance, the use of the accusative caput for capite may be subject to semantic criteria. While the latter means ‘head’ in at least three of its four occurrences64 (7.63 and 53.7 inclinato capite, 44.2 posito in terra capite), the former only has the extended meaning of ‘beginning’ (18.22 a caput reprendatur, 48.15 in caput quadragesimae), which may reflect a feature of spoken language. Likewise, morphological grounds seem to lie behind the  61 Second declension forms are only found in the RM, but in different grammatical cases: 46.5 diaconus, 87.33 diacono. 62 This form is generalized in both works. The only exception is found at RM 8.27 (ipsum pectus). 63 These are A and P. The third manuscript mentioned by De Vogüé 1964, 125 is a copy of A. A few extracts of the work are transmitted in the epitome E, which is the oldest testimony (end of 6th cent. AD). 64 The fourth instance is difficult to assess: 65.10 cuius periculi malum illos respicit in capite, qui talius inordinationis se fecerunt auctores. The expression in capite can be understood either adverbially, as a synonym of primiter, praesertim (“the fault of this evil rests chiefly on the originators of such a rebelliousness”) or in its literal meaning, as in Fry’s translation (1980, 285): “The responsibility for this evil and dangerous situation rests on the heads of those who initiated such a state of confusion”. See also Kardong 1996, 546–547.

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alternation a + abl. ~ a + acc., the latter being almost regularly found with nouns that Benedict only uses in the accusative case:65 a kalendas (8.2; 48.10), a (sanctum) Pascha66 (8.4; 10.1; 15.1; 15.4; 48.2), a Pentecosten (15.2; 41.2), a caput (‘beginning’, 18.23), ab idus septembres (41.6). An analogous distribution is seen with usque. When governing a noun, this preposition is usually followed by the ablative (e.g. 18.5 usque dominica, 18.9 usque centesimo uicesimo septimo), but with both caput (meaning ‘beginning’) and Pentecosten (e.g. 15.4; 41.1)67 only the accusative occurs. Also, the alternation between prepositional and simple cases is mostly not random.68 In particular, a clear tendency emerges to add prepositions to nouns of place and to avoid them with nouns expressing time. For instance, the ablative loco/locis is generally preceded by in (11 times) when expressing location, as in 46.1 in quocumque loco or 61.10 in omni loco.69 Conversely, tempore and hora are regularly found without prepositions70 (7 and 16 times, respectively) and with die(bus) the plain ablative prevails over in + abl. with a rate of 23 to 6.71 Furthermore, there appears to be a clear pattern to the distribution of genitive versus accusative after memor:72 the former is only found with nouns (2.26 memor periculi, 31.16 memor diuini eloquii), while the latter always involves neuter pronouns introducing a quotation (e.g. 4.59 memores illud dominicum praeceptum: “quae dicunt”, etc. ‘recalling the teaching of the Lord: “What they say”’, etc.).73  65 The only exception is 72.2 separat a uitia, the regular uitiis being found four times in the RB (2.40; 7.12; 7.70; 49.4). 66 This noun is only found in the form Pascha in both the RB and the RM. However, in one case it is accompanied by the correct sancto (41.1 a sancto Pascha). 67 In only two cases usque is followed by the accusative of nouns different from caput or Pentecosten: 18.5 usque nonum decimum psalmum, 70.4 usque quindecim annorum aetates. 68 The figures below do not include the occurrences in the chapters transcribed from the RM. 69 The only exception is found at 55.4 mediocribus locis sufficere credimus … cucullam et tunicam (‘in temperate regions we believe that a cowl and a tunic are sufficient’). 70 When the noun hora is not expressed, we find both the pure ablative (as in 15.2 prima, tertia, sexta nonaque) and ad (e.g. 18.4 ad primam … secundae feriae). 71 These figures do not include two examples occurring in Bible citations (16.1; 25.4). 72 Referring to the latter, Coleman 1999, 350 speaks of a “vulgar syntactic analogy made between memor and memorans”. However, the label ‘vulgar’ is inappropriate, given that the construction exhibits plenty of parallels in late Latin sources, notably in the Bible translations (both Vetus Latina and Vulgata), which certainly influenced the choice of later Christian authors. See also the discussion in Mohrmann 1952, 121. For various examples, cf. TLL VIII 659.57–660.5. 73 See also 19.3 memores simus quod ait propheta: “seruite Domino”, etc. (‘let us recall what the Prophet says: “Serve the Lord”’, etc.), 31.8 memor semper illud apostolicum, quia “qui”, etc.

  Giovanbattista Galdi

. Rhetorical purposes In section 2 it was mentioned that Benedict makes use of rhetorical means aimed both at emphasizing specific contents and helping the monks to memorize sections of the text. This aspect may lie behind the use of certain non-standard forms or constructions, some of which alternate with the corresponding standard ones. A case in point is the threefold repetition of the cluster post quibus at the beginning of three successive clauses at chapter 11.4 post quibus lectionibus sequantur … … 5 post quibus iterum legantur … 6 post quibus dicantur. This is a clear-cut case of anaphora, a device that Benedict often resorts to in his work (e.g. 12.3 post quem … 4 post quem).74 The use of the standard construction with the accusative (which is otherwise generalized in the Rule) would have not achieved the same rhetorical effect (*post quas lectiones … post quos … post quas). Along the same lines, the use of the ablative acris for acribus at 30,3 aut ieiuniis nimiis affligantur aut acris uerberibus coerceantur (‘they should be punished with severe fasts or corrected with sharp strokes’) brings about a perfect parallelism between the two sections of text introduced by aut75 and at 39.5 the gerundive cenandis in place of the expected cenaturis76 is isosyllabic and isotonic with the two preceding words: seruétur reddénda cenándis.77 Instructive is also the choice of stirpator for exstirpator (‘waster’) at 31.12 stirpator substantiae monasterii. Coleman (1999, 348) puts this spelling down to the “vulgar reduction of -ks to -ss” (thus eks- > ess- > s-). However, in view of the broader context (neque auaritiae studeat, neque prodigus sit et stirpator substantiae monasterii ‘He should not be prone to avarice, nor be dissipate and waste the goods of the  (‘remembering always that saying of the Apostle: “Whoever”’, etc.). This pattern resembles the construction memor quia occurring once in the section transcribed from the RM: 2.6 memor semper abbas, quia doctrinae suae … facienda erit discussio (‘The abbot should always remember that his teaching will have to come under scrutiny’). Only in one passage, copied from the RM, the neuter pronoun is not followed by a quotation: 7.10 memor omnia, quae praecepit Deus ‘remembering all the things taught by God’). 74 Cf. also Widhalm 1974, 7, with further instances. 75 See Widhalm 1974, 42: “Die beiden von aut bis coerceantur reichenden Satzglieder sind Isokola”. 76 Benedict knows the participial form cenaturus, which he uses at the beginning of the same sentence (39.5 si cenaturi sunt). 77 Additionally, Lentini 1942, 35 observes that reddenda cenandis provides an example of cursus planus. Note that the use of the gerundive for the future active participle may have been fostered, once again, from the Master, because in the prologue of the RB (40 = RM them. 40), militanda is used in place of militatura. Cf. Linderbauer 1922, 141 f. and Stotz 1998, 324.

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monastery’), the aphaeretic form seems rather to have been chosen because of both the alliteration with the three keywords studeat, sit and substantiae, and the isosyllabism with the synonymic adjective prodigus, which it reinforces semantically.78

 Two case studies In this section we shortly dwell on two among the most frequently mentioned syntactic peculiarities of the Rule, namely, the use of the accusative in subject position and the nominative absolute. We aim at showing how the results achieved in recent historical linguistic studies may make a substantial contribution to the description and understanding of both phenomena.

. The accusative in subject position The use of the accusative for the nominative to express the syntactic subject belongs to the most common non-standard features of the Rule. Its use, however, is almost entirely restricted to the so-called liturgical part, that is, to the eleven chapters (8–18) following the introductory section and dealing with questions related to the liturgical code.79 Notably, 14 of the 17 instances in which  78 On this point, see also Widhalm 1974, 17: “Die beiden Ausdrücke prodigus und stirpator sind, ihrem Begriffsinhalt nach, so gut wie deckungsgleich. Aus der Verwendung dieses rhetorischen Mittels der synonymischen Wiederholung geht deutlich hervor, wie wesentlich dem Verfasser das hiemit ausgedrückte Verbot ist”. 79 It has long been observed that these chapters are characterized by a remarkably high incidence of errors as compared to the rest of the work. Cf. Linderbauer 1922, 224: “Die liturgischen Kapitel, die inhaltlich eine besondere Gruppe bilden, heben sich auch in bezug auf den Gebrauch der Vulgarismen merklich von den übrigen ab”. He goes on observing that it is less the type than the frequency of such errors which appears characteristic of the liturgical parts. See also Mohrmann 1952, 129–130, Mundó 1966, 432 and Fry 1980, 98. Various theories have been put forward to account for this peculiarity. According to Linderbauer 1922, 92, in these parts, Benedict did not follow (or was not influenced by) the model of earlier ascetical writers, characterized by a “purer” style (“einen reineren Stil”), but had to resort to his own language. He also suggests that the Rule may have been composed at different stages, whereby the liturgical sections, along with other sections dealing with everyday practices, had been written earlier and in a lower register and were then left unchanged by the author. Widhalm 1974, 148 highlighted that, at odds with the parenetical chapters, the liturgical and organizational ones included texts conceived for practical needs (‘Gebrauchstexte’) that had to be understood by all

  Giovanbattista Galdi the nominative is replaced by the accusative80 occur in these chapters, e.g. 12.3 dicatur centesimus septimus decimus … 4 inde benedictiones et laudes, lectionem de Apocalipsis una … et responsorium, ambrosianum, uersu, etc.81 Linderbauer 1922, 232 noted that most of these instances are characterized by long lists of nouns beginning with the regular nominative and at some point switching into the accusative, according to a tendency that can be easily paralleled in other Latin sources.82 The same point is made by both Mohrmann 1952, 130 (she speaks of “énumérations longues et compliquées”) and Adams 2013, 242.83 A different, more comprehensive approach allowing us to account for all instances of the phenomenon is found in Rovai 2005. This paper discusses the extended uses of the accusative in place of the nominative in eight texts dating from the 4th to the 8th cent. AD. Rovai’s analysis is framed within the more general hypothesis of the existence, in late Latin, of a transitional activeinactive coding system of the grammatical relations.84 In this system, the subject of unaccusative and passive predicates can be marked by the same grammatical  monks, including the illiterate ones. The ‘technical’ nature of the liturgical parts is also stressed by Mohrmann 1952, 129 f. An alternative explanation was put forward by Mundó 1966, 431–432. While not ruling out the possibility that some stylistic discrepancies may go back to the author, he suggests that the ‘Urexemplar’ of the text (which brings us two steps behind A) had been written by different scribes, whereby the one responsible for the liturgical chapters was particularly sloppy in copying the model. This is an appealing hypothesis, which may also account for the many inconsistent spellings in A. However, as observed by several scholars, there exists a clear link all over the Rule between contents and language, whereby the more ‘practical’ chapters (in primis, the liturgical ones) are characterized by a less correct Latin, while the parenetical and ascetic ones tend to stick closer to the Classical standards. It is highly unlikely that this consistent, contents-related correspondence is merely due to the work of different scribes. 80 We counted as one instance the cases in which two or more accusatives are related to the same predicate, e.g. 13.3, alii duo psalmi dicantur secundum consuetudinem, id est: 4 secunda feria, quintum et tricesimum quintum, 5 tertia feria, quadragesimum secundum, etc. 81 “Psalm 117 should be sung … than blessings and praises, one reading from the Apocalypse … and a responsory, an Ambrosian (hymn) and a versicle”. In agreement with Linderbauer 1922, 232–233, we regard here uersu as the accusative of uersus with drop of -m. 82 The phenomenon is generally referred to as ‘Rezeptakkusativ’. For various examples, see Hofmann/Syantyr 1972, 29 and Adams 2013, 226–234. 83 In addition, referring to 12.4, Adams suggests that the accusative lectionem “was inspired by the ambiguity of case of the forms benedictiones and laudes”. One may add that many of these instances are introduced by the pattern id est, which in late Latin is often followed by an asyntactic accusative (cf. Norberg 1943, 97–102), e.g. 17.19 psalmi repetantur, id est quartum, nonagesimum et centesimum tricesimum tertium (‘the psalms should be repeated, that is, the 4th, the 90th and the 130th’). 84 For details, see Rovai 2005; 2007; Pieroni 1999; Adams 2013, 239 ff. with further references.

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case as the direct object of transitive predicates, i.e. the accusative. Additionally, the replacement of the nominative by the accusative is tightly related to the semantics of the noun, whereby inanimate subjects are much more prone to this change than the animate ones. The vast majority of the instances of the change nominative > accusative collected in Rovai’s corpus occur indeed with inanimate subjects exhibiting a low or null level of agentivity and control over the action,85 e.g. Chiron. 153 ustionem necessaria res est, Anthim. 41 cutem uero esocis … non manducetur. Rovai does not refer to Benedict’s Rule, but his results perfectly fit the nonstandard uses of the accusative found in the liturgical section. To better understand this point, we must bear in mind that the text of these chapters is organized in a very specific way as compared to the rest of the work. For, barring the introductory section, the Rule normally gives instructions concerning individual groups of monks (e.g. the deans, the cellarers, the kitchen servers) as well as specific situations (the behavior towards those who are disobedient, care of the sick, etc.) or material goods (private ownership, the proper amount of food and drink, etc.). In all these cases, the monks involved (typically, those who must take measures and/or those who are guilty of faults) are explicitly mentioned and the guidelines often appear in the form of a conditional sentence, e.g. 28.1 si quis frater frequenter correptus …, si etiam excommunicatus non emendauerit, acrior ei accedat correptio (‘If a brother has been reproved frequently …, if even after excommunication he does not amend, one should apply a sharper punishment’). Leaving out a few chapters (e.g. 48, 53, 58, 65), the use of the passive is not common and, when found, its subject mostly consists of humans or human properties (e.g. 29.2 ut … eius humilitas conprobetur ‘so that his humility may be tested’, 38.5 ut nullius musitatio uel uox … audiatur ‘so that no whispering or voice may be heard’). Conversely, the liturgical chapters are characterized by various lists of prayers to be uttered on a regular base (daily, weekly or in some periods of the year). The predicate quite systematically occurs in the passive voice (dica(n)tur, tenea(n)tur, lega(n)tur, etc.), or, more rarely, in the mediopassive sequa(n)tur, which fulfills an analogous function (e.g. 11.4 post quibus lectionibus, sequantur … alii sex psalmi ‘after these readings, six other psalms should follow’). As opposed to the other chapters, the indication of the agent, here, is irrelevant because the liturgical duties apply indistinctly to all monks. Accordingly, one comes across a plurality of inanimate patient objects (psalmus/-i, lectio/lectiones, oratio, etc.) systematically raised to subject position  85 The predicate is esse, an anticausative, an intransitive verb with inactive or non-agentive subject, a verb of movement or a passive.

  Giovanbattista Galdi and never accompanied by the agent. It is hence reasonable, in agreement with Rovai’s hypothesis, that the inanimacy of the subject along with its null level of agentivity and control over the predicate created the ideal conditions for the emerging of an active-inactive coding and, accordingly, for the switch nominative > accusative. The fact of occurring mostly within lists may have been a contributing factor but does not seem to be the leading cause. Given its regularity both within and outside of the liturgical section,86 this phenomenon can barely be attributed to scribal intrusions. Hence, these results add further evidence in support of the reliability of A.

. The nominative absolute Another syntactic feature found several times in the Rule is the nominative absolute. This expression refers to a participial construction in the nominative case, of which the grammatical subject is different from the one of the subordinate clause,87 e.g. 7.44 quintus humilitatis gradus est si [monachus] omnes cogitationes malas … abbatem non celauerit suum, 45 hortans nos de hac re scriptura dicens, etc. (‘the fifth step of humility is if one does not conceal from his abbot any evil thoughts, for the Scripture exhorts us on this matter, when it says, etc.’). In line with their general view on the text, both Paringer and Coleman claim that this syntagma was not extant in Benedict’s original.88 According to Linderbauer 1922, 134, instead, the nominative absolute is one of the clearest signs of the collapse of noun declension and therefore all its occurrences in the Rule should be regarded as authentic. Likewise, Mohrmann defends the reading  86 The three instances found elsewhere (55.19; 66.6; 73.5) follow the same pattern: the asyntactic accusatives occur within a list, involve inanimate nouns (caligas, tabulas, artes diuersas, uitas) and are linked to a passive predicate (dentur, exerceantur) or to the copula sunt. Additionally, all occurrences are found with the accusative -as, a morpheme often replacing -ae in sub-standard sources since the late Republic. Cf. Galdi 2012 and Adams 2013, 251 f. with references therein. 87 We left out the few occurrences of the so-called nominativus pendens (or isoliertemphatischer Nominativ), consisting of an asyntactic noun phrase in the nominative not including a participle, e.g. 21.5 quique decani si ex eis … forte quis inflatus superbia repertus fuerit … deiciatur (‘and these deans, if perhaps one among them is found to be puffed up with pride … he should be removed’; for further instances, cf. Hanslik 1960, 356). 88 Paringer 1951, 156 includes the syntagm among the faults indicating “l’état corrompu” of the text, while Coleman 1999, 351, referring to 58.1 (see below n. 94), comments: “The participial phrase is almost absolute, which would certainly still be a vulgarism in 6C(entury)”. In Coleman’s view (as noted) all features labeled as ‘vulgarisms’ should be removed from the text.

