Frankness, Greek Culture, and the Roman Empire (Routledge Monographs in Classical Studies) [1 ed.] 9780367262419, 9780429292170, 036726241X

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Series Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Table of Contents
Preface
Abbreviations
1. Parrhēsia, frankness, and post-classical politics
2. Speaking freely
3. Kings: frankness to power
4. Dēmos: rhetoric in the post-classical city
5. Elites: hierarchy, oligarchy, and friendship
6. Authorizing frankness: Lucian’s satire
Conclusion
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

Frankness, Greek Culture, and the Roman Empire

Frankness, Greek Culture, and the Roman Empire discusses the significance of parrhe-sia (free and frank speech) in Greek culture of the Roman empire. The term parrhe-sia first emerged in the context of the classical Athenian democracy and was long considered a key democratic and egalitarian value. And yet, references to frank speech pervade the literature of the Roman empire, a time when a single autocrat ruled over most of the known world, Greek cities were governed at the local level by entrenched oligarchies, and the social hierarchy was becoming increasingly stratified. This volume challenges the traditional view that the meaning of the term changed radically after Alexander the Great, and shows rather that parrhe-sia retained both political and ethical significance well into the Roman empire. By examining references to frankness in political writings, rhetoric, philosophy, historiography, biographical literature, and finally satire, the volume also explores the dynamics of political power in the Roman empire, where politics was located in interpersonal relationships as much as, if not more than, in institutions. The contested nature of the power relations in such interactions – between emperors and their advisors, between orators and the cities they counseled, and among fellow members of the oligarchic elite in provincial cities – reveals the political implications of a prominent post-classical intellectual development that reconceptualizes true freedom as belonging to the man who behaves – and speaks – freely. At the same time, because the role of frank speaker is valorized, those who claim it also lay themselves open to suspicions of self-promotion and hypocrisy. This volume will be of interest to students and scholars of rhetoric and political thought in the ancient world, and to anyone interested in ongoing debates about intellectual freedom, limits on speech, and the advantages of presenting oneself as a truth-teller. Dana Fields is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Classics at the University at Buffalo, SUNY. She has published scholarship on a number of texts from the Roman imperial era, including works by Aelius Aristides, Dio Chrysostom, Lucian, Pliny, and Plutarch, as well as poetic fable collections.

Routledge Monographs in Classical Studies

Frankness, Greek Culture, and the Roman Empire Dana Fields Un-Roman Sex Gender, Sexuality, and Lovemaking in the Roman Provinces and Frontiers Edited by Tatiana Ivleva and Rob Collins Robert E. Sherwood and the Classical Tradition The Muses in America Robert J. Rabel Text and Intertext in Greek Epic and Drama Essays in Honor of Margalit Finkelberg Edited by Jonathan Price and Rachel Zelnick-Abramovitz Animals in Ancient Greek Religion Edited by Julia Kindt Classicising Crisis The Modern Age of Revolutions and the Greco-Roman Repertoire Edited by Barbara Goff and Michael Simpson Epigraphic Culture in the Eastern Mediterranean in Antiquity Edited by Krzysztof Nawotka Proclus and the Chaldean Oracles A Study on Proclean Exegesis, with a Translation and Commentary of Proclus’ Treatise On Chaldean Philosophy Nicola Spanu Greek and Roman Military Manuals Genre and History Edited by James T. Chlup and Conor Whately For more information on this series, visit: https://www.routledge.com/RoutledgeMonographs-in-Classical-Studies/book-series/RMCS

Frankness, Greek Culture, and the Roman Empire

Dana Fields

First published 2021 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2021 Dana Fields The right of Dana Fields to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Fields, Dana Farah, 1980- author. Title: Frankness, Greek culture, and the Roman Empire / Dana Fields. Identifiers: LCCN 2020002093 (print) | LCCN 2020002094 (ebook) | ISBN 9780367262419 (hardback) | ISBN 9780429292170 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Freedom of speech--Rome. | Power (Social Sciences)--Rome. | Rhetoric--Political aspects--Rome. | Parrhe-sia (The Greek word) | Rome--Civilization--Greek influences. Classification: LCC JC85.F74 F54 2020 (print) | LCC JC85.F74 (ebook) | DDC 323.44/30937--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020002093 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020002094 ISBN: 978-0-367-26241-9 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-429-29217-0 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by Taylor & Francis Books

For my mother, who told me, “You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.” And for my father, who prefers to use a flyswatter.

Contents

Preface Abbreviations

viii x

1

Parrhe-sia, frankness, and post-classical politics

2

Speaking freely

30

3

Kings: frankness to power

58

4

De-mos: rhetoric in the post-classical city

106

5

Elites: hierarchy, oligarchy, and friendship

142

6

Authorizing frankness: Lucian’s satire

162

Conclusion Bibliography Index

1

191 195 227

Preface

I worked on this book for a long time, but I lived with it even longer. Before my PhD dissertation on parrhe-sia in Greek literature of the Roman empire, the project had its origins in my undergraduate thesis on Lucian and philosophy, but my interest in free and frank speech can be traced back as far as my childhood (when I wrote a letter to my congressional representative about the first amendment to the US Constitution – and won a savings bond!). The project has also lasted through multiple political eras, all of which have provided fodder for reflection not just on dissent and critique (and their increasingly technologically savvy suppression), but also on the poses of frankness that politicians themselves assume. When it comes to speaking truth to power, contemporary events (while never providing a simple analogy for the past) have demonstrated that self-promotion does not in itself automatically vitiate attempts to hold powerful interests to account or influence them for the public good. I have many people and institutions to thank for supporting me through the years. These include my far-flung dissertation committee of Froma Zeitlin, Tim Whitmarsh, and Josh Ober, much of whose advice I really only understood later. I am especially grateful for the supportive atmosphere of Princeton Classics during my graduate years. I owe a lot as well to teachers at Barnard and Columbia, especially Suzanne Saïd for supervising my thesis, Yun Lee Too for introducing me to Lucian, and Helene Foley for guiding my first engagement with Foucault. I would also like to thank colleagues and students at Birkbeck, Columbia, and Buffalo, and especially Martha Malamud and Carolyn Higbie (who was kind enough to read the whole manuscript). Numerous audiences to earlier versions of this work helped me clarify my thoughts, while Routledge’s readers made invaluable suggestions at a later stage. The Society of Fellows at Columbia provided a safe harbor from the stormy seas of the academic job market in the years after the 2008 economic crash. I am grateful to Eileen Gillooly, Chris Brown, David Johnston, the staff of the Heyman Center for the Humanities, and of course my fellow fellows. More recently a fellowship from the University at Buffalo’s Humanities Institute gave me time to carry out major revisions to my manuscript.

Preface

ix

The Institute of Classical Studies Library in London provided an invaluable resource at several stages in this project; I hope it will continue to be available for future generations of scholars. I have also benefitted greatly from the resources of the British Library, the Warburg Institute, Firestone Library at Princeton, Butler Library at Columbia, and Lockwood Library at Buffalo. Special thanks go to Joseph Streeter for his keen eye, uncanny memory, and willingness to be a sounding board at various points in the process of writing this book. He has also helped me maintain my sanity and has (mostly) put up with my bad puns. I would also like to thank Joseph’s parents, Kate and Bill, for hosting us so many times while we “utilized” London’s libraries. Last but not least, I thank my parents, Janis and Andy, and the rest of my family for supporting my “strange and unusual” life course.

Abbreviations

Publication abbreviations follow L’Année philologique, with exceptions listed below: ANRW CAH DK LS LSJ PCG RAC RE RG Smyth

Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt. Berlin, 1972–. Cambridge Ancient History (3rd edition). Cambridge, 1970–. H. Diels and W. Kranz. Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker (6th edition). Berlin, 1951–52. A. A. Long and D. N. Sedley. The Hellenistic Philosophers. Cambridge, 1987. H. G. Liddell, R. Scott, and H. Stuart Jones. A Greek–English Lexicon (9th edition). Oxford, 1996. R. Kassel and C. Austin. Poetae Comici Graeci. Berlin, 1983–. Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum. Stuttgart, 1950–. Paulys Realencyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft. Munich, 1903–80. L. Spengel. Rhetores Graeci. Leipzig, 1853–56. H. W. Smyth. Greek Grammar (Rev. edition). Cambridge, 1956.

1

Parrhe-sia, frankness, and post-classical politics

In a speech addressed to the Emperor Trajan around 100 CE, Dio Chrysostom tells of the famous meeting between the Cynic Diogenes and Alexander the Great.1 As the story goes, Alexander seeks out the philosopher at Corinth because he is famed far and wide for his courage. And the Cynic does not disappoint. At the king’s approach, Diogenes fixes him with a glare and orders him to step aside because he is blocking the rays in which the philosopher has been sunning himself. Although this boldness initially impresses the young monarch, Diogenes takes a risk in speaking so frankly (that is, speaking with so much parrhe-sia), a fact that the rest of their exchange makes clear. As they continue to talk, mainly about the nature of kingship and the self-mastery of the true king, the philosopher repeatedly tests Alexander by prodding him until he is on the verge of losing his self-control. For his part, the king manages, just barely, to restrain himself from erupting into violence. This anecdote shows Diogenes performing his role as a philosopher in relation to a king, a part for which the Cynic was famous, judging from sources that show him speaking equally fearlessly to Alexander’s father Philip.2 Other stories about Diogenes from the imperial era depict him sharing his abrasive yet improving criticism with anyone in his vicinity, but it is in his encounters with royalty that the power imbalance required for brave frankness becomes most obvious and undeniable. Such inequality in force and resources provides the background to Diogenes’ realignment of power when he adopts the role of Alexander’s teacher and thus claims a superior type of authority (already foreshadowed in the role-reversal of a king paying court to a private citizen). Though the Cynic denies that good rulership can be taught, asserting that a man either has the nature of a king or does not, the canny reader can see that he implants in Alexander a desire to live up to the ideals of philosophy, taking advantage of the very ambition that he identifies as the younger man’s greatest flaw. By these means, Diogenes imparts the lesson that the true king responds to frank speech with tolerance, motivated by self-knowledge and self-control. What is more, the ideal of frankness between monarchs and their advisors gains additional salience from the alleged context of the story’s telling. Dio presents himself as delivering this speech before the emperor, whether or not he actually did so, and thereby claims the role of Diogenes to Trajan’s Alexander.

2

Frankness and post-classical politics

Parrhe-sia and the performance of frankness Key features of the discourse around parrhe-sia in the Roman empire emerge from this speech, in particular its performative dimension, its central place in an internalizing redefinition of freedom and status, and its continuing political relevance. These themes are at the heart of this study, which examines how the term parrhe-sia is used in Greek texts from the first few centuries of the Roman empire and the articulation in these texts of a closely related concept I am calling “frankness.” This concept is expressed by a set of terms characterizing actions, central among which are parrhe-siazesthai (“speaking frankly”), meta parrhe-sias legein (“speaking with frankness”), eleuthero-s legein (“speaking freely”), phanero-s legein (“speaking openly”), tharsein (“being bold,” “being fearless”), and tolman (“daring,” “taking courage”), as well as ale-theuein and ale-tho-s legein (“speaking truthfully,” as opposed to flattering). In addition, there is a subset of terms that reference acts of advising and admonishment, such as epitiman and nouthetein (“rebuking”), parainein (“exhorting”), and sumbouleuein (“advising”). Besides parrhe-sia itself, other abstractions like eleutheria (“freedom”) and exousia (“authority,” “agency,” “license”) play a central role in the formation of the concept, along with cognates of all the expressions named here.3 In addition, frankness is conceptually opposed to flattery (kolakeia), tricky rhetoric, and other types of deception. It is often differentiated from indirect modes of communication as well, and in particular from the rhetorical techniques of allusive figured speech (esche-matismenos logos, sche-ma), which Quintilian contrasts with simple or obvious forms of expression (Institutio Oratoria 9.1.13–14) and [Demetrius] recommends as a mode of speaking to the powerful that avoids both unsafe criticism (epitiman) and shameful flattery (kolakeuein) (On Style 294).4 Yet presenting oneself as a frank speaker (as distinct from simply telling the truth) is clearly a rhetorical act and part of a larger rhetorical strategy to gain the trust of one’s audience(s) through the establishment of one’s character (e-thos).5 As such, any claim to frankness is open to suspicion of artifice and deception (though not all texts examined in this study are equally interested in engaging with this paradox). On this reading, the problem is not the corrupting effects of autocracy on some originally pure use of language, as in Shadi Bartsch’s influential study of senatorial culture under the empire (Bartsch 1994, esp. 185). Rather, there is a contradiction internal to the practice of performing honesty, which is exacerbated by expanding power inequalities in the Greek world of the imperial era. Frankness as I am using it is not simply a translation of parrhe-sia; rather it is a performative concept that is expressed via uses of parrhe-sia and other Greek terms, the most important of which I have already enumerated. In this sense it is broader than parrhe-sia, though in other ways it is narrower, because it does not share parrhe-sia’s ambivalence. Instead frankness is a value to which practically everyone lays claim, often, though not always, by ascribing to oneself or otherwise associating oneself with parrhe-sia in its more positive

Frankness and post-classical politics

3

sense. Frankness on this definition can therefore be understood as a speech act.6 To borrow the terminology of J. L. Austin (1962), the frank speaker constitutes himself as a particular kind of person (free, a man, a philosopher, etc.) through speaking in this culturally encoded way (thus performing an “illocutionary act,” one which accomplishes something in the very act of enunciation). At the same time he demonstrates his freedom to others and perhaps also induces them to change their ways with his criticism (and, like the larger category of persuasion, these are examples of “perlocutionary acts,” i.e. those accomplished as a result of speech). The performance of frankness is determined not simply by the content of speech but also by its critical mode. In addition, like other illocutionary acts, it requires particular conditions in order to be valid (or, as Austin puts it, “felicitous”), key among which is risk, a feature that Michel Foucault emphasized in his lectures on parrhe-sia and related subjects.7 There are also a number of appropriate performative contexts: providing a (purportedly) beneficial critique to kings, civic crowds, wellpositioned friends, or the society at large, extending even to all humanity. These scenarios have in common the good intentions of the speaker and a power differential between him and the recipient of his advice – or at least the pretext of such.8 Introducing performativity to this discussion also (perhaps inevitably) raises questions about the performance of identity, especially since studies of Greek culture during the Roman empire have so often revolved around questions of Greek identity vis-à-vis Rome.9 Certainly frankness is integral to the performance of elite manhood and also, by a process of abstraction, to the performance of philosophical identity (all of which is discussed at length in chapter 2). Insofar as being a philosopher in the Roman empire is figured as Greek, in a schema that opposes Greek paideia (educated culture) to Roman power,10 then parrhe-sia too is tied up with identity formation. Likewise, when frank speech is set in opposition to barbarian flattery, it is constructed as Greek, as illustrated in Plutarch’s Life of Alexander when the philosophersophist Callisthenes boldly refuses to perform proskyne-sis, an act that Greeks of many eras considered to be an iconically barbarian self-debasement before a king (54–55).11 But as this example suggests, the paradigm of the barbarian flatterer is an easterner, owing to its origins in Greek attitudes toward the Persians, and especially their relationship to the Great King. By contrast, the Romans’ use of parrhe-sia in Plutarch’s Parallel Lives is comparable to that of Greeks in character and frequency, despite their generally being understood as a third category, neither Greek nor barbarian.12 It is clear, therefore, that Greek frankness does not establish itself in necessary contradistinction to Roman ways of speaking. Instead, the power of Rome provides an ideal stage on which to perform frankness (as discussed in relation to the Roman emperor in chapter 3). Likewise, in the context of Greek civic politics, increased social and political hierarchy (surely influenced by Roman social structures, whether or not it was perceived as such by provincial Greeks) also provides further opportunities

4

Frankness and post-classical politics

for non-egalitarian frankness within the bouleutic class (as seen in chapter 5). Yet it is really only in the satirical writings of Lucian (discussed in chapter 6) that we find explicit characterization of Rome as a world of hierarchy-driven flattery incompatible with Greek ideals of egalitarianism and philosophical frankness (though, in an ironic twist, it is this very hierarchy that provides the would-be philosopher with more opportunities for self-defining parrhe-sia). One is left to wonder, too, how much this rhetorical stance is conditioned by the mode of moralizing satire; after all, Lucian’s writings regarding the incompatibility of frankness and Roman society are akin to Juvenal’s characterizations of inequality and flattery at Rome (especially in Satires 3 and 5). At the same time, it is important to remember that not everything in the imperial era revolved around Rome. When orators present themselves as speaking frankly to large audiences in eastern cities, Rome is at most in the background (as the carrot or stick that a supposedly well-connected rhe-to-r like Dio uses to enhance his own authority). In these situations, it is the putative hostility of the civic rabble to the orator’s advice that provides a space for frankness, using a conception of oppositional yet beneficial public parrhe-sia that goes at least as far back as Demosthenes (as we will see in chapter 4). While frankness is important to identity construction in the various ways I have just summarized, this is not the limit of its significance. I break with previous large-scale studies of free and frank speech in arguing for the continued political significance of parrhe-sia and the related concept of frankness during the Roman empire. Giuseppe Scarpat’s 1964 book (revised in 2001) set the tone for subsequent scholarship by contending that parrhe-sia emerged as a political “right” (diritto) in classical Athens, followed by its gradual transfer from the “sfera politica” to the “sfera privata,” starting in the fourth century BCE (Scarpat 2001, 34–85).13 According to Scarpat it then undergoes a further transformation in Christian authors, who turn it from an interpersonal “valore morale” to an honest relationship with God as made possible by a pure conscience (89–126, 130). This account is followed by subsequent scholarship, most notably Arnaldo Momigliano’s influential article on the subject of “freedom of speech” (where he states that in the post-classical world “parrhe-sia as a private virtue replaced parrhe-sia as a political right,” Momigliano 1973, 260), and David Konstan’s many writings examining postclassical frankness through the lens of friendship.14 Up to this point no overarching study has challenged the enduring orthodoxy of Scarpat’s views,15 but I will argue over the course of this book that parrhe-sia still had political relevance in a number of contexts during the first few centuries of our era. To see this, however, we need to stop thinking about politics purely in terms of the institutions of democratically governed cities, and begin to include certain personal interactions among the settings for political speech, namely audiences with kings and relationships among civic elites, in addition to public addresses to the whole de-mos.16 Likewise, we should recognize that at no point in Greco-Roman antiquity was parrhe-sia

Frankness and post-classical politics

5

solely political or ethical. While it does seem to have been central to Athenian democratic ideology, the term’s first datable appearances in Euripides reveal both ethical and political implications, as we will soon see. On the other end of my project’s timeline (in the third century CE), the term’s use among Greek writers attests to its continued political and ethical dimensions.

Greek politics in the Roman empire Before I lay out further justification for my view that the post-classical conception of parrhe-sia still had political dimensions that were relevant to the contemporary world, I will provide some background to illustrate how the commonly received narrative came about. Scholars’ treatment of parrhe-sia as depoliticized after the conquests of Alexander points to a broader set of problems in previous approaches to post-classical Greek politics. From the late 18th century onward, this iconic endpoint for the independence of the Greek city-states was taken to mark the beginning of cultural decline and aesthetic decadence, a bias supported by overly credulous or literal readings of later Greeks’ representations of their own times.17 Such a narrative of decline has rightly gone out of favor, in part because it required the overestimation of most cities’ autonomy in the classical era, in part because it has become unfashionable to draw moral conclusions about societies in academic analysis, and in part because of shifts in aesthetic priorities that have led to a reappraisal of later Greek culture.18 However, the related view of later Greece as depoliticized has proved harder to dislodge. It has also influenced scholarship in subtler ways, most notably in Foucault’s account of the putative “turn to the self” (conversion à soi) taken by elite culture in the early empire, as presented in the third volume of his History of Sexuality (Foucault 1986). While Foucault adds nuance to the traditional arguments, his focus on the development of an ethos centered on “the care of the self” is not so far removed from the view that a decline in participatory democracy led to the uprooting of polis-based identity and a resulting turn toward the personal.19 Foucault’s History of Sexuality is concerned primarily with the historical formation of the subject, that is, the way in which a person has a particular relation to himself or herself through his or her actions, as produced under particular historical conditions.20 In his analysis of texts from the classical period, Foucault finds an ideal of elite male mastery over the self, particularly in relation to bodily appetites and experiences of pleasure, as a precondition for control over others (whether in political leadership or within a man’s own household).21 However, he argues that the relation “of oneself to oneself” becomes the focus of greater attention during the first two centuries of the common era, leading to the valorization of marriage and sexual austerity (Foucault 1986, 39–68). He attributes this development to the rise of autocratic authority in the person of the emperor, which he sees as diminishing the importance of law and intensifying that of individual character.