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dicens in prol. 24–25 (audiamus Dominum respondentem et ostendentem nobis uiam … dicens, etc. ‘let us listen to our Lord answering and showing us the way … by saying, etc.’), noting that this peculiarity (corresponding to Hebrew lē’mōr and Greek λέγων) has plenty of parallels in Christian literature.89 In Galdi 2017, I analyzed the use and development of the nominative absolute from its earliest occurrences (2nd cent. BC) until the early Middle Ages. This study showed that the syntagm, far from simply resulting from a collapse of the flectional system, is characterized by two specific features that distinguish it from the accusative absolute and, in many cases, from the ablative absolute. These are the nearly constant use of the present participle and the strong thematic-syntactic link with the superordinate clause. In particular, its generally animate subject (henceforth, S1) consists of a thematically active, hence easily accessible referent, mostly playing a central role within the context and semantically and/or syntactically linked with the main clause or, more rarely, with another clause.90 As it turns out, the use of the construction in Benedict’s Rule regularly fulfills these criteria.91 All instances involve present participles with animate subjects and six times out of seven S1 is active at the thematicinformational level and can therefore readily be recognized by the reader.92 Furthermore, S1 is always tightly bound to the more general semantic and/or syntactic context, an aspect which reduces, to a large extent, the absoluteness of the syntagm. For instance, in two cases, the person corresponding to the subject of the participial construction alternates in the text with the subject of the preceding clause (S2), according to the sequence S1  S2  S1, whereby the second occurrence of S1 is found within the nominative absolute, as in 2.27–28 honestiores quidem atque intellegibiles animos … uerbis corripiat [sc. abbas = S1], improbos autem et duros … uerberum uel corporis castigatio [= S2]… coerceat, sciens [abbas = S1] scriptum, etc. (‘the abbot [= S1] should correct the refined and perceptive with words …, but a corporal punishment [= S2] should curb the

 89 On this phenomenon, cf. also Stotz 1998, 240 f. and Burton 2000, 187. 90 First in the second half of the 6th cent. AD, the syntagm significantly increases its autonomy towards the main clause and in several cases it appears to have become a free alternative to the ablative absolute. 91 We left out from the discussion the three instances transcribed verbatim from the Master (all of the ‘dicens-type’ referred to by Mohrmann), because they do not appear representative of Benedict’s Latin. See prol. 24–25 (quoted above), 7.14 (demonstrans nobis hoc propheta) and 7.45 (scriptura dicens). 92 The only exception occurs at 58.1 nouiter ueniens quis ad conuersationem, non ei facilis tribuatur ingressus (‘if anyone newly comes to the monastic life, he should not be allowed an easy entry’), where quis clearly constitutes a thematically new referent.

  Giovanbattista Galdi wicked and hard-harted, …, knowing (the abbot) [= S1] what is written’, etc).93 In the remaining five occurrences, S1 is involved in the main clause as agent (e.g. 53.16 ut, superuenientes hospites, … non inquietentur fratres ‘so that if guests arrive … the brothers are not disturbed’94), indirect object (cf. 42.8 omnes … compleant et exeuntes a completoriis nulla sit licentia denuo cuiquam loqui aliquid ‘all … should say Compline, and on leaving Compline, nobody should have the permission to talk to anyone further’)95 or possessor (40.5 quod si aut loci necessitas uel labor aut ardor aestatis amplius poposcerit, in arbitrio prioris consistat, considerans in omnibus, etc. ‘if local conditions, workload or the summer heat calls for more, the superior will have the discretion to grant more, taking all care that’, etc.). The fact that the nominative absolute displays in the Rule — as transmitted by A — the same properties observed in several other late sources, provides us with a strong argument in favor of its genuine character as well as of the reliability of A.

 Conclusions In the present study we investigated some questions related to the text and language of Benedict’s Rule. Due to the many differences and inconsistencies of readings both “within and across manuscripts” (Coleman 1999, 353), we restricted our attention to the text as transmitted by the Sangallensis 914 (A), commonly regarded as the most authoritative codex. The discussion led to three main conclusions. First, the analysis of the prologue and the first seven chapters that Benedict mostly copied verbatim from the Regula Magistri, provided strong evidence in favor of the reliability of A. For, despite occasional miscopyings partly reflecting the late Latin pronunciation (e.g. the alternation b ~ u), the text of the model is generally left unchanged. Given the high accuracy in the  93 In this passage, we cannot rule out the possibility that the subject of sciens is not the abbot, but a generic person, according to the dicens-type mentioned above. More clear is 40.6–8 consentiamus [sc. nos = S1], ut non usque ad satietatem bibamus, sed parcius … benedicant [= S2] Deum, qui ibi habitant …, hoc ante omnia admonentes [sc. nos = S1], ut, etc. ‘let us [S1] agree not to drink in excess, but moderately … those [S2] who live there should bless God … while, above all, we [S1] should warn them’, etc. 94 See also 18.20–21 reliqui omnes psalmi … aequaliter diuidantur in septem noctium uigilias, … duodecim per unamquamque constituens noctem (‘the remaining psalms should be divided evenly at Vigils over the seven nights … so that he assigns twelve psalms to each night’: the agent of both clauses is the monk). 95 Cf. also 58.1 quoted above.

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transcription of this long section, which covers almost one fourth of the work, it is very unlikely that the copyist significantly altered the remaining parts of the text, as assumed in primis by Paringer and Coleman. Second (and accordingly), the remarkable degree of linguistic variation found throughout the text need not reflect scribal intrusions: it can be largely traced back to the author’s pen. In particular, some instances of alternation appear tightly linked to the Master’s Rule, a work that clearly represented a benchmark for our author. On the one hand, we may encounter a correct spelling/form in the section transcribed from the Master and a corresponding deviating one elsewhere (e.g. admon- vs. ammon-, intelleg- vs. intellig-). On the other hand, several types of alternation found in Benedict between a correct and a deviating type find parallels in the Master (contentus + ablative ~ accusative, cibi ~ cibus, responsorium ~ responsorius, etc.). Additionally, precise rules or tendencies could be identified as underlying other cases of variation, such as the replacement of capite by caput (only attested with the meaning ‘beginning’) or the substitution of the ablative with the accusative after a (the latter is mainly restricted to nouns only used in the accusative), the use of ‘preposition + ablative’ with nouns of place vs. simple ablative with nouns of time, etc. Finally, regular tendencies also emerged from the analysis of two syntactic phenomena notably spread in the Rule, i.e. the accusative in subject position and the nominative absolute. The former involves systematically inanimate patient objects never accompanied by the agent (e.g. legantur aliae quattuor lectiones). In all cases, the inanimacy of the subject along with its null level of agentivity and control created the best conditions for the emerging of an active-inactive coding, which may have coexisted in Late Latin with the standard nominative-accusative alignment. As for the latter, all instances include present participles with animate subjects. Moreover, the subject is semantically and/or syntactically closely tied to the more general context and six times out of seven it is active at the thematic-informational level (hence, easily identifiable by the reader/listener). The fact that both syntactic features exhibit the same characteristics in plenty of contemporary sources provides compelling evidence for both their authenticity and, once again, the textual credibility of A.

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Mundó, A.M. (1966), “Corrections «anciennes» et «modernes» dans le Sanctgall. 914 de la Règle de Saint Benoît”, Studia patristica 8, 424–435. Norberg, D. (1943), Syntaktische Forschungen auf dem Gebiete des Spätlateins und des frühen Mittellateins, Uppsala. Paringer, B. (1951), “Le manuscrit de Saint-Gall 914 représente-t-il le latin original de la règle de Saint Benoît? Étude historique et critique”, Revue Bénédictine 61, 81–140. Pieroni, S. (1999), “Non-promotional objects in late Latin”, Verbum 21, 117–129. Pricoco, S. (1995), La Regola di San Benedetto e le Regole dei Padri, Milan. Rovai, F. (2005), “L’estensione dell’accusativo in latino tardo e medievale”, Archivio Glottologico Italiano 90, 54–89. Rovai, F. (2007), “Manifestazioni di sub-sistemi tipologici attivi in latino”, Archivio Glottologico Italiano 92, 51–64. Schmidt, E. (1880), Regula S. P. Benedicti iuxta antiquissimos codices recognita, Regensburg. Stotz, P. (1998), Handbuch zur lateinischen Sprache des Mittelalters. Vierter Band: Formenlehre, Syntax und Stilistik, Munich. Stotz, P. (2002), Handbuch zur lateinischen Sprache des Mittelalters. Erster Band: Einleitung, Lexikologische Praxis, Wörter und Sachen, Lehnwortgut, Munich. Traube, L. (1898), Textgeschichte der Regula S. Benedicti, Munich. Widhalm, G.-M. (1974), Die rhetorischen Elemente in der Regula Benedicti, Hildesheim. Wölfflin, E. (1895), Benedicti Regula Monachorum, Leipzig. Wölfflin, E. (1896), “Die Latinität des Benedikt von Nursia”, Archiv für Lateinische Lexikographie und Grammatik 9, 493–521. Wölfflin, E. (1900), “Review of Traube (1898)”, Archiv für Lateinische Lexikographie und Grammatik 11, 295–296.

List of Contributors Rutger J. Allan is Associate Professor in Ancient Greek at the Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam. He has published on a variety of topics in Ancient Greek linguistics relating to verbal semantics and discourse pragmatics, and he has a special interest in cognitive linguistic and narratological approaches to Greek narrative texts. He is the author of The Middle Voice in Ancient Greek. A Study in Polysemy (2003) and co-editor of the volumes The Language of Literature (2007) and The Greek Future and its History (2017). Marina Benedetti is Professor in General and Historical Linguistics at the University for Foreigners in Siena. Her research focuses on morpho-syntactic aspects of ancient Indo-European languages (especially Ancient Greek) from both a synchronic and a diachronic perspective, and on the history of grammatical tradition. She is President of the Società Italiana di Glottologia. Klaas Bentein was born in Waregem, Belgium, in 1985. He received a master’s degree in Classics from Ghent University in 2007, and a doctoral degree in Linguistics from the same university in 2012. He is currently Associate Research Professor at Ghent University, where he leads the ERC Starting Grant Project EVWRIT, on the social semiotics of ‘everyday’, non-literary texts from Egypt (www.evwrit.ugent.be, 2018–2024). He has published widely in the fields of Ancient Greek Linguistics and papyrology, including several edited volumes with Brill and De Gruyter, and a monograph with Oxford University Press (2016). Carla Bruno is Associate Professor at the University for Foreigners in Siena, where she teaches General and Historical Linguistics. Her research focuses on morpho-syntactic aspects of ancient Indo-European languages (especially Ancient Greek) from both a synchronic and a diachronic perspective, with special attention to linguistic variation and change. Albio Cesare Cassio is Emeritus Professor of Classical Philology at the University of Rome “La Sapienza”. He worked extensively on Aristophanes, for which he produced a book on the Peace (Commedia e Partecipazione, Naples 1985), and on the study of the Greek language and its dialects in their historical development, publishing a long series of articles, and organizing conferences on these subjects (Katà Diálekton. Atti del III Colloquio Internazionale di Dialettologia Greca, Naples 1997). He has given lectures and series of lectures in Italy and abroad (Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa, Venice Ca' Foscari, Harvard University, Cambridge University, UCLA) and is the author of four chapters in the second edition of the recently edited book Storia delle Lingue letterarie greche (Milano 2016); he is co-editor of the new series Trends in Classics – Greek and Latin Linguistics (De Gruyter). Luz Conti is Professor of Greek Philology at the Universidad Autónoma de Madrid. She has developed her academic career in Spain and Germany, focusing mainly on the synchronic and diachronic study of Ancient Greek Syntax and Pragmatics. She was awarded a Humboldt Scholarship in 2007–2008, 2012 and 2018, and was selected as Visiting Scholar by the University of Cambridge in 2015. Currently, she is leading an international research group working on indirect speech acts and interaction in Ancient Greek.

  List of Contributors Emilio Crespo is Emeritus Professor of Greek Philology at the Autonomous University of Madrid and President of the Direction Committee of the Pastor Foundation for Classical Studies (Madrid). He has been awarded an Honorary Doctorate from Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. He is coauthor of Sintaxis del griego clásico (2003), associate editor of Encyclopedia of Ancient Greek Language and Linguistics (2014) and author of a widely known Spanish translation of Homer’s Iliad (1991, revised in 2019). Wolfgang D.C. de Melo is Professor of Classical Philology at Oxford. He has worked extensively on early Latin (The Early Latin Verb System, OUP 2007; Loeb Plautus, HUP 2011-13). More recently, he turned his attention to Varro, whose De lingua Latina he edited and commented on (OUP 2019). His latest book, Latin Linguistics, will appear with De Gruyter. From 2023 to 2026 he will take up a Leverhulme Major Research Fellowship, which will enable him to return to Plautus and Terence. Giuseppina di Bartolo is currently a Research Assistant at the Department of Linguistics of the University of Cologne in the fields of historical-comparative linguistics and discourse studies. She previously conducted her PhD research in Greek Philology at the Department of Classics of the University of Cologne. Her PhD-thesis, Studien zur griechischen Syntax dokumentarischer Papyri der römischen Zeit, was published in 2021 as a monograph. Together with Daniel Kölligan, she is the co-founder and co-organizer of the “Postclassical Greek Network” funded by the German Research Foundation (DFG). Her main research interests include historical morphosyntax, historical pragmatics, diachrony of Ancient Greek, language change, and clause linkage strategies. Panagiotis Filos is Associate Professor of Historical and Indo-European Linguistics at the University of Ioannina, while he has also taught Linguistics and Classics at various other universities in Greece and abroad. He has received BA degrees in Archaeology and Classics from the University of Ioannina, while he also holds an MPhil in General Linguistics and Comparative Philology as well as a DPhil in Comparative Philology from the University of Oxford. He is, inter alia, Associate Editor of the Encyclopedia of Greek Language and Linguistics (forthcoming) and co-author of the annual review of Modern Greek linguistics in This Year’s Work in Modern Language Studies. He has published particularly on Graeco-Latin bilingualism as well as on Ancient Greek dialectology, onomastics and etymology. Raquel Fornieles Sánchez studied Journalism at Universidad Complutense de Madrid (BA 2003) and Classics at Universidad Autónoma de Madrid (BA 2009, MA 2010, PhD 2015). She has been a Lecturer in Greek Philology at the Universidad Autónoma de Madrid since 2016. Her research interests cover a range of topics in Greek linguistics. Currently, her research focuses on verbal irony and (im)politeness phenomena in Greek Oratory, specifically in the speeches by Lysias, Aeschines and Demosthenes. Giovanbattista Galdi holds a PhD in Classical Philology from the University of Bologna (2002). He was scientific co-worker at the Thesaurus Linguae Latinae in Munich (2001-2003) and wrote his Habilitation at the University of Trier as Humboldt scholar (2007). Currently, he is Associate Professor of Latin Linguistics at the University of Ghent. His main areas of interest lie in the field of Late (especially non-literary) and Vulgar Latin, Christian Latin, the transmission of Latin

List of Contributors  

texts in manuscripts and epigraphic language. He is the author of Grammatica delle iscrizioni latine dell’impero (province orientali). Morfosintassi nominale (2004), Syntaktische Untersuchungen zu den Romana des Jordanes (2013) and of a number of publications on the Latin language. Georgios K. Giannakis is Emeritus Professor of Historical and Indo-European Linguistics at Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. He studied Classics and historical, comparative and IndoEuropean linguistics, was a fellow of the Stanford University Vaughan Centennial Institute (1991) and taught at various Universities in the USA and Greece. He has published widely in historical, and Indo-European linguistics, the Greek language and its dialects, language and culture, linguistics and philology; he has also translated and edited several volumes of wellknown works and is General Editor of the Encyclopedia of Ancient Greek Language and Linguistics (Brill) and of its expanded new edition Encyclopedia of Greek Language and Linguistics (under preparation). He is co-editor of the series Trends in Classics – Greek and Latin Linguistics (De Gruyter) and is now preparing a Comparative Dictionary of Greek Dialects (Brill) and a new Historical Grammar of Greek. Mark Janse is BOF-ZAP Research Professor in Ancient & Asia Minor Greek at Ghent University. He is a former Visiting Fellow of All Souls College (Oxford), the Onassis Foundation (Greece) and Harvard’s Center for Hellenic Studies (DC), and a former Onassis Senior Visiting Scholar at Harvard, Princeton, Stanford and the University of Arizona. He has given various named lectures: Gennadeios (Athens, 2008), F.B.J. Kuiper (Leiden, 2008), Johannes Sundwall (Athens, 2011), Naylor Memorial (Ohio State, 2021), Gaisford (Oxford, 2022) and Jeremie Septuagint (Cambridge, 2024). His research covers the entire history of the Greek language from Homer via Classical, Biblical and Medieval Greek up to the Modern Greek dialects of Asia Minor. Brian D. Joseph is Professor of Linguistics at The Ohio State University. His interests are quite broad but are focused first and foremost on the study of language change, especially regarding the Greek language in all historical phases, from Mycenaean to Modern Greek, including its prehistory, and how it fits into the Indo-European language family as well as its more recent significant contact with its neighboring languages in the Balkans. His interests run also to other languages, especially Sanskrit and Albanian, and to other areas within linguistics, including both morphological theory and the embedding of language into social structures. More recently, he has been working on issues of language sustainability, looking both at what has gone into making the Greek language relatively robust in its diasporic setting in southern Albania and at what we can determine about linguistic ‒ and concomitantly ethnic ‒ viability in ancient times in the eastern Mediterranean. Sara Kaczko is Assistant Professor in Classical Philology at the Department of Classics of the University of Rome “La Sapienza”. She is the author of several studies on Greek literary languages and dialects, classical philology, Greek epigraphy, and the relationship between material object and text. Her monograph Archaic and Classical Attic Dedicatory Epigrams. An Epigraphic, Literary, and Linguistic Commentary, De Gruyter, Berlin/Boston 2016 has been awarded the “Prix d’épigraphie” by the AIEGL – Association International d’Épigraphie Grecque et Latin.

  List of Contributors Evangelos Karakasis is Professor of Ancient Greek and Latin at the Department of Philology of Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. His research interests focus on Latin and Ancient Greek literature, on which he has numerous publications, among them the monographs Terence and the Language of Roman Comedy (Cambridge 2005), Song Exchange in Roman Pastoral (De Gruyter 2011) and T. Calpurnius Siculus: A Pastoral Poet in Neronian Rome (De Gruyter 2016). Daniel Kölligan is Professor of Historical Linguistics at the Julius-Maximilians-Universität Würzburg, Germany. He has worked and taught at the University of Cologne and the University of Oxford, where he was Research Assistant to the Diebold Professor in Comparative Philology from 2005 to 2008 and a Junior Research Fellow at Wolfson College. He was a Heisenberg Fellow of the German Research Foundation (DFG) from 2018–2019. He specializes in Ancient Greek and Classical Armenian. His PhD thesis deals with suppletion and defectivity in the Ancient Greek verb, his Habilitation with the historical grammar and poetic language of Armenian. Current projects include a digital research platform for the analysis of the oldest Indic text, the Rigveda (https://vedaweb.uni-koeln.de). Main publications include Suppletion und Defektivität im griechischen Verbum (Bremen: Hempen, 2007), Erkinkʻ ew erkir. Studien zur historischen Grammatik des Klassisch-Armenischen (Hamburg: Baar, 2019) and (together with J. Macedo and P. Barbieri) Πολυώνυμοι - A Lexicon of the Divine Epithets in the Orphic Hymns (Würzburg: Würzburg University Press, 2021). David Langslow FBA is Hulme Professor of Latin Emeritus in the University of Manchester, where he was Professor of Classics from 1999 to 2021. He began his career as Lecturer in Latin Philology & Linguistics at the University of Oxford (1984-1999), where he had studied classics, ancient history, and linguistics. He is the author of Medical Latin in the Roman Empire (2000), of an annotated English edition of Jacob Wackernagel’s Lectures on Syntax (2009), and of articles on various Latin linguistic topics including word order and bilingualism. He is currently producing the first critical edition of the late antique Latin version of the medical works of the Byzantine doctor Alexander of Tralles, having laid the groundwork for the edition in The Latin Alexander Trallianus (2006). The Preface and Book 3 (On Fevers) of the Latin Alexander were published in 2020, and Book 1 (the first part of the Therapeutica) is due to appear in two volumes at the end of 2023. Julián Víctor Méndez Dosuna is Professor of Greek Linguistics at the University of Salamanca. His most recent research revolves around the Ancient Greek dialects, with a particular focus on the lead tablets from Dodona. His research interests also include the syntax of Ancient Greek, the study of phonological processes in Modern Greek, irrational polysemy in Ancient Greek, and sexual metaphors in Aristophanes. Eduard Meusel has graduated in the fields of Indo-European Linguistics and Classical Philology from Ludwig-Maximilians-University (LMU) in Munich. Today he works as a research associate at the Thesaurus Linguae Latinae at the Bavarian Academy of Sciences and Humanities and teaches various seminars in the field of Indo-European Studies at the LMU Munich. His doctoral thesis deals with the phraseological heritage in the works of Pindar. His research interests focus on the Indo-European ritual and its continuation in the various Indo-European branches, phraseology, the Greek dialects, and Latin lexicography.

List of Contributors  

Piera Molinelli is Professor of General Linguistics and Vice-rector at the University of Bergamo. Her research areas include Latin historical linguistics, discourse and pragmatic markers, and grammaticalization. She has dedicated research and projects to Latin and its sociolinguistic dimensions and served as President of the Société international pour l’étude du latin vulgaire et tardif (2012-2014). She is the author of Fenomeni della negazione dal latino all’italiano (1988), editor of Language and Identity in Multilingual Mediterranean Settings. Challenges for Historical Sociolinguistics (2017), and is co-editor of Synchrony and Diachrony: A dynamic interface (2013), Discourse and Pragmatic Markers from Latin to the Romance Languages (2014), and Positioning the Self and Others. Linguistic perspectives (2018). Lara Pagani is Associate Professor of Greek Literature at the University of Genova. Her main interests concern Ancient Greek scholarship and grammar, Homeric studies, Greek lexicography, studies on language in ancient Greece, and literary papyrology. She is co-editor of the series Supplementum Grammaticum Graecum (SGG, Brill), of the encyclopedia Lexicon of Greek Grammarians of Antiquity (LGGA, Brill Online), and of a forthcoming new edition of the scholia to the Iliad (de Gruyter). Her publications include a critical edition of the fragments of Asclepiades of Myrlea (2007), as well as a chapter on Hellenismos in Brill’s Companion to Ancient Greek Scholarship. Paolo Poccetti was formerly Associate Professor at the University of Naples ‘L’Orientale’ (19791991) and now Full Professor of Comparative Philology at the University of Roma 2 “Tor Vergata”. His main research fields are synchronic and diachronic issues in the classical languages as well as in the fragmentarily attested languages of the Western Mediterranean area. He is an author of 5 monographs and over 300 publications, editor of several international conferences and organizer of various research projects. He is member of international scientific institutions, and editor of a scientific periodical in historical linguistics and of a monograph series concerning ancient European languages. Olga Spevak is Assistant Professor of Latin and Greek Philology at the University of Toulouse Jean Jaurès. Her interests are primarily in the areas of Latin syntax, semantics, and pragmatics, with particular focus on word order, the noun phrase, and noun valency. Her publications include Constituent Order in Classical Latin Prose (2010), The Noun Phrase in Classical Latin Prose (2014), and Nominalization in Latin (2022) and, as co-editor, Pragmatic Approaches to Latin and Ancient Greek (with C. Denizot, 2017). Marja Vierros is Professor of Classical Philology at the University of Helsinki and the Principal Investigator in the project ‘Digital Grammar of Greek Documentary Papyri’ (2018–2023; European Research Council Starting Grant no 758481). Previously, she worked as an Associate Professor at the University of Helsinki, as a postdoctoral scholar in two projects funded by the Academy of Finland, and as a Visiting Research Scholar at the Institute for the Study of the Ancient World (New York University). She received her PhD in 2011 and published the book Bilingual Notaries in Hellenistic Egypt. A Study of Greek as a Second Language (2012). Jesús de la Villa Polo is Professor of Greek Philology at the Universidad Autónoma de Madrid, President of the Spanish Society of Classical Studies and President of the International Federation of Classical Studies (FIEC); he is also a member of the executive committee of the Interna-

  List of Contributors tional Council for Philosophy and Humanistic Studies, a body associated with UNESCO. He received his doctorate in 1986 with a thesis on the syntax of Ancient Greek adverbs, supervised by Prof. Emilio Crespo. He has participated in numerous national and international research projects. His research has focused mainly on the syntax and semantics of Ancient Greek and Latin. He has published translations into Spanish of works by Aristophanes and of texts from the Corpus Hippocraticum, and has participated in a critical edition of the Iliad in the series of the Spanish Council for Research (CSIC).

General Index /aː/ inherited, retained 38, 347–348, 351–352, 360, 362, 365 /εː/ 358 aberrant, dialect / variety / form 38, 403, 423, 536 ablative 40, 543, 551–552, 559 n. 8, 560– 571, 579, 584 n. 43, 587, 625–628, 632–636, 643 – absolute 559 n. 8, 560–562, 566, 566 n. 21, 567, 570–571, 633, 641, 641 n. 90 ablativus separativus 587 ablaut 56, 183 – full-grade 416, 420 – zero-grade 205, 416, 419–421 absolutive 552, n. 9 accent 52 – lack of 91 accentuation 182–183, 205, 374 n. 16, 384, 388, 419, 422 – Doric 419 n. 33 accusative 110–111, 125, 149, 184–185, 219–222, 246, 362–363, 379, 389 n. 64, 392 n. 75, 407–408, 450, 474–477, 485 n. 41, 489–493, 532, 551–552, 554, 558, 560, 563–564, 568, 575, 578–579, 587– 588, 622 n. 14, 625–643 – and participle construction 557–558, 560, 563 accusativus effectus 587 Achaean 109, 320, 322, 328–329, 331, 338–339 AcI 449, 575, 582 active-inactive coding 640, 643 adaptation of epic features to the local context 353, 359 addition 20, 35, 83 n. 20, 125, 246, 326, 451ff., 622, 625, 632 n. 54 address 77, 442, 442 n. 72, 448, 448 n. 89, 453, 456, 458, 462 n. 174, 465, 467, 597, 600, 602 adespoton 386, 412 adjective 4, 38, 56, 59, 63 n. 24, 64, 70– 71, 80 n. 16, 84–85, 87–89, 94, 97, 109, https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111272887-028

143, 148, 167–168, 218, 223, 239–240, 246, 246 n. 2, 249–251, 254–255, 258, 267, 277, 277 n. 70, 280, 302, 306, 325–326, 331, 363–364, 369ff., 414, 442, 452, 474, 487–495, 530, 551, 579, 583, 602, 608, 632, 637 – of color 369ff. – of material 369ff. adverb(ial) 84, 89, 93, 100, 175, 180 n. 2, 190–194, 202, 246–247, 253–354, 340, 453, 495ff., 578, 564, 634 n. 64 Aeolic 108, 141, 347 n. 1, 349, 352, 354, 363, 402, 531, 536 affix 190 n. 16, 191, 194, 202 age class 282 – γυνή 276, 278 – θυγάτηρ 270, 272–274, 277–280, 283 – θυγάτριον 269–270, 272–274, 281, 283 – κοράσιον 37, 269ff. – κόριον 269, 283 – παιδίον 37, 269–274, 281 – παιδισκάριον 282 – παῖς 264, 272–273, 276, 282 – παρθένος 273 n. 46, 276, 281–283 agentivity 226–227, 639–640, 643 agreement – case 491 – grammatical 37, 325–326, 263ff. – semantic 37, 263ff. – syntactic 325, 552, 632 Agreement Hierarchy 37, 263ff. Ajax 126, 365 n. 82 Alexander, doctor – Greek 547ff. – Latin 547ff. Albanian 167 n. 3, 412, 422 alignment 437, 429, 643 allomorph 58, 475 Ambracian / Ambraciot(e) 409, 421–423 Amerias 402, 410, 421 Amorgos 337, 370–373, 378, 383–384, 388 n. 62, 390, 395 amurca 387–390 anacoluthon 551, 622

  General Index analogy 16, 22, 40, 52, 413, 475, 543, 587, 635 n. 72 anaphora 636 anaphor(ic) 81, 631 ancient lexicographer(–s) 38, 370–374, 382, 387, 390, 402, 421, 423, 539, 542, 544 antecedent – pronominal 554 antepenultimate stress 171 anthroponym(s) 408 anticausative 639 n. 85 anticipatory γάρ (in Homer) 131–133 Antimachus of Colophon 127–128 antimetry 74, 99–100, 103 aorist 61, 169, 171, 190, 195, 205, 205 n. 29, 450 n. 101, 474–476, 488, 500, 513, 515, 568 – stem 6 – first/weak 475–476, 485 – second/strong 205, 475–476, 482, 485 n. 41 apocope 186 n. 12 apposition 76ff., 451, 571 n. 32 Aramaic, Jewish Palestinian 279–282 Arcadian 108 n. 4 Arcado-Cypriot 108–109 archive of Apollonios the strategos 452, 459 Aristarchus of Samothrace 35, 118, 120 n. 12, n. 13, 122ff. Aristonicus 125, 125 n. 32, 129 Aristophanes of Byzantium 119, 129 n. 41 Aristotle 119, 224–225, 229, 548 Armenian 52, 169, 537 article 89, 108–109, 128 n. 37, 167–169, 407, 482, 490–491, 561 – definite 167–168, 407, 490–491 articular infinitive see infinitive aspirate 333–335 assimilation 129 n. 41, 199, 337–339, 532 Athamanian 408–409, 415ff. athematic 110, 407, 414, 419, 474 Athenaeus 378, 385, 402, 410, 418–420 athetesis 131–132 Attic comedy 224, 301, 348–351 Attic epigrams 38, 347ff.

Attic poetry 347–350 Attic skolia 349–352 Attic tragedy 224–225, 229, 236, 255, 257, 259, 347ff. Attic-Ionic 332–334, 347ff., 403, 406 n. 2, 408, 419, 498 Atticism 123, 379 augment 36, 165ff., 189–191, 195, 204, 362 – syllabic 165ff., 507 n. 24 – temporal 165ff. authentication 459–460 avoidance of epichoric features 362 background 19 n. 18, 20, 81, 157 n. 50, 162, 271 Baltic 63, 416 n. 27, 420 Balto-Slavic 202, 411 n. 14, 416 n. 27 Benedict of Nursia 41, 619ff. bilingual 282, 488 n. 45 bilingualism 331, 341–343, 406 n. 2, 611 Boeotian 108, 363 borrowing 20, 423, 537, 540, 595, 614 – lexical 537 – linguistic 423 – poetical 352 – technical 349, 349 n. 10 Brauron 379, 379 n. 31, 385–386, 393 n. 78 bucolic – dieresis 90, 93, 99, 99 n. 50, 266 n. 15 – poetry 574ff. caesura 35, 69ff., 198, 266 n. 15, 575 Calpurnius Siculus 573ff. case see nominative, etc. – agreement 491 – assignment 37 – frozen 183 n. 7 – interchange 622 – loss 192 – marking 552 – oblique 110–111 – prepositional 628, 635 causative 247–248, 250, 252–255, 258 choral lyric 143, 347–352, 361, 365 n. 82

General Index  

choral sections of tragedy 347, 348 n. 2, 350, 365 Christian – community 595ff. – hierarchy 596, 607, 616 – Latin see Latin Chronicles – Byzantine 337 – of Malalas 515, 518 circumstantial participle 560–561 Classical Latin see Latin Clement of Alexandria 378–379 Clement of Rome 41, 593ff. clitic 194 n. 19, 200 closing 430ff. cluster 23, 40, 196–198, 437, 501ff., 636 – consonantal 61, 197, 331–332, 336– 441, 632 coda 197, 337, 339–340 cognate 52, 123 n. 22, 140, 150, 281, 411ff., 532, 536, 588 n. 53, 608, 613 cognitive-functional see functional-cognitive cognitive saliency 469 collocation 56 n. 13, 151–152, 160, 193, 204, 238, 280 n. 78, 503–504, 510, 513, 517 colloquialisms 574 colometry 73, 101 n. 53, 103 comparative method 51–52, 65 comparison 24, 55, 59, 59 n. 20, 93, 125 n. 30, 140, 148, 328, 334, 384 n. 43, 396, 412, 422 n. 39, 499, 588, 597– 598, 624ff. complement 93–94, 100, 193, 193 n. 18, 252, 450, 454, 461 n. 165, 464, 560, 578–579, 588 composition 13, 33–34, 89, 93, 109, 111, 141, 171, 175, 181, 181 n. 4, 185, 190–191, 194, 201–202, 207, 349–351, 574 – lack of 435 compound 20, 30 n. 47, 34, 36, 56–58, 144–150, 175ff., 248 n. 9, 331, 381, 385, 394 n. 78, 408, 489 n. 46, 490 – verb conflation 202, 254, 413 conjugation 475, 477, 559, 622

conjunction 445, 497, 502, 507–508, 511–512, 514, 517–518, 579–580 consonant – clusters /pt/, /kt/ 336ff. – dental see stop / plosive – labial see stop / plosive – fricative 52, 338, 340, 403–404, 530 – liquid 485, 507 n. 23, 622, 625–627 – obstruent 339–340 – plosive see stop / plosive – sibilant 485, 492 – sonorant 477 n. 12, 485, 492 – stop see stop / plosive – velar see stop / plosive consonantism 404–405, 417 constituency 188, 194, 194 n. 20, 196– 197, 202 Constituency Principle 187, 193–194, 207 construction passim constructio ab urbe condita 557ff. constructio ad sententiam 265 context passim coordination 76, 80, 451, 588 Coptic see Egyptian counterfactual conditionals 40, 495ff. couplet 554 cult songs 350 n. 14 dative 107–112, 154, 167, 192, 221, 356, 407–408, 415, 436, 453, 468, 551, 558– 559, 564, 566–567, 578, 583, 629 declension 107, 110–111, 358 n. 52, 474– 477, 485, 491–492, 536, 550–551, 625, 629, 633–634, 640 Delos 379, 385 demotic 338; see also δημοτική dependent 98, 183, 206, 480 deponent verb 580 determiner 239–240, 552 de-univerbation 204 n. 27 diachronic (linguistic) variation see variation dialect(al) form 119, 404, 417 dialogue (esp. in tragedy) 348–350, 374, 578, 600–601 Didymus of Alexandria 125 n. 30, 126, 129, 133 n. 52

  General Index digamma 55, 61–62, 332–33, 404 diminutive 37, 268–274, 280–283, 308– 309, 313, 387 diphthong 170, 171, 407 n. 6, 625–626 discourse – act 75–82, 101–103 – analysis 30 n. 27, 514 – constituent 435–447, 456–457, 465 – grammar 73, 76–77, 81 n. 17, 101 n. 53, 433–434 – structure rules 434–435 – pragmatic criteria / functions / terms 74, 78–79, 101–103 dislocated constituents 73, 194, 203–204 displacement 39, 465, 467–468 dissimilation 58, 58 n. 16, 62, 407, 411, 413 distributive function see function dithyramb 350, 365 n. 81, 584 documentary papyri Dolon 119 n. 7, 298 n. 39 dominant participle 557, 560–562, 564 Doric accentuation see accentuation Doric dialects 108, 199, 330, 333–334, 348, 352, 407 Doric verbal form 413 drink passim, esp. 140ff. Dutch 268, 420, 436, 440, 627 dying of textiles see purple production eclogue 573ff. ecphrasis 575, 578, 586–587 Egyptian 474, 478, 484, 484 n. 31, 491 n. 53 – Coptic 430, 477, 477 n. 11, n. 12, 484, 484 n. 31, 492, 594, 595 – Sahidic 484 ekdosis – of Aristarchus 133 n. 52 – Chian 130 n. 41 – Massaliote 125 n. 30 – of Zenodotus 126, 129 n. 41 elevated tone 366 elision 74–75, 91, 109–114, 197 emphasis 75, 85–86, 180, 182, 191–192, 460, 528 emphatic chunking 78ff.