6

Frankness and post-classical politics

He also argues that these changes affect all those in intermediary roles of governance within the increasingly hierarchical system, resulting in the dissociation of formal status from the exercise of power. Foucault is adamant that this transformation does not signal a withdrawal from public life, but rather that the practice of attention to the self was still a prerequisite for mastery over others – albeit in a context where political action was more “problematized” than in the classical period. At the same time, however, he regards the instability of political fortunes for those at the top to be at least partial motivation for a turn toward internalized self-definition, in which people place greater value on attributes like self-control or cheerfulness in the face of adversity than on external matters like office or wealth (Foucault 1986, 81–95). While this account includes valuable insights, there are some marked flaws in the causative relationships it posits and the conclusions it draws. For one thing, Foucault’s analyses do not distinguish sufficiently between the imperial center and its periphery, leading him to overestimate the importance of the emperor’s court at Rome. While well-connected Romans were certainly affected by the concentration of power in the hands of one man, along with the court intrigue that accompanied it, it seems unlikely that this would have had such a dramatic effect on the self-conception of elite landowners in Greekspeaking provinces (who may or may not have even held Roman citizenship).22 Furthermore, even if civic law lost some of its importance (which is itself doubtful), the notion of a compensatory shift toward ethics infers too much from literary preoccupations with the characters of people in authority.23 After all, this is also a period in which Roman law becomes more codified and extended over a larger domain than ever before. And while we can find in this era a reorientation of the relationship between outward status and ethical goodness (discussed in chapter 2), it seems in no way to have changed opinions about the class of people who should occupy decision-making roles in the cities. Given Foucault’s larger interest in the ethical formation of the subject, one can see why his lectures on parrhe-sia adopt a model of the term’s development that is based ultimately on a depoliticization narrative, even though his account of post-classical parrhe-sia does not itself entail depoliticization.24 Indeed, even as the decline and depoliticization models of later Greece have gone out of favor more generally, they still influence the common view that parrhe-sia transforms from a political right or privilege in the classical era to an ethical value in the post-classical world. Furthermore, the underlying false dichotomy between institutional politics and personal ethics still conditions the understanding of post-classical parrhe-sia to the point that even a scholar who rejects the notion of the post-classical world as depoliticized could describe the imperial era as a time when “free speech is no longer articulated through collective enfranchisement, but through principled resistance and moral integrity” (Whitmarsh 2001a, 145).

Frankness and post-classical politics

7

Politics, power, and parrhe-sia We can come to a better understanding of post-classical Greek politics if we stop limiting our conception of political speech to public assemblies and incorporate other contexts that are important to the political functioning of the Greek cities and the broader Roman imperial world. I will argue in this section for broadening our view of politics to take into account the political significance of personal relationships involving the post-classical world’s wielders of power. Frank political speech can be found in the imperial era in public addresses, but also in the relationships between advisors and monarchs, and in the interactions of the elites who formed a city’s bouleutic class. Over the last few decades, the examination of power has provided a valuable perspective on imperial Greek literature and culture. Theories about the workings of power, drawn most commonly from Foucault and Pierre Bourdieu, have facilitated the reevaluation of the imperial era’s neglected literary products in terms of their cultural-historical and political significance.25 This interest in power should therefore be viewed in the context of larger scholarly developments from the late 20th century, particularly Post-Colonial Studies and the “New Historicist” movement that emerged out of Renaissance Studies.26 While important advances have arisen out of classics scholars’ focus on power, this approach also risks occluding what is distinctive about politics in the imperial era, by subsuming it within the broader category of power relations.27 This is because the philosophical, sociological, and anthropological writings that inform such scholarship are concerned with fairly diffuse understandings of power. We can see this for example when Foucault writes in the first volume of his History of Sexuality that power is fundamentally “the multiplicity of force relations immanent in the sphere in which they operate.”28 Likewise, while Bourdieu’s theories about everyday forms of symbolic power (Bourdieu 1977; 1984) are indispensable for understanding the stratified socio-political world of the early empire, they are nevertheless too all-encompassing for thinking about pragmatic politics, like the management of cities or the guidance of emperors. And when classicists characterize the imperial era using models of “resistance” in the face of power (as distinct from outright rebellion), often drawing from the scholarship of Jean Comeroff and James C. Scott, they tend to focus on cultural resistance to Rome among Greek elites, the very people who are deeply invested in the structures of power that Rome supports in the east, thus allowing symbolic power relations to obscure more practical ones.29 From the perspective of the study of parrhe-sia, however, the gravest problem with these approaches to power relations is that they broaden the field of politics to an extent that may seem question-begging to scholars who hold a more conventional view of politics as primarily based in institutions. My study will attempt to bridge this divide by approaching imperial-era Greek politics as a particular subset of power relations,30 which include the workings

8

Frankness and post-classical politics

of political institutions (such as the Athenian Assembly and Council) but also relationships between monarchs and their advisors (who sometimes act as civic representatives), between the leaders and the inhabitants of Greek cities, and among those leaders themselves. It is in these considerations of interpersonal politics that Foucault’s analysis of parrhe-sia can help us form a better conception of post-classical political speech, despite the ethical focus of his treatment of parrhe-sia as a “practice of the self” in which the frank speaker enacts a lived form of truth, a tradition he identifies as Socratic in origin.31 In his words:32 As the Hellenistic monarchies grew and developed, political parrhesia [sic] increasingly assumed the form of a personal relation between the monarch and his advisors, thereby coming closer to the Socratic form. Increased emphasis was placed on the royal art of statesmanship and the moral education of the king. We should note, however, that while the ethical status of leaders is paramount in a monarchy, it also has great import in any form of government that limits decision-making to a fairly small body, such as an oligarchy. It is therefore because of the consolidation of power by oligarchic institutions within Greek cities (such as councils) that the ethical status of individual elite men became such a subject of interest. Likewise, in an oligarchically governed city, peace and prosperity depend in part on the ability of the ruling class to get along, and in the Roman empire the stakes were particularly high since local unrest left a city vulnerable to military intervention (and even a grant of civic freedom, with its exemption from garrisons, could be rescinded).33 Acknowledging the greater importance of individual judgment and personal interaction in post-classical politics (both within civic institutions and outside them) allows us to form a richer conception of politics than is possible when classical Athenian participatory democracy is our standard. In thinking about post-classical civic politics, we must also set aside the traditional scholarly emphasis on political independence, since it would require us to dismiss the political functioning of all but the most dominant poleis even in the classical era. Nevertheless, Hellenistic- and Roman-era cities were generally self-governing in regard to internal affairs, so long as local officials maintained order and carried out vital functions like tax collection.34 Despite Ewen Bowie’s assertion that “with the autonomy of Greek cities only nominal those Greeks who felt that in a different age they might have wielded political power in a Greek context must needs be dissatisfied with the present and attempt to convert it to the past where their ideal world lay” (Bowie 1970, 28),35 it was only in waging war that a city’s collective freedom of action was significantly restricted. What is more, not only did the educated elites about whom Bowie writes participate in the governance of their own cities (and likely expanded their power during this time, as

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analyzed by Arjan Zuiderhoek [2009]), but over the course of the second century CE they increasingly joined the ranks of the imperial governing class as well, becoming senators and, in a few cases, even consuls. Despite the greater power of elites in the post-classical city relative to classical Athens, it is also important to remember that public assemblies, those quintessential democratic institutions, continued to operate in imperial-era Greek cities, even if their influence was limited.36 And while personal ethics (i.e. character as shaped by background and education) are certainly germane to institutional politics in the classical and post-classical eras, they become much more important as politics come to revolve increasingly around individuals and personal relationships, as we have seen in relation to both monarchs and local elites.37 Furthermore, just as the criteria for disenfranchisement (atimia) in democratic Athens attest to the importance of character for political involvement, especially in regard to giving advice in the Assembly,38 in the post-classical world the character of a magistrate, public speaker, or personal advisor (understood at least partly as a function of his elite background) is still relevant to the purported value of his decisions and recommendations.39 This understanding of personal ethics as closely intertwined with politics is also reflected in the advice given to Greek cities in the imperial era. As we will see, when Dio Chrysostom counsels eastern cities, he argues that the everyday behavior of individuals has serious consequences for the political well-being of the city. We can also observe the amplification and glorification of advisory roles, resulting from the growth of vast empires and increasing social and economic stratification (even among elites).40 The act of advising men in power is simultaneously ethical and political, and it is especially important in the case of a single ruler, because his ethics are vital to his regime (or at least so say those who make it their business to provide advice). Such speech is dependent for its efficacy on the ethical status of the advisor (so that he can improve the ruler and guide him toward better decisions), but, at the same time, it also articulates and reinforces his ethics by demonstrating his bravery in the face of power. It is important to note, however, that parrhe-sia’s relevance to personal interaction appears already in Euripides, our earliest securely datable source for the term.41 While Euripides’ characters sometimes use the term to refer to a privilege of speaking freely connected with citizenship or high status (Hippolytus 421–25; Ion 672–75; Phoenissae 390–93),42 at other times it refers to unwelcome speech (albeit with permission and promises of immunity, as at Electra 1049–56; Bacchae 664–76),43 and in one instance it even refers to speaking overly frankly (Orestes 902–6). Parrhe-sia’s emergence in classical Athens is usually understood to supplement ise-goria, an older concept that emphasized equal share in speech, especially in the context of the Athenian Assembly. Unlike parrhe-sia, ise-goria did not necessarily extend to everyone and thus had more oligarchic potential, as Kurt Raaflaub (2004a, 46–49) has pointed out.44 But if parrhe-sia originated as a term

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asserting the freedom inherent in radical Athenian democracy and licensing the content of political speech, it quickly ramified via metaphor to other aspects of human interaction.45 What is more, because interpersonal parrhe-sia has a much wider reach than the institutional variety, the early presence of such a conception of frank speech helps explain how the term spread outward from democratic Athens and became so pervasive in the political-ethical vocabulary of later Greece.

The reception of classical parrhe-sia While parrhe-sia is significant for our understanding of post-classical politics, it is also central to later Greeks’ reception of classical Athenian literature, culture, and politics. Greeks of the imperial era were aware that parrhe-sia originated in classical Athens, but this does not mean their references to it imply an idealization of the classical past. Constructing relationships with putative cultural ancestors involves calling attention to differences as well as continuities and similarities, and later Greek attitudes toward the classical past and Athens in particular are not unambiguously positive.46 In referring to their own parrhe-sia as well as that of their classical predecessors, later Greek authors proclaim themselves heirs of classical culture but also define themselves in contradistinction to it. In considering the relationship between classical and post-classical parrhe-sia, it is important to remember that even in the classical era conceptions of parrhe-sia are complicated and sometimes contradictory. Setting aside authors overtly hostile to Athenian radical democracy, such as Plato and Isocrates,47 we nevertheless find that the term’s most common uses include both positive and negative connotations, as can be demonstrated by the portion of its semantic field regarding the content of speech. Etymologically, the term parrhe-sia derives from the elements pan (“all/any”) and rhe-sis (“speech”), a formulation that suggests the ability or habit of saying whatever one wants, and does not specify the content of speech or entail a positive evaluation.48 While parrhe-sia often involves telling the truth,49 it is not necessarily truthful speech.50 Moreover, the uncovering aspect of parrhe-sia, which creates its connection with truth, also links it with lack of shame (anaideia).51 In addition, its absence of limitations aligns it with insult and abuse (loidoria, kake-goria) (though the more positive sense of parrhe-sia is frequently set in opposition to these same terms).52 Parrhe-sia can therefore be understood as the opposite not just of dishonest speech, but also of speaking with restraint.53 The fraught relationship between parrhe-sia and truth persists in imperialera Greek texts. In fact, it becomes further elaborated, because it is closely bound up with the association between frank speech and intimacy. Intimates such as family members and close friends are expected to tell the truth to one another with parrhe-sia in order to provide some benefit;54 several philosophical sects employ a frank means of presenting uncomfortable truths

Frankness and post-classical politics 11 (often because of a commitment to philanthro-pia that classes all humanity as intimates);55 and wine-soaked dinner parties can make intimates of those who would not normally be so candid. Among this set of intimacy-related contexts for frankness, the last deserves a closer look because it also illustrates some of the complications that arise from the association between parrhe-sia and truth. In Greek culture, wine drinking has longstanding connections to parrhe-sia and the unintentional exposure of truth, illustrated for example in Plato’s Phaedrus, where a lover is described as exercising excessive and shameful parrhe-sia toward his beloved when drunk (240e).56 In the imperial era, Athenaeus takes up the theme in his Deipnosophistae (appropriately enough, given the work’s sympotic setting).57 A particularly apt discussion comes from an epitomized section of the text where a historian is quoted as writing: “drinkers not only reveal what sort they themselves are, but they uncover the business of everyone else by using parrhe-sia. Hence the sayings ‘wine and truth’ and ‘wine reveals the mind of a man’” (2.37e).58 Shortly afterward, a comic poet is cited on the matter as well: one character in his drama declares, “too much wine makes for a lot of babbling (lalein),” to which a second character replies, “yes, but they say that drunken men speak the truth” (2.38b). These references establish a pair of related ways in which wine loosens the lips: it makes men speak indiscriminately, as a result of which they may also speak indiscreetly, letting something truthful slip that they might otherwise wish to hide. There is a great deal of overlap, therefore, between speaking out with parrhe-sia and being truthful, but they are not identical. In historiographical writings from the imperial era we find even more explicit distinctions between speaking frankly and telling the truth. For instance, in the section of Appian’s mid-second-century CE Roman history known as the Civil Wars, Marc Antony’s brother Lucius surrenders himself to Octavian after an unsuccessful rebellion and disavows verbal aggressiveness toward the triumvir with these words: “I have not come here to speak with parrhe-sia, for that would be untimely (akairos), but to speak with truth (ale-theia), for I do not have it in me to speak otherwise” (5.42).59 In rejecting parrhe-sia, Lucius’ speech points to its association with overly bold speech and arrogance; while not the opposite of truth, parrhe-sia is presented here as fundamentally distinct from it. More commonly, however, later Greek writers maintain the conceptual connections with truth and create a distinction between genuine performances of parrhe-sia and bogus ones. This is exemplified in Cassius Dio, who, like Appian, produced a massive Greek-language history of the Romans,60 and whose depiction of the orator Cicero raises questions about the rhetorical use of parrhe-sia for self-promotion. This usage is particularly insidious, because it manipulates the appearance of ingenuousness to ends that are anything but honest and straightforward.

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In Book 46 of Cassius Dio, when the factions of Cicero and Antony are arrayed against one another shortly after Caesar’s assassination, Cicero’s political opponent Calenus attacks his character at length, at one point condemning his speech as loidoria: “You abuse everyone everywhere all the time, thinking more highly of the power that comes from seeming to use parrhe-sia boldly than of saying what ought to be done (τι τῶν δεόντων)” (9.4).61 Even prior to this speech, we have been primed to view Cicero as primarily seeking a reputation for frankness because the narrator has passed this judgment in his own voice (38.12.6): He made himself very bitter enemies by always striving to surpass even the most powerful men and by using parrhe-sia that was intemperate and excessive (ἀκράτῳ καὶ κατακορεῖ) toward all alike, because he sought a reputation for being able to understand and say things that no one else could, even in preference to being thought a good man (χρηστός). Later, Calenus similarly disputes the senator’s claim that his histrionic attacks on Antony (presumably in the Philippics) are really noble parrhe-sia, complaining, “such is the great and patriotic orator, the one who is everywhere and always chattering and saying, ‘I alone am fighting for freedom, I alone use parrhe-sia for the sake of democracy’” (46.16.4). As Christopher Mallan notes, such comments “challeng[e] the reader to reappraise Cicero’s [preceding] speech in terms of appearances rather than realities” (Mallan 2016, 267). By raising doubts about the truthfulness of Cicero’s claim to be motivated by such high-minded ideals, the speaker suggests instead that he is driven by a desire for self-aggrandizement through the opportunistic embrace of notions like liberty, democracy, and parrhe-sia.62 These passages point to a contradiction at the heart of the rhetorical use of frankness, which paradoxically gets its power from the notion’s conceptual opposition to rhetoric. This internal inconsistency in turn lays open alleged displays of frankness to suspicions of both deception and abuse.63

Icons of frankness As we will see in subsequent chapters, imperial Greek writers adopt figures such as Aristophanes, Socrates, Diogenes, and Demosthenes as symbols of parrhesiastic speech, while adapting them to contemporary circumstances. Despite well-publicized hostilities between rhetoric, philosophy, and comedy originating in the classical era, later writers often use these traditions promiscuously,64 though they also sometimes acknowledge the tensions between them for their own rhetorical purposes, as in the common trope of a conversion from rhetoric to philosophy.65 While modern scholars have long debated whether there were legal restrictions on free speech in Old Comedy,66 Greek writers of the Roman empire seem to understand the genre as virtually

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unlimited in license, and they do not usually preserve, as some Latin and Byzantine sources do, stories about laws restricting what could be said in comic performances,67 nor do they tend to reference Aristophanes’ apparent prosecution by Cleon for insulting the city before foreigners at the performance of his Babylonians in 426/425.68 Instead, writers of this period identify Aristophanes as a figure of parrhe-sia, whose humor contained serious criticism and after whom they could model their own self-presentations.69 Besides looking to Aristophanes as an emblem of frankness, imperial-era authors also constructed from his comedies an image of classical Athens as supporting critical and even ridiculing speech. A number of writers from the imperial era paint a picture of Athens’ supposed “anything goes” atmosphere to articulate its distance from their own world, while also laying claim to the Aristophanic tradition despite those differences. This rhetorical tactic is especially common among authors writing in Latin, who were clearly aware of the history of greater strictures on speech at Rome.70 For instance, Aulus Gellius preserves an anecdote about the imprisonment of the early Roman poet Naevius for excessive comic abuse on the model of “the Greek poets” (3.3.15).71 Accordingly, when writers of Roman satire like Horace or Persius fashion their own truth-telling personae after the poets of Old Comedy, they lay claim to a foreign and arguably dangerous tradition,72 borrowed from a society whose chaotic and excessive freedom is memorably caricatured in a Latin fable from the first century CE. That tale, Phaedrus’ variation on the Aesopic frogs who request a king and then arrogantly hop all over him (leading to their ultimate demise), draws an analogy between the overweening amphibians of the animal fable and the Athenians in Phaedrus’ framing narrative, with their libertas (“freedom,” “boldness”) and licentia (“excessive freedom,” “insolence”), both of which can refer to unrestrained speech (1.2).73 For these Roman satirists then, as with Greek authors, the self-promotional benefits available are proportionate to the risks (or seeming risks) incurred in expressing oneself frankly, but an added frisson comes from the tension between Greek and Roman ideas of licit speech. An illuminating point of comparison can be found in Dio Chrysostom’s Alexandrian Oration, which presents the author’s own critical speech as reclaiming a native Greek institution, while painting a much rosier picture of classical Athenian freedom than appears elsewhere in his work. Here Dio presents Old Comedy as a moral force for checking the bad behavior of individuals as well as the city as a whole, and an institution that contemporary Alexandria lacks to its own detriment, resulting in general public disorder (32.6).74 The same author’s First Tarsian Oration, on the other hand, expresses more ambivalence about the scurrility of poets like Aristophanes.75 Even here, however, he presents comic poets’ aims as fundamentally serious and valuable: they are like nurses who use honey to cover up the taste of medicine for children (33.9–10).76 With this picture of the childlike Tarsians (who are plagued by a mysterious and shameful habit of “snorting”), and in his similar relationship to the Alexandrians, Dio presents himself as someone who can

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help rescue these cities from their own degenerate ways (as discussed further in chapter 4). A comparable image of Old Comic critique plays a key part in the oeuvre of Lucian, for whom Aristophanes is an important model and reference point for his own attacks on self-importance and pretense (a topic elaborated in chapter 6). The image of Aristophanic comedy as providing serious and beneficial critique is so pervasive in part because it is promoted by Aristophanes himself, who makes the case most explicitly in the parabasis to Acharnians (628–75). Here the chorus tells the story of Spartan envoys sent to secure the support of the Persian king for their ongoing war with Athens. After the great king asks which of the cities is stronger in seafaring, the second most important criterion for victory is “which population this poet abuses greatly” (τοῦτον τὸν ποιητὴν ποτέρους εἴποι κακὰ πολλά) (649). The chorus also notes that the fame of Aristophanes’ boldness (tolma) has spread far and wide because he “risked telling the Athenians what was right” (παρεκινδύνευσ᾽ εἰπεῖν ἐν Ἀθηναίοις τὰ δίκαια) (645–46). It seems unlikely that Aristophanes expected this anecdote to be taken straight. Even so, by assimilating abuse to good advice, through their common element of risk, he gives offensiveness the veneer of valuable frankness.77 We find evidence for the persistence of this view of comic critique from an unlikely source: the Meditations of the emperor Marcus Aurelius, which declare admiringly that Old Comedy used “pedagogic parrhe-sia” to puncture arrogance, a use that he says was followed by Diogenes the Cynic (11.6.2).78 Given the undisciplined qualities of Old Comedy, it is especially striking that Marcus Aurelius could praise this type of frankness. Furthermore, while parrhe-sia is not the neat equivalent of Roman libertas, that republican watchword,79 the Latin term’s use as a translation for parrhe-sia makes it a particularly conspicuous word for an emperor to use.80 Like so many of the authors in this study, Marcus often uses the word parrhe-sia as a shorthand for philosophic virtue; yet, in spite of his self-conception as a philosopher, his role as an autocrat distinguishes him dramatically from other writers. Tolerance of parrhe-sia rather than its enactment is fundamental to his engagement with the concept; as we will see in chapter 3, this theme is also central to the discourse around speaking frankly toward kings. Tolerance too has a performative dimension and provides Marcus with a means to advertise himself as a benevolent, philosophic monarch, in imitation of his predecessor Antoninus Pius (Meditations 6.30). Along with comedy, the philosophical tradition is central to imperial conceptions of frank speech. As Marcus’ comments illustrate, comic frankness was seen as continuous with that of Cynic philosophers like Diogenes, despite differences of context.81 Diogenes was sometimes known as “Socrates gone mad,”82 a moniker that conveys Cynic philosophy’s debt to Socrates (especially in its extreme disregard for convention). Socrates and Diogenes were both famed for their frankness, and both provide important models of parrhe-sia for later Greek authors. For example, in Dio Chrysostom’s First

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Tarsian Oration the Athenians’ execution of Socrates throws into relief the license enjoyed by the city’s comic poets, setting up a stark opposition between the ribald freedoms of comedy and the serious criticism that characterizes philosophical parrhe-sia (33.9–10). Maximus of Tyre, a Platonist of the mid-second century CE,83 takes up the topic of Socrates’ trial in his discourse “Whether Socrates was right not to speak in his own defense.” This work claims that the philosopher did not actually give an apologia and composes an indictment of the Athenians for him instead. More to the point, Maximus also contrasts Socrates’ habitual chastening parrhe-sia with standard practices of flattery and self-abasement in court speeches, echoing the opposition between rhetoric and frankness in Plato’s Apology and Gorgias (3.7). Indeed, Plato’s version of the Apology is a text often imitated in this period,84 not least because the speech both demonstrates and references the philosopher’s frankness.85 Diogenes of Sinope looms similarly large in the imperial-era image of philosophical frankness. Besides the anecdote that opened this chapter (which circulated widely, leading to its retelling by several imperial-era authors),86 Diogenes’ frankness shows up in other forms and contexts.87 Consider the anecdotes about the Cynic’s high valuation of parrhe-sia and other forms of boldness, as preserved by Diogenes Laertius, the author of a collection of philosophical biographies and apothegms (6.20–81).88 When asked what is the most beautiful thing in the world, Diogenes answers simply: “Parrhe-sia.” It is surely no coincidence that this chreia is followed by stories of Diogenes breaking social codes by eating or even masturbating in public. Besides illustrating the opposition between parrhe-sia and shame, these actions imply that parrhe-sia is one way among many of demonstrating tharsos (“boldness”).89 In addition, these actions include more strictly parrhesiastic components of their own: Diogenes answers criticism about his inappropriate behavior with equally bold replies (for example, “if only it were possible to get rid of hunger by rubbing one’s belly”) (6.69). Diogenes is also closely associated with the metaphor of frankness as medicine, which we will see elaborated in a number of imperial-era texts throughout this study.90 Comparing frankness to medicine brings out the combination of benefit and unpleasantness that is the essence of parrhe-sia for those who claim to be its practitioners.91 This applies especially to philosophers because the metaphor fits a more general characterization of philosophy that stretches back to Plato’s Gorgias and continues to be a prominent theme in the empire. In the words of Epictetus (via Arrian), “the lecture-room of the philosopher is a hospital; you ought not to walk out of it in pleasure, but in pain!” (Discourses 3.23.30). In Diogenes’ case, the metaphor helps elucidate his motive for residing at Corinth: since so many people came to Corinth, both because it was a crossroads for important land and sea routes and because it was famed for its hetairai, the Cynic saw it as an excellent place to offer his philosophical services. His reasoning, according to Dio Chrysostom, was as follows:

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Frankness and post-classical politics Just as the good physician goes to offer his services where the greatest number of people are sick, so, he said, he makes his home where there is the greatest number of fools, to refute and correct (ἐξελέγχοντα καὶ κολάζοντα) their senselessness.