enclitic 72, 182–183, 191, 195, 202 enjambment 69ff., 194 epenthetic 477 n. 12 epic – allusion 361 n. 65 – language 110 – poetry 113, 359, 363–364 epicene see gender, noun Epirote 38, 401ff. Epistle to the Corinthians 41, 594–595, 612 epistolary – conventions 429, 431 – frame 429ff. –manuals 430, 440 episynaloephe 35, 107, 111–114 equivalence 153–155 ethnic(ity) 357, 366, 383, 383 n. 42, 405, 406 n. 2, 408–409, 422 n. 39, 423 n. 40 etymology 1, 6–7, 16, 21, 38, 134, 134 n. 57, 369–370, 373, 382–383, 390 n. 67, 404ff., 527ff., 608, 611 Eumaeus 130 evidential 37, 307–308, 313 exploitation 87, 90, 98, 432, 576–577 face 304–313 farewell greeting 442–468 finite – clause 559 – state 435 – verb 169, 483 n. 28, 487–488, 492–493 flax, processing of 370ff. footing(s) 437–439 formula(-e, -s) 12, 54 n. 9, 55, 83 n. 21, 88 n. 33, 93, 93 n. 40, 95, 109–111, 141, 194, 196, 201, 266 n. 15, 338, 353, 354 n. 34, 356, 356 n. 43, 359–362, 365, 379, 431ff., 491, 597, 600, 604, 612 formulaic 12, 39, 55, 80 n. 16, 125, 151, 198, 429ff. – expression 12, 429–430, 440, 447 – genre 429, 429 n. 3, 444 frame theory 437 framing 437–439, 460, 585 fricative see consonant functional 73ff., 190, 484, 500, 630

General Index  

functional-cognitive linguistics 35, 73 function – distributive 575, 588 – intersubjective 436, 437, 439 – processing 436, 437 Functional Discourse Grammar 73ff. future 333, 474, 513, 584, 626 n. 27, 629, 636 n. 77 Galen 548, 553–554 geminate 64 n. 27, 338, 540 gender – alternation 633 – epicene 128, 128 n. 38, 263–265; see also noun – grammatical 126, 322, 326, 629 – shift 623 n. 53 generic 9 n. 7, 24 n. 23, 38, 223, 229, 231, 325, 407, 433, 574ff., 599–600, 606, 642 n. 93 genitive 40, 93, 97, 110, 220, 222 n. 12, 348, 353 n. 30, 356 n. 43, 364, 374 n. 16, 408, 448, 474, 474 n. 2, 485 n. 41, 490 n. 52, 561ff., 626, 629, 633–635 – absolute 561ff. genus grande 576–577, 586 genus tenue 577, 581 georgic 581 German 7 n. 5, 15, 59, 63–64, 245, 248, 268–269, 288 n. 4, 418, 539, 575 Germanic 52, 59, 64–65, 185 n. 10, 190, 202, 248, 416 n. 27, 418, 420, 623 gerund 559, 622 gerundive 558–559, 636, 636 n. 77 glide 337 gloss(-es) 370–372, 383 n. 39, 386–387, 401ff., 537, 539, 544 Gothic 19, 189–190 grammaticalization 190 n. 16, 192–193, 203, 204 n. 27, 288 n. 4 Greek – Ancient passim – Classical 36, 39, 91, 107, 168, 170, 182 n. 6, 197, 241, 279, 497, 515, 536 – Homeric 36, 76 n. 12, 94 n. 43, 170, 179, 201, 498

– Koine 123, 125, 125 n. 30, 133, 171, 332, 335, 373 n. 14, 402–403, 408, 411, 419, 473, 475, 475 n. 5, 483, 500, 536 – Medieval 171, 475–476, 498 n. 3, 512, 514–515 – Modern 166ff., 249, 265 n. 5, 338, 388, 390, 390 n. 66, 391 n. 71, 404, 411, 411 n. 15, 416 n. 28, 422, 473, 475 – Mycenaean 36, 56, 62, 107, 108 n. 4, 169, 172, 193 n. 18, 200, 333, 354, 417 – New Testament 269ff., 498ff., 598ff. – Post-Classical 39, 495ff. – Septuagint 268, 275ff., 611, 613–614 Greek dialects 332–333, 358 n. 52, 402ff., 498 Greek colonies 323–324, 341–343, 407 greeting formula 491 hapax legomenon 62, 125, 125 n. 33, 418, 423, 579, 582, 587 haplography 404, 412, 554 haplology 57, 405, 413 head 71, 88, 93, 95ff., 167–168, 194–195, 197–198, 480, 491, 560 headless relatives 40, 553, 556 health wish 431, 436ff. Hebrew, Biblical 276ff., 597, 611, 613– 615, 641 height dissimilation 407 Hellenistic scholarship 117 Hellenization 406 n. 2 Heracles / Hercules 52–53, 539 Heroninos archive 456, 456 n. 134, 463, 466 Hesychius 38, 372, 402–404, 409–410, 412ff. hexameter see meter hierarchy see Agreement hierarchy, Christian, Prosodic hierarchy high-register – feature 366 – genre 350, 361 n. 67 – poetry 347 n. 1, 350, 353, 357, 360 – tone 364 historical linguistics 1ff., 51–52, 65, 134, 139, 142, 161, 215, 401, 588, 620

  General Index Hittite 11, 63 n. 24, 64, 155, 177, 183 n. 7, 189–190, 416 Homer 35, 55, 58, 72, 72 n. 3, 74 n. 5, 75 n. 8, 81, 83 n. 21, 85–87, 95, 108ff., 118ff., 144–145, 153, 155, 158 n. 52, 180, 203, 219 n. 6, 254, 289, 303 n. 6, 356, 356 n. 43, 358 n. 52, 359 n. 56, 360, 363–364, 371 n. 2, 402, 406 n. 2, 423 n. 40, 496, 498 Homeric Greek 36, 76 n. 12, 94 n. 43, 170, 179, 201, 498 Homeric idiolect 118 n. 5, 123 honorific epithet 431–432, 442, 444 n. 76, 448, 452–453, 456, 458, 467 hymns to the gods 161–162, 350–351 hyperbaton 71, 73, 85–86, 89, 89 n. 35, 94ff., 359 n. 56 hyperbole 37, 308, 310, 313 identification 73, 119, 126, 134, 217, 442 n. 70, 451, 456, 568 identity 253, 405, 469, 544, 574, 587, 594, 597, 602, 611, 615–616 Iguvine tablets 411 Iliad 61–62, 79 n. 15, 86, 93, 95 n. 46, 101, 111, 118 n. 4, 121ff., 218, 289, 291, 293, 296, 298–299, 303 n. 6, 363 Illyrian 402–403, 410–413, 421–423 imperfect 169, 172, 189, 204, 474, 476, 476 n. 7, 495–496, 500–502, 510, 512– 514, 516–517 imperfective/-ity 190 impoliteness 304, 311 n. 27 inanimacy 640, 643 indefinite pronoun see pronoun indirect speech act see speech act individualization 460 Indo–European 5ff., 52, 55, 107, 110, 140ff., 169–170, 175, 181ff., 250 n. 13, 289, 332, 336, 411, 411 n. 14, 416, 422– 424, 513, 536 – Proto- see Proto-Indo-European Indo-Iranian 59, 148, 150–151, 169, 170 n. 5, 183, 190 infinitival clause / complement 79, 100, 464

infinitive 78, 168–169, 219, 449–450, 496–497, 501–502, 510, 513, 517, 559– 561, 583, 587, 633 – articular 168–169 – prepositional 633 n. 59 inflection(al) 23, 190, 190 n. 16, 324, 326, 473–477, 483, 487, 491–492, 497 inflectional paradigm 474, 475 n. 5 initiator 430–431, 438–439, 442, 448, 450ff. injunctive 170 n. 5 inscription(al) 13, 37–39, 55, 107–108, 197–199, 282, 319ff., 355, 355 n. 38, n. 40, 357–359, 363–364, 379 n. 33, 384, 386 n. 48, 406 n. 2, 407, 420, 424, 474, 478, 542, 575, 579 instrumental 107–108, 110, 112–114 intensifier 442, 444 n. 76, 448, 453, 456, 462, 466–468 interchange(ability) 154–155, 333, 487, 507 n. 23, 622, 629 intersubjective function see function intertextual(ity) 576, 578, 585–586 intonation 36, 72ff., 181, 184ff., 301, 301 n. 2 intonation units 72ff. inventory 327, 407 n. 6, 477 n. 11 – of garments 379–87, 393 Ionic-Attic see Attic-Ionic Ionic-epic features 361, 361 n. 66, 363– 365 iotacism 414 Iranian 11, 36, 52, 151, 402, 537 irony 37, 301ff. irrational polysemy 371 irrealis 39, 495ff. katharevousa see καθαρεύουσα kinship term 431–432, 442, 452–453, 456, 462, 467–468 Koine see Greek koineization 408 Kuiper 433ff. L1 484, 491 n. 53 L2 331, 341, 477 labiovelar see stop / plosive

General Index  

lamellae 406 n. 2, 407–428, 423–424 language contact 341–342, 413 n. 18, 477–478, 488 n. 45 language question 166 language / linguistic variation passim laryngeal 57, 416 n. 27, 420 n. 35, n. 36 Latin passim – Archaic 5 – Christian 35, 596, 613 – Classical 5, 339, 578–579, 583–584, 604 – Late 40, 339, 547, 550–552, 555, 575, 627, 629, 635 n. 72, 638, 638 n. 83, 642–643 – Old 189, 279–280 – Post-Classical 573ff. – Pre-Classical 580 Latin Alexander see Alexander Latin Christian lexicon 595, 604, 606, 611–616 Latin Oribasius see Oribasius legal language 305, 312–313 lengthening 75 n. 8, 169, 171, 197, 407 n. 6, 420 n. 35, 543 leveling 408, 475, 543 levels of etymology 532, 545 lexical substitution/replacement 152– 155, 161–162 lexical variation 449 lexicalization 203 lexicon 7, 23, 35, 121, 183, 255, 259, 351 n. 19, 360, 402–403, 415, 422 n. 39, 550, 553, 575, 588, 595–596, 604, 606– 607, 611ff., 620 n. 4, 628 libation 123, 142–147, 152, 158, 351 n. 22 linen see flax linguistic feature(-s) 5, 126, 237, 330– 331, 348 n. 4, 350, 403, 423, 575, 582, 582 n. 28 linguistic usage 35, 118 n. 3, 119, 133, 226, 432, 581, 583 liquid see consonant literacy 323, 331, 342–343 literary passim – echo 359 Lithuanian 61–63, 185, 416 n. 27, 420 litotes 37, 308, 311–313

loanword 52, 410, 411 n. 14, 417 n. 30, 533, 536–538, 545, 612–613 locus amoenus 581, 585 Lydian 402 lyric poetry 347 n. 1, 351, 363, 365 Macedonian 402–405, 410ff. Magna Graecia 322, 329, 335, 338 Malalas 512, 515, 517–518 mallow (supposed textile fiber) 370–371, 378 n. 27 Massaliote ekdosis see ekdosis Messapic 421 metalanguage 577 metalinguistic 402, 431, 577 metaphor 1, 35–36, 55, 60, 63, 128, 134, 140–141, 291–292, 298–299, 303, 309, 375–377, 391ff., 530, 602–609, 615 metapoetic(s) 576–577 meter 16, 19, 194 n. 19, n. 20, 196, 349, 352, 362 n. 69, 365, 365 n. 79, 574–575 – trimeter 365 – pentameter 361–362, 555 – hexameter 74, 99, 109–110, 112, 201, 356, 361 n. 66, 362, 575 metonymy 63, 228, 231, 388, 405, 416, 531 miscopying 632 n. 54, 634, 642 misspelling 485, 626–627, 629 mixture of /aː/ and /εː/ 359–361, 365 modal particle 39, 495–502, 512–513, 517 modal verb see verb modal semantics 170 n. 6 modality 170 n. 6, 302, 497, 569, 602 modesty 289–293, 297–298, 306, 313 modification 10, 109, 134, 155, 159, 337, 340–341 modifier 76–78, 83–84, 95ff., 167, 194– 195, 198, 266–269, 278, 283, 491 molochinus, -ia(e) see μολόχινα mora 184–185 morpheme 23, 65, 190 n. 16, 204 n. 27, 325, 335, 404, 412, 473ff., 607, 626, 640 n. 86 morphology passim

  General Index morphology-syntax-phonology interface 204, 207 morphophonological 192, 410 n. 10, 412, 414, 416 morphosyntax 35, 169, 553 morphosyntactic 184, 194, 202, 499–500, 502, 512, 626 movement 36, 180–181, 185, 188–189, 192–193, 407, 639 n. 85 multilingual 338–339 multilingualism 484 n. 30, 594 murex see purple production 390, 393, 396 Mycenaean see Greek names of garments see adjective (of color) negative 32, 132 n. 50, 295, 297–298, 304–305, 310–311, 313, 549, 583 neoteric 576–578, 586 neoteroi 123 New Testament Greek see Greek Nicanor 119 n. 11 nominative 40, 110, 113, 271, 219–220, 226–227, 240, 272, 272 n. 38, 436, 474–476, 490–492, 532, 550ff., 630 n. 39, 633 n. 57, 637ff. non-finite 559, 562, 571 non-prototypical uses of pronouns (esp. ἡμεῖς) 287–291, 298 noun 37, 57, 63, 70, 71, 80 n. 16, 87–89, 109, 111, 123, 126–129, 148, 156, 156 n. 47, 167–168, 170, 181 n. 4, 183 n. 7, 193, 193 n. 18, 195ff., 246 n. 2, 255, 263ff., 370, 377, 382, 384–393, 407, 407 n. 6, 442, 452, 474–475, 484, 487, 489ff., 530, 535, 543, 550, 557ff., 579– 580, 588 n. 53, 604, 606, 608, 612– 613, 632–633, 635–636, 638–640, 643 – common 264, 272, 277, 280 n. 78 – epicene 263–265; see also gender – hybrid 37, 195, 263ff. – imparisyllabic 550 –parisyllabic 550 noun phrase 40, 71, 76–77, 80, 85, 87, 89, 91, 94, 94 n. 43, 101, 103, 167–168,

197, 246, 322, 491, 491 n. 53, 493, 558, 560, 564, 571, 640 n. 87 numbering systems 326–327 numeral(-s) 37–38, 88, 319ff., 474, 487, 490–493 NW Doric / Greek 406 n. 2, 407–408, 414 obaudio-oboedio 605, 607–608, 610– 611, 615 Obligatory Contour Principle (OCP) 185 object 40, 63, 187 n. 15, 188, 199, 205– 206, 221, 246, 248, 254, 258, 448, 552, 552 n. 9, 560, 564–565, 571, 579, 639, 643 –direct 71, 93, 94 n. 44, 187, 248–249, 252, 255, 552, 626, 639 –indirect 356, 642 Odysseus 58, 130, 145–146, 296–297, 298 n. 39 Odyssey 62, 72, 86, 93, 109, 112, 118 n. 4, 122 n. 17, 125, 130–132, 144, 146, 218, 303 n. 6, 363 Old Icelandic 187 n. 13 Old Irish 177–178, 189–190, 202, 336 Old Latin see Latin Oldenberg 52–54 olive oil lees see amurca olive oil production see amurca omission(-s) 39, 455–458, 468, 469 n. 205, 482 n. 26, 507 n. 24, 570, 622, 626 onset 62, 64 n. 27, 74, 197, 339 opening 430ff. optative 449, 496–497, 505–507, 513–516 ordinal numerals 37, 322–327, 332–335, 340 orthography 276 n. 60, 414, 478 n. 13, 622–623, 625–629 Oribasius 547 – Latin 548, 548 n. 1, 550 Oscan 319, 328, 340–342, 537 Osco-Umbrian 537 oxymoron 37, 256 n. 23, 308, 311, 313 paean 349–352 Palaeo-Balkan 408, 422 n. 39

General Index  

pal(a)eography 16, 19, 401, 404–405, 411, 413 n. 16, n. 17, 417–418, 621 Pamphylia(n) 107, 403 panegyric 574ff. paradigmatic shift 475 n. 5 paretymology 611; see also popular etymology participial clause 79, 557ff. participium coniunctum 558, 561 participle 78, 128, 147–148, 154–155, 253–254, 267, 269, 274, 279, 283, 360, 393, 450, 461–462, 464–465, 474, 487ff., 497, 557ff., 580, 584, 606, 610, 622, 636 n. 77, 640 n. 87, 641, 643 particle 39–40, 72, 91, 132 n. 50, 188, 190 n. 16, 194, 466, 495ff., 580, 588 pastoral 50, 573ff. patient 217, 552, 552 n. 9, 639, 643 Patroclus 126, 296, 565 pentameter see meter penultimate – mora 184–185 – syllable 419 n. 33 perfect 4, 6, 155, 190, 205, 474, 475 n. 5, 476, 476 n. 9, 482–483, 485, 488, 587, 608 perfective/-ity 4, 190 Philagrius 548, 548 n. 3 Philumenus 548, 548 n. 3 phoneme 65, 477, 477 n. 11, 483, 487, 626, 628 n. 32 phonetic figures 156, 156 n. 49 phonotactics 422 phraseology 54, 143, 152, 157, 450 n. 104, 550 Phrygian 169, 402 Pindar 35, 51ff., 139ff., 170 n. 5, 194 n. 19, 230–231, 256, 347 n. 1, 351, 351 n. 25, 359 n. 57, 365 n. 81 pitch 74–75, 184–186 plosive see stop / plosive pluperfect 169, 514 poetic – composition 13 – form 362 – formula 12 – language 12, 21, 31, 55, 58, 200,

politeness 37, 287, 295, 298–299, 304– 305, 311, 311 n. 27, 313, 442, 457, 464– 466 Pontic 416 n. 28 popular etymology 541, 611; see also paretymology positive (esp. politeness) 298–299, 304– 305, 313, 583, 586 Post-Classical – Greek see Greek – Latin see Latin postposition/–ive 86 n. 28, 87, 91, 127, 193, 193 n. 18, 202, 504 n. 14 postscript 442, 445, 459–460, 463, 465– 466 pragmatic meanings of ἡμεῖς in place of ἐγώ 287ff. predicate 93, 245ff., 265, 267, 309, 557– 558, 562–563, 571, 638–640 Pre-Greek 388, 412–413, 417, 417 n. 30, 422, 422 n. 39 Pre-Indo-European 411 preposition(al)/-ive 89, 93, 98, 157, 175, 183, 183 n. 7, 187 n. 15, 190 n. 16, 193 n. 18, 198, 201–202, 223, 234, 246 n. 2, 278–279, 312 n. 28, 448, 491, 559ff., 578, 587–588, 626, 628–635, 643 prepositional participial clauses 79, 557ff. prescript 430–431, 442–445, 455–456, 458, 465, 597 present 6, 10, 54, 63 n. 24, 140, 190, 195, 205, 404, 411–412, 450, 474, 497, 404, 513, 568, 610, 629, 641, 642 prestige 294, 347–349, 361, 595, 614 preverb 36, 93, 95, 149, 170–172, 175ff. Priam 123, 297 private letters 39, 429ff., 503, 507, 513, 517 procedure 17, 22–26, 37, 39, 139, 150, 313, 447, 449, 458, 465, 468–469 processing function see function procletic 183, 195, 200, 202, 204 ‘proleptic’ 250–258 pronoun 91, 107, 109, 202, 267, 269, 283, 287ff., 449, 455 n. 128, 489, 491, 635–636