This motive likewise explains his attendance at the Isthmian Games, where, instead of watching the athletes, he observed men’s foibles.92 He also instructed the festival-goers in the rectification of their faults, thereby offering to relieve them from all types of “ignorance, wickedness, and intemperance.” Yet he found that the people of Greece were far more interested in finding a doctor to take care of their teeth, eyes, or any other diseased part of the body, rather than the ailments of their souls (8.5–8).93 Our last model is classical rhetoric, a genre central to imperial-era education, and one that provides important paradigms for later Greek orators’ frank speech. In the second century CE, Aelius Aristides, the rhe-to-r and devotee of Asclepius, takes it upon himself to defend rhetoric against Plato’s accusations of superficiality and mendacity. He does so in two speeches that are each so lengthy it seems inconceivable for anyone to deliver them without divine assistance, much less the ailing orator who was currently practicing incubation at the temple of Asclepius in Pergamon (Orations 2, 3).94 Like so many other authors of the era, he engages with the philosopher’s Gorgias, with its famous opposition between rhetoric and truth-telling, along with analogies between these modes of speaking and (respectively) the arts of cookery and medicine. By attempting to reconcile the image of orators like Demosthenes with the ideals of Platonic philosophy, Aristides seeks not just to correct the Platonic prejudice against rhetorical niceties (drawing upon the earlier attempts of Isocrates to establish a philosophia of truthful rhetoric),95 but also to counter a widespread post-classical narrative about philosophy’s monopoly on serious frank speaking, which was rooted in the image of the philosopher as an outsider to power structures. A sophistic rhe-to-r, by contrast, is often presented as an insider to both local and imperial power, and therefore someone incapable of presenting it with a substantial challenge. However, these roles are open to manipulation, and the distinctions between them often do not stand up to close scrutiny.96 As we will see in subsequent chapters, not only do the prominent figures of this era draw on both traditions, but “philosophical frank speaking” is just as much a rhetorical strategy as any other claim of parrhe-sia.97 Aristides inserts himself into this contest in To Plato: In Defense of the Four, using Demosthenes as evidence that rhetoric ought to fall under the broader category of “philosophy” (3.678) and arguing more generally in this speech and in To Plato: On Rhetoric that the great classical orator’s relationship with the Athenian public did not amount to flattery or pandering.98 This claim is of course not just a defense of Demosthenes, but an apologia for the whole rhetorical tradition and particularly for Aristides himself as its culmination, an image reinforced in the Sacred Tales by the god’s encouragement and approval

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of his literary ambitions. We can also see the importance of Demosthenes as a personal model for Aristides when the author recounts how the great Athenian statesman praised the candor of the orators who preceded him. Among these men, Demosthenes singled out the “freedom and frankness” of Pericles, who thus provided a paradigm for his own frank speech toward the de-mos (3.506–7).100 As a result, when Aristides lays claim to parrhe-sia on the model of his famous predecessor, the very act of modeling oneself after an older orator’s parrhe-sia also becomes a form of imitatio Demosthenis (512). Demosthenes gained his imperial-era reputation for frankness in no small part because he explicitly characterized himself as a frank speaker in a number of his speeches.101 In fact, the prooimia of his speeches are particularly notable for their apologetics about frank speaking, using a rhetorical figure known as prodiortho-sis in which the speaker apologizes in advance for any offense he might give and ostentatiously requests the privilege of speaking frankly.102 For instance, in the Third Philippic Demosthenes begins by requesting tolerance of his parrhe-sia (1–5). He employs a similar tactic in both forensic and deliberative speeches when he asks his listeners to grant him parrhe-sia in the middle of his speeches.103 As we will see, later speakers such as Dio Chrysostom take a cue from Demosthenes’ use of this tactic in order to frame their own speech as frank and helpful, while also emphasizing their risk taking. In keeping with the importance of Demosthenes as a model of both rhetorical skill and frankness, encomia of him begin to appear during this time and continue to be produced into the Byzantine period and beyond.104 I will focus here on the elements of encomium prefigured in Plutarch’s Life of Demosthenes and on the Encomium of Demosthenes attributed to Lucian,105 both of which evaluate Demosthenes in terms that are consistent with Aristides’ accounts. For instance, Plutarch characterizes him as the orator who stood up to the willful pleasure-seeking of the Athenian masses with the greatest boldness (14) and gained fame after a lackluster start in public speaking “by his speeches and his parrhe-sia” in his resistance to Philip II, something that impressed even the Macedonian king himself (12). Likewise in the multilayered Lucianic Encomium, the narrator, a great admirer of Demosthenes, claims to record others’ opinions about his superior frankness toward the Athenian public (7) and his uncompromising stance toward the power of Macedon. In fact, the narrator even goes so far as to transcribe a supposed excerpt from Macedonian royal records, in which Antipater expresses his regret at Demosthenes’ suicide because he would have liked the late statesman to have been his counselor. The Macedonian ruler justifies this view by citing Demosthenes’ reputation for “speech coming from free judgment” (ἐξ ἐλευθέρας γνώμης … λόγου) and “truth-loving advice” (φιλαλήθους συμβουλῆς), as distinct from the kind of flattery he typically hears (42). Antipater bolsters his case by calling upon the positive opinions of such prominent figures as Aristotle and even Philip, who reportedly insisted that the orator was the only thing standing between him and conquest of Athens (33–41).106

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Parameters A note on periodization and the parameters of the study: chopping up time into eras is a fraught process and imports assumptions that are sometimes unhelpful or even misleading, while distracting from continuities with preceding and following ages. Nevertheless, books need limits, and I can only acknowledge the contingency of those I have adopted. My study focuses on the “long second century” CE usually assigned to the so-called Second Sophistic (when defined as a period rather than a style of declamatory rhetoric from that era, though these temporal parameters are also due largely to Philostratus’ Lives of the Sophists).107 Put another way, I am drawing on material from the reigns of Nero through the Severans, though the majority of the texts I examine come from the Flavian dynasty through the Antonines, with more than a few glances back to the classical and Hellenistic Greek eras. One reason why the earlier empire is a particularly fruitful period for an investigation into parrhe-sia is because of the emperors’ greater investment during this time in civilitas (that is, the symbolic performance of the role of citizen rather than all-powerful ruler, a model first established by Augustus), which seems to have incentivized at least the appearance of tolerance toward frank advice.108 In this chapter, I have emphasized the centrality of classical Athens to the inherited models of parrhe-sia for imperial-era authors. While this is the time (and place) to which such writers overwhelmingly look for their self-definition in relation to the past, as Bowie notes in his study of imperial declamation (Bowie 1970),109 there are also continuities to be found between the prose writings of the Hellenistic period and those on which I focus, as can be illustrated by the importance of kairos in frank speaking (where it is equivalent to good judgment with regard to context). This connection is recorded in an early reference to parrhe-sia attributed to Democritus,110 but it becomes a prominent theme only in the post-classical world, in authors like Polybius, Diodorus Siculus, Philo, Josephus, and Plutarch, who discuss it with reference to relationships of unequal power (especially though not exclusively in dealings with kings), in marked contrast to the egalitarian ideology of classical Athens.111 In addition, due to the importance of the Greek term parrhe-sia to my study, I have focused on authors writing in Greek, regardless of their place of origin or Roman citizenship status. For the same reason I give only minimal attention to philosophers writing in Latin, such as Seneca, whose De Beneficiis (for instance) would certainly repay comparative study. Questions of freedom of expression in Tacitus, Pliny, or Suetonius are also only peripheral to this book. Nor do I give much space to the Roman satirical tradition, though it too has areas of overlap with my project. Furthermore, this book makes very little use of Christian material. This is because there seems to me to be a more serious rupture in the development of a specifically Christian understanding of parrhe-sia as a form of honesty in one’s relationship with

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God, perhaps influenced by the term’s idiosyncratic use in the Septuagint. As a result, when previous studies have treated imperial-era parrhe-sia as an intermediate stage on the way to Christian parrhe-sia, they have often ended up distorting non-Christian uses of the term to fit this teleological interpretation, resulting in an over-emphasis on ethics and insufficient attention to politics. Exceptions can be found in some early Christian texts, such as Acts of the Apostles and select Pauline Epistles, where the term parrhe-sia and related frankness vocabulary align with usage in the majority of early-imperial non-Christian texts. However, these works often seem to be motivated by markedly different concerns, especially in the case of Paul’s letters.113 On the other hand, speeches by later non-Christian Greek orators like Themistius and Libanius (both writing in the fourth century CE) show continuities with second-century traditions (and problematics) of frankness, offering an intriguing avenue along which to extend this project in the future.114

Overview This discussion has touched on a number of problems connected with parrhe-sia and the broader concept of frankness, highlighting tensions inherent in practicing an anti-rhetorical rhetoric. Frankness is a widely accepted value, and because of this it can also be a tool for self-promotion. Does every claim to frank speaking entail self-promotion? And do self-promotional references to frankness by definition undercut the speaker’s self-presentation, revealing him as a charlatan? In other words, are there degrees of ingenuousness, or must frankness be pure (perhaps impossibly pure) in order to be real? Likewise, if a speaker appeals to his audience’s acceptance of frankness, does the potential flattery in such a statement automatically undermine his ethical position? And how much does the content of speech matter when judging its frankness? What precisely is the relationship between speaking frankly and telling the truth? Can we distinguish between “genuine” performances of frankness and “mere” performance? Might an author deliberately style himself as using counterfeit frankness, and if so why? These are questions to which I will return at various points in this study. In the remaining chapters of the book, I will examine distinctively postclassical reconceptualizations of the frank speaker, then address the practical political significance of parrhe-sia in the imperial era, before showing how satirical writings bring together the themes of the preceding chapters. Chapter 2 will lay out the transformation of frankness from a privilege sanctioned by status to an act that determines status, further developing the notion of performance introduced in chapter 1. No longer do citizenship and its associated attributes of freedom and masculinity (nor other elements of high status like noble birth and wealth) guarantee the ability to speak frankly. Instead, frankness enables speakers to enact and demonstrate true freedom, true masculinity, true nobility, and true wealth. While closely connected with developments in post-classical ethical philosophy,

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the manipulation of these concepts is nevertheless also political, in that controlling definitions is a means of claiming a more valid authority than the type belonging to worldly powers. The next three chapters discuss the most important contexts for frank political speech in Greek texts of the Roman imperial period. Chapter 3 examines frank speech toward monarchs, including Roman emperors. There are two ways of addressing a ruler frankly in imperial-era accounts: one can speak in the advisory style or the oppositional style, and each has its particular rhetorical advantages. A person taking up the advisory role uses pedagogical frankness toward the more powerful man, thus claiming intellectual and ethical authority over his ruler/pupil. At the same time, this alleged relationship with the monarch allows the advisor to play up his connections to (and superiority over) worldly authority before other audiences. Because the advice of such a man is implicitly critical (since it would otherwise be unnecessary), his self-presentation compensates for this threat to the ruler’s mastery by emphasizing his own benevolent attitude and the advantages he offers to the receptive advisee. In turn, the ruler can benefit from the mere appearance of listening to philosophical advisors because such acceptance of parrhe-sia proves him to be a true, good king instead of an illegitimate tyrant. The oppositional style of frank speech can likewise test a monarch’s character by revealing the limits of his tolerance, but it seems just as often to aim primarily if not solely at articulating the freedom of the speaker (in keeping with the self-determinative notion of freedom outlined in chapter 2). Chapter 4 addresses the place of frankness in imperial-era demotic politics. It demonstrates the parallels between orators’ rhetorical construction of their relationships with large civic audiences and their interactions with kings. Selfstyled public advisors like Dio Chrysostom emphasize their goodwill, the benefits they can offer, and their unique willingness to risk telling the audience unwelcome truths (by contrast with other speakers’ failure to use pedagogical frankness). Criticism is also implicit in this advice, motivating speakers to manipulate their listeners’ responses by presenting them with a choice analogous to that of the monarch: they can prove that they are good by accepting critiques, or they can reveal themselves as a de-mos tyrannos. Yet these speeches are distinct from those directed toward kings in the greater attention the speaker gives to promoting the value of his advice. In doing so, civic orators argue that personal ethics and especially the capacity for selfcontrol enable local self-governance by allowing citizens to maintain order and thus avoid Roman military intervention. In chapter 5, frankness between civic elites is set against the same background, but the focus shifts to oligarchic elements of civic governance, that is, the very people on whom Roman authorities relied to keep the peace in the empire’s eastern cities. In Plutarch’s How to Tell a Flatterer from a Friend, the delicacy necessary for frank critiques among local elites reflects the blurring of friendship and politics among the bouleutic class, as well as the increased social stratification of these cities even among elites. Because

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of the latter development, some of the techniques suitable for the education of monarchs are also useful in dealing with one’s other social superiors. Flattery in particular seems an inevitable outcome of personal interaction between unequals, and, just as in the king’s court, it is the opposite of didactic frankness because it makes its target worse rather than better. But for elites, as for anyone else, confronting a more powerful and preeminent man is dangerous, hence Plutarch’s advice to find a middle path between obnoxiousness and obsequiousness. Finally, chapter 6 shows how Lucianic satire synthesizes these various themes but also provides an ironic distance from them. Not only do these satirical writings turn their distorting lens on the various contexts for frankness within imperial-era society as well as on the classical models that influence later Greeks, but they also call attention to satirical frankness itself. These self-referential discussions of parrhe-sia set up a competition between the author and other cultural authorities (especially philosophers) over the legitimate inheritance of the Greek legacy of frankness. And yet, when the satirist depicts the contemporary world’s widespread failure to maintain the supposed frank-speaking ideal of the past, he himself seems vulnerable to the same attack because of his evasive self-presentation. Ultimately, however, he raises questions not just about the applicability of the model to his own time but also about its validity altogether.

Notes 1 Or. 4; on its date, see Moles 1983a. This speech is discussed further in ch. 3. 2 Diog. Laert. 6.43; Plut. Adulator 70c–d; Exil. 606c; Arr. Epict. Diss. 3.22.24. 3 My approach to the concept of frankness thus resembles that of Romilly 1979 to the concept of douceur, albeit applied to a much narrower time frame. 4 Figured speech is discussed further in chs. 2 and 3. 5 The issue of directness as a form of figuration is broached at [Dionysius] Ars 9.351–53 (probably from the second century CE); see further Heath 2003, esp. 92, 100–2. 6 Cf. Papademetriou 2018, analyzing parrhe-sia as similarly performative but doing so through the lens of “pragmatics,” an approach closely related to speech act theory albeit differing in its focus on communicative goals. 7 Foucault 2001, 15–17; 2011a, 56–57, 61–71; 2011b, 12–14, 233–34. 8 This element of parrhe-sia is articulated by Mallan as a matter of speaking “contrary to the will of the sovereign body (be it the populus/δῆμος, the Senate, a general, or an emperor)” (Mallan 2016, 260). See also Landauer 2012 for a political science perspective. 9 See esp. Palm 1959; Bowersock 1969; Bowie 1970; Elsner 1992; Woolf 1994; Swain 1996; R. R. R. Smith 1998; van Nijf 2000; Goldhill 2001b; Whitmarsh 2001a; König 2005; Konstan and Saïd 2006. Cf. however, more localized approaches to identity in Elsner 2001; Whitmarsh 2010; Andrade 2013; and more universalizing ones in Richter 2011. Theories of performativity laid out in Goffman 1959; Butler 1990; 1993 have been particularly influential on scholars who have taken up the themes of identity performance and the discursive construction of the self in the Roman empire (among monographs, see e.g. Gleason 1995; Gunderson 2000; 2003; Whitmarsh 2001a; M. Jones 2012; Andrade 2013).

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10 Both the prevalence and the limits of this ideological structure are addressed at Whitmarsh 2001a, 5–20; 2005, 13–15. 11 This scene is discussed further in ch. 3. 12 The only notable distinction in Plutarch is the greater emphasis on martial parrhe-sia in the Roman lives. On Romans as a third category, see Swain 1996, 68, 350–52. Cf. the attempt of Dionysius of Halicarnassus to assimilate Romans into the category of Hellene, while acknowledging some barbarian influence (esp. AR 1.5.1, 89.1–90.1); see further Wiater 2011. On the contrast between these “method[s] of accommodating Rome’s power,” see Swain 1996, 140, 161; and see also Preston 2001 for a consideration of these issues in Plut. Quaes. Rom. 13 This terminology is set out at 67, 130. 14 Konstan 1995; 1996a; 1996b; 1996c; 1997a, esp. 93–121, 140–42; 1997b. It is worth noting that Konstan 2004, 21–22 acknowledges the political relevance of oppositional frankness in the Roman empire, by contrast with most of his work on parrhe-sia. See also Hunter 1985, 488; Gallo and Pettine 1988, 21–22; Konstan et al. 1998, 3–5; Papademetriou 2018, 34; Aubert-Baillot 2019, 451–52. The posthumous publication of Foucault’s lectures on parrhe-sia (esp. Foucault 2001; but also Foucault 2005; 2011a; 2011b; 2016) has also played an influential part in keeping this narrative in circulation, as discussed below. 15 Cf. however, Mallan’s (2016) chapter on parrhe-sia in Cassius Dio. Further scholarship on ancient free and frank speech includes Wirszubski 1950; Momigliano 1951; 1971; Hülsewiesche 2002, 103–17; Sluiter and Rosen 2004b; Baltussen and Davis 2015b. On classical Athens specifically, see Raaflaub 1980; Spina 1986; Monoson 2000; Saxonhouse 2006; Markovits 2009. 16 While scholars have frequently looked to Homer and the exclusion of Thersites to think about questions of free speech in a pre-democratic context, the radical democracy is nevertheless the standard against which they tend to analyze it; see e.g. Bonner 1933, 67; Momigliano 1973, 257; Spina 1986, 13–24; Raaflaub 2004a, 44–45; Saxonhouse 2006, 1–10. 17 Various damning assessments are discussed at Gleason 1995, xvii–ix; Whitmarsh 2005, 6–7. 18 On the Hellenistic world, see e.g. Davies 1984, 290–315 (although cf. 315–20 on religion); Gauthier 1993, which carefully avoids fully accepting or rejecting the decline model and emphasizes local variation; Gruen 1993; Ma 1999, 150–74, 214–28; Billows 2003, esp. 209–14. On the principate, see Sartre 1991, esp. 126– 33; S. Mitchell 1993, 198–217; Alcock 1997; Salmeri 2000, 69–76; Ma 2000, 117– 22; Millar 2006, 106–35; Salmeri 2011; Zuiderhoek 2017, 80–82. On later antiquity, see P. Brown 1978, 27–53 (with reference also to the Antonine era); 1992; Cameron 2001, in response to Liebeschuetz 2001. 19 Despite Foucault’s efforts to distance his work from such a schema (Foucault 1986, 41–43, 81–83). For other variations on this view of the Roman imperial period, see e.g. Veyne 1987 on the growing centrality of family life; Toohey 1988; 1990; 1992 (all of which is reworked in 2004, 15–131) on loss of political agency as leading to greater “interiority” and even depression. Cf. Swain 1997, 1–22 arguing that greater attention is given to the individual in this era, though he disputes the theory of an ethical turn and focuses instead on the emperor’s monopolization of “external power” as increasing the import of the few remaining avenues for elite competition (especially in the earlier part of the empire). 20 Cf. Foucault’s earlier work on the construction of the subject as a function of discourse, which takes a much more pessimistic view of human agency, e.g. at Foucault 1996, 432–49. For his later views on subjectivity, see also Foucault 2005; 2016. 21 This interconnectedness of self-control and control over others is formulated most succinctly at Foucault 1985, 72–77.

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22 A more extended critique on this point can be found at Swain 1999, 89–90. 23 Cf. Foucault 1986, 88: “the political structure of the city and the laws with which it is endowed have unquestionably lost some of their importance, although they have not ceased to exist for all that, and … the decisive elements reside more and more in men.” 24 As Foucault notes, his discussion of parrhe-sia in politics is really a digression on the way to his main interest in “the ancient history of practices of telling the truth about oneself” (Foucault 2011b, 8). The tensions created by the influence of the depoliticization model are apparent, e.g. at Foucault 2011a, 340: “With the Platonic moment … we see what happens when the main part of parrhesiastic practice no longer takes place on the political stage … but in philosophy. I do not mean at all – and we must be very clear about this – that parre-sia [sic], truthtelling disappeared from the field of politics.” 25 See e.g. Gleason 1995; Schmitz 1997; Whitmarsh 1998; Schmitz 1999; Connolly 2001a; 2001b; Elsner 2001; Whitmarsh 2001a; 2005; Andrade 2013. 26 Among writings of post-colonial theory, Bhabha 1994 has been particularly influential on the study of later Greece through its conceptions of cultural hybridity, mimicry, and ambivalence. The “New Historicist” outlook is cautiously summed up by Whitmarsh as follows: “it emphasizes simultaneously the grounding of literary texts in political and socio-economic materiality, and simultaneously the constitution of power and identity primarily through ‘literary’ (or at least symbolic) modalities that require thoughtful and attentive unpacking” (Whitmarsh 2001a, 31); see further Gallagher and Greenblatt 2000; Greenblatt 2005. 27 Cf. Swain 1996, 88, declaring that we should think of the literary production of the age not just as a “cultural phenomenon” (as suggested by the title of Anderson 1993) but rather that we should “read it in political-ideological terms, while shying away from connotations of ‘political’ that are too active” (though this clearly does not exclude practical political engagement by the era’s authors, as evidenced by the rest of Swain’s volume). 28 Adding that “power is everywhere, not because it embraces everything, but because it comes from everywhere” and “is produced from one moment to the next, at every point, or rather in every relation” (Foucault 1978, 92–93). See also Foucault 1979a. 29 See e.g. Alcock 1997; Elsner 1997; 2001; and see also Whitmarsh 2013, acknowledging these issues. Such discussions of resistance seem often to be an outgrowth of older debates about “Romanization;” cf. Comaroff 1985; Scott 1986; 1990, depicting resistance as comprised of mundane power struggles that are both symbolic and material. 30 Cf. Foucault’s interview with Lucette Finas, where he describes “a politics” as a second-order form of power relations, that is, a strategy for enforcing other power relations across the broader “political field” of all such relations (Foucault 1979b, 67–75, esp. 71–72). 31 For parrhe-sia as a practice of the self, see esp. Foucault 2001, 101–33; 2005, 366– 99; 2011a, 43–45; 2011b, 86–91. On lived truth, see e.g. Foucault 2005, 327: “The aske-sis is what enables truth-telling—truth-telling addressed to the subject and also truth-telling that the subject addresses to himself—to be constituted as the subject’s way of being.” For a critique of Foucault’s ethics as overly aestheticized, see Hadot 1995, 206–13. 32 Foucault 2001, 103. These lectures at Berkeley were delivered in English. On the theme of political parrhe-sia toward a monarch, see also Foucault 2011a, 46–47; 2011b, 57–64. 33 On free cities, see further ch. 4 with n59. 34 A prominent exception is Athens during 317–307 BCE, a period in which Demetrius of Phaleron served as the city’s governor under the authority of Cassander. See further Habicht 1997, 53–66.

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35 On depoliticization, see also A. H. M. Jones 1940, 170–91, esp. 182; de Ste. Croix 1981, 300–25. 36 For a recent overview of debates around the efficacy of post-classical assemblies, see Zuiderhoek 2017, 80–82, who credits them with a more active part in civic politics than has often been allowed. On imperial-era institutional politics, see further Salmeri 2011. 37 Cf. the theoretical interchangeability of citizens in Athenian radical democracy, implied by the choosing of jurors, council-members, and some other officeholders by lot and reinforced in the rhetoric of the civic funeral oration (Loraux 1986). 38 These criteria include mistreating one’s parents, throwing away one’s shield in battle, shirking military duty, wasting one’s paternal estate, or prostituting oneself, and, as scholars have noted, the openly stated purpose of this law (at least as it is represented in a number of forensic speeches) was to prevent the corrupt and the wicked from addressing the community, on the assumption that such people would not give helpful or trustworthy advice to the city. See further R. W. Wallace 1994, 114; Saxonhouse 2006, 95–96. 39 In comparing this with classical Athens, it is worth noting we cannot know to what degree elites dominated the Athenian Assembly in practice. 40 For advisors to kings, see ch. 3. For discussion of inequality and advisory relationships among local elites, see ch. 5. 41 As noted by Konstan 2012. And cf. the observation of Baltussen and Davis that parrhe-sia in the ancient Greek world “was both political and social” [emphasis theirs] (Baltussen and Davis 2015a, 6). 42 See further ch. 2. 43 Cf. also Bacch. 775–76. 44 Cf. Isocrates’ argument for a return to the restricted “democracy” of Solon and Cleisthenes, as a time when the citizens were not taught to mistake insolence (akolasia) for democracy, lawlessness for freedom (eleutheria), frankness (parrhe-sia) for equality (isonomia), and license (exousia) for happiness (Areop. 20). 45 Raaflaub 2004b, 221–25. Similar discussion of parrhe-sia’s relationship to ise-goria, as well as the term’s extension beyond the institutional setting of the Athenian Assembly, can be found at Momigliano 1973, 259–60; Scarpat 2001, 35–36. . . 46 For a recent discussion, see Jazdzewska 2015. 47 E.g. at Isoc. Areop. 20. See further Roberts 1994, 66–86; Ober 1998, 156–289. 48 See Momigliano 1973, 260; Scarpat 2001, 35; Raaflaub 2004b, 221–25. 49 As Schlier notes, even in the classical era parrhe-sia had several interrelated “shades of meaning,” one of which he identifies as “stating the actuality of things, so that there is a close relation to truth,” along with the right of speaking out and oppositional speech (Schlier 1967, 872–73). And for the debate over whether parrhe-sia was a right in classical Athens, see Finley 1983, 83, 92–93; Carter 2004; Raaflaub 2004a; Saxonhouse 2006, 86–88; Konstan 2012. A related larger question pertains to whether it is even justifiable to talk about rights in an ancient Greek and Roman context; see Finley 1983, 77–94; Mulgan 1984; Hansen 1996; Ostwald 1996; R. W. Wallace 1996; Ober 2005, 92–127; Cartledge and Edge 2009; Carter 2013. 50 See e.g. Eur. Or. 902–6. 51 See further R. W. Wallace 1994, 110; Halliwell 2004; Saxonhouse 2006; Tarnopolsky 2010, 89–113. 52 See e.g. Dem. Phil. 2.31. 53 See Montiglio 2000, esp. 116–22, 127–32, as well as 281–86 on the ideological connotations of silence in classical Athens. See also Sluiter and Rosen 2004a, 8– 11 on the relationship between attitudes toward parrhe-sia in the classical period and ideas about speech in general.

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54 See e.g. a fictional letter composed by Alciphron, in which a city-slicker son urges his country-dwelling mother to visit him in Athens for the first time, closing with this apology: “Please, Mother, tolerate parrhe-sia that is in your own interest (συμφέροντι); it is good to communicate with all men without concealment (ἀνυποστόλως), but most of all it is necessary to speak the truth (ἀληθίζεσθαι) toward our kin” (2.37.3) (and on the controversial dating of Alciphron, see Hunter 1983, 105 n55, with further references). See also Dio Chrys. Or. 77/78.45, recommending parrhe-sia toward one’s “dearest and nearest” (φιλτάτοις καὶ ἐγγυτάτω) as well as toward oneself, for the sake of driving out diseases of the soul. Cf. Aristotle where the main motivation for using parrhe-sia toward comrades (hetairoi) and brothers is not to benefit them but as an expression of one’s equality with them, in contrast to the unequal relationship between parents and children (Nic. Eth. 9.1165a). 55 Cf. however, the Epicureans, who share their frankness only within closed communities of the like-minded, as depicted in Philodemus On Parrhe-sia; see further Konstan et al. 1998. 56 See also Plat. Sym. 212e–213a, 222c. 57 For longstanding connections between wine, truth, frankness, and intimacy in the ideal Greek symposium, see Rösler 1995. And on Athenaeus, see the essays in Braund, Wilkins, and Bowersock 2000. 58 Quoting Theognis 500; Alcaeus fr. 366 Voigt. 59 Kairos conveys both the urgency of the situation and the inappropriateness of insulting Octavian at such a time. 60 Likely composed in the first quarter of the third century; for a recent review of debates over dating, see Gleason 2011, 37 n12. On Cassius Dio, see further ch. 3. 61 Quintus Fufius Calenus was a tribune of the plebs aligned with Clodius (Cic. Att. 1.16), a legate under Caesar in multiple campaigns (Caes. Gal. 8.39; Civ. 1.87, 3.8, 26, 56), and finally a consular ally of Antony (Cic. Phil. 10). 62 However, I am less certain than Mallan (2016, esp. 258–69) that Calenus’ speech undermines the very notion of public-spirited frankness (though I acknowledge Dio’s seeming skepticism about the value and feasibility of “democracy,” as discussed in ch. 3). 63 On the tensions between truth and rhetoric specific to imperial-era historiography, see Asirvatham 2017, esp. 478–81. 64 For a review of the traditional antipathy between philosophy and rhetoric and a survey of its elaboration in the empire, see Lauwers 2015, 15–124. Perceived hostility between philosophy and comedy can be traced to Plat. Apol. 18a–19d, singling out Aristophanes for misrepresenting Socrates; on Plato’s complex relationship with comedy, see further Prauscello 2013. Though the predominant tensions in the imperial era are between philosophy and rhetoric as rival modes of paideia, even authors who present themselves as committed partisans of one or the other frequently reveal the influence of both in their works. 65 See e.g. Dio Chrys. Or. 13; Luc. Bis Acc.; M. Aur. Med. 1 and Epp., though, as scholars have shown in relation to Dio, we should not necessarily take such narratives at face value (Moles 1978; Whitmarsh 2001a, 158–60). Accordingly, the image of a stark opposition between rhetoric and philosophy is suspect too in that it redounds to the self-promotion of the supposed convert. 66 See e.g. Radin 1927; Halliwell 1984a, 86–87; Sommerstein 1986; Heath 1987, 24– 28; Halliwell 1991; J. J. Henderson 1998, 260–67; Trevett 2000; Sommerstein 2004a; 2004b, 159–67; Hartwig 2015. 67 See esp. Hor. Ars 281–84. An exceptional Greek source from the second century CE is Ael. Ar. Or. 3 (To Plato: In Defense of the Four). Halliwell 1991, 55–56 collects the sources, but treats the inclusion of the phrase μὴ ὀνομαστὶ κωμῳδεῖν at Ael. Ar. Or. 3.8 as a scholion (presumably because it is found in only one

26

68

69

70

71 72

73

74 75 76 77 78 79 80

Frankness and post-classical politics manuscript, a Photian excerption with 13th-century marginalia and corrections, on which see Lenz and Behr 1978, xlvi). The phrase ὀνομαστὶ κωμῳδεῖν does however recur at Ael. Ar. Or. 3.631, with (it seems) a more reliable manuscript tradition (though it should be noted that this is a reference to an avoidance rather than a prohibition). On the performance of Athenian-style satirical comedy in the Roman empire, see Behr 1968, 95 with n5; Peterson 2015. Cf., however, Plut. Adulator 71d. Aristophanes himself makes the claim in Ach. (in the character of Dicaeopolis, 370–82, 496–519; in the parabasis, 628–32). See further Atkinson 1992; Sommerstein 2004b; and cf. Rosen 1988, 63–64, 78–79, arguing for the fictitiousness of this account and attributing it to literary convention as part of Old Comedy’s iambic inheritance. Halliwell challenges the validity of this representation of Aristophanic satire (see esp. Halliwell 1984a; 1984b; 1993, 335–39), but it is undoubtedly this characterization of Aristophanes that we see most frequently in the imperial period. For a contemporary critique of the view that comedy is useful and educational, cf. Ael. Ar. Or. 29 (Concerning the Prohibition of Comedy); on Aristides’ reception of comedy, see further Vix 2016. Mala carmena (literally, “bad songs”) were potentially a capital offense, according to the Twelve Tables, though there is disagreement even among ancient sources as to whether it is magic or slander that is being prohibited; see further Rives 2002. On republican-era censorship broadly defined, see Fantham 1977, esp. 43–45 disputing the existence of a libel law; and on ancient censorship in general, see Finley 1973, 142–72. Censorship of drama at Rome is reconsidered by G. Manuwald 2015. For Horace, see esp. S. 1.4.1–5, where he lauds the libertas of Eupolis, Cratinus, and Aristophanes, and locates in them the origins of Lucilius’ frankness, though elsewhere he insists upon the Latin origins of Roman satire (e.g. Ep. 2.1.145–55); on the fraught genealogy of satirical libertas in Horace, see further Feeney 2002, 181–82; S. M. Braund 2004, 413–18. For Persius, see 1.107–25, likewise framing his self-fashioning as an incisive truth-teller with reference to Old Comedy. Libertas and licentia (and the tension between the two) are central themes for Roman satire and as such have an extensive bibliography of their own. For overviews, see Freudenburg 1993, 52–108; 2001, esp. 3–4, 44–51; S. M. Braund 2004; Miller 2012. Athenae cum florerent aequis legibus, | Procax libertas civitatem miscuit | Frenumque solvit pristinum licentia (prosaically: “While Athens flourished under its egalitarian laws, impudent freedom mixed up the social order and insolence [frank speech?] loosened traditional restraint” [1.2.1–3]); cf. Aesopica 44, which has no such narrative frame. As Trapp (1995, 174) notes, Dio’s assumption of the comic poet’s role is underlined by his use of comic quotation at 32.16, 23. Cf. Plut. Adulator 68b–c for a similarly skeptical judgment on the efficacy of comic critique. On Dio’s reception of comedy in these two speeches, see further Hawkins 2015, arguing for the author’s adaptation of the parabatic mode. See Heath 1997; Olson 2010, disputing the seriousness of Aristophanes’ political advice. Cf. the similar notion that philosophy inherited the role of criticism from comedy in Dio Chrys. Or. 33 (discussed by Hawkins 2014, 194–206). See e.g. Cass. Dio 47.43.1 on Philippi. Other words used to translate parrhe-sia into Latin are licentia, candor, and simplicitas, none of which neatly matches the semantic range of parrhe-sia. On libertas as a political term, see Wirszubski 1950; Momigliano 1951, 146–49; Bleicken 1972; Brunt 1988, 281–350; Raaflaub 2004a, 54–58 (pointing out the

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81 82 83 84

85

86 87

88 89

90 91 92 93

94

95

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elite connotations of libertas). Of course, by the second century, libertas had long been taken over as part of the ideological language of the Principate: Augustus himself uses the term in Res Gestae, and the purported new libertas of Trajan’s reign is promoted in literary works of the age, esp. Tac. Hist. 1.1; Ag. 3.1 (and on Trajanic ideology, see further Whitmarsh 1998, 200–3). On this connection in Lucian, see further ch. 6. Ael. VH 14.33; Diog. Laert. 6.54. For what little we know of Maximus, see Trapp 1997, xi–xii; I have used title translations from the same volume. On Apology, see Hunter 2012, 109–50; for other recent discussions of the importance of Plato to imperial Greek literature, see the contributions to Morgan and Jones 2007; Fowler 2017. For the reception of the figure of Socrates, see the essays in Trapp 2007a. As rebuking (oneidizein) (29e–31a, cf. 41e–f) and telling the truth (17a–b, 20d, 24a). Cf. Xen. Apol., which can be read as demonstrating parrhe-sia but does not make a theme of it. And cf. also Max. Tyr. 18, “What was Socrates’ erotic science?” (esp. 4–6, which contrasts Socrates’ admirable frankness with Homer’s blameworthy type in depicting the sex lives of the gods, and defends Socrates against charges of inconsistency and hypocrisy with a new apologia that makes direct reference to his trial). See further ch. 3 n31. On the reception of Diogenes and Cynicism more generally during the Roman empire, see Niehues-Pröbsting 1979; Billerbeck 1982; Goulet-Cazé 1990; Branham and Goulet-Cazé 1996a, esp. 12–18; Billerbeck 1996; Griffin 1996; Krueger 1996; Trapp 2007b. For a systematic history of Cynic philosophy, see GouletCazé 2017, with a brief discussion of parrhe-sia at 417–18. On the organizational rationale of this work, which should be understood in the context of other massive compendia of knowledge in the empire, see Warren 2007, arguing that it traces a systematic genealogy of philosophical successions. For these anecdotes, cf. Dio Chrys. Or. 6.16–20; and on Diogenes and shame, see Long 1996a, 34–35; Branham 1996, esp. 96–104. When texts identify non-verbal boldness as parrhe-sia, the absence of shame often seems to be a key conceptual link (e.g. at Charit. 3.7.4; Ach. Tat. 1.5.6). Besides those discussed here, see esp. [Diogenes] Ep. 29 (esp. 5); Dio Chrys. Or. 9 (passim but esp. 2, 4); Luc. Vit. Auct. 8; Arr. Epict. Diss. 4.1.115–18; Diog. Laert. 6.30, 36. Also encapsulated in Diogenes’ description of his methods: “Other dogs bite the ones they hate, but I bite the ones I love, so that I may save them” (Stob. 3.13.44). This contrast between types of spectatorship is brought out even more strongly in Or. 9 (esp. 1–2), which shares the setting and themes of Or. 8. See also Diog. Laert. 6.4, 6 on Antisthenes. The idea of the philosopher as the physician of the soul is also found in Stoic philosophy (e.g. Seneca, Musonius, Epictetus), and even the Epicurean writings of Philodemus, as well as Platonists like Plutarch and Maximus of Tyre. On the Cynics see Höistad 1948, 118–19; Kindstrand 1973, 147–48; 1978, 381–82; Billerbeck 1978, 137. On the Stoics, see Billault 2002, 461. On this metaphor more generally, see Luchner 2004, 126–70; Malherbe 2014, 124–29. On Aristides’ literary output and relationship with the god Asclepius, see Whitmarsh 2004a; Petsalis-Diomidis 2006; the contributions in Harris and Holmes 2008; Petsalis-Diomidis 2010; Israelowich 2012; Downie 2013. And on his responses to Plato, see Pernot 1993a; Flinterman 2001; 2002; Dittadi 2008; 2016. See esp. C. Soph.; Antid.; these works are referenced at Ael. Ar. 3.677–78. On philosophia in Isocrates, see further Livingstone 2007.

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96 The seminal work presenting sophists as insiders vis-à-vis imperial power is Bowersock 1969, which notes however that the decisive separation of sophists from philosophers within this milieu is difficult (11–12); see also Gleason 1995, 131–32, and cf. Stanton 1973, 350–58; J. Hahn 1989, 46–53, 86–99; Brunt 1994, 39–43. Ultimately, it seems most profitable to approach the distinction between outsider-philosopher and insider-sophist largely as a matter of rhetorical stance. 97 Cf. Branham 1996, identifying Diogenes’ parrhe-sia as a form of rhetoric. 98 See also Or. 2.186, where he acknowledges that an orator must choose his approach in order to make his audience as receptive as possible to his arguments, but insists that this does not put the speaker in a servile position nor require him merely to gratify the audience (though the passage he cites in support, Dem. Olynth. 3.3, merely illustrates that an orator who acknowledges the need for flexibility in communication can also use parrhe-sia). Aristides’ Platonic speeches (including also Or. 4, To Capito) use a further tactic connected with frank speech, namely accusing Plato himself of both malicious dishonesty and hypocrisy. 99 See esp. HL 4.14–20, 59–62, recounting dreams in which Asclepius urges Aristides not to give up rhetoric during his illness, while the god and others compare him favorably with Demosthenes. 100 Referencing Olynth. 3.21; cf. the more critical discussion of this passage at Plut. Dem. 14.2. 101 On the importance of Demosthenes to this period, see Rutherford 1992; C. Cooper 2000; Pernot 2006, esp. 61–97. 102 In De Figuris Alexander uses one of Demosthenes’ references to parrhe-sia to illustrate this figure (and notes that there are many more instances in his speeches) (14.25–15.4 RG). Demosthenes was also known to use amphidiortho-sis, a defense made at the same time as one says something that might be considered offensive (15.20–16.8). 103 See Pant. 55 and Phil. 2.31. 104 See further Harding 2000. 105 On the question of authorship, see Rutherford 1992, 373 n71, with further references. 106 Demosthenes’ suicide is also a source of glory in that it is motivated by a desire to maintain his “freedom” and avoid “enslavement” to the Macedonians (46); for Demosthenes as democratic martyr, cf. [Hdn.] De Figuris 97.8–17. While its picture of Demosthenes is conventional (at least on the surface), the Encomium provides a glaringly revisionist view of Antipater, which hints that the work should not be taken in earnest; cf. Habicht 1997, 40–41 on the deaths of Macedon’s enemies after Athens’ failed revolt in the Lamian War. For a reading of the whole work as satirizing imperial-era Demosthenes worship, see Pernot 2006, 88–89. 107 Recent discussion of the problematics of periodization with regard to the Second Sophistic can be found in Whitmarsh 2017, as well as in many other contributions to Richter and Johnson 2017. 108 Of course, this does not mean that all earlier emperors complied, nor that there was a definitive break point after which these ideas ceased to be relevant; on the latter point see e.g. P. Brown 1992, 65–69 for the parrhe-sia of court philosophers in late antiquity. On civilitas, see further Wallace-Hadrill 1982. 109 There are, however, important exceptions, especially among non-declamatory works such as Plutarch’s Parallel Lives. 110 DK 226: “parrhe-sia belongs to liberty, but recognizing the right time [to use it] is fraught with danger” (οἰκήιον ἐλευθερίης παρρησίη, κίνδυνος δὲ ἡ τοῦ καιροῦ διάγνωσις). 111 E.g. Polyb. 2.8.9–12, 11.4.8–10, 21.18.3–10; Diod. Sic. 15.6.1–5, 17.30.1–6, 80.1–4; Philo Quis Her. 5; Josephus AJ 16.27, 101, 338, 379–86; Plut. Adulator passim but esp. 68c; Regum 175b; De Exilio 606c; Brut. 34.5; Aem. 23.6. See also Arr. Anab.