  General Index – anaphoric 81 – demonstrative 108, 407 – indefinite 489 – personal 37, 134 n. 56, 265, 268–271, 274, 277–279, 281–283, 287ff., 569, 597, 600 – possessive 88 – reciprocal 267 – reflexive 134 n. 56 – relative 127–128, 265, 267, 283 proskynema 431 n. 14, 436ff. Prosodic Hierarchy 196 n. 22, 197 n. 24 prototypical 24–26, 220–221, 287–291, 296, 298–299 Proto-Greek 412 Proto-Indo-European 52, 55, 58 n. 18, 61–64, 140, 143, 151 n. 31, 387 Proximity Principle 187 n. 14 Prussian 411 n. 14 psychoanalysis 139, 162 psycholinguistics 17, 29 n. 26, 40 Ptolemy Pindarion 120 n. 12 punctuated inscriptions/texts 196 purple production 38, 369ff. quantifier 474, 474 n. 3, 491–492 receiver 430–432, 438–439, 442 n. 70, 448ff, 600 reconstruction 1, 9, 12, 20–21, 54, 56, 134, 143, 147, 150–152, 534, 539ff., 621–622, 624, 627 reduplication 155, 190–191, 411–412 reformulations 39, 253, 447, 451, 458, 464, 468 reframing 432 n. 22, 460 register 40, 55, 347 n. 1, 350, 353, 357, 360, 361 n. 67, 364–366, 403, 475 n. 5, 500–502, 508, 513, 515, 517, 548, 574, 583, 586, 611, 614, 629–630, 637 n. 79 Regula Magistri 620 n. 4, 624, 631, 642 relativization 464 Relevance Theory 271, 304 religion 22, 53 n. 6, 54, 54 n. 6, 65, 594, 604, 613–614, 616 religious poetry 348–353

remodeling, analogical / morphological 333–336, 405 repetition 37, 39, 62, 122, 144, 156–157, 187 n. 14, 308, 310, 313, 449, 458ff., 599, 636 Restsprachen 402 resultative 245ff. resyllabification 197 rhetorical question 37, 308, 310 ritual – context 142, 144ff. – language 350 – song 350 n. 15, 362 – tradition 146, 160 ritualization 430 root 29, 57–58, 61–64, 140ff., 170–172, 183, 190 n. 16, 205, 272–273, 282, 384, 410–421, 550, 607, 609, 613 Russian 63, 411 n. 14 Rutten and van der Wal 436 Sabellian languages 38, 319–320, 329, 338, 340–343, 536 Sabine 527, 536ff. salutation 431ff. Sanskrit – Vedic 12, 53–55, 142, 144, 148–151, 156, 158–161, 170 n. 5, 177, 182, 182 n. 5, 185 n. 11, 190 scholion / -a 118–122, 124–132, 236, 258, 364 n. 77, 402, 421 scholia exegetica 124 n. 25, n. 27, 125 n. 30 schwa 477, 492 scribe 200, 459–460, 543, 549, 555, 627–629 secondary ending 190 n. 16, 475 n. 5, 476 n. 8, n. 9 secondary predication 245ff. Seleucus of Alexandria 410, 419 Self-dignity 291, 291 n. 18, 293 n. 27, 294 n. 30, 298–299 semantic passim – change 241, 391 n. 71, 527, 533–535 – extension 405 semantics passim – of age 37, 268, 274ff.

General Index  

– of womanhood 37, 268, 272ff. semeia, critical 125 n. 32 Semitic 390, 417 n. 30, 537 semivowel see glide sense construction 265 sentence structure 181 n. 4, 186, 188– 189, 191–193, 205, 480 sequentiality 187 n. 14 Serbo-Croatian 184, 186 n. 12 shades of red see purple production shibboleth 407 sibilant see consonant Sicily 37, 322, 324, 324 n. 23, 331, 334– 335, 377–378, 548 n. 1, 568 n. 27 ‘singing a drink’ 160 skolia 349, 349 n. 12, 351–352 – εἰς θεούς 351, 352, 352 n. 27 Slavic 6–7, 63, 190, 416 n. 27 social power 289, 298–299 sociolinguistic(s) 17, 29, 29 n. 26, 31–32, 38, 241, 322, 340, 342, 403, 432–422, 469, 515, 517, 593, 596 solidarity 297, 299 soma / haoma 148–151, 159–161 song 34, 140, 157–160, 348ff., 580, 580 n. 27, 585, 588 n. 53 sound change 337, 339, 539–541, 543 Southern Italy 37, 169, 319ff., 548 n. 1 speech act 303–304, 311 stem 6, 149 n. 25, 155, 170 n. 7, 190 n. 16, 195, 203, 205, 376, 405, 412–421, 474, 476, 476 n. 9, 530, 532, 534 Stephanus of Byzantium 342 Stephanus of Tralles 547 Stesichorus 52 Strattis of Athens 410–411 stress 36, 171, 175ff., 477, 487 n. 43 – lack of 172, 477, 477 n. 11, n. 12, 484 stop / plosive – aspirate 334, 403–404, 417 – dental 339, 414, 474, 485, 492 – labiovelar 61, 417, 420 n. 35, 543, 622 n. 12 – velar 337, 339, 361 n. 68, 416, 419, 420 n. 35, 477, 485, 485 n. 40, 492 – voiced 336–337, 339, 403–404, 412, 417, 417 n. 31, 422

– voiceless 336–337, 403–404, 417 structure of the sentence 130 subordination 451, 463 subject 40, 71, 187, 187 n. 15, 188, 197– 199, 217, 219, 224, 226, 229, 239, 249, 252–253, 279, 309, 449, 558–563, 571, 637ff. subjunctive 448, 450, 450 n. 103, 497, 514 substrate 403, 406 n. 2, 411–413, 422– 423, 537 suffix 155, 192, 342, 354, 383–384, 386, 411–412, 417–420, 422 n. 39, 476 n. 9, 497, 530 syllabification 204 n. 28 – re- see resyllabification synizesis 408 syntactic distance 267, 270, 274, 281 Syriac 536–537, 594–595 Tanagra 379, 382 n. 38, 384–386, 393 n. 78 technical borrowing see borrowing temple inventories see inventory (of garments) textiles in Ancient Greece 370ff. textual criticism 7, 121 textual transmission see transmission thematic 107, 190, 248, 252, 254, 256 n. 24, 404, 476 n. 8, 482 n. 26, 641, 641 n. 92, 643 Theodoridas of Syracuse 410 Theodorus Priscianus 548 Thessalian 108, 363, 420 Thracian 402 time adjuncts 567 tmesis 36, 93, 175ff. toponymy 422 n. 39 transformation 36, 159, 181–182, 189– 190, 207 transmission 19, 121, 166, 349 n. 8, 478, 527–528, 544, 547, 620–621 – direct 528, 544 – literary 348 n. 4 – manuscript 130 n. 41 – oral 237 – textual 279, 423, 500, 548 n. 3, 634

  General Index transparency 33, 202, 204, 388, 611 transposition 473ff., 601 Troy 130, 140 Tryphon of Alexandria 418 typological realignment 552 n. 9 Umbrian 340, 411, 537 unaccusative 246 n. 2, 638 unergative 246 n. 2 univerbation 36, 175ff. Urattisch 349 usage, linguistic see linguistic usage usus scribendi 125 variation – alphabetic 328 – chronological / diachronic / temporal 119, 120, 134, 500 – dialect / in place 119 – epistolary 429ff. – formulaic 431ff. – intonation 186 – lexical 449 – linguistic 478, 480 n. 20, 481, 498, 643 – morphological 474ff., 497, 587, 628– 629, 632–635, 643 – morphosyntactic 449 – onomastic 319–320, 451 n. 106 – orthographic 485, 629 – poetological 142 – root 420 – semantic 634 – stylistic 548 – synchronic 499 – syntactic 552, 629, 632–635, 643 – terminological 272ff. – textual 622 – word order 252 n. 17 Vedic see Sanskrit velar see stop / plosive verb passim – active 450, 450 n. 102, 474–476, 563, 633, 638, 640ff. – agentive 219ff. – denominative 404 – copular 168

– ditransitive 37 – inactive 552 – intransitive 246 n. 2, 256 n. 24, 258 n. 25, 639 n. 85, 552 – matrix 247 n. 3, 448, 455 n. 128, 462 – modal 495, 497, 501–502, 513, 517 – non-agentive 239 – passive 563, 639 n. 85 – transitive 227, 246 n. 2, 252, 255, 582– 583, 639 verbal noun 559, 561–562, 565 n. 18, 566, 568–569, 571 verification 459 vocative 77ff., 233, 272, 272 n. 38, 356, 360, 377, 456, 600, 602 vowel 64, 108–114, 169–170, 172, 186 n. 12, 192, 337, 407 n. 6, 416 n. 27, 420 n. 36, 474–477, 483–485, 487, 491– 492, 540, 543, 622, 625–627 – back 62 – prothetic 333 – labial(ized) 62 – unstressed 476–477, 484 Wackernagel’s Law 54, 73, 91, 182 n. 6 Wilamowitz-Moellendorff 21–22, 52–53 Zenodotus of Ephesus 122ff. ἀμόργινος 38, 369ff. ἀμοργίς 369ff. ἄν 179–180, 455, 497ff. ἄφθιτος 12, 54–56, 157–158 δημοτική 167 δάν 40, 498, 502, 507, 513–514, 516–517 -ινος see adjective (of color, of material) καθαρεύουσα 166, 171 κἄν 498–502, 508ff. κλέος 54–56, 157–158 μέλλω 501–502, 510, 513, 517 μολόχινος, -α / molochinus, -ia(e) 371, 371 n. 5, 372 n. 7, 390 n. 69 ὄλβος 59ff. οὐκ ἄν 40, 501–507, 513–517 ‘σωτῆρα rule’ 419 n. 33 τηλύγετος 56–59

Index Locorum LITERATURE Aelianus Claudius NA 7.35 15.7 Aeschines Ctesip. 155 161 Emb. 14 24 36 55 Tim. 94 119 1.97 Aeschylus Ag. 160–183 364 385–386 664 736 770 1042 1124 1268 1432–1433 Choeph. 68 339 402–404 783–818 825–826 826 830 969 1076 Eum. 235

129 n. 41 141, 141 n. 6

302 309 306 306 306 312 308 n. 23 308 n. 23 378

350 n. 17 254 226 232 226 n. 19 226 n. 19 235 n. 30 27 n. 20 229 227 226 217, 227 n. 20 228 350 n. 17 227 226 n. 18 226 n. 19 233 n. 28 226 n. 19 360

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783111272887–029

321–346 596 1032–1047 Pers. 97–98 438 609ff. PV (= Pr.) 21 182 1007 1071–1073 Supp. 94–95 327 338 529–530 850 Sept. 426 687 956

350 n. 17 233 n. 28 350 n. 17 226 235 147 233 n. 28 235 226 233 234 235 n. 30 258 n. 25 228 225 n. 15 232 n. 23 226 n. 18 226 n. 18

Alcaeus 67.3 L.P.

365 n. 81

Alcman 48 PMG

365 n. 81

Antimachus of Colophon fr. 147 (Wyss = 187 Matthews = 22 Fogagnolo) 127 Antiphanes fr. 151 Kassel–Austin, PCG Apollonius Dyscolus Con. 239.21–25 (Schneider) Synt. 193.17–19 (Uhlig)

377

132 n. 48 134 n. 56

Apollonius Rhodius 4.1660 113 n. 13

  Index Locorum Archilochus 8D Aristophanes Ach. 319–320 869 Av. 410–411 737–751 769–784 806 1315 Eccl. 836 Eq. 1081 Lys. 89 149–151 150 158 217–220 735 735–739 735–741 737 800 825–828 953 1019–1021 1247–1272 1296–1321 Nu. 563–574 595–606 602 1264–1265 Pax 359–360 939–940 974–998 Plu. 298 731 735

231

394 395 237 351 n. 19 351 n. 19 392 n. 75 236 n. 34 236 n. 34 365 n. 81 395 373, 391, 393 n. 77 377 376 n. 19 393 371 n. 3, 374 n. 16, 376 n. 22, 377 374–375 394 376 n. 22 395 395 376 n. 19 392 349 n. 7 349 n. 7 351 351 360 236 237 236 351 395 387 387

Ra(n). 521 1203 Thesm. 101–129 312–330 725 910 Vesp. 62–63

272 n. 38 395 348 348 236 395 236

Aristophanes of Byzantium fr. 378 (Slater) 129 n. 41 Aristotle Hist. an. 500b 563a Mete. 352a33–b3 Poet. 1460b.30–32 1461a 10–16 Rh. 1379b31 1398b14

264 264 405 129 n. 41 119 n. 6 301 14

(Ps.-)Aristotle De uirt. et uit. Col. 796A.25–30 1251b

389 224, 229

Athenaeus Deipn. 9.612e 114b (3.80–81) 699e (15.57)

283 418 410

Augustine dialect. 6

529f.

Aulus Gellius 2.25.5–10 Ausonius Mos. 144

531 583

Index Locorum  

Avestan Y. 10.13 Y. 58.8 Yt. 5.9 Bacchylides Epin. 2.1 3.39 5.47 5.105 5.157 Dith. 5.10 56.26

150 156 150

366 365 n. 81 366 534 58 n. 17 365 n. 81 58 n. 17

Biblical & Mishnaic Hebrew Es. 2.1–21 276ff. Gen. 24.1–61 276 Jer. 20.15 280 n. 78 Niddah 5.6–7 272 n. 36 6.11 272 n. 37 1Sam 11–12 279ff. Terumot 1.3 272 n. 37 Caesar Gal. 5.37.4

559

Calpurnius Siculus Ecl. 1.19–20 1.26 1.30 1.35–36 1.37–39 1.44 1.46 1.47 1.51 1.55

575 580 n. 27 580 n. 27 575 579, 380 577 n. 19 577 n. 19, 578 575, 578 575 580

1.57 1.66 1.80–81 1.85 1.92 2.76 2.84 3.1 3.18 3.25 4.2 4.5 4.12–13 4.19–20 4.27–28 4.39–40 4.39 ff. 4.53–55 4.63 4.66 4.74 4.76–77 4.83 4.91 4.96 4.104 4.109 4.111 4.115 4.117 ff. 4.124 4.129 4.131 4.151 4.168 5.107 5.107–109 5.113 6.34 7.13–14 7.17 7.30 7.30–33 7.34 7.35–36 7.47 7.51

575, 579 579 580 579 577 n. 19 580 580 580 580 580 582 583 580 582 582, 583 584 574 583 583 582 582 583 583 584 n. 43 583 583 584 n. 43 584 n. 43 583, 584 581 584 584 n. 43 584 n. 43 575 582 580 n. 24 580 580 580 580 574 587 588 587 575, 588 588 575, 587

  Index Locorum 7.54 7.61 7.65–67 7.69–70 7.70–71

588 587 588 588 587

Carmina Convivialia Attica (ed. Fabbro) nos. 1–4 (= PMG 887–890) 351 n. 21 Carmina Epigraphica Graeca CEG 1 353 CEG 4 348, 353 CEG 21 358 CEG 31 348, 353 CEG 54 199 CEG 61 348, 353 CEG 108 364 n. 76 CEG 117 354 CEG 181 361, 361 n. 68 CEG 182 361, 361 n. 68 CEG 187 357, 358, 361 n. 65, 361 n. 66, 364 CEG 189 356, 356 n. 42 CEG 190 354, 360 CEG 193 360 CEG 194 348, 362, 363 CEG 195 356 n. 46 CEG 197 356, 356 n. 42 CEG 198 356 CEG 202 354, 356, 356 n. 43 CEG 205 348, 354, 357, 359 CEG 207 360 CEG 209 356 n. 45 CEG 215 356 CEG 217 356 n. 45 CEG 218 356 n. 46 CEG 224 356 n. 45 CEG 225 356 n. 45 CEG 229 361 CEG 235 348, 354, 357, 359, 360, 360 n. 61, 361 CEG 237 361 CEG 243 348, 353 CEG 258 357, 358, 361, 361 n. 65 CEG 259 356 n. 45 CEG 260 356, 356 n. 42

CEG 261 CEG 263 CEG 269 CEG 274 CEG 277 CEG 280 CEG 283 CEG 284 CEG 287 CEG 288 CEG 302 CEG 326 CEG 357.ii CEG 360 CEG 370 CEG 378 CEG 405 CEG2 888

364 356 356 n. 46 356 362 n. 70 366 355 n. 38 348, 361 356 n. 46 356 n. 46 348, 353, 358, 365 n. 78 354 n. 34 354 n. 34 354 n. 34 354 n. 34 359 n. 57 354 n. 34 353

Cassiodorus Inst. Div. Litt. 2.5.10

583

Catullus 62.1

528

Celsus 2.15.3

550

Cicero Agr. 2.90 Att. 15.4.2 Brut. 224 Cael. 63 Div. 1.73 Mil. 32 43 59 Mur. 35

570 584 n. 43 570 565 558 566 566 564 563

Index Locorum  

Phil. 14.1 Pis. 90 Rab. Post. 14 Sul. 81

567

Clearchus fr. 19 Wehrli

378

564 563 569

Clement of Alexandria Paed. 2.10bis.115.2 371 n. 3, 378 Clement of Rome ad Cor. Praescriptum 1.1 600, 612 2.1 610 2.4 603 5.1–2 604 5.4 612 5.5 605 5.7 612 7.1 601, 603 7.6 609 8.4 609 9.1 609 13.3 609, 610 20.1 609 20.8 609 29.3 602 34.6 613 36.6 609, 610, 613 37.1–3 606 37.2 609 37.5 609 38.1 609 38.2 609 39.4 613 39.7 609 42.1 613 42.3 613 42.4 609 43.6 602 47.2 613