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4.12.7; App. BC 5.42; Ath. 14.620f–21b; Hdn. 1.9.2–6, many of which are discussed at other points in this study. In light of recent scholarship making the case for Josephus’ place within the mainstream of imperial Greek literature, I regret that I did not give more attention to his writings at an earlier stage of this project’s development; see C. P. Jones 2005; Kim 2017, 48; and esp. Almagor 2016. 112 See Momigliano 1973, 262; Scarpat 2001, 89–126; Papademetriou 2018, 27–34. On translation from Hebrew, see Schlier 1967, 875–79; Weiss 2016, esp. 6–10, arguing in addition that the relevant Jewish and Christian traditions later diverged in marked ways. For another reading of these differences, see Foucault 2011b, 325–38. And cf. P. Brown 1992, esp. 116–17, 135, 139–41, arguing that the oppositional style of early monks and bishops vis-à-vis imperial power owes much to older models of philosophical parrhe-sia. 113 Consider the revolutionary spirit of Ephesians 6, where Paul urges spiritual warfare against other-worldly authorities using expressions such as “leaders” (ἀρχάς), “powers” (ἐξουσίας), and “the universal rulers of this darkness” (κοσμοκράτορας τοῦ σκότους τούτου; cf. LSJ s.v. κοσμοκράτωρ 2 for the term’s application to the emperor and other grandees); or the realignment of values at Philippians 3, where he declares that the things he viewed as “gains” (κέρδη) before he came to knowledge of Christ he now considers not just “a loss” (ζημίαν) but “excrement” (σκύβαλα). The letters provide a stark contrast with the conservatism of Dio Chrysostom’s civic orations, in which he promotes self-control not just for its own sake but also to prevent Roman intervention in Greek affairs (an outcome equally in the interest of Roman authorities, as discussed in ch. 4). And while letters like 2 Corinthians (esp. 10–13) or 1 Thessalonians (esp. 2) share key elements of Dio’s rhetoric, concerned as they are with Paul’s authority and his self-presentation as a helpful critic (on which see G. A. Kennedy 1984, 92–95, 142–43), the stakes for their audiences are widely divergent, as the apostle’s parrhe-sia aims at promoting nothing less than eternal transcendence in Christ. As Malherbe (2014, 67) puts it, “to point out that Paul had the same practical concerns as Dio, and that he used the same language in dealing with them, does not imply that he understood these words to mean the same thing they did in Dio.” Likewise, in Paul’s rejection of worldly powers he superficially resembles Greek philosophers, but I would argue that his reversal of conventional values (e.g. in embracing the role of a slave) is a more radical development than the intellectualization of elite qualities I discuss in ch. 2. On the other hand, points of overlap have long been recognized between Philostr. VA and Acts, though important differences remain, as I will touch upon in ch. 3. And for Greek philosophers as a model for Acts more generally, with special emphasis on parrhe-sia, see Alexander 2002. 114 See P. Brown 1992, 61–70; Vanderspoel 1995, 7–23 (touching on questions of authenticity); Heather and Moncur 2001, 4–8, 232; Quiroga Puertas 2015, esp. 292–94.

2

Speaking freely

In a satirical dialogue written by Lucian of Samosata in the second century CE, the lifestyles associated with various philosophical schools are represented by caricatures of their founders or most famous proponents and auctioned in the manner of slaves. Diogenes of Sinope, the Cynic introduced in chapter 1, stands out among these figures. He is a self-described “prophet of truth and frankness” (ἀληθείας καὶ παρρησίας προφήτης), and is paradoxically advertised for sale as “free” (ἐλεύθερον), in addition to being “manly” (ἀνδρικόν) and “aristocratic and noble” (ἄριστον καὶ γεννικόν). When an interested customer worries that purchasing a man so unjustly enslaved would result in a charge of kidnapping, Hermes (acting as auctioneer) reassures him: “It means nothing to him to be sold, for he believes that he is absolutely free” (οὐδὲν αὐτῷ μέλει τῆς πράσεως· οἴεται γὰρ εἶναι παντάπασιν ἐλεύθερος) (Sale of Lives 7–8).1 What is more, Lucian’s version of Diogenes offers this same inalienable freedom to those who adopt his ascetic way of living. As he tells his potential master, he would take away all the man’s worldly comforts and would have him endure hard labor, sleep on the ground, and throw his money into the sea. He would also strip him of the ties to family and country fundamental to his social identity. Yet in this impoverished and isolated state, the newly converted Cynic would consider himself “happier than the Great King” (9).2 Diogenes also offers the prospective buyer advice about gaining a reputation as “courageous/manly” (ἀνδρεῖον): “you should be reckless and bold, and speak abusively to everyone one after another, both kings and commoners” (ἰταμὸν χρὴ εἶναι καὶ θρασὺν καὶ λοιδορεῖσθαι πᾶσιν ἑξῆς καὶ βασιλεῦσι καὶ ἰδιώταις) (10). This satirical portrait of Diogenes reduces the ideal of philosophical and especially Cynic freedom to a collection of clichés, catchphrases, and superficial performances, all of which are for sale to the highest bidder. At the same time, however, it exemplifies the longstanding association between frank speech and attributes like freedom, masculinity, and high birth, while also illustrating the philosophical appropriation of these qualities. This chapter will trace out the post-classical intellectual developments that turned these conventional markers of status into characteristics of the wise man, calling

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attention to the key role of parrhe-sia in the manipulation of these concepts. First, however, it is important to recognize that the longstanding view of status as determinative of ethics paves the way for these realignments. The assimilation of noble qualities with noble birth is traceable in aristocratic ideology as far back as the poems attributed to Homer and Theognis, in which the supposed natural superiority of elites underpins socio-political hierarchy.3 Likewise, even within the relatively egalitarian society of classical Athens, a free man was understood to be naturally superior to children, slaves, and women, especially in his character.4 In fact, citizenship in a democratic city confers a type of in-group status on all free, adult, native-born males that is analogous to (and rooted in) aristocratic exclusionism.5 It makes sense, then, that parrhe-sia in the classical period is associated with both citizenship and more restrictive varieties of status differentiation, as we will see illustrated in Euripides shortly. Later, when philosophers manipulate freighted categories like nobility and manliness, redefining them as qualities belonging only to the wise man, they turn the existing ethical connotations of status into their sole determinants. Parrhe-sia plays a central role in the creation of such ethically oriented identities, becoming a practice that is not simply dependent on status but also determinative of one’s place in relation to others. Factors like masculinity and legal freedom are no longer prerequisites for frank speech, but rather frankness itself enables a speaker to be noble, manly, and free. And yet, the more traditional and more transformative versions of concepts like freedom, high status, and masculinity continued to exist side-by-side into the Roman imperial era, often in the same authors.6 This chapter will therefore examine both continuities with the more conventional understandings of such attributes, and the distinct ways in which these concepts were manipulated in connection with frank speech in the imperial world, following from adjustments that began to gain prominence in intellectual culture during the Hellenistic period.

Elites and insiders In classical Athenian politics, parrhe-sia was commonly understood to belong to the class of insider most salient to a democratic society, the citizen.7 Despite the grousing of Plato and Demosthenes about the uppityness of non-citizens, slaves, and even animals in the democratic polis,8 the link between parrhe-sia and citizen privilege is illustrated, for instance, in the famous exchange between Polyneices and Jocasta in Euripides’ Phoenissae regarding the loss of frankness that accompanies exile from one’s polis (c.410 BCE), though, as David Konstan has recently argued, Polyneices’ expectation of license may also arise from his high status (Konstan 2012, 4).9 Other uses of the term in Euripides’ corpus raise further doubts that citizenship is sufficient to sanction frank speech. In Ion (413 BCE), when the title character thinks he has found his long-lost father, he prays to find his mother as well and expresses hope that she is an Athenian, “so that I might

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Speaking freely have parrhe-sia from my mother’s side. For if some stranger falls upon a homogeneous city, even if he is nominally a citizen, he possesses an enslaved mouth and does not have parrhe-sia” (672–75).10 A much-discussed passage from another Euripidean play complicates things further. In Hippolytus (428 BCE), Phaedra declares her intention to commit suicide rather than seduce her stepson, so that her misdeeds will not taint her children (421–25), “but rather as free men flourishing with parrhe-sia may they inhabit the city of glorious Athens, enjoying a good reputation on account of their mother. For it enslaves a man, even if he is bold of heart, when he is implicated in the evils of his mother or father.”11 While these plays resonate with the logic of Pericles’ citizenship law of 451/450 in their treatment of women as conduits for citizen privileges,12 they also suggest that something beyond citizenship is required to ensure the full privilege of speaking one’s mind. Because Euripides provides nearly all of our fifth-century attestations of parrhe-sia,13 it would be dangerous to generalize from these examples. At the very least, however, they show how the ability or willingness to speak frankly is tied to other criteria for insider status. Texts reflective of aristocratic ideology such as the Theognidea celebrate high birth as the source of true nobility and look down upon mere wealth, though both were recognized sources of elite status as far back as Aristotle.14 In the imperial era, we have evidence that both were also understood to confer greater privileges of speaking out than were allowed to people of lower status and means. The role of a speaker’s wealth in allowing him to say what he wishes is underlined in Artemidorus’ second-century CE handbook of dream interpretation, which reports that dreaming of a properly shaped tongue is auspicious, but “to be unable to speak or to be tongue-tied (τὴν γλῶσσαν δεδεμένην) signifies lack of success as well as poverty. For poverty also takes away frankness/freedom of speech (παραιρεῖται γὰρ καὶ τὴν τῶν λόγων παρρησίαν ἡ πενία)” (1.32).15 According to the backwards logic so prevalent in dream interpretation, speechlessness is a sign of poverty because the poor typically cannot speak frankly. Likewise the second-century grammarian Diogenianus explains the proverb “silver fountains babble” with reference to the unfettered speech of the rich even when they are apaideutos (“uneducated/uncultured”).16 The corpus of Plutarch also attests to the importance of eugeneia for the exercise of frankness.17 The Plutarchan On the Education of Children begins by suggesting that a man ought to be careful in choosing the mother of his children, since the first step to ensuring one’s offspring are well brought up is guarding their lineage from the taint of low birth. This is important, he explains, because “noble birth is a fine treasure house of parrhe-sia” (καλὸς οὖν παρρησίας θησαυρὸς εὐγένεια) (1a–b).18 Lives of the Ten Orators, also dubiously attributed to Plutarch, draws a similar conclusion when describing Lycurgus as “a frank speaker on account of his good birth” (παρρησιαστὴς διὰ τὴν εὐγένειαν) (842d). And yet, these passages are ambiguous: is the source of frank speech cultural (that is, a privilege connected with status) or is it

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natural, a matter of the superior ethical judgment that follows from high birth?19 In the end, it does not especially matter that we cannot pick these threads apart, because, by the logic of aristocratic ideology, they are inseparable. Parrhe-sia on this view is not simply protected by high birth but rather the natural consequence of eugeneia along with its attendant privileges.20 Despite the persistence of these more conservative elitist views, another tradition developed in parallel to them, which was centered around ethics and turned these conventional status categories on their heads. The Hellenistic period saw a widespread and systematic manipulation of value-laden terms such as eugeneia (“high birth”), eleutheria (“freedom”), and andreia (“courage/manliness”). Even wealth, though less unambiguously exalted, was available for reinterpretation, as we will see. Philosophers of this era contended that the words’ true meanings were grounded in ethical practice (aske-sis). Rather than deny the importance of elite identities, however, these intellectual developments provided ways to claim more valid versions of them, bolstering the categories themselves while changing the qualifying criteria. For this reason, their teachings can be viewed as simultaneously conservative and radical: society has elites, just not the ones traditionally held to be such. At the same time, an element of democratization is present in the philosophers’ emphasis on ethical self-determination. Although this project reached its zenith in the post-classical world, the Cynics, Stoics, and other ethical philosophers who contributed to it were actually extending work begun by Socrates. That philosopher’s desire to access the truth by clearing away false opinions and unreflectively received traditions led him to question the conventional values of both democratic and aristocratic ideology.21 While the Socratic rejection of wealth as a value coincides with elements of the snobbish aristocratic attitudes discussed above, it is distinguished by its emphasis on environment and training rather than birth as the sources of ethical goodness (as emphasized in Plato’s Republic, especially Books 2–4 and 6–7). We can therefore find in the classical era the seeds of later conceptual manipulations, illustrated by Socrates’ declaration about the triviality of wealth, as preserved in Stobaeus: “Just as it is possible for a man wearing a dirty cloak to be in good physical condition, it is likewise possible for a man living in poverty to speak frankly” (ἔστιν ὥσπερ τρίβωνα ῥυπαρὸν ἀμπεχόμενον εὐεκτεῖν, οὑτωσὶ καὶ βίον ἔχοντα πενιχρὸν παρρησιάζεσθαι) (3.13.64). This statement provides further evidence, if needed, that the poor were conventionally held to lack frankness, but it does so in the very act of delegitimizing that view. And such developments were not isolated within philosophical circles. We find a similar viewpoint in a fragment from an unknown comedy by the fourth-century playwright Nicostratus (said to be the youngest son of Aristophanes), which calls parrhe-sia “the weapon of poverty” (τῆς πενίας ὅπλον), continuing: “if anyone loses this, he has thrown away the shield of his life.”22 We can get a better sense of what is at stake here when we contrast this martial imagery with the metaphor of the treasure house from [Plutarch]: while elites must guard their privileges, the poor man needs frankness because he has nothing else to protect himself.

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Speaking freely

During the Roman empire, this philosophical tradition continues with the impoverished, dirty, and shameless Cynic, who stands on street corners directing abusive frankness at all comers.23 In the second century CE, Appian puts into the mouth of the archaic Roman general Fabricius words that could just as easily belong to a contemporary Cynic; rejecting bribes from Pyrrhus of Epirus, he declares, “none of your friends nor you yourself, king, will take away my parrhe-sia. I consider my poverty more of a blessing than the wealth of tyrants if accompanied by fear” (Samnite Wars 10.13).24 But the most well-developed discussion of poverty and frankness in this era comes from Lucian’s Timon. This work tells the story of the famous Athenian misanthrope, who discovered buried treasure but initially rejected the windfall because he had been so badly treated the last time he had wealth. He claims that poverty is preferable because it taught him about the nature of his (real) wealth, “which a flatterer could not take away with his toadying, nor a blackmailer by fear, nor the de-mos when worked up into a rage, nor an assembly member by voting, nor a tyrant by his plotting” (Timon 36). While the protagonist is not a philosopher, his language echoes the manipulation of conventional lowness that is found in the more Cynic-tinged writings and lectures of the Stoic Epictetus. This connection is reinforced by Timon’s description of his impoverished life as “the happiest manner of living” (eudaimonestata) (39), which is only enhanced by the necessity of “most manly labors” (36).25 It should be unsurprising then that Timon is labeled a bold (thrasus), troublesome (ochle-ros), and frank speaker at the beginning of the work, when he is still poor.26

Exile Timon’s words are also significant because they closely echo a quote attributed to Epictetus about the legal privilege of parrhe-sia connected with citizen enfranchisement (fr. 36): Truth (ale-theia) is an immortal and eternal possession, and it does not provide us with a beauty that fades with time, nor a parrhe-sia that can be taken away by the court (δίκης), but rather with what is just and lawful (τὰ δίκαια καὶ τὰ νόμιμα), distinguishing the unjust from these things and refuting it (ἀπελέγχουσα). It is only those who are aware that they have nothing meaningful to lose who are truly free to speak out, and the wise man’s first task (before teaching others) is to realize that he cannot be harmed by deprivations of body, political status, or personal dignity.27 This sort of thinking deeply informs imperial-era reevaluations of citizenship and its loss due to exile. Not only can philosophers reject the significance of exile, labeling it “indifferent,” as Epictetus does,28 but being exiled can actually benefit a philosopher. It affords him opportunities to act consistently with his ideals and provides

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evidence that he has been exercising properly philosophical frankness toward those in power – aided by the intolerance of “bad” Roman emperors like Nero and Domitian.29 The many philosophical reinterpretations of exile produced during the empire show that this line of thought is not limited to any particular school but becomes part of the broader discourse of philosophically oriented pepaideumenoi. In these texts we will see how parrhe-sia helps transform exile from a type of social death into a philosophical badge of honor.30 While several authors of this period discuss exile, the Stoic Musonius and the Platonist Plutarch each give special attention to parrhe-sia.31 These authors engage directly with a famous exchange from Euripides’ Phoenissae, in which Polyneices complains to his mother that the exile has no parrhe-sia (390–93): What is it like? What is difficult for the exile? One thing most of all: he does not have parrhe-sia. JOCASTA: You tell of the lot of a slave, not to say what one thinks. 32 POLYNEICES: The folly of those stronger must be borne. JOCASTA:

POLYNEICES:

In their responses to this passage, both philosophers take pains to correct the view that exiles lack parrhe-sia, updating its characterizations of banishment and frankness for their own time, which saw large-scale expulsions of philosophers from the imperial capital (and sometimes all of Italy) but also afforded greater safety and mobility to exiles than had existed before. Musonius Rufus, known as the Roman Socrates, lived in the first century CE and left no writings, but, like his student Epictetus, one or several of those who studied with him preserved his teachings.33 Among these works is a brief consolation for banishment bearing the title “That exile is not an evil.”34 It makes the case that banishment imposes a more manly, philosophical life and disputes both Polyneices’ claim that the exile has no parrhe-sia and Jocasta’s assimilation of this state to slavery. A very similar discussion is found in the treatise On Exile by Musonius’ contemporary, Plutarch (605f–6d). Both men argue that freedom is not simply saying whatever one wants whenever one feels like it, correcting Euripides by pointing out that a free man often chooses to restrain himself in keeping with the occasion. Both also use Diogenes as a paradigm of frank speech to demonstrate the exile’s ability to speak frankly. According to Musonius, who relates many of the Cynic’s adventures, including exile in Athens and being sold into slavery, he was the frankest man of his time. In fact, Diogenes’ exilic parrhe-sia seems to be the only example necessary besides the author’s (p74, 9–13). By calling attention to his own banishment from Rome by Nero, Musonius claims authority on the matter of exile, while also offering himself as a paradigm of philosophical bravery for his friend to follow (p74, 13–19).

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Plutarch, on the other hand, has no personal experience of banishment to call upon and uses a wider range of anecdotes to exemplify the exile’s parrhe-sia. These stories focus almost exclusively on the frankness of famous exiles toward kings despite the vast power disparity between them, showing how the greater salience of monarchy in the post-classical world has shifted the conception of appropriate contexts for parrhe-sia.35 By taking Euripides’ portrayal of the miseries of exile, with its Athenian democratic overtones (despite being voiced by royal Thebans), and transferring it to a world where monarchs have long been the dominant political figures, at least beyond the local level, Plutarch calls attention to the diminished importance of citizenship as a basis for frank speech. Yet like Musonius, he avoids passing explicit judgment as to whether things have changed for the better or the worse, leaving it up to the reader to weigh the balance of cosmopolitanism and autocracy.36 As we have seen, Musonius and Plutarch largely contest the validity of the sentiments in Phoenissae in the same ways. With viewpoints informed by the context of the Roman empire in the latter half of the first century CE, both treat parrhe-sia not as a formal privilege tied to a specific locality, but rather as a matter of choice to be exercised wherever one finds oneself. Thus these works illustrate the shift between Euripides’ day and the authors’ own toward an internalized determination of status. At the same time, this multiplication of the frames of reference for frankness should not be taken to reflect a depoliticization of the concept (as discussed in chapter 1); instead, the self-determination upon which these imperial-era writers put so much emphasis foregrounds the simultaneously ethical and political dimensions of their discourse.37

Slave speech As the previous discussion illustrates, frank speech and freedom are intricately intertwined. Of all the value-laden terms connected with parrhe-sia, freedom undergoes the most thorough and elaborate set of reinterpretations, partly due to its longstanding conceptual ties to frankness,38 and partly because the free man is such a fundamental social category. Freedom is one of the most basic forms of elevated status in a slave society and gains further significance as a prerequisite for other status categories like citizenship. Furthermore, because of the ubiquity of slavery in ancient Greek and Roman society, the imagery of the slave as the opposite of the free man plays an important role in the conceptualization of other kinds of domination and compulsion from at least the fifth century BCE.39 During the imperial period, differentiation between slave and free status still underlies the understanding of freedom, while at the same time the metaphorical uses of the idea expand to encompass both political self-rule and ethical selfmastery. Yet even in the classical era eleutheria had a more rarified meaning, beyond non-enslavement or even political independence, which elites applied

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to themselves, namely independence of livelihood. This manipulation shows that such value-laden terms had long attracted contestation over their “real” meaning (hence the further abstraction eleutherios, “characteristic of a free man,” which comes to mean “generous”).40 Those who promote an internalized understanding of freedom from the fourth century BCE onward are merely taking such reinterpretations in a new direction. As the sense of eleutheria expanded to encompass not just legal status but also other dimensions of personal, political, or ethical freedom, it maintained strong associations with frank speech. The Roman holiday of Saturnalia reinforces the slave’s normal lack of license by throwing it into relief. This festival inverted the usual order of things, allowing slaves a yearly opportunity to exercise their masters’ rightful frankness (and, in fact, to exercise it against their masters). In the Deipnosophistae of Athenaeus, an early third-century CE compendium of antiquarian learning in the form of a series of dinner parties, the narrator describes the Thessalian festival of Peloria, which he claims is a Greek forerunner of Saturnalia: “slaves, reclining on couches with the utmost parrhe-sia, feast while their masters wait on them” (14.640a). In the Life of Sulla, Plutarch likewise records the story of former slaves fighting in the army of Mithridates at the battle of Chaeronea, who showed a boldness “unnatural” (παρὰ φύσιν) for freedmen. On witnessing this display of unslavish courage, a Roman centurion quips that “he thought slaves took part in parrhe-sia only at Saturnalia (ἐν Κρονίοις)” (18.5–6). Setting aside the centurion’s connection of parrhe-sia with bold action as well as bold speech,41 both these discussions of frankness on Saturnalia (vel. sim.) articulate slaves’ lack of the inalienable freedom that (ideally) characterizes citizens.42 For the very reason that these holidays provide exceptions to the prevailing power relations in society, they do not systematically change them, as is the case with the medieval and early modern Carnival (hence the view that Saturnalia is one antecedent of the later festival).43 Slavery also provided a powerful metaphor for an individual’s personal freedom. We find this illustrated in Aelian’s second-century CE compendium On Animals, where the incompatibility of parrhe-sia and slavery is illustrated in stories of talking birds.44 The specialness of these speaking animals is emphasized with the introduction of the parrot, in a discussion of the parks attached to the royal residence in India. On these grounds tame birds such as the peacock live, while others, including the parrot (psittakos/sittakos), are “free and un-enslaved” (ἐλεύθεροι καὶ ἀδούλωντοι). The Brahmins consider this bird sacred due to its capacity for speech and therefore all Indians abstain from eating it (13.18). While the attributes of speech and freedom exist sideby-side in the description of the parrot, an even closer connection is drawn between them with another type of bird, the attage-n or black francolin, which repeatedly enunciates a single phrase in recognizably human speech “much more clearly and articulately than a child.” If such birds are captured, they refuse to voice any sound (pho-ne-), because “their servitude and confinement

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decree silence” (ἡ δουλεία γὰρ αὐτῶν καὶ ἡ κάθειρξις καταψηφίζεται σιωπήν). However, if they are let go and regain the eleutheria of their wings, they simultaneously recover their voice (phthegma) and its parrhe-sia (15.27). A more detailed and violent variation on this theme appears shortly thereafter, in the description of yet another talking bird from India called the cercio-n (usually understood as the mynah).45 This bird too pronounces human-sounding speech, but it can also produce a wider range of utterances than the attage-n and is even “more talkative and more intelligent” than the parrot (16.2–3). And while parrots are iconic for the realism with which “they produce a human-sounding voice” (φθέγγονται φθέγμα ἀνθρωπικόν) (16.2), the cercio-n stands out for its indomitable spirit as much as its talkativeness: “It does not happily endure being kept/fed (τροφήν) by men, but in its yearning for eleutheria and its longing for parrhe-sia in the style of its own community (κατὰ τὴν συντροφίαν), it prefers starvation over slavery accompanied by luxury (τρυφῆς)” (16.3). Using a common pun based on the phonetic similarity between trophe- (nourishment) and truphe- (decadence), Aelian assimilates dependence to a state of opulent slavery.46 The plight of the cercio-n, like the stories of other talking birds, ultimately articulates the necessity of freedom for the exercise of parrhe-sia.47 The cercio-n chooses death over life in captivity, but what implications, if any, do these stories have for humans and their use of parrhe-sia? Talking birds belong most properly to fables, where their anthropomorphic qualities provide lessons for human behavior.48 Likewise, Aristophanes’ Birds uses avian politics to comment on contemporary Athens. In Aelian, however, the birds are in fact talking as birds, yet their speech is somewhere between animal and human, judging by the two terms used to describe their imitation of human language: pho-ne-, which usually refers to the speech of men, and phthegma, which often (though not always) refers to animals’ wordless cries.49 However, in a further complication, this phthegma is described as “human-like,” anthro-pikon, a label that simultaneously conveys the birds’ resemblance to humanity and excludes them from the category of human.50 This evasive classification of the birds’ speech only makes it more difficult to interpret the birds’ cherished freedom and frankness. Though there seems to be no overt political motive in Aelian, the cercio-n in particular resonates with the famous political and philosophical suicides of the early empire, which were especially prominent in the reign of Nero but which maintained an association with tyrannical emperors in general.51 More generally, these bird stories illustrate the existence in nature of a preference for freedom (thereby justifying that found in human society),52 as well as establishing a correlation between the ability to speak and a strong desire to maintain the power to say what one wishes.53

Political freedom and frankness Besides slavery’s value for exploring questions of speech and personal freedom, it is also a dominant metaphor in discussions of political freedom, as we

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can see from a couple of examples that show us frankness as a means of asserting one’s freedom from the tyranny of the mob or from individual despots.54 The first type plays a part in Aelius Aristides’ Or. 2 (To Plato: On Rhetoric), which argues against Plato’s famous allegation in Gorgias that the orators of classical Athens had to flatter the masses due to the latter’s power in the radical democracy.55 Aristides counters this view by presenting rhetoric as a tool of the weak whereby they can escape the domination of those stronger (esp. 206–11), thus aligning his account of persuasion with both the Hesiodic image of justice in Works and Days and a more general post-classical conception of parrhe-sia as directed toward the relatively powerful by the relatively powerless. At the same time, however, Aristides connects the orator’s putative flattery with slavery. By drawing on the association between frank speech and freedom, he insists that the political orators of classical Athens could not have been slaves to the common people (called ple-the-, de-moi, and ochloi), for the very reason that they used parrhe-sia as public speakers (187–88).56 In contrasting these orators with the city’s real public slaves, he demonstrates how limits on the speech of actual slaves colored the political understanding of freedom and its opposites.57 In a similar way, Cassius Dio’s history of the late republic attests to the ideological significance of a politician’s frankness when it aims to check the excessive power of an individual, as we saw in his account of Cicero in chapter 1. Even though Calenus disputes that the orator’s attacks on Antony are really noble parrhe-sia, and Dio himself seems to have been skeptical about the viability and value of “democracy” (his term for Roman republican governance), it is because of the continued understanding of frankness as a bulwark of political freedom that Cicero is able to pose as the last remaining defender of freedom and democracy through his frank speech (46.16.4).58 By contrast, On the Sublime, a mysterious text attributed variously to a certain “Dionysius Longinus” and to “Dionysius or Longinus,” explicitly raises questions about valorizing frankness and freedom in this way, particularly within the political environment of the Roman empire.59 In the last extant section of this seemingly fragmentary text, “one of the philosophers” is quoted as suggesting that a lack of political freedom has resulted in contemporary writers’ failure to produce truly great and transcendent literature (44). He claims that the absence of democracy, with its general atmosphere of freedom and the competition built into its public institutions, makes for a state of metaphorical servility, which the speaker compares in detail to the existence of an actual slave. Special emphasis is put on the slave’s lack of parrhe-sia, and, while this critic of contemporary society never explicitly attributes a stifling of parrhe-sia to Roman imperial domination, the suggestion is present in the mention of flattery (kolakeia) and the hints at a master–slave relationship (particularly in the expression “rightful slavery,” δουλείας δικαίας). This interpretation is summarily dismissed, however, by the narrator (whom we may as well call Longinus). In response, he defends the pax romana (ἡ τῆς οἰκουμένης εἰρήνη) and declares Greek culture’s slide toward

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moral turpitude to be the real cause of literary decline. Yet slavery remains the dominant theme. Instead of political slavery, it is slavery to greed and pleasure that is the source of cultural decay. In fact, as Longinus adds at the end of the remaining text, perhaps it is better for a civilization so lacking in self-control to be ruled (that is, the reader is led to assume, by the unnamed Romans) than to be free.60

The philosopher’s freedom The end of On the Sublime dramatizes the reinterpretation of freedom as a matter not of political independence but of ethical self-mastery, a viewpoint strongly associated with philosophy in the Roman empire (though, with some irony, it is the literary critic rather than the philosopher who offers this view).61 That text also helps us to see how the personal and political conceptions of freedom can shade into the ethical one. We might think of Aelian’s cercio-n with its rejection of luxury in preference for freedom – or death, if freedom is impossible.62 Or we could compare Lucian’s satire On Salaried Posts, where philosophers working in prominent Roman households sell their vaunted eleutheria in the hope of attaining the very luxury (truphe-) and pleasure (he-done-) that they are supposed to scorn as ascetics (esp. 7–8). While a self-determined or internalized understanding of freedom is not limited to philosophy in stricto sensu, as we will soon see, philosophers played a large role in its articulation and dissemination. Imperial-era works dedicated to the real meaning of freedom and slavery include Philo of Alexandria’s Every Good Man is Free (the lost counterpart to which addressed the bad man’s true enslavement)63 and Dio Chrysostom’s two essays titled On Slavery and Freedom (Orr. 14–15).64 One of our most important sources for this development is the set of lectures attributed to the Stoic philosopher Epictetus by his student Arrian in the early second century CE. Epictetus himself was not only born in slavery but also exiled by Domitian in a general purge of philosophers, experiences which granted him special authority on questions of status, liberty, and fortune.65 In his lectures, the philosopher speaks of the true meanings of freedom (eleutheria) and happiness (eudaimonia), saying that these are to be found in a man’s attitude toward the world and most of all in the limitation of his desires.66 This control over one’s life via control of one’s impulses is defined as true freedom because it is not determined by anyone but oneself and therefore cannot be taken away, unlike the free status of cities or the legal freedom of individuals.67 Epictetus thus privileges self-restraint (so-phrosune-) and self-sufficiency (autarkeia) over externally recognized authority,68 a version of the broader ideal of self-mastery that Michel Foucault discusses in the second and third volumes of his History of Sexuality, where he identifies it as a key component in both the ability to govern others and “the care of the self” (le souci de soi).69 Indeed, according to Epictetus’ Stoic-tinged account of Cynic philosophy, the Cynic’s task is to govern others or at least to guide them to the right

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understanding of happiness and freedom. In Discourses 3.22, a lecture devoted to Cynicism, he compares that type of philosopher to a spy or scout, reporting the truth back to the rest of humanity (23–25),70 and to a doctor whose job is “to oversee” (ἐπισκοπεῖν) the well-being of his fellow man (72–74).71 The Cynic is able to do this not because he possesses the trappings of worldly authority but because he has rejected them and risen above them, attaining a true form of kingship and mastery (48–49).72 But while conventional kings and tyrants rely on their bodyguards and their weapons for protection when they censure others, the Cynic depends only on the consistency between his life and his teachings to give him the power (exousia) to carry out his mission of parrhe-sia (93–96).73 However, by his mastery he does not dominate others but rather makes it possible for them to be free and happy, as in Diogenes’ description of himself in Lucian’s Sale of Lives as a “liberator of men and physician of sufferings/passions” (ἐλευθερωτής … τῶν ἀνθρώπων καὶ ἰατρὸς τῶν παθῶν) (8). According to Epictetus Discourses 4.1, which ultimately reconceptualizes many conventional social roles as slavery, from the flatterer to the consul, humanity needs such liberation because it is caught in all manner of abstract servitude – and in particular subjection to desire and fear.74 So far I have focused on philosophical manipulations of these value-laden concepts, but a quick detour into Achilles Tatius’ novel at this point will demonstrate that these developments are not limited to the writings or lecture halls of philosophers.75 In Leucippe and Clitophon (dating from the second century CE and perhaps even early in that century), the female protagonist Leucippe is captured by pirates and sold into slavery.76 Yet in the dramatic conclusion of one of the novel’s later books, Leucippe addresses her master Thersander, a wealthy landowner, and announces, “Though I am unarmed and alone and a woman, the one weapon I have is my freedom, which cannot be cut by lashes, dismembered by an iron sword, nor burned up by fire. This I will never part with” (6.22.3).77 Even in the position of a slave, she declares herself free and displays this freedom in her bold speech.78 It is not simply that she claims to retain her free birth despite being unjustly enslaved; rather there is something more interesting at work, which is thrown into relief by the harsh words she speaks to her captor earlier in the scene. When Thersander fails to exhibit self-control Leucippe chides him, saying “you are not behaving like a free man or a noble one” (οὔτε ὡς ἐλεύθερος ποιεῖς οὔτε ὡς εὐγενής). Instead, his actions resemble those of a lowly slave, indicating that real freedom and real nobility are a matter of ethics (6.18.6).79 Although this way of thinking about freedom is internally focused (as encapsulated in Epictetus’ warning that the most dangerous tyrant is the one within ourselves, enslaving us by means of our hopes and fears, 4.1.86–87), it should not be understood as an outright retreat from political concerns. It is a political act to assert that worldly powers actually lack meaningful authority, and we need not take the scene from Achilles Tatius entirely straight to see Leucippe’s resemblance to early Christian female martyrs,80 who likewise threatened

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conventional power structures within the family and the larger society.81 In the case of philosophers too, articulating one’s freedom by speaking frankly to those in power is a way of contesting their control. Indeed, the very contention that a private individual can determine the true definition of freedom is a denial of the “legitimate” authorities’ power to do so; such ascetic acts of resistance make it possible to lay claim to a more profound legitimacy.

Aesop’s freedom: between privilege and practice The various conceptions of the relationship between freedom and frankness, as discussed so far, converge in a fairly unlikely place: the anonymous Life of Aesop tradition. The texts grouped under this name grow out of a long oral tradition and come to us in three main recensions (Vitae G, W, and Accursiana), the parent of which seems to have been recorded in the early imperial era.82 They depict chattel slavery and manumission, the preservation of a city’s political independence from foreign domination, and a self-determined type of freedom, each of which is closely tied up with the exercise of parrhe-sia. From the very beginning of the Life, Aesop’s symbolically freighted muteness establishes connections between slavery and the inability to speak out. Yet even when Isis and the Muses83 grant him the power of speech, allowing him to outwit his masters and fellow slaves with language, this power stands at odds with a lowness that is based both in convention (his slave status) and in nature (his physical grotesqueness).84 And despite the fact that Aesop’s way with words is presented as a boon, it also leads directly to his death at the hands of the Delphians after he insults them, thus reestablishing limits on speech that suit his lowly nature. Likewise, Aesop’s medium, the fable, contains similar ambiguities to his use of language in the Vitae. Fable can be understood as cowardly and lacking in frankness due to its indirectness and multiple levels of significance,85 and yet from another viewpoint it is the only form of oppositional discourse available to those who cannot expect to be afforded license.86 The most overt declaration of the latter view within antiquity comes from Phaedrus, a fable writer of the first century CE, who characterizes fable as a means of communication especially appropriate to the unfree, since blunt criticism is a far riskier venture for a slave than for a free man.87 In fact, we might think of fable as falling under the larger category of figured speech (sche-ma and esche-matismenos logos), which conveys its meaning covertly (especially under the subcategory of emphasis, that is, “double entendre”).88 Among imperial-era authors, some privilege figured speech over parrhe-sia for interactions with powerful individuals because the former allows a speaker to avoid the extremes of self-abasement and selfdestruction.89 Yet even as such indirect communication provides a substitute for overt political speech in situations where the latter is too dangerous, its necessity also reveals a lack of freedom.90 In the same way that frankness allows a free man to define himself as such, the use of fable and other kinds of figured speech can implicate the speaker in slavishness.

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Within the Vitae Aesopi, I will focus on the episode marking the end of Aesop’s enslavement, because it both subverts and reinforces the categories of free and slave in ways that revolve around the protagonist’s use of language.91 While still a slave to the philosopher Xanthus on Samos, Aesop agrees to interpret a portent for the Samians on the condition that he is granted his freedom; only then, he says, will he be able to speak with frankness (parrhe-sia) (88–89). What is so characteristically clever about this request is not just Aesop’s scheme to attain his freedom by taking advantage of the Samians’ desire to understand the omen, but, as the narrator reports, this petition for freedom and the license to speak frankly is itself characterized by “seizing the moment of parrhe-sia” (παρρησίας λαβὼν καιρόν). This expression’s ambiguity is significant, in that it can refer to both the appropriate moment for frankness and the crucial point at which to acquire it. We are therefore faced with a paradox. Aesop uses frank speech on his own agency, but does so in order to ask for the formal privilege of candor, underlining the uncertain relationship between parrhe-sia as externally determined privilege and internally determined practice. In the act of speaking frankly to ask for his freedom, Aesop subtly undermines the monopoly on parrhe-sia that the free claim. At the same time, his request to be freed specifically so that he might speak frankly (no matter how opportunistic a ruse this may be) simultaneously reinforces the connection between slavery and restrictions on speech. Later, after Aesop gains his freedom, he does indeed decipher the omen for the Samians, and this interpretation also centers around issues of slavery and freedom. An eagle has snatched up the city seal from its place next to the registry of laws and dropped it into the lap of a public slave (81–82). As Aesop reveals, this sign indicates that a king will try to subjugate the city; he also frames this warning in language that contains several references to slavery and the desirability of freedom. He calls the bird’s actions as an “omen of enslavement” (δουλαγωγὸν τεκμήριον) and advises the Samians: “take counsel for your own freedom” (ὑπὲρ τῆς ἰδίας ἐλευθερίας βουλεύσασθε) (91). Eleutheria in this second phrase is Perry’s emendation,92 but if we accept it, the phrase seems to draw a comparison between the freedom Aesop has just won by his own plan and the soon-to-be-endangered liberty of the Samians if they do not follow his advice (and, implicitly, his example). Furthermore, Aesop elaborates that the omen represents “the sure pledge of free men” (the city seal) moved to “the dubious yoke of servitude” and can only mean that some king wishes to “enslave your freedom” (ὑμῶν τὴν ἐλευθερίαν καταδουλῶσαι) (91). He barely finishes speaking before a messenger from Croesus appears and demands tribute from the Samians, demonstrating the accuracy of Aesop’s interpretation. They once again ask him for help, this time in deciding whether to comply with Croesus, and Aesop’s response again puts a high value on freedom. He answers with a fable (logos) modeled on a passage from Hesiod’s Works and Days (287–92) and the choice of Heracles (which was a particularly popular imperial trope).93 However, in place of virtue and vice, Aesop’s story contrasts freedom and slavery, depicting freedom as a rough path to a pleasant place and enslavement as an easy path ending in a hard, narrow cliff (94).94

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The multiplicity of references to freedom in Aesop’s advice are particularly striking, coming as they do from the mouth of a man who has just received free status himself. Indeed, the implications of the original portent help explain Aesop’s request for his freedom prior to speaking: the emphasis on the value of freedom in his answer might have made his words too dangerous for a slave to utter. As he makes clear when he requests his freedom, the rules surrounding the speech of a free man differ from those applied to a slave: “allow me freedom of speech (parrhe-sia), so that if I succeed I may receive the appropriate honors as a free man, and if I fail I may be punished not as a slave but as a free man” (88). Besides alluding to different types of punishment for free and slave,95 this plea also seems to reference the fact that a slave might be beaten merely for speaking, while the privilege of parrhe-sia traditionally protects a free citizen from reprisal for speech itself (if not for the outcomes of his advice).96 When Aesop frankly requests his freedom in order to speak with parrhe-sia, he therefore reinforces the limitations on speech associated with enslavement but also preempts some of the power of the free de-mos and the master to grant parrhe-sia, making him a particularly apt figure by which to dramatize the competing understandings of frankness as status-determined and status-determinative. What is more, when he uses the indirect medium of fable after acquiring the status that should allow him frank and direct speech, he destabilizes any clear-cut binary between frankness and figured speech.97 While this text raises many of the same questions about what truly defines freedom as do the philosophical writings of the Hellenistic and Roman imperial periods, it is difficult to establish the exact relationship between philosophical ideas and the themes of the Vitae Aesopi. These texts have been considered antiintellectual and anti-elite in part because Aesop’s master, the philosopher Xanthus, is often the butt of his slave’s (and the narrative’s) jokes for failing to live up to his self-important, idealized role.98 However, this does not in itself show that the Vitae represent a popular tradition. Philosophers, especially those perceived to be hypocritical, are the objects of intense mockery in inarguably elite texts of the early imperial era.99 Other scholars have focused on Aesop’s low-culture associations as a form of resistance to elite hegemony,100 yet similarly debased personae are central to the Cynics’ philosophical practice.101 My point here is not to deny the presence of an anti-elite strain in this biographical tradition, but rather to illustrate the difficulty of drawing a stark line between popular morality and philosophy.102 Perhaps we can find, in the ambivalence of the Life of Aesop about freedom as a matter of status or a matter of practice, a parallel to the two voices scholars have long heard in the fables themselves: that of resistance to hierarchy and that of conformity to the status quo. Regardless of whether or not we consider the treatment of freedom and frankness in the Vitae philosophical in any strict sense, the work is a testament to the broad reach of these ideas.