47.7 51.5 57.1 57.4 58.1 Eph. 2.19 Luc. 24.18 I Petr. 1.17 Columella 1.4.5 4.24.4 9.9.1

612 599 600 609, 610 609 598 598 598

588 588 583

Cratinus fr. 103, Kassel–Austin, PCG Curtius 4.2.21 Demosthenes De cor. 41 129 139 162 212 242 261 Emb. 247 304 D. 37.6 Dio Cassius Epit. 9.17.2

587

307 311 310 312 308 308 309 311 310 560

378

Diodorus Siculus 15.57.2 253 Dionysius Halicarnassensis Ant. Rom. 20.10.1 405

372

  Index Locorum Dionysius Thrax Tech. gramm. I 1, 24–25

263 n. 1

Empedocles fr. B 84.3 Diels–Krantz 372 Ennius Ann. 13.366 Euripides Alc. 385 452 568–606 962–983 1072 Andr. 431–432 510–512 518–519 569–570 723–724 Bacch. 142 1084–1085 1122–1124 El. 29 376 648 751 1307 fr. 171 fr. 633 fr. 715.2 Hec. 468 542 688 Hel. 478 698 749 1374

178

256 n. 24 365 351 n. 17 351 n. 17 496 264 266 264 n. 4 269 251 159 497 257 560 249 232 288 227 n. 20 206 249 249 359 197 217, 229 234 234 n. 29 197 234

Heracl. 480 509 605–607 1357 1993 HF 397 637–641 1070 Hipp. 58–71 275–276 525–563 736 797 818 1268–1281 IA 570–572 864 1136 Ion 185 529 1519 IT 226 380 478 875 1493 Med. 54 58 197–198 294–295 824–845 1116 1203 Or. 112f. Phoen. 66 914 Supp. 162

234 n. 29 232 n. 25 227 233 n. 27 235 n. 32 387 n. 58 251 256 n. 24 351 n. 17 228 351 n. 17 366 235 233 n. 26 351 n. 17 258 233 n. 26 233 365 n. 81 232 n. 25 233 n. 26 225 n. 16 366 232 n. 25 235 n. 32 359 234 n. 29 233 n. 27 235 256 351 n. 17 233 n. 27 233 n. 27 146 235 n. 32 234 197

Index Locorum  

Trach. 52 Tro. 740–741

360 266

Eustathius Il. 692.21 692.23 1098.47–52

123 122 n. 18 128 n. 38

Eutrop. 2.11.5–6

405

Frontinus Aq. 129.6

569

Marcus Cornelius Fronto Ep. ad Am. 1.p.180 (68N) 580 n. 27 2.7.1 p. 192 N 582 Fulgentius Myth. praef. p. 7.1, 12.21 Helm

582

Galen Meth. med. 10.9

554

Gregory the Great dial. 2,36

623 n. 18

Herodotus 1.32.6 1.34 1.53.3 1.119 1.194 2.55–57 2.57 2.173.2 3.126.2 3.139.2 4.159

229 560 91 240 253 406 n. 2 414 n. 21 91 176 239 563

7.10.δ 2 7.218.1 8.87.3 8.96 9.98.2 Hesiod Op. 216 231 352 413 Theog. 226–230 337–360 884

238, 238 n. 36 180 239 113 n. 13 91

223 n. 13 219 n. 7 223 n. 13 223 220 230 111

Hippias of Elis 86 B 9 (Diels–Kranz) Hippocrates 272–273 Aphor. 7.45.3 Homer Il. 1.1 1.1–2 1.3–4 1.4–5 1.6–7 1.9–10 1.10–11 1.12–13 1.13–14 1.15 1.17–18 1.22–23 1.30 1.36 1.40–41 1.53 1.59–60 1.66–67 1.68–69 1.74

119 n. 9

273, 282 389

84, 94 n. 44 84, 95, 97 97 80 83 80 79 80 84 98 82 79 98, 291 n. 16 96 n. 47 97 198 290 92 83 94 n. 44

  Index Locorum 1.171 1.188–189 1.199–200 1.266 1.284 1.295–296 1.333 1.411–412 1.428 1.435f. 1.436–439 1.493 1.592 2.19 2.56 2.111 2.225–228 2.314 2.484 2.484–493 2.749–750 2.761 2.791–795 3.44 3.109 3.173 3.182 4.124 4.153 4.257ff. 4.358–363 5.299 6.39–40 6.261 6.282 6.305 7.472–475 8.9–10 8.22 8.31–37 8.185f. 8.206 8.235 8.487 9.18 9.27

63 100 n. 51 94 n. 44 96 n. 47 113 n. 11 88 98 222 354 n. 34 112 179 96 n. 47 568 96 n. 47 130, 131 221, 221 n. 11 290 176 223 292 406 n. 2 223 132 88 108 57 61 251 109 145 n. 17 297 415 n. 25 292 n. 24 258 257 356 122 264 111 293 291 n. 16, 292 n. 20, 293 111, 112 221 n. 11 112 221 n. 11 288

9.57 9.74–75 9.114–116 9.180f. 9.202ff. 9.502–505 9.505–507 9.512 10.254 10.278 10.316 10.391 10.397 10.477–478 10.567 11.146 11.468 11.477 11.527 11.527–530 11.776–777 11.780 11.838–841 12.2–3 12.5–6 12.8–9 12.44–45 12.78–79 12.91–92 12.392 13.37 13.611–612 13.775–786 13.798 14.265 14.304 14.495–498 14.504 15.57 15.221–224 16.104–105 16.233–235 16.338–339 16.596 16.692–693 16.805 17.132–136

132 n. 51 93 n. 40 223 112 145 n. 17 220 216 219 n. 8 98 267 119 n. 7 223 98 298 n. 39 180 176 177 64 n. 28 291 n. 16, 296 n. 35 297 93 110 296 84 92 85, 95, 97 88 81 81 567 564 88 n. 34 295 58 111 125 n. 30 130 564 354 n. 34 294 89 206 n. 2 406 n. 2 59, 62 86 219 126

Index Locorum  

17.396 18.18–19 18.246–248 19.68–73 19.87–89 19.90–92 19.126 19.129 19.134–136 19.249–251 19.270 21.28 21.100 21.457–458 21.462–467 21.483–484 22.82–84 22.175–176 22.393 22.451–455 22.455–456 23.646 23.872 24.18 24.20–21 24.24 24.24–95 24.27–28 24.42–43 24.62 24.88 24.302–304 24.331 24.480 24.536 24.543 24.741–742 24.801–802 Od. 1.1–2 1.8–9 1.77 1.85–86 1.110 1.136 2.291

112 97 100 289 221 219 220 219 220 179 223.13 565 155 294 294 n. 32 127 266 222 291 n. 16, 296, 296 n. 35 99 177 110 n. 9 354 n. 34 81 n. 18 85, 97 93 92 222 92 93 56 n. 13 124 111 216 60, 62 60, 62 86 82 88 176, 206 94 n. 44 88 154 124, 125 n. 28 132

2.363 3.43 3.113 3.184 3.331ff. 3.390ff. 3.440 3.445 4.52 4.132 4.261–262 4.580f. 4.615 4.754 5.92ff. 5.97 5.244 5.415 6.99 6.130 6.188 7.162ff. 7.172 7.179ff. 7.328 8.131 8.469ff. 9.104f. 9.180f. 9.367 9.472f. 9.564f. 10.241 10.241–242 10.356ff. 10.362 10.368 10.518ff. 11.25ff. 12.147f. 12.180f. 12.371–372 13.22f. 13.50ff. 14.78f. 14.283

266 n. 15 354, 356 n. 43 109 266 n. 15 144 n. 14 144, 145 124, 124 n. 26, 125 n. 28, n. 30 125 n. 28, n. 30 125 n. 28, n. 30 145, 153 221 112 145 109 145 n. 17 264 n. 3 180 180 110 415 n. 25 60, 62 144 125 n. 28, n. 30 144 n. 14 132, 133 110 145 n. 17 112 112 80 n. 16 112 113 81 n. 18 72 145 n. 17, 154 145 125 n. 28 146 146 113 113 223 113 144 n. 14 145 n. 17 354

  Index Locorum 15.116 15.125 15.233 15.497f. 15.499f. 15.509 16.12ff. 16.52f. 17.174 18.273 18.423ff. 19.197 20.252f. 21.301–302 23.26 23.227–228 24.24–25 24.63–64 24.73–74 24.80–81 24.223 24.301 24.325 24.364f. Homeric Hymns Cer. / Dem. (= 2) 424 Min. / Ath. (= 11) 5

145 266 n. 15 221 n. 10 113 145 n. 17 266 n. 15 145 n. 17 145 n. 17 110 60, 62 144 n. 14 109 145 n. 17 222 266 n. 15 221 92 82 92 92 221 n. 10 180 176 145 n. 17

362 231

Horace Epist. 1.2.12 Sat. 1.1.86 1.7.11–12

178 549

Isocrates 9.56 14.58

566 564

Jerome In Isa. 16.9f.

584

549

Jewish Palestinian Aramaic Tobit 6.15 280 Josephus AJ 18.5 De opificio mundi 105

275 n. 53 273 n. 41

Latin Alexander 1.4.4 3.2.1 3.2.5 3.4.18 3.6.16 3.11.11 3.12.6 3.21.5 3.59.1 3.66a.7

550 551 551 552 553 553 552 551 554 554

Lexicon Patmense 108 (Kleinlogel)

118 n. 3

Lucan 2.248 9.619

579 583

Lysias 13.18 18.22 19.39 24.22 fr. 1

355 n. 39 238 n. 35 355 n. 39 238 n. 35 283

Malalas Chron. 4.13 5.25 7.2 10.2

515 516 516 516

G. Marius Victorinus GLK 6.8.14–15 541

Index Locorum  

Martial Spect. 7.1–4 8.51.7

588 587

Medieval Latin sources Anthim. 41 639 Chiron. 153 639 Menander Dysc. 699–700 New Testament Act.Ap. 21.9 Ep., 1Cor. 7.34 Jo. 15.24 Luc. 2.36–37 8.42 8.48 8.51 8.54 Mar. 5.21–43 5.25–34 5.34 5.35 5.39 5.40 5.41 5.42–43 6.22 6.22–23 6.28 7.25–30 Mat(t). 5.23 9.18 9.22 9.24–25 14.6

283

273 n. 45 273 n. 46 512 273 n. 44 272 273 n. 47 272 n. 39 272 269 n. 28 270 n. 29 273 n. 47 270 n. 30 270 270 270 270 275 n. 52 274 275 274 n. 50 269 273 n. 43 273 n. 47 271 275 n. 51

14.7–8 14.11 15.22 15.28 21.21

274 275 274 n. 49 274 n. 49 514

Oribasius Syn. 1.3 Aa pp. 803–4 Mol.

550

Orion of Thebes Etymologicon 411 Ovid Am. 3.13.11 Fast. 1.13 Met. 8.153 11.793 Pont. 1.4.35–36 Paulinus of Nola Carm. 27.79

582 577 583 580 n. 27 555

583

Paulus Diaconus Epit. (S. Pompeius Festus) 91.6 539 335.4–5 542 Pausanias 1.11.7–1.12.2 5.19.5 7.21.2–3 7.21.7 10.12.10 Phaedrus 4.10.2

405 414 n. 21 414 n. 21

579

Pherecrates fr. 113.28–31, Kassel–Austin, PCG

393

  Index Locorum Phoenicides fr. 1, Kassel–Austin, PCG Phoronis 6.2 B Pindar Isthm. 3/4.28f. 3/4.60 5.13 7.17 Nem. 1.55f. 2.8 3.76f. 4.58a 8.17 10.84 Ol. 1.68 2.10 3.548 5.23 6.74ff. 7.15 7.33a 7.36 7.82 8.5a 8.89–91 10.99ff. 12.2 Pyth. 1.12 1.94 3.67 3.112–14. 3.112ff. 5.1f. 11.53 12.7–8 fr. 75.4 S.M. fr. 95 S.M.

120 n. 12

362

158 158 61 56 n. 13 154 365 n. 81 140, 151, 152, 156, 161, 162 118 n. 3 61 539 n. 57 257 155 129 n. 41 60 157 363 118 n. 3 359 n. 57 365 n. 81 118 n. 3 231 154 231 365 n. 81 158 365 n. 81 55 156 154 61 359, 359 n. 56 365 n. 81 351

Plato Gorg. 516e Ion 534a La(ch). 180e Leg. 641e Men. 93d Phdr. 236e Resp. 547a 565c 582e Symp. 195d 196e Tht. 146a Ps.-Plato, Ep. 363A Plautus Aul. 514 Men. 1027 Mos. 934 Pers. 443 Trin. 833 Pliny Ep. 2.5.10 HN 9.135 16.141 18.61 19.122 20.147

496 159, 159 n. 54 267 14 256 14 153 257 14 219 n. 6 250 14 n. 10 377

371 n. 4 549 559 587 178

588 389 584 n. 43 588 584 n. 43 582

Index Locorum  

Plutarch Alex. 9.8.2 De fluv. 15.6 Mor. 2.22c Vit: Aem. 10.34 Vit: Pyrrh. 1.4

288 409 n. 8 404

406 n. 2

Poetae Melici Graeci (D.L. Page) PMG 856 351 n. 24 PMG 887–890 351 n. 21 Propertius 4.1 Ptolemaeus Geog. 3.13 Regula Benedicti prol. 2.25 prol. 9 prol. 14 prol. 21 prol. 23 prol. 24–25 prol. 25 prol. 33 prol. 35 prol. 37 prol. 39 prol. 54.4 1.6 1.8 1.10 2.7 2.15 2.25 2.26 2.27 2.27–28 2.40 4.30 4.59

586

405 632 632 626 n. 26, 628 n. 33 632 626 n. 27 641, 641 n. 91 628 632 626 627 n. 29 626 627 n. 29 627 626 n. 27 627 n. 29 626, 627 626 n. 27 632 n. 51 635 632 n. 51 641 632 627 n. 29 635

5.3 5.14 7.4 7.7 7.11 7.12 7.14 7.27 7.33 7.34 7.36 7.40 7.44–45 7.49 7.55 7.63 7.66 7.68 7.70 8.2 8.4 10.1 10.66 11.1 11.4 11.4–6 11.9 12.3 12.3–4 12.4 13.1 13.3 13.4 13.11 15.1 15.2 15.4 16.1 16.12 17.8 17.19 18.4 18.5 18.9 18.20–21 18.22 18.23

632 627, 628 626, 628 n. 33 632 627 632 641 n. 91 632 627 628 627 626, 628 n. 23 640 n. 86 632 626 634 626 n. 27 626 n. 26, 628 n. 33 632 629, 635 635 635 633 629 639 636 632 636 638 632, 638 n. 83 629 638 n. 80 638 n. 80 632 635 635, 635 n. 70 635 635 n. 71 633 632 638 n. 83 632, 635 n. 70 635, 635 n. 67 635 642 n. 94 629, 634 635

  Index Locorum 18.24 19.3 21.5 23.2 23.4 25.3 25.4 28.1 29.1 29.2 30.2 30.3 31.8 31.9 31.12 31.16 36.7 38.5 39.1 39.5 40.5 40.6–8 40.9 41.1 41.2 41.4 41.6 42.8 44.2 46.1 48.2 48.10 48.15 48.39 49.4 53.7 53.13 53.16 54.16 55.4 55.19 57.22 58.1 58.11 58.13 58.20

629 635 n. 73 640 n. 87 632, 632 n. 50 632 629 635 n. 71 639 629 639 632 636 635 n. 73 629 636 635 633 639 633 636, 636 n. 76 642 642 n. 93 632, 632 n. 50 635, 635 n. 66 629 n. 35, 635 629 n. 36 635 642 634 635 635 635 634 629 632 634 633 642 622 n. 14 635 n. 69 640 n. 86 622 n. 14 640 n. 88, 641 n. 92, 642 n. 95 629 n. 36 629 n. 36 631 n. 45

61.2 61.10 62.9 63.2 63.12 64.7 65.10 65.18 66.6 67.7 70.4 72.2 73.5 78–83 88.1 prol. 40 (RB) 2.6 (RB) 2.40 (RB) 7.12 (RB) 7.70 (RB) 9.5 (RB) 10.1 (RB) 11.4 (RB) 15.2 (RB) 18.10 (RB) 22.1 (RB) 22.7 (RB) 24.5 (RB) 24.6 (RB) 31.8 (RB) 31.16 (RB) 39 tit. (RB) 39.2 (RB) 42.6 (RB) 49.4 (RB) 55.8 (RB) 55.10 (RB) 58.9 (RB) 62.1 (RB) 63.2 (RB) 73.5 (RB)

632 635 632, 632 n. 50 629 632 629 634 n. 64 632, 632 n. 50 640 n. 86 629 635 n. 67 632, 635 n. 65 640 n. 86 624 n. 19 633 636 n. 77 633 n. 58 635 n. 65 635 n. 65 635 n. 65 633 633 633 633 633 633 633 633 633 633 633 633 633 634 635 n. 65 633 633 634 634 633 633

Regula Magistri RM 1.22 RM 1.62 RM 2.6 RM 7.10

633 n. 57 633 633 n. 58, 636 n. 73 636 n. 73

Index Locorum  

RM 7.47 RM 8.27 RM 11.5 RM 11.108 RM 11.112 RM 15.54 RM 24.5 RM 26 tit. RM 26.12 RM 27.46 RM 28.45 RM 29.2 RM 33.14 RM 33.29 RM 44.15 RM 46.5 RM 50.62 RM 58.1 RM 69.27 RM 78.7 RM 81.30 RM 87.33 RM 88.3 RM 89.24 RM 90.67 RM 95.9 RM them. 40

634 634 n. 62 634 633 633 633 633 633 633 633 633 633 633 633 633 n. 59 634 n. 61 633 633 n. 59 633 633 n. 57 633 634 n. 61 634 633 633 633 636 n. 77

Sanskrit RV (= Rigveda) 1.9.7 1.23.1 1.30.2 1.32.1c 1.32.1cd 1.32.1d 1.130.6 2.12.1 2.33.7d 3.48.1 3.53.14 4.26.5 4.38.5 4.50.8 5.18.5 5.27.5 6.11.3

55 148 n. 21 149 177 182 177 156 182 n. 5 177 149 148 n. 21, 149 143 143 182 143 149 160

6.32.1 6.46.13 8.2.5 8.2.9 8.2.10 8.6.19 8.6.43 8.31.2 8.31.5 8.69.6 8.95.7 9.70.1 10.33.1 10.49.10 10.67.6

156 143 149 148 148 n. 21 148 n. 21 160 148 n. 21 148, 149 148 n. 21 148 148 n. 21 190 148 n. 21 148 n. 21, 149

Sallustius Cat. 47.2

568

Seneca Ep. 73.8 Med. 98 Phoen. Tr. 153 H.O. 1741

588 587 579 579 579

Septuagint Es. 2.1–21 Gen. 24.1–61 Jer. 20.15 1Sam. 9.11–12 Tob. 6.11–15 7.10–11 Qu. Septimius D. Cret. 3.4 Sextus Empiricus S. 1.202ff.