Gender Courage is an idea closely connected with the risk taking required for the performance of frank speech, and its maleness is inscribed at a very basic

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level in the Greek language with the abstraction andreia (“manliness,” “courage”) and its various cognates. Furthermore, while not all the authors of the Roman empire engage directly with Aristotle, the natural hierarchies that the philosopher analyzes in the first book of his Politics reflect widely held beliefs about the differences between men and women, grown men and boys, Greeks and barbarians, and freeborn men and slaves.103 These hierarchies are also bound up with one another, because, in the formulation of Mark Masterson, “ancient manhood … was a structure elaborated in a dichotomous relationship with femininity and, as it was regarded as an attribute of elites, it was also in dichotomous relationships with servility and foreignness” (Masterson 2014, 28).104 While, as we will see, the male–female binary is less susceptible to post-classical reinterpretive logic, the latter categories seem more open to manipulation (at least as they are conventionally understood). This is illustrated in Diogenes’ pithy response when asked where in Greece he knew there to be “good men” (ἀγαθοὺς ἄνδρας). By answering “in Greece, nowhere, but in Sparta good boys” (Diogenes Laertius 6.27),105 the Cynic does not simply dispute the sufficiency of biological maleness for masculinity, which is already intrinsic to classical conceptions of manliness and implicit in the abstraction of andreia from ane-r (“man”).106 Instead he works against conventionally exclusionary conceptions of manliness by denying the label to elites as well, manipulating their favored self-description, agathos, which encompasses moral goodness, bravery, and noble birth. At the same time, he also twists the definition of manhood, maintaining its connection with courage while changing the criteria for what counts as courage, thereby suggesting that real adult manhood is an ethical state analogous (or, rather, identical) to that of the philosopher or sage, who, as we have seen, is also the only free man and the only king. And even if men themselves can only strive for such perfection, they certainly stand a better chance than women of approaching it.107 In this final section we will look at the maintenance of traditional associations between frankness and masculinity in the early empire along with new developments. There are occasional instances or mentions of women’s frankness in classical drama, but these seem to be exceptional, as in the sole reference to parrhe-sia in the surviving plays of Aristophanes.108 In a scene from Thesmophoriazusae the kinsman of Euripides, disguised as a woman, infiltrates a women-only religious festival in order to defend Euripides from the grievances of the female public, who claim that he has depicted women unfairly in his tragedies. In making his case for Euripides the kinsman appeals to an equal privilege of speaking with parrhe-sia among the astai (“townswomen,” a term conveying something approaching a notion of female citizenship) (541); however, the inclusion of this phrase is a joke based in part on the cross-dresser’s inability to keep up the charade, mistakenly importing these concepts from their rightful place in the realm of male experience and the public Assembly in particular. A fragment from the Middle Comic poet Alexis on the other hand openly asserts the connection

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between masculinity, freedom, and frankness at the very moment when all three are lost because the characters have submitted themselves (unnaturally, it is implied) to women. “Oh, wretched we,” says one, “having sold the parrhe-sia and the luxury of our lives, we live as slaves to women instead of being free.”109 In this passage it is never explicitly stated that frankness does not belong to women (as it is held not to belong to slaves), but instead that a man, in becoming subservient to women and thus emasculated, loses the parrhe-sia that should belong to him as a free male.110 In the imperial era, we find several explicit discussions of frankness as a manly quality. In reference to philosophers who debase themselves by courting the favor of the rich, Dio Chrysostom declares “the one who is manly and high minded towards truth would never endure such things nor would he give up his own freedom and frankness for the sake of some dishonorable ‘honor’ in the form of power or riches” (77/78.37).111 Musonius, in his work on exile, discussed above, presents a similar triangulation between masculinity, philosophic honor, and frank speech; he proclaims (p74, 4–7): For many, or rather for most, even while in their native city they live in fear of the things they believe to be terrible [which might befall them as a result of frank speech]. But the courageous man (ὁ ἀνδρεῖος), no less in exile than at home, is bold (θαρρεῖ) in the face of all such things; it is because of this that he has the courage to say what he thinks regardless of whether he happens to be in exile or not. Likewise, Artemidorus explains that dreaming of a healthy forehead with a good complexion is propitious for any man and signifies parrhe-sia and “manliness” (euandria), but a wounded or ailing forehead indicates disgrace and harm (1.23). It is unclear why exactly the forehead is the site of this signification, but there is no doubt that this passage reinforces the strong association between masculinity and parrhe-sia. Plutarch too draws on this theme in How to Tell a Flatterer from a Friend, when he labels those who speak frankly only when drunk unmanly (anandros) and cowardly (deilos), while the man who is truly noble (gennaios) and bold (tharraleos) does so when sober (implying that he is capable of reflecting on the consequences and speaks nonetheless) (68d).112 Yet despite all this emphasis on masculinity, we also see in imperial literature references to the parrhe-sia of particular women, most of which are drawn from the corpus of Plutarch. In works like Consolation to His Wife, Precepts of Marriage, Dialogue on Love, and Virtues of Women, the author distinguishes himself by showing a greater interest in and sympathy for women than can be found in most Greek texts (though, admittedly, this is not saying much). At the same time, his accounts of women are not situated so far outside contemporary norms that they should be viewed as anomalous.113 Indeed, even in Plutarch, women’s ethical and political agency is narrowly

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circumscribed; as Bradley Buszard (2010) has observed, Plutarch gives women a striking number of lengthy speeches in the Lives, but these are addressed only to husbands or other male relations and require further criteria in order to be sanctioned, namely acting solely in the interest of family members, an elite background that connects their family lives with public concerns, and a situation of desperate peril that outweighs the expectation of obedient silence. Accordingly, speech labeled as frank is permissible for women and even lauded when used toward family members and in the interest of the family, while speech that does not keep to these oikos-centric bounds provides negative exempla by violating the ideal of feminine modesty (aido-s). But at the very least, Plutarch’s accounts of women’s parrhe-sia demonstrate that it is possible to reconfigure the relationship between frankness and gender too, even if the actual incidence of such manipulation is much lower than for freedom or other citizen attributes. One of the key motivators for women’s parrhe-sia in Plutarch’s Parallel Lives is the necessity of interceding in conflicts involving male relatives. Of these stories, the most familiar to a modern reader is the rape of the Sabines.114 Plutarch relates how, during a pause in the battle between the Sabines and the Romans, the daughters of the Sabines burst forth among the men to stop the fighting (which had erupted after their capture by the woman-lacking Romans) (Life of Romulus 19). These women use a combination of frank criticism and more properly feminine “entreaty” (hikesia) to make peace between their fathers and the men they have now accepted as their husbands (and while Romulus’ Sabine wife Hersilia serves as their main spokesperson, the focus is very much on the female collective). The dominant emotion aroused by these women is pity for their plight, however, rather than shame at their accusations, and so we might infer that the entreaties with which the women ended their speech are privileged over the parrhesiastic manner in which they began. A similar instance of feminine frankness is found in the Life of Dion, where Plutarch recounts the story of Theste, the sister of the tyrant Dionysius the Elder, who fearlessly uses parrhe-sia toward him when he accuses her of hiding the flight of her husband (and Dionysius’ political enemy). When she tells him that she would have joined her husband had she known about his escape in advance, referring to this uxorial loyalty as an indication of her own andreia, she gains the admiration not only of the tyrant but of the public as well (21.7–9).115 These positive examples of female frankness have in common the indirect involvement of elite women in public affairs through their intercession with the powerful men in their families. By contrast, when women involve themselves too directly in politics, Plutarch no longer describes their parrhe-sia favorably or sympathetically. In fact, outright hostility toward women’s frankness can be found in his Comparison of Lycurgus and Numa, where he famously lauds the Roman king as the “more Hellenic lawgiver by far” (1.5). Here the author condemns the liberties enjoyed by Spartan women, comparing them with the restrictions Numa instituted. He notes approvingly that the Roman lawgiver

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“prevented them from meddling [in men’s affairs]” and “accustomed them to be silent” (3.5). Lycurgus’ policies on the other hand trained Spartan women from maidenhood in a manner that was “open and unfeminine” (ἀναπεπταμένη καὶ ἄθηλυς). Not only do these women exhibit their bodies in public (by wearing revealing tunics) but they reveal their thoughts in public as well. They are described as “too bold” (θρασύτεραι), “first of all acting as men (ἀνδρώδεις) towards their very husbands, because they rule (ἄρχουσαι) their homes absolutely, and also in public affairs they participate in judgment and frank speaking (γνώμης … καὶ παρρησίας) concerning the most important matters” (3.3–5).116 Central to such disapproval is the Spartan women’s habit of going out in the open, unrestricted in body and speech, rather than staying where they belong in the oikos (as was held to be not just traditional but natural). This ideology around gender (articulated in Xenophon’s Oeconomicus in the fourth century BCE)117 is still prominent in the Roman empire, as illustrated in Plutarch’s Precepts of Marriage, where he states that a woman should stay home unless she is with her husband (139c). Clearly, the notion of proper feminine seclusion persists tenaciously, regardless of whether or not women were so stringently confined to their homes in practice. In Xenophon we also see how the wife stands mistress over her household servants (esp. 7.35–36), but Plutarch’s Spartan women take this one step further by claiming mastery over their husbands as well.118 That this dominance is marked out as masculine only emphasizes the overturning of order in the home. In the famous formulation of Aristotle, the oikos is the fundamental building block and microcosm of the polis, so that anything out of balance in the citizens’ homes has ramifications for the collective political community.119 It makes sense therefore that these women who have outmanned their husbands also take a vocal part in public debate. In using their frankness to dominate rather than assist the men in their families and furthermore in taking their frankness outside the bounds of the oikos, they threaten to destroy and even reverse the hierarchical distinctions between women and men. The scenario in the Comparison of Lycurgus and Numa is thrown into further relief by contrasting the depiction of the Chian women in Plutarch’s Virtues of Women, who make their husbands manlier by their bold and critical speech (244f–45a). These women “reproach” (ἐκάκιζον) their husbands for agreeing to submit to the hostile Erythraeans unarmed, and urge them to show their own boldness. When the Chians heed their wives’ advice and succeed in intimidating the Erythraeans with frank speech and bold action, Plutarch notes that “they, having been taught by their women to take courage (θαρρεῖν), were saved in this way.” This paradox, in which women are both exemplars and enforcers of manly courage, provides more nuance to the stark view of women’s frankness we have seen in Plutarch so far. Even more complex is the account from the Life of Pelopidas, in which bold action grows out of the frankness between Thebe, the wife of the tyrant Alexander of Pherae, and the eponymous Theban statesman whom the tyrant has

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imprisoned. After Pelopidas surprises the tyrant with his fearlessness in speaking out against him, Thebe visits him in prison, where he draws a comparison between her subjection to Alexander and his own. Their mutual pity and repeated meetings help to develop an intimacy that leads Thebe to “tell him frankly” (παρρησιαζομένη) of her sufferings in her marriage to the tyrant, becoming angrier and angrier as she does (28). Though Pelopidas eventually dies fighting Alexander, the Life does not end there, but instead concludes with the tyrant’s assassination by a conspiracy of his wife and her brothers. While Plutarch says that victory ultimately belongs to the gods and to Pelopidas, since he was the one who taught Thebe not to fear the tyrant’s magnificence and displays of power, she receives some credit as well. Because she upbraids her brothers when they balk at the last moment, thereby inducing them to be brave and carry out the plot, the biographer concludes by acknowledging that Alexander was “the only tyrant, or [at least] the first, to be destroyed by his own wife” (35.4–12). While it is clear that women in Plutarch are themselves capable of learning boldness and using it in the public interest, the most important way their frank speech can achieve good is through the men in their lives, often by shaming them for their cowardice and spurring them on to better actions.120 Furthermore, women’s frankness is most often associated with home and family, at least most immediately, though it can occasionally extend to other intimate relationships. At the same time, when women claim authority over men at home, they appropriate the masculine role, and this is even more true when they extend their frankness into public matters. We can conclude that, although masculinity in the ancient world tends to be treated as a quality that must be demonstrated by men via displays of self-control and courage in the face of danger, the rigid ideology around gender does not allow for a complete constructivist reversal (comparable to that around freedom or status) by which women could lay claim to masculine characteristics in a positive way. Exceptions occur, but only in very limited circumstances, despite the developments of (relatively) egalitarian ideas in some philosophical schools.121 Only when women’s frank speech is circumscribed by the oikos and the interests of the family does it gain the approval even of Plutarch, a writer widely considered to be among the most sympathetic toward women in antiquity. In this way gender illustrates the limits of the re-orientative way of thinking on which this chapter has focused. As this chapter has shown, the valid use of parrhe-sia in the imperial era maintains long-established connections with insider status. In the context of the classical Athenian democracy, the most salient type of insider is a citizen. Yet classical sources such as Euripides also attest to the importance of other kinds of privilege for ensuring the ability to speak one’s mind, and these factors continue to grow in importance as the term parrhe-sia spreads from democratic Athens into more socially stratified societies. At the same time, the attributes of privileged persons, namely freedom, high birth, wealth, and masculinity, become increasingly open to contestation via

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redefinition in the post-classical world. Philosophical discourse in particular offers alternative ways to conceptualize value-laden terms like freedom (eleutheria) and nobility (eugeneia) so that they are determined by one’s outlook and conduct rather than a matter of conventional status. By this way of thinking, speaking frankly does not depend on externally recognized qualities but instead displays and even produces truer versions of these same attributes in the speaker. Yet even this ethical self-determination has its limits; while masculinity, though ideally elite, can become an ethical category open to non-elite men, making speaking out a means of bolstering one’s masculinity, such opportunities are not afforded to women in the same way or to the same degree.

Notes 1 This premise may originate from a now-lost satire, “The Sale of Diogenes,” attributed to the Hellenistic Cynic Menippus of Gadara (Diog. Laert. 6.29). For imperial-era references to Diogenes’ enslavement, see below. 2 Though in Lucian’s somewhat deflationary account, the buyer is less interested in this offer than in Diogenes’ abilities as a menial laborer (11). 3 The classic study of social distinction in the Theognidea, Cerri 1968, also touches on Homer. Despite the prevalence of this ideology in the poems, it is worth noting that neither the works nor their audiences necessarily endorse it, as Rose 1988 and Thalmann 1988 point out regarding Homer. Similarities can also be found in the elitist ideology of fifth-century Athens, as represented in [Xen.] Const. Ath. and the portrayal of Callicles at Plat. Gorg. 481c–527e (where Socrates emphasizes the man’s parrhe-sia and lack of shame); see further Ober 1998, 16–27, 197–206. 4 Articulated in Aristot. Pol. 1, which is discussed further below. 5 On connections between eugeneia and citizenship in classical Athens, see Lape 2010, 26–29, 34–35, with further references. 6 Schlier’s view of Aristot. Nic. Eth. 4.1124b29 as a major transition point in the understanding of the relationship between parrhe-sia, good birth, and character is therefore overly simplistic (Schlier 1967, 874). 7 Though even for citizens of classical Athens it was not necessarily a right; see further ch. 1 n49 on this debate. 8 On the parrhe-sia and eleutheria of otherwise disenfranchised members of society, see Plat. Rep. 557a–63c; Dem. Phil. 3.3. Cf. [Xen.] Const. Ath. 2, 6, 10. 9 The passage is quoted below in a discussion of its reception in imperial-era texts. 10 ὥς μοι γένηται μητρόθεν παρρησία. | καθαρὰν γὰρ ἤν τις ἐς πόλιν πέσῃ ξένος, | κἂν τοῖς λόγοισιν ἀστὸς ᾖ, τό γε στόμα | δοῦλον πέπαται κοὐκ ἔχει παρρησίαν. Katharos (“pure”), which I have glossed above as “homogenous,” seems a reference to Athens’ mythic autochthony; on this play’s logic of inclusion and exclusion in racial terms see Lape 2010, 95–136. 11 ἀλλ᾽ ἐλεύθεροι | παρρησίᾳ θάλλοντες οἰκοῖεν πόλιν | κλεινῶν Ἀθηνῶν, μητρὸς οὕνεκ᾽ εὐκλεεῖς. | δουλοῖ γὰρ ἄνδρα, κἂν θρασύσπλαγχνός τις ᾖ | ὅταν ξυνειδῇ μητρὸς ἢ πατρὸς κακά. For this reading of ξυνειδῇ, see LSJ s.v. σύνοιδα II. While it may be shame that prevents such citizens from participating fully, these feelings do not arise in a vacuum but are the result of social forces (discussed in relation to parrhe-sia at Saxonhouse 2006, 57–82). For this reason I prefer to think of the issue in terms of inherited honor, a reading that is somewhere between Barrett’s interpretation of these passages as referring to a loss of

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confidence that leads to self-silencing (Barrett 1964, 236) and Goff’s more conventional understanding of classical parrhe-sia as an inherited “political right” (Goff 1990, 7). Goff 1990, 7–8. As noted by Carter 2004, 197. Pol. 4.1291b28–30. While Aristotle names wealth (ploutos), high birth (eugeneia), virtue/excellence (arete-), and education (paideia), identifying them with respective types (eide-) of elites (gno-rimoi), it is clear that these overlapped greatly. Translation modified from Harris-McCoy 2012, which addresses Artemidorus’ dating at 2. Paroemiae 2.93 cod. Mazarinco = 1.82 cod. Vindob. 133. Cf. Plut. De Super. 164f–65a. See likewise Philo Leg. Gai. 63.3. On this passage, see also Whitmarsh 2001a, 98. For a collection of scholarship on the work’s attribution, see Xenophontos 2016, 27 n21. Cf. the equally ambiguous saying attributed to Bion: “he used to say that low birth makes a bad partner for parrhe-sia” (τὴν δυσγένειαν πονηρὸν ἔλεγεν εἶναι σύνοικον τῇ παρρησίᾳ) (Diog. Laert. 4.51). Cf. Scarpat 2001, 86–87, reading eugeneia in Plut. De Lib. as exclusively ethical. See further Long 1996a; 1996b, 1–34; 2006, esp. 4–22, summing up Hellenistic philosophy’s Socratic inheritance in this way: “a particular view of what ethics should be about: the questioning of convention, the removal of fears and desires that lack any rational foundation, a radical reordering of priorities with a view to the soul’s health, and, above all, the notion of self-mastery” (at 5). Fr. 30 PCG. On proverbs and gnomai of parrhe-sia, many of which relate to poverty, see further Spina 1986, 100–3. Mainly found in hostile accounts; see e.g. Dio Chrys. Or. 32.9; Ael. Ar. Or. 3.668. Teubner numbering. Cf. Plut. Praecepta 822f–23a, advising “poor men” (presumably a relative term) who wish to become politicians that virtue (arete-) can lead to parrhe-sia, trust, and respect. Cf. esp. Arr. Epict. Diss. 3.22.45–49: Epictetus is free with nothing, happy with nothing, desires nothing, and fears nothing. In this state he is king (basileus) and master (despote-s); 54: the Cynic must be flogged like an ass and love the men who flog him. On the Cynic image of the self-debasing king, see further Höistad 1948, 201–4; and for an analysis of Arr. Epict. Diss. 3.22, see Schofield 2007. 7, 11, characterizing his prayers of complaint that make up the opening of this work (1–6); cf. Poverty’s frankness toward Timon (36). Note also that ochle-ros resonates with lowness through its cognate ochlos (“mob,” “throng”). See e.g. Arr. Epict. Diss. 4.1.172, suggesting that for true freedom it would be reasonable to be tortured, exiled, flogged, or even killed. See esp. Arr. Epict. Diss. 3.22.22; 4.7.14, 18. On philosophical and Hellenic self-definition via exile, see Whitmarsh 2001a, 134–80 (a variation on which can be found in Whitmarsh 2001b). For an (alleged) attempt to manufacture exile solely for reputational gain, see Luc. Peregr. 18, discussed in ch. 6. On developments in the conception of exile across Greco-Roman antiquity, see further Gaertner 2007a; and on exile narratives more generally, see Claassen 1999. Dio Chrysostom does not discuss parrhe-sia nor explicitly reference Phoen. in the speech about his own exile, but he does profess to have looked to ancient literary authorities to help make sense of the experience (13.4–8). For other references to exile in his speeches, see Desideri 2007; and for recent reevaluations of the historicity of his banishment, see Ventrella 2009; Bekker-Nielsen 2014.