276ff. 276, 281, 281 n. 82 280 n. 78 279ff. 279–280 281

582

120 n. 12

  Index Locorum Silius Italicus 3.316 13.200 14.475 15.308

583 583 580 n. 27 583

Solinus 33.11

588

Sophocles Aj. 69–70 453 596–608 803 980 1058 Ant. 94 100–109 110–116 117–126 127–133 134–140 141–147 148–154 155–161 185–186 328 1158 1232 1257–1260 Cyc. 606–607 El. 935–936 1277 1483 OC 919 1026 1054 1085–1095 1090 1506 1556–1578

252 108 350 n. 17 233 235 n. 31 235 n. 31 118 n. 3 366 n. 82 366 n. 82 366 n. 82 366 n. 82 366 n. 82 366 n. 82 366 n. 82 366 n. 82 228 232 n. 24 232 118 n. 3 228

OT 44 80–84 151–215 156 263 776–777 1080–1081 1282–1285 Ph. 706 774–775 1066 1360–1361 1418 Tr. 240–241 327 794–795 fr. S.Fr. 177 Rad

251 232 n. 24 257 411

Statius Theb. 10.535

583

232 n. 24 234 350 n. 17 118 n. 3 232 n. 24 235 233 227 227 n. 20 234 227 n. 20 256 235

Stephanus Byzantius 105.20 405 214.9 405

233

Strabo 2.5.40 7.7.8 16.2.43 Epitome 7.a.1.2

217 366 508

Straton Phoenicides fr. 1, K–A

120 n. 12

256 232 n. 24 362 350–351 n. 17 350–351 n. 17 235 n. 31 351 n. 17

Strattis 50

411

Suetonius Ner. 16 31 31.3

586 586 586

405 406 n. 2 405 413, 414 n. 21

Index Locorum  

Tacitus Ann. 1.8.6

558

Qu. Terentius Scaurus GLK 7.14 540 Tertullian [De] Spect. 3

588

Theocritus 12 15

586 586

Theognides 1009 W.

359 n. 55

Theognis 437–438

250

Thucydides 1.3 1.69.5 2.62.5 2.80.5–6 3.29.2 3.37.2j 3.45.6 3.68.1 4.3.1 4.12.3 4.86.6 4.116 5.10.2 5.23.6 5.85–111 6.3.3 6.5.2 6.74.2 6.78.4 8.24

119 n. 9 240 240 405 567 118 n. 3 239 570 239 239 238 355 n. 39 355 n. 39 355 n. 39 118 n. 3 568 569 118 n. 3 496 253

Tibullus 1.7 2.1.53–54

586 583

Valerius Flaccus 5.304–310 7.66–67 Varro Lat. (= ling.) 5.2 5.3–6 5.7–9 5.22 5.25 5.75 5.86 5.96 5.97 5.100 5.105 5.113 5.116 5.120 5.123 6.2 6.4 6.68 6.84 7.1–4 7.26–8 7.29 7.39–40 7.50 7.52 Rust. 2.9.4

588 582

532 532 532 540 531 533 531 536 537, 540 537 534 531 538, 540 536 537 532 542 580 n. 27 531 532 543 537 537 528 534 580 n. 27

Velius Longus GLK 7.69.8–10

540

Vergil G. 3.301 4.181

594 n. 43 594 n. 43

Vita Aesopi G, 30

282

Vitruvius 4.1.3

566

  Index Locorum Zeno Tract. 2.27.2 Xenophon An. 2.1.4 2.2.13 7.6.23 7.7.12 Cyr. 6.2.32 7.2.9 7.2.16 Hell. (= HG) 4.4 6.4.8 Lac. 10.8 Mem. 1.4.4

584

496 238 496 560 239 238 496 239 n. 37 239 570 240

INSCRIPTIONS Greek Inscriptions CEG see Carmina Epigraphica Graeca (in LITERATURE) CID I.9 420 IC IV 6 107 IC IV 72 III.20 199 IC IV 72 III.29 199 IC IV 72 V.2 199 IC IV 72 VI.2 199 IC IV 72 VIII.20 199 IC IV 72 IX.30 199 IC IV 72 X.37 199 ICS 6 198 ICS 217 198 ID 104–126 379 ID 104–126bis.C9–11 385 ID 298.170 387 ID 300.137 387 ID 399.139 387 ID 442B.200 387 IED 24 358 n. 24 IG I2 686 358 n. 51 IG I3.1.4.B3 199

IG I3.4.B18 199 IG I3 6, 36–38 107 IG I3 1.5 198 IG I3 403–404 379 IG I3 425 388 IG I3 506 357 n. 47 IG I3 527 355 n. 40 IG I3 534 355 n. 38 IG I3 538 356 IG I3 583a 355 n. 38 IG I3 583x 355 n. 40 IG I3 599 358 IG I3 776 357 n. 47 IG I3 791 358 n. 51 IG I3 801 364 IG I3 865 358 n. 53 IG II2 1514–1525 379 IG II2 1514.16–17, 48, 49, 54–55, 56 387 IG II2 1514.188–189 381 IG II2 1515.9 387 IG II2 1516.31 387 IG II2 1517.154, 155, 166 387 IG II2 1523.195 385 IG II2 1524.132 (bis) 386 IG II2 1524.159 387 IG II2 1524.193–195, 214–217 380 IG II2 1524.195, 217 379 n. 30 IG II2 1525.6–7 386 IG II2 1528–1530 379 IG IX2 1.718.4 199 IG IX2 1.718.38 199 IG XII, 8, 264.15 108 n. 6 IGLSyr 4 1261.16–17 415 n. 24 SEG 28.53.10 387 SEG 31.53.2 355 n. 40 SEG 31.54 358 n. 53 SEG 31.984–985 198 SEG 35.45a 355 n. 40 SEG 35.991 107 SEG 43.212B.38–39 381 SEG 65.292 387 SEG 351 (= SGDI 1537) 55 Other abbreviations EG IV (= M. Guarducci, Epigrafia Graeca 1967–1978, vol. IV) 198 Eleus. 3 (= IG I3 1.5) 198

Index Locorum  

Her. 3, 4, 6 (= LSAG 42.6) 198 Id. 1, 2 (= ICS 217) 198 IGA 111.4 (= Roehl 1882) 198 LSAG 65.50 198 LSAG 66 358 n. 50 Schwyzer no. 732 B 107 Milet. 12 (= LSAG 64.33) 198 naup. 4, 38 (= IG IX2 1.718) 199 T.D. A.8, B.27 (= SEG 31.984–985, IGA (Roehl 1882)) 198 Hittite inscriptions (tablets) KBo 3.40b+ 65 KBo 17.1 I 26–27 178 KBo 22.2 65 KUB X 93 iv 2 177, 190 Latin inscriptions CIL 2.2863 D. Inscr. christ. Rossi I, p. 94

574 579

Umbrian inscriptions Iguv. Tab. VIa, l. 27 411

OSTRACA O.Bodl. II 1095 488 n. 45 O.Bodl. II 1168 488 O.Bodl. II 1992 = TM 72668 467 n. 196 O.Bodl. II 1992, ll. 1–2 = TM 72668 456 n. 135 O.Bodl. II 1999 = TM 72675 466 O.Bodl. II 2000, l. 1 = TM 72676 458 n. 140 O.Bodl. II 2139 489 n. 46 O.Claud. I 143 491 O.Claud. I 155 = TM 29814 453 O.Claud. I 160 = TM 24168 457 n. 137, 482, 483 n. 27 O.Claud. I 165, ll. 2–3 = TM 24172 468 n. 201

O.Claud. I 173 482 O.Claud. I 176, ll. 1–4 = TM 29820 462 n. 173 O.Claud. II 225, l. 20 = TM 29648 455 n. 128 O.Claud. II 227 488 n. 45 O.Claud. II 234, ll. 10–11 = TM 29657 450 O.Claud. II 252 491 O.Claud. II 268 = TM 23996 438 O.Claud. II 270, ll. 1–4 = TM 29687 456 n. 136 O.Claud. II 296, l. 1 = TM 29709 458 n. 140 O.Claud. II 299, ll. 2–3 = TM 29712 450 O.Claud. II 303, ll. 2–3 = TM 29716 450 n. 103 O.Claud. II 358, ll. 9–10 = TM 24008 448 n. 86 O.Claud. II 381, ll. 1–5 = TM 29780 431 n. 14 O.Did. 19, ll. 6–7 = TM 144586 457 n. 138 O.Did. 325 488 n. 45 O.Did. 325, ll. 2–3 = TM 144888 454 n. 126 O.Did. 330, ll. 11–16 = TM 144893 461 n. 165 O.Did. 343 488 n. 45 O.Did. 350 488 n. 45 O.Did. 350, l. 3 = TM 144911 454 n. 126 O.Did. 358, l. 3 = TM 144919 468 n. 201 O.Did. 389, ll. 1–2 = TM 144950 462 O.Did. 412 491 O.Did. 415, l. 1 = TM 144976 448 O.Did. 459, ll. 9–10 = TM 145020 457 n. 138 O.Florida 17, ll. 12 & 17 = TM 74511 448 O.Heid. 428 = TM 80117 460 n. 157

  Index Locorum O.Krok. 2.152 488 n. 45 O.Krok. 2.160 488 n. 45 O.Krok. I 73, l. 11 = TM 88664 455 n. 128 O.Krok. I 98, ll. 1–2 = TM 88695 466 O.Leid. 38, ll. 1–2 = TM 5942 452 n. 108 O.Wadi.Hamm. 22 = TM 79148 457

PAPYRI BGU I 261, ll. 28–34 = TM 41596 461 n. 165 BGU I 93, ll. 25–31 = TM 24885 459 n. 154 BGU II 417, ll. 31–32 = TM 28136 463 BGU II 594, ll. 1–2 = TM 9250 452 n. 111 BGU II 595 504 BGU II 595, ll. 1–2 = TM 9251 452 n. 111 BGU II 602, v, l. 1 = TM 28190 448 n. 89 BGU III 714, ll. 1–5 = TM 28080 436 BGU III 801 504 BGU III 822, ll. 21–22 = TM 28093 449 n. 92 BGU III 844, v, l. 1 = TM 9379 448 n. 89 BGU III 845 = TM 28096 461 n. 164, 503 BGU III 845, ll. 1–2 = TM 28096 462 n. 173 BGU III 845, ll. 3–7 = TM 28096 461 n. 164 BGU IV 1079, l. 33 = TM 9456 449 n. 92 BGU XVI 2614, ll. 1–2 = TM 23338 462 BGU XVI 2617, ll. 1–3 = TM 23341 462 n. 172 BGU XVI 2620 = TM 23344 460 n. 157

BGU XVI 2660, l. 1 = TM 23384 448 n. 90 BGU.1.261 482 BGU.1.276 491 BGU.7.1525 489 n. 50 BGU.7.1546 489 n. 50 CPR V 19, ll. 1–8 = TM 24981 450 CPR V 23 506 CPR VII 55, ll. 2–3 = TM 26668 461 n. 168 P. Corn. 50 511 P.Abin. 55 507 P.Alex.Giss. 38, ll. 20–21 = TM 27560 467 P.Amh. II 130, ll. 1–2 = TM 21700 452 n. 109 P.Amh. II 136, ll. 3–8 = TM 21701 454 P.Amh. II 142 452 n. 109 P.Athen. 62, ll. 1–2 = TM 25231 456 P.Bas. 16, v, ll. 19–21 = TM 30799 449 n. 93 P.Bingen. 74, ll. 2–4 = TM 78042 464 n. 182 P.Bon. 44, l. 9 = TM 27068 462 P.Bour. 23 503 P.Brem. 15, ll. 31–34 = TM 19600 466 P.Brem. 19, l. 1 = TM 19604 449 n. 99, 455 n. 130 P.Brem. 48, ll. 29–32 = TM 19632 454 P.Brem. 5, ll. 1–2 = TM 19590 452 n. 113 P.Brem. 53 506 P.Brem. 56, ll. 1–5 = TM 19640 464 P.Brem. 6, ll. 1–2 = TM 19591 452 n. 113 P.Brem. 6, l. 6 = TM 19591 448 n. 86 P.Brem. 61, ll. 46–47 = TM 19646 468 n. 204

Index Locorum  

P.Brem.63, ll. 3–6 = TM 19648 451 P.Cair.Masp. III 67295 = TM 36528 430 n. 11 P.Cair.Mich. II 20 = TM 397543 461 n. 165 P.Cair.Zen. III 59300 504 P.Cair.Zen. III 59477 505 P.Cair.Zen. III 59481 505, 514 P.Cair.Zen. V 59839.3 389 n. 64 P.Corn. 49, ll. 3–5 = TM 25711 454 n. 124 P.Diosk. 15 = TM 44730 431 P.Erl. 117, ll. 1–2 = TM 25716 461 n. 167 P.Euphrates. 17, ll. 26–27 = TM 44675 468 P.Fay. 123, ll. 25–27 = TM 10788 466 n. 188 P.Fay. 129, l. 1 = TM 31421 456 P.Fay. 133 = TM 10987 466 n. 195 P.Flor. II 118, l. 1 = TM 10971 456 n. 134 P.Flor. II 120 = TM 10972 466 n. 195 P.Flor. II 120, l. 1 = TM 10972 456 n. 134 P.Flor. II 123, l. 1 = TM 10976 456 n. 134 P.Flor. II 124 = TM 10977 466 n. 195 P.Flor. II 136, ll. 11–13 = TM 10990 463 n. 179 P.Flor. II 140r, ll. 1–2 = TM 10996 463 P.Flor. II 140r, l. 10 = TM 10996 448 n. 90 P.Flor. II 141, ll. 10–11 = TM 10998 463 n. 179 P.Flor. II 143, ll. 10–12 = TM 11000 463 n. 179 P.Flor. II 148, ll. 15–16 = TM 11005 468 n. 202

P.Flor. II 230, ll. 22–25 = TM 11109 465 P.Flor. II 235, ll. 1–2 = TM 11115 455 n. 131 P.Flor. II 235, ll. 7–9 = TM 11115 463 P.Flor. II 242, ll. 15–16 = TM 11123 448 n. 86 P.Flor. III 345, l. 1 = TM 11172 455 n. 130 P.Fouad 85 506 P.Fuad.I.Univ. 6, l. 2 = TM 31431 448 P.Fuad.I.Univ. 6, l. 3 = TM 31431 447 n. 85 P.Gen. II 1.72 = TM 32143 467 n. 197 P.Gen. II.1 72, l. 1 = TM 32143 455 P.Gen. III 144 510 P.Gen. IV 173, 179 510 P.Giss.Apoll. 16, ll. 7–8 = TM 19467 431 P.Giss.Apoll. 2, v, l. 1 = TM 19424 448 n. 89 P.Giss.Apoll. 20, ll. 1–2 = TM 19414 452 n. 109 P.Giss.Apoll. 23, ll. 1–5 = TM 19416 464 P.Giss.Apoll. 23, l. 2 = TM 19416 449 n. 98 P.Giss.Apoll. 23, ll. 4–5 = TM 19416 454 P.Giss.Apoll. 25, ll. 18–19 = TM 19428 452 n. 115, 467 n. 200 P.Giss.Apoll. 26, v, l. 1 = TM 19427 448 n. 89 P.Giss.Apoll. 37, ll. 10–11 = TM 19460 452 n. 115 P.Giss.Apoll. 4, l. 2 = TM 27581 448 n. 90 P.Giss.Apoll. 40, ll. 9–10 = TM 19464 468 n. 202 P.Giss.Apoll. 7, ll. 4–8 = TM 19426 466 n. 188 P.Hamb. I 54, 2, ll. 10–18 = TM 28695 460

  Index Locorum P.Hamb. IV 254 = TM 78276 430 n. 10 P.Harr. I 105, ll. 14–15 = TM 28711 467 n. 200 P.Haun. II 16, ll. 18–19 = TM 26598 462 P.Haun. II 18, ll. 4–6 = TM 30121 465 n. 187 P.Heid. III 230 505 P.Heid. VI 362 490, 491 P.Iand. VI 115, l. 2 = TM 30602 449 n. 94 P.Iand. VI 116, ll. 12–14 = TM 45340 465 n. 184 P.IFAO II 17, l. 14 = TM 30347 447 n. 84 P.Koeln. VI 278, ll. 3–4 = TM 25884 454 P.Koeln. VI 278, ll. 7–8 = TM 25884 453 n. 122 P.Leid.Inst. 42 = TM 27729 457 P.Lips. 2.124 490 P.Lips. I 105 = TM 25947 458 P.Lond. III 899 = TM 29246 448 P.Lond. III 899, ll. 1–2 = TM 29246 468 n. 201 P.Lond. III 899, l. 2 = TM 29246 448 P.Lond. III 964, l. 8 = TM 29251 455 n. 131 P.Lond. V 1658 507 P.Louvre. II 99 = TM 88765 457 n. 139 P.Mert. I 28, l. 3 = TM 31542 468 n. 201 P.Mert. II 82, l. 4 = TM 28784 448 P.Mert. II 82, l. 22 = TM 28784 453 n. 120 P.Mert. II 85 = ΤΜ 21320 460 n. 157 P.Mert. II 85, l. 3 = TM 21320 449 n. 97 P.Mich. 1.32 490, 491 P.Mich. 8.464 488 n. 45

P.Mich. III 208, l. 2 = TM 28797 450 n. 103 P.Mich. III 213 = TM 31546 456 n. 135 P.Mich. III 213, ll. 2–4 = TM 31546 462 n. 172 P.Mich. III 214, ll. 1–3 = TM 21344 462 P.Mich. III 221, v = TM 21351 462 n. 174 P.Mich. III 201, ll. 15–16 = TM 21340 462 P.Mich. VIII 465, ll. 45–46 = TM 17239 461 n. 169 P.Mich. VIII 466, ll. 3–4 = TM 17240 453 P.Mich. VIII 476 491 P.Mich. VIII 476, ll. 4–5 = TM 27089 465 n. 183 P.Mich. VIII 477, ll. 39–43 = TM 27090 465 n. 186 P.Mich. VIII 479, ll. 3–4 = TM 27092 449, 461 P.Mich. VIII 481, l. 36 = TM 27094 453 n. 117 P.Mich. VIII 482, ll. 7–18 = TM 17241 460 n. 162 P.Mich. VIII 490 = TM 27100 459 P.Mich. VIII 492 503, 510 P.Mich. VIII 494, ll. 3–7 = TM 27104 455 n. 127 P.Mich. VIII 495, ll. 5–8 = TM 27105 465 n. 183 P.Mich. VIII 497, ll. 3–9 = TM 27107 454 P.Mich. VIII 502, ll. 3–5 = TM 27112 464 P.Mich. VIII 510, ll. 2–3 = TM 27120 461 n. 168 P.Mich. VIII 511, l. 1 = TM 30511 456 n. 135 P.Mich. XV 751, l. 3 = TM 28820 450 n. 102 P.Mich. XV 751, ll. 2–3 = TM 28820 447 n. 85

Index Locorum  

P.Michael. 15, ll. 7–9 = TM 25895 464 n. 180 P.Mil.Vogl. I 11, l. 2 = TM 78532 447 n. 81 P.Mil.Vogl. I 24, ll. 1–2 = TM 12344 455 n. 130 P.Mil.Vogl. I 24, ll. 3–6 = TM 12344 455 n. 127 P.Mil.Vogl. VI 281, l. 15 = TM 28874 468 n. 202 P.Muench. III 1 121, ll. 28–34 = TM 28893 459 n. 154 P.Nekr. 28 = TM 31940 453 P.Oslo. III 156, ll. 3–5 = TM 28917 466 P.Oxy. I 115, l. 2 = TM 28407 447 n. 81 P.Oxy. I 118 = TM 31345 453 P.Oxy. I 118, ll. 41–42 = TM 31345 449 n. 93 P.Oxy. I 122 507 P.Oxy. III 525 = TM 28365 458, 458 n. 143 P.Oxy. III 525 = TM 28365 458 n. 143 P.Oxy. III 526, l. 13 = TM 28366 448 n. 88 P.Oxy. III 528, ll. 24–25 = TM 28368 457 P.Oxy. III 530, ll. 29–31 = TM 28370 466 n. 189 P.Oxy. III 532 = TM 28372 457 n. 137 P.Oxy. III 587 = TM 28381 448 n. 90 P.Oxy. LI 3645 = TM 30074 458, 458 n. 143 P.Oxy. LI 3645 = TM 30074 458 n. 143 P.Oxy. LIX 3988, ll. 16–19 = TM 27844 466 n. 191 P.Oxy. LIX 3989, ll. 15–17 = TM 27845 460 n. 158 P.Oxy. LIX 3990, ll. 12–20 = TM 27846 459 n. 154

P.Oxy. LIX 3992, ll. 13–17 = TM 27848 466 n. 191 P.Oxy. LIX 3992, ll. 18–21 = TM 27848 460 n. 158 P.Oxy. LIX 3995 = TM 31127 457, 457 n. 137 P.Oxy. LV 3806, ll. 12–14 = TM 22528 461 P.Oxy. LV 3809, ll. 3–7 = TM 29103 459 P.Oxy. LV 3812, ll. 13–14 = TM 31913 450 P.Oxy. LVI 3854 = TM 31654 459 n. 153 P.Oxy. LVI 3860 509 P.Oxy. LXVII 4627 510 P.Oxy. LXXV 5062 511 P.Oxy. LXXV 5063 509 P.Oxy. LXXVIII 5179 = TM 170062 455 P.Oxy. LXXVIII 5180 = TM 170063 457 n. 137 P.Oxy. LXXVIII 5180, l. 1 = TM 170063 455 P.Oxy. VII 1070 = TM 31317 451 P.Oxy. VIII 1158, l. 3 = TM 31724 447 n. 85 P.Oxy. VIII 1159, ll. 27–33 = TM 31725 457 P.Oxy. VIII 1160 503 P.Oxy. X 1234 Fr. 2 Col. II = Alc. 72.5 58 P.Oxy. XII 1480, ll. 1–4 = TM 21878 452 n. 109 P.Oxy. XII 1482, ll. 22–24 = TM 28994 466 n. 191 P.Oxy. XII 1483, v = TM 28995 459 n. 153 P.Oxy. XIV 1664, ll. 2–3 = TM 21964 449 P.Oxy. XIV 1668, l. 3 = TM 31779 447 n. 85 P.Oxy. XIV 1668, l. 3 = TM 31779 447 n. 85 P.Oxy. XIV 1668, ll. 32–35 = TM 31779 464

  Index Locorum P.Oxy. XIV 1678, ll. 2–3 = TM 31786 449 P.Oxy. XIV 1759, l. 10 = TM 29022 448 n. 90 P.Oxy. XIV 1766, ll. 16–18 = TM 31808 461 P.Oxy. XIV 1770, l. 4 = TM 31812 448 n. 91 P.Oxy. XL 2926, ll. 1–3 = TM 24887 467 P.Oxy. XLI 2980, ll. 8–12 = TM 26860 466 n. 193 P.Oxy. XLI 2980, ll. 8–12 = TM 26860 464, 466 n. 193 P.Oxy. XLI 2981 = TM 26861 461 P.Oxy. XLI 2982, l. 28 = TM 26862 453 n. 118 P.Oxy. XLI 2985, v, l. 1 = TM 26865 467 n. 199 P.Oxy. XLII 3059, ll. 1–2 = TM 26811 453 P.Oxy. XLII 3062, l. 12 = TM 25082 449 n. 95 P.Oxy. XLII 3070, ll. 8–9 = TM 25083 460 n. 161 P.Oxy. XLIX 3504, ll. 5–9 466 n. 188 P.Oxy. XLIX 3995 = TM 31127 457 n. 137 P.Oxy. XLVI 3291 = TM 15756 458 n. 143 P.Oxy. XLVII 3357, l. 19 = TM 25948 461 P.Oxy. XVII 2150, l. 3 = TM 30673 447 n. 84, 462 P.Oxy. XX 2275, ll. 1–2 = TM 32726 457 P.Oxy. XXXVI 2783, ll. 27–28 = TM 30385 453 P.Oxy. XXXVI 2786, ll. 7–9 = TM 25100 464 n. 180 P.Oxy. XXXVI 2787, ll. 11 & 16 = TM 26871 460 P.Oxy. XXXVIII 2862, ll. 7–9 = TM 31832 464 n. 180 P.Oxy. LVI 3854, l. 1 = TM 31654 452 n. 109

P.Oxy.Hels. 46, l. 13 = TM 24976 450 n. 100 P.Oxy.Hels. 48 511 P.Palaurib. 28, ll. 2 & 12 = TM 26157 460 n. 156 P.Petr.2.32 489 n. 50 P.Prag. I 99, l. 1 = TM 30067 456 n. 134 P.Princ. II 70, ll. 12–15 = TM 27168 457 n. 138 P.Princ. II 71, l. 1 = TM 30615 455 n. 132 P.Rein. I 48 = TM 29446 455 n. 132 P.Rein. II 113, l. 29 = TM 12879 448 n. 88 P.Rein. II 113, ll. 1–2 = TM 12879 455 n. 131 P.Rein. II 118, ll. 1–2 = TM 32063 456 P.Ross.Georg. III 2, l. 1 = TM 17952 447 n. 81 P.Ross.Georg. III 3, ll. 24–25 = TM 30783 467 n. 200 P.Ross.Georg. III 4, ll. 1–2 = TM 30784 468 n. 201 P.Ryl. 2.111 485 n. 41 P.Ryl. II 242, ll. 1–2 = TM 31172 456 n. 135 P.Ryl. II 245 = TM 31174 467 P.Ryl. IV 691, l. 1 = TM 30590 449 n. 99 P.Ryl. IV 691, l. 17 = TM 30590 450 n. 100 P.Sarap. 100, ll. 14–15 = TM 17125 461 n. 169 P.Sarap. 100, ll. 14–15 = TM 17125 465 n. 184 P.Sarap. 80, l. 24 = TM 17100 452 n. 115 P.Sarap. 83a = TM 17104 452 P.Sarap. 91, ll. 1–2 = TM 17116 461 n. 167 P.Sarap. 98, ll. 3–5 = TM 17123 454

Index Locorum  

P.Select. 5, ll. 12–13 = TM 30422 461 n. 169 P.Stras. I 37, ll. 1–3 = TM 31020 468 n. 201 P.Stras. IV 170 = TM 26968 458 P.Stras. IV 170, l. 1 = TM 26968 456 P.Tarich.4a, 4b 489 n. 50 P.Tebt. II 278 505 P.Tebt. II 412 = TM 28425 452 P.Tebt. II 412, ll. 1–2 = TM 28425 456 P.Tebt. II 413, ll. 1–3 = TM 28426 468 n. 203 P.Tebt. II 424, l. 1 = TM 31368 455 n. 131 P.Tebt. II 424, ll. 6–9 = TM 31368 457 P.Tebt. II 593 = TLM 13628 451 P.Tebt.II 417 = TM 31361 458 n. 142 P.Turner. 18, ll. 3–7 = TM 15688 455 n. 127 P.Warr. 14, l. 2 = TM 27220 448 n. 90 P.Wisc. II 73, l. 23 = TM 26688 455 n. 128 PCR 25.22 266 n. 14 PSI Congr. XI 11, ll. 1–2 = TM 30425 463 n. 177 PSI I 92 509 PSI IV 413 505 PSI inv. 505 128 n. 37 PSI IX 1049, l. 1 = TM 13766 449 n. 99 PSI IX 1050, r. l. 15 & v. l. 1 = TM 13767 459 n. 153 PSI IX 1054, ll. 9–11 = TM 30664 459 n. 154 PSI VIII 943, ll. 3–5 = TM 27224 461 n. 168 PSI XII 1248, l. 2 = TM 17411 447 n. 81

PSI XII 1259, ll. 26–27 = TM 27174 466 n. 190 PSI XIV 1415 = TM 27056 439 PSI XIV 1420, ll. 2–6 = TM 30470 465 n. 187 PSI XIV 1445 = TM 30476 447 n. 81 PSI XVI 1645, ll. 3–5 = TM 316283 462 n. 172 PSI XVI 1646, ll. 5–6 = TM 316284 452 SB 14.11644 487 n. 44 SB 16.12859 490 SB III 6299, l. 1 = TM 27794 452 n. 108 SB III 6823, ll. 3–7 = TM 18827 451 SB IV 7354, ll. 1–3 = TM 27385 461 n. 167 SB IV 7354, ll. 1–4 = TM 27385 462 n. 171 SB IV 7461, ll. 12–13 = TM 18055 468 n. 202 SB V 7575 = T M 25301 457 n. 137 SB V 7576, l. 1 = TM 25302 431 n. 14 SB V 7576, ll. 4–6 = TM 25302 457 n. 138 SB V 7600, ll. 2–3 = TM 17990 462 n. 172 SB V 8002, ll. 3–4 = TM 30792 448 n. 87 SB V 8027, ll. 1–5 = TM 27373 463 n. 178 SB VI 9122, ll. 1–2 = TM 25289 463, 465 n. 187 SB VI 9229 = TM 30757 458 n. 143 SB VI 9415 (30) = TM 14209 460 SB VI 9439, l. 1 = TM 31104 456 n. 134 SB VI 9466, ll. 1–3 = TM 14238 459

  Index Locorum SB VIII 9843 = TM 29268 452, 452 n. 108 SB VIII 9843, ll. 1–3 = TM 29268 452 n. 108 SB VIII 9844, ll. 6–7 = TM 29269 453 n. 116 SB VIII 9903, l. 5 = TM 22926 450 n. 101 SB X 10278, l. 2 = TM 16755 449 SB X 10278, ll. 2–5 = TM 16755 464 n. 181 SB X 10278, ll. 4–5 = TM 16755 454 n. 123 SB X 10557 = TM 30640 448 SB XII 10799, ll. 1–2 = TM 16075 463 SB XII 11021, l. 15 = TM 25066 455 n. 128 SB XIV 11903, ll.1–2 = TM 26550 455 n. 132 SB XIV 12082, l. 1 = TM 30112 449 n. 99 SB XIV 12123 506 SB XIV 12172 505 SB XIV 12176, l. 1 = TM 27526 455 n. 132 SB XIV 12594, ll. 2–4 = TM 30292 468 n. 204 SB XVI 12981 = TM 26759 456 n. 136 SB XVIII 13332, ll. 8–9 = TM 14742 466 n. 190 SB XVIII 13614, l. 2 = TM 27702 461 SB XVIII 13935 = TM 18289 438 SB XVIII 14052, ll. 4–7 = TM 30991 453 SB XX 14295, l. 2 = TM 31838 454 n. 125 SB XX 15069, ll. 1–5 = TM 32206 457 SB XX 15081 = TM 29517 456 n. 136 SB XXII 15350 =

TM 31352 457 n. 137 SB XXII 15357 = TM 31355 458 n. 143 SB XXII 15380, ll. 3–4 = TM 78969 461 n. 168 SB XXII 15454 = TM 79036 437 n. 48 SB XXII 15736, ll. 1–5 = TM 79200 431 n. 14 SB XXIV 15909 = TM 41420 460 SB XXIV 16338, ll. 3–5 = TM 31477 461 SB XXVI 16608, ll. 3–6 = TM 16846 462 n. 172 SB.5.7572 491 Stud.Pal. 22.40 485 n. 41 UPZ 1.110 490 UPZ 1.7 490 UPZ 1.70 505 UPZ.1.102 489 n. 50 UPZ.1.149 491 UPZ.1.79 491 UPZ.1.84 489 n. 50 UPZ.1.86 489 n. 50 UPZ.1.89 489 n. 50 Papyri Graecae Magicae PGM I 2 159 n. 55 PGM I 20 159 SCHOLIA Aeschylus PV 171 Sept. 126e

118 n. 3 118 n. 3

Apollonius Rhodius 4.761–765c 118 n. 3 Aristophanes Ach. 367 517c Eq. 326d

118 n. 3 118 n. 3 118 n. 3

Index Locorum  

Lys. 150 151 RΓ Hangard 735 RΓ Hangard 737 RΓ Hangard 739 RΓ Hangard Nub. 429a Plut. 27 66 Ran. 750 Vesp. 215a 557 Euripides Med. 232 Or. 1617 Hesiod Op. 336–341 Homer Il. 1.275b (Ariston.) 2.56b (Ariston.) 2.135a (Ariston.) 2.186a (Ariston.) 2.284a (Ariston.) 2.284b (Ariston.) 2.697 (Ariston.) 2.807 (Ariston.) 3.99a (Ariston.) 3.206a (Ariston.) 3.206c (Ariston.) 3.297a (Ariston.) 5.121 (Ariston.) 7.328b (Ariston.) 7.475a (Ariston.) 7.475b (Did.) 7.475c

382, 387 n. 55 392 n. 75 371 n. 3, 375, 382 375 375 118 n. 3 118 n. 3 118 n. 3 118 n. 3 118 n. 3 118 n. 3

118 n. 3 118 n. 3

118 n. 3

120 120, 126 n. 34, 132 n. 46 120 121 132 132 128 n. 37 120, 123 n. 24, 132 120, 123 n. 24 123 n. 24 120 120 120 121, 131 121, 122 122 n. 18

(ex. | Did. | Ariston.) 9.219b (Ariston.) 10.378b (Ariston.) 10.383b (Ariston.) 10.461c (Ariston.) 13.198a1 (Did.) 14.304b (ex. [Did.]) 14.304c (ex.) 14.499–500a1

122, 122 n. 18 120 120 120 120 129 n. 41 125 n. 30 124 n. 25 121, 123 n. 23, 126 n. 34 14.499–500 a2 (Hrd.) 123 n. 23, 126 n. 34 14.499–500b1 (ex.) 121, 126 n. 34 14.500 (Ariston.) 126 n. 34 16.57a (Ariston.) 120 17.47a (Ariston.?) 120 17.134 (D) 126 n. 35 17.134–136a1 (Did.) 120, 121, 126 n. 35, 127 17.134–136a2 (Did.) 126 n. 35 17.134–136b (ex. [Did.]) 127 17.201d (Ariston.) 120 17.202a1 (Ariston.) 120 17.221 (Ariston.) 132 n. 47 17.564a1 (ex.) 121 18.182c (Did.) 133 n. 52 18.318a (ex.) 128 21.166a (Ariston.) 121 21.483b (ex.) 129 23.627a (Ariston.) 132 n. 47 24.25–30 (Ariston.) 121 n. 16, 123 n. 23 24.304a1 (Ariston.) 120, 124 24.304a2 (Ariston.) 124 Od. 1.136b1 (V) 125 n. 30 1.136b2 (V) 125 n. 30 1.136b3 (V) 125 n. 30 1.136c1 (ex.) 125 n. 30 1.136d (Ariston.?) 125 n. 31 1.137c (V) 124 n. 26 1.275 (V [Did.+Nican.]) 120 2.206 b1 (Did.) 123 n. 23 2.260b1 (Ariston. | Did.) 121 n. 16 3.440a 125 n. 30 3.440d (ex.) 124 n. 26 3.445a1 (V) 125 n. 30 3.445c 125 n. 30

  Index Locorum 4.52c 7.172a 14.495 (Dind.) 14.496 (Dind.) 15.135 (Dind.)

125 n. 30 125 n. 30 130 130 125 n. 30

Pindar Ol. 7.33a, 8.5a Nem. 4.58a

118 n. 3 118 n. 3

Theocritus 1.13e

118 n. 3

Thucydides 3.37.2j 5.85–111

118 n. 3 118 n. 3

Genev. a Φ 259

421