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32 τίς ὁ τρόπος αὐτοῦ; τί φυγάσιν τὸ δυσχερές; | ἓν μὲν μέγιστον· οὐκ ἔχει παρρησίαν. | δούλου τόδ’ εἶπας, μὴ λέγειν ἅ τις φρονεῖ. | τὰς τῶν κρατούντων ἀμαθίας φέρειν χρεών. 33 Although born in Italy, his discourses are transmitted in Greek; on the construction of a Greek identity for Musonius, see Whitmarsh 2001a, 141–42, 151– 52. On Musonius generally, see Lutz 1947, 3–30; on the production and transmission of these texts, see van Geytenbeek 1963, 7–12. 34 The text of Musonius is cited by page and line number from Lutz 1947. 35 See further ch. 3. On interactions with a monarch as a model for other types of inequality (esp. in Plutarch), see ch. 5. 36 Cf. Whitmarsh 2001a, 144–47, reading Musonius as ambivalent about the classical past. I am skeptical that Euripides is as straightforwardly “representative of democratic ideology” as he suggests; likewise, the philosophical impulse “to reinvent the political vocabulary inherited from democratic Athens” that Whitmarsh identifies in Musonius (at 144) actually had its origins in classical Athenian philosophy (as seen above). Both writers include complaints about the present day, such as Plutarch’s judgment that “we are compelled to bear ‘the folly of the mighty’ no less staying at home than going into exile” since those left behind are at the mercy of the men “holding unjust power in the cities” (606a), as well as Musonius’ observations about fear of punishment preventing men from speaking their minds whether or not they are in their native cities (pp72, 35–74, 4 Lutz). However, neither suggests that it would be preferable to return to a prior form of government or way of organizing the world. 37 Cf. Long 2006, 12: “The Hellenistic philosophers inherit [Socrates’] interest in reorientation, but in their case self-mastery and its rationale also involve a reconstitution of the socio-political world.” 38 Cf. Democritus fr. 226, quoted at ch. 1 n110. 39 On the centrality of slavery to Greek and Roman conceptions of freedom, see Brunt 1988, 283–91; W. Fitzgerald 2000; duBois 2003, 117–30; Raaflaub 2004b, 23–29; Hunt 2011; Joshel 2011; Arena 2012, 31–47, 73–76. 40 On the elite senses of eleutheros and eleutherios, see further Raaflaub 1983, 528–34. 41 A blurring of categories that crops up elsewhere in the imperial-era texts; see ch. 1 n89. 42 In practice, of course, even in Athens at the height of the radical democracy citizen privileges were subject to various strictures, including potential disenfranchisement. 43 On Saturnalia and Carnival, see Bakhtin 1984, esp. 6–11, calling the latter a “temporary liberation from the prevailing truth and from the established order” (at 10). For a similar reading of the Athenian Dionysia as carnivalesque, see Halliwell 1984b. 44 On slavery, animals, and speech, see Finkelpearl 2003; 2006; and on talking birds, see James 2005; Mynott 2018, 143–48. 45 See Scholfield 1959, 3:263. On the prevalence of talking birds in India, see also Ael. NA 1.19. 46 For the pun in fable, cf. Babrius 100, on which see Fields 2016, 67–70. Additional variations can be found at e.g. Dio Chrys. 5.17, 33.15–16, 64.5; Plut. Praecepta 823b; Max. Tyr. 21.5; [Luc.] Asin. 47.2; Epict. Ench. 33.7; Clem.Al. Paed. 2.1.2.2; Origen HPs 21.7 (Fourth Homily on Psalm 77). See also Plut. Alex. 40.2: “It is very servile (δουλικώτατον) to lead a life of luxury (τὸ τρυφᾶν).” 47 Cf. S. D. Smith 2014, 169, arguing that human speech is itself “a sign of [the cercio-n’s] enslavement.” 48 Though here the line between real animal and didactic symbol can be blurred: cf. debates over the interpretation of Hesiod’s fable of the hawk and the nightingale (Op. 202–13, 274–80), on which see Hubbard 2005 (reviewing prior scholarship); Mordine 2006.

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49 LSJ s.v. φθέγμα. This is of course a simplification and many exceptions can be found. 50 Cf. Plat. Parm. on the differentiation between likeness and identity. 51 Cf. Crinagoras (Anth. Gr. 9.562); Plin. Nat. 10.117, 121–23; Mart. 14.73; Philostr. VA 1.7; Macrob. Sat. 2.29–30, where talking birds are figures of superficial mimicry and/or flattery, throwing into relief the high ideals implied by Aelian’s stories. 52 Cf. nightingales captured as adults who refuse to sing in captivity because of their love of freedom (Ael. NA 3.40). 53 The emphasis on eleutheria and douleia may also be connected with Aelian’s servile origins, if Suda is correct; Philostratus merely identifies him as a Roman (VS 624–25). On the biographical evidence, see further S. D. Smith 2014, 16–28. 54 For the trope of the de-mos tyrannos, see ch. 4. 55 On Aristides and Plato, see further ch. 1. 56 Cf. the slavishness of flattery that is presumed at Plat. Sym. 184c; cf. also portrayals of politicians as slaves to the public in Athenian Old Comedy (esp. Aristophanes’ Knights). 57 Cf. Or. 3.506–7, where Aristides calls upon the authority of Demosthenes and Thucydides to contrast Pericles’ parrhe-sia and eleutheria with slavery. 58 Cf. 45.18.2. And cf. Phil. 8.12 for Cicero’s own complaints about Calenus and a characterization of peace with Antony as a matter of slavery (servitus). On libertas in the Philippics, see Arena 2012, 263. On Cassius Dio’s treatment of democracy, see further ch. 3; and on the author’s understanding of freedom in the Roman republic see Mallan 2016, esp. 258–69. 59 For controversies over the authorship and dating of this work, see Russell 1964, xxii–xxx; Häussler 1995; Heath 1999. 60 For a “repoliticizing” reading of this seemingly depoliticized text, see Whitmarsh 2001a, 65–71. 61 As Flinterman puts it, discussing Ep. Apol. 28, “this completely intellectualised conception of freedom was widespread among philosophers from the Hellenistic period onward”; he contrasts this viewpoint with “the traditional Hellenic ideal of liberty” that appears alongside it in Philostr. VA (Flinterman 1995, 99). 62 Cf. Arr. Epict. Diss. 4.1.24–29 on the easy yet unfree lives of caged lions and birds, drawing explicit comparisons to human freedom. 63 Quod omn. 1. This work also asserts that personal virtue (arete-) rather than status protects parrhe-sia, even if one is a slave (148–52). 64 On the philosophical background of these works, see Panzeri 2011, 13–56. 65 On Epictetus’ exile, cf. Gel. 15.11.3–5. On Domitian’s edicts expelling philosophers, see further Tac. Agr. 2.2; Suet. Dom. 10.3; other sources are listed at Roche 2009, 376. 66 See esp. Arr. Epict. Diss. 3.22, 4.1, 4.7; and further Long 1996b, 195–96; 2002, 27–31. 67 Cf. Epict. fr. 36, discussed above. 68 Cf. Epict. fr. 27 (recorded at Stob. 3.1.140), asserting that “living well” (τὸ καλῶς ζῆν) is a matter of “self-restraint, self-sufficiency, discipline, decorum, and frugality” (σωφροσύνης καὶ αὐταρκείας καὶ εὐταξίας καὶ κοσμιότητος καὶ εὐτελείας). 69 Foucault 1985; 1986. On Foucault and classical antiquity, see further ch. 1. The term enkrateia (often translated as “self-mastery”) appears in Epictetus only at Arr. Epict. Diss. 2.20.13; Epict. Ench. 10.1. 70 Cf. Diog. Laert. 6.43 for Diogenes as a self-described spy. 71 See also 3.22.97. 72 Cf. 4.8.32: the philosopher must be his own doctor first, with the help of Zeus; only then can he be an example to others. 73 Cf. 3.21.19: Zeus advised Socrates to take the job of examining others, Diogenes the kingly job of rebuking them.

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74 For Epictetus’ use of the imperial court to think about freedom and slavery, see further Millar 2004, 105–19 (esp. 110–12). Cf. also Luc. Demon. 19–20; Alex. 47. 75 This is not to deny that this novel draws on philosophical and especially Platonic imagery, though its exact relationship to Platonism is vexed; see further Morales 2004, 51–60; Ní Mheallaigh 2007; Dressler 2011. 76 On the dating of Ach. Tat., see the discussion of papyrological evidence at Henrichs 2011, 306–9. 77 ἐγὼ δὲ καὶ γυμνὴ καὶ μόνη καὶ γυνή, ἓν ὅπλον ἔχω τὴν ἐλευθερίαν, ἣ μήτε πληγαῖς κατακόπτεται μήτε σιδήρῳ κατατέμνεται μήτε πυρὶ κατακαίεται. οὐκ ἀφήσω ποτὲ ταύτην ἐγώ. Cf. Charit. 6.7.6–10, where the title character laughs at threats of reprisal from the Persian King if she does not submit to his desire; 2.7.3, where she uses parrhe-sia despite being a slave. 78 Regarding indifference to insult, violence, and esp. torture, cf. Arr. Epict. Diss. 3.22.100; 4.1.89–90, 172; Luc. Vit. Auct. 9; Diog. Laert. 10.118 = LS 22Q. 79 See also the discussion at Whitmarsh 2013, 73, calling attention to the slavishness of Thersander’s desire for Leucippe. 80 Cf. e.g. Harper 2016, 110, arguing that the novel’s depiction of Leucippe is intended to mock contemporary Stoics. 81 See esp. Pass. Perp., with Cobb 2008, 92–123 on ambivalence around the reversal of gender roles even within such narratives. On the resemblance between novel heroines and female martyrs, see Perkins 1995, 41–76; Goldhill 1995, 116–21; and esp. Chew 2003. And on the theme of the body as a site of resistance and the gendered discourse around this, see Shaw 1996 (including 269–71 on Ach. Tat.). 82 On the Vitae Aesopi, see Perry 1936; 1952; La Penna 1962; Holzberg 1992; Kurke 2011; Avlamis 2011. For a recent summary of the manuscript tradition and the debate over dating, see Kurke 2011, 16–18. 83 Vita G; in W it is the divinity Tuche- or Philoxenia who performs this role. 84 Cf. the undeniable high birth of beautiful novel heroines such as Leucippe and Callirhoe. On Aesop as a figure of “low” culture, see further Winkler 1985, 286– 91 (arguing that he belongs in a tradition of grotesque license); Kurke 2003. 85 See e.g. Kugler 2002 for such a reading of fable in Dio Chrys. Or. 34. 86 Scholars have long debated the ideological content of fable. On fable as a form of resistance to power, see Crusius 1913; Meuli 1975; La Penna 1961; Patterson 1991 (on early modern Europe); Rothwell 1995, esp. 233–39; Kurke 2011, 11–13. For the view that fables bolster hierarchies while presenting themselves as populist, see duBois 2003, 176–77 (on the archaic and classical periods); T. Morgan 2007, 57–83 (on the early empire). See also Cascajero 1991; Forsdyke 2012, 50, 59–73, arguing that fable originated as a form of resistance but later came to be appropriated by elites. On the modern history of the political understanding of fable, see Demandt 1991. For the multivocality of fable see Blänsdorf 2000; Zafiropoulos 2001, 7–8 and nn24, 26 with further references; and cf. T. Morgan 2007, 21–22, 62–63. 87 Phaed. 3, Prologue 33–37, on which see J. G. W. Henderson 2001, 57–92 (esp. 81–84). On the mystery of Phaedrus’ identity, see Champlin 2005. 88 See further Ahl 1984; Heath 2003, with further references at 82 n3. 89 See esp. Philostr. VS 561, with the formulation of [Demetrius]: “flattery is shameful, but censure (ἐπιτιμᾶν) is dangerous, and the best course is the middle one, namely figuration” (On Style 294); see further chs. 3 and 5. Cf. also the paradoxical theme that allegory was more truthful than parrhe-sia (found e.g. in Max. Tyr. 4, 18). 90 See Ahl 1984, 200–2; Bartsch 1994, 63–97; Moles 1998, esp. n67. 91 The text cited here is from Vita G, the longest and probably oldest recension. It is also distinguished by its use of a more “elite” vocabulary than the others, which will be relevant for thinking about the relationship of this text to imperial philosophical discourse. However, Vitae W and Accursiana give similar versions of the episode.

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92 The manuscript tradition for Vita G reads φιλίας, and the phrase is not present in W or Accursiana. 93 Cf. e.g. Max. Tyr. 14.1; Luc. Somn. 6; Rhet. Praec. passim; Dio Chrys. Or. 1.66– 84; Ath. 12.510. 94 The cliff in the fable also prefigures the cliff off which the Delphians drive Aesop at the end of the Vita (132, 134, 140–42). 95 Cf. Dem. Tim. 167, for the slave’s frequent subjection to corporal punishment as the greatest distinction between him and a free man. 96 E.g. speech could be punished for bad outcomes in classical Athens with the charge of “deceiving the Assembly,” on which see Bonner 1933, 76–81; MacDowell 1978, 179–81; R. W. Wallace 1994, 124, with ancient sources. 97 Of course fable is not necessarily slave speech and Greek literature includes many anecdotes in which free statesmen and sages give advice in this manner (as documented in Holzberg 2002, 11–19; Kurke 2011, 142–58). 98 See further Hägg 2004, 59–68. 99 E.g. Plut. Quaes. Conv.; Luc. Vit. Auct.; Pisc.; Symp. (and see further ch. 6). 100 See esp. Kurke 2003; 2011. 101 On similarities between Aesop and the Cynics, see Zeitz 1936; Rodríguez Adrados 1978; Jedrkiewicz 1989, 116–27. See also Schauer and Merkle 1992 on Socratic elements in the Vitae; and for a comparison with Dio Chrysostom, see Jedrkiewicz 2015. 102 Long 2006, 16–19 draws on the tradition around Menander to point out superficial similarities between the views of the philosophical schools and popular morality, but maintains that philosophy is distinguished by the program of aske-sis each sect offers. See also Hägg 2004, 41–70, discussing “conventional values” in the Vitae, a view consistent with the contention of T. Morgan that popular morality influenced “high philosophy” (T. Morgan 2007, 274–99). Jedrkiewicz (1989, 205–7) on the other hand argues that the framework of the Life is fundamentally philosophical. 103 Esp. pertinent is Pol. 1.12560a: “the courage (andreia) of man is that belonging to command, of a woman that belonging to subordination.” Such hierarchies are also central to Gen. An. (esp. Book 2). On conventional values as the starting point of Aristotle’s analytical project, see Long 2006, 4–5; on women in Aristotle’s writings, see further Mulgan 1994. 104 See further Smoes 1995, 31–61, locating the roots of Greek conceptions of manly courage in warrior hierarchies such as those depicted in the Iliad, though our first record of the abstraction andreia comes from Herodotus. On elite manhood in the imperial era and its connections with oratory, see Gleason 1995; Gunderson 2000; Connolly 2003; with athletics, van Nijf 2003. 105 It is not clear whether this is a reference to the flagellation contest at the altar of Artemis Orthia as a display of karteria (“endurance”), a virtue closely connected with andreia (cf. e.g. Plut. Lyc. 18; Inst. 40; Luc. Anach. 38; Philostr. VA 6.20), or just a way of saying that the Spartan lifestyle comes the closest to real manhood (and thus qualifies Spartan men as “good boys”). Cf. Arr. Epict. Diss. 4.7.21–24 on the rare adult man vs. the majority who are mere children. And on the theatrical self-staging of Spartan identity during the empire, see Kennell 1995, 70–97; Cartledge and Spawforth 2002, 201–11. 106 See Bassi 2003, which traces classical-era contests over the meaning of manliness and notes the beginnings of a philosophical reinterpretation in the fourth century with Plat. Lach. This attitude is of course not unique to Greek culture of any

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116 117 118

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Speaking freely particular era; on the pervasiveness of exclusionary ideologies of manhood across a wide range of cultures, see Gilmore 1990. On the Stoic “intellectualist” conception of andreia and its (somewhat problematic) continuity with conventional heroic virtues, see further Cullyer 2003 (including 230 on the non-existence of the sage, with further references). While Euripides alone among classical authors has female characters make reference to parrhe-sia as often as males, this does not mean that speaking frankly was seen as their legitimate role; in fact, as Goff (1990, 7–8) notes, the women who use the term are often themselves forced into silence. On women’s speech and parrhe-sia in classical drama see further Saxonhouse 2006, 132–38, including a discussion of Aristophanes’ Thesmophoriazusae. ὦ δυστυχεῖς ἡμεῖς […] πεπρακότες | τὴν τοῦ βίου παρρησίαν καὶ τὴν τρυφὴν | γυναιξὶ δοῦλοι ζῶμεν ἀντ’ ἐλευθέρων (fr. 150 PCG; preserved in Ath. 13.558e–f). An example of the comic stereotype according to which wealthy women dominate dependent men, esp. prominent in the new comic figure of the heiress; cf. Aristot. Nic. Eth. 8.1161a1–3, which compares marriage to an heiress to living under an oligarchic regime; see further Fantham 1975. ἀλλ’ ὅ γε πρὸς ἀλήθειαν ἀνδρεῖος καὶ μεγαλόφρων οὐκ ἄν ποτε πάθοι τοιοῦτον οὐδὲν οὐδ’ ἂν πρόοιτο τὴν ἐλευθερίαν τὴν αὑτοῦ καὶ τὴν παρρησίαν τιμῆς τινος ἀτίμου χάριν ἢ δυνάμεως ἢ χρημάτων. The invective of 77/78.33–38 shares features with Arr. Epict. Diss. 4.1 and Luc. Merc. Cond. On wine and frankness, see further ch. 1. A range of viewpoints (mostly within the bounds set out here) can be found in Walcot 1999; the essays in Pomeroy 1999b (esp. Pomeroy 1999a; Foxhall 1999; McNamara 1999; Stadter 1999); McInerney 2003. Cf. also the divergent versions in Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 2.45–46; Livy 1.13.1–5. All three are compared at Castellani 2002, 149–51; Buszard 2010, 100–4. As Buszard notes, when she denies being anandros, suggesting both cowardice and lack of a husband, “the ambiguity of the term enables her to appropriate male attributes in the very act of defending her marital fidelity” (Buszard 2010, 91–93). On feminine andreia see also Plut. Amatorius 769b–d; Muson. Diss. 4, “Should Daughters Receive the Same Education as Sons?,” esp. p44, 23–35 (Lutz). On the traditional ambivalence around “manly women” in Greek culture, see McInerney 2003, 323–26. Cf. the admirable intercession of the Spartan Chilonis between her father and husband in Agis 17 (discussed at Buszard 2010, 93–95), and also Lacae. which provides examples of verbal boldness by Spartan women. Esp. 7.17–32. Cf. his approval when Numa reverses some of Romulus’ liberality toward women (Comp. Lyc. Num. 3.5), encapsulated in the description of the Sabines as “ruling (ἀρχούσας) the oikos,” an honor reflecting their key role in the establishment of Rome (Rom. 19.6). Cf. also Conjug. 142e, where women are advised against trying to gain control of their husbands, while men are instructed to be masters of their wives not as if each woman were a possession, but as the soul is master of the body. In Aristotle, by contrast, this is the model of the relation between master and slave (Pol. 1.1254b), and it is recommended that one “govern” (ἄρχει) one’s wife and children as free people, the former “as an office holder to a fellow citizen” (πολιτικῶς), and the latter “as a king to his subjects” (βασιλικῶς) (1.1259a37–b16); cf. Nic. Eth. 8.1160b32–34, where a good marriage is compared to aristocratic governance. Pol. 1.1253b1–12, 1260b9–20.

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120 See further Foxhall 1999, 147–49; Stadter 1999, 178–79; McInerney 2003, 330. 121 See Asmis 1996, esp. 68, 80–82 for imperial-era Stoic ideas about women’s equal capacity for virtue and the value of educating them, though the evidence is thin beyond one line from Seneca and a few fragments of Musonius. See also Gordon 2004, arguing that anti-Epicurean rhetoric reveals an Epicurean critique of conventional masculinity (reworked in Gordon 2012, 72–108); and on the exceptional female Cynic, Hipparchia, see K. Kennedy 1999; Grams 2007.

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Kings Frankness to power

In the case of private citizens, many factors contribute to their education: most of all not living in luxury but needing to give thought to their livelihoods each and every day, and then the laws in accordance with which each is governed, and furthermore parrhe-sia and the privilege granted openly to friends of rebuking one another’s faults and to enemies of attacking the same …. For tyrants on the other hand no such thing exists, but rather, despite the fact that they need more than other men to be educated, from the point when their rule is established they live out their days without admonishment. (Isocrates, To Nicocles 2–4)

A good case can be made that Isocrates’ letter to a Cypriot tyrant in the fourth century BCE sets the pattern for the “advice to kings” tradition in Greek literature, with its focus on the pedagogical value of criticism for rulers and its promotion of the author as a frank-speaking wise advisor in contradistinction to flatterers.1 This chapter will consider numerous ways in which themes from this work are reused and adapted within the context of the Roman empire. For now, however, I will draw a couple of examples from Dio Chrysostom, a philosophical orator whose influence on subsequent kingship literature is widely acknowledged.2 Dio’s speeches on the topic (especially Orations 1–4, 62) illustrate that the reception of Isocrates in this world was not simply a matter of antiquarian interest, but rather a way of engaging with pressing issues for autocratic rule, including power’s chilling effect on criticism and the damage this inflicts in turn on a ruler’s judgment.3 At Oration 62.2, Dio updates Isocrates by asserting that not just tyrants but most men in positions of great power lack anyone who will “openly censure them” (ψέγει ἐκ τοῦ φανεροῦ) and they rule badly as a result. In a closely related speech, Oration 6, On Tyranny, he expands on the idea that the concentration of power itself leads to tyrannical abuse (using “tyranny” in the ethical sense that predominates in later Greek). This work showcases Diogenes of Sinope, a persona that Dio uses when he wants to play up the Cynic elements of his self-presentation.4 Here Diogenes provides insight into the tyrannical mindset and, more specifically, the despot’s reaction to frankness (57–59):

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If someone speaks to him boldly (διαλέγηται θαρρῶν), he becomes angry and fears frankness (παρρησίαν); if the speaker is fawning (θεραπεύων) and deferential (ὑποκατακλινόμενος), he holds this fawning in suspicion. He believes he is being insulted by those who approach him like free men (ἐλευθερίως) and deceived by those who are more submissive (ταπεινοτέρων). He is much more vexed at being reproached (λοιδορούμενος) than anyone else, because he is badmouthed for being a tyrant (ὅτι δὴ τύραννος ὢν ἀκούει κακῶς); on the other hand, he does not take pleasure in being praised, for he does not believe the speaker says what he thinks. Clearly, speaking to a tyrant is always dangerous, since the tyrant’s position leads him to suspect the motives of anyone who interacts with him. At the same time, the tyrant himself is incapable of benefitting from speech because he can neither learn how to correct his mistakes nor enjoy truthful praise. Because this power imbalance exists in any monarchy, discouraging others from honesty, it is all the more important that the ruler give ear to the rare person who is willing to risk speaking frankly (that is, just the sort of advisor Isocrates and Dio present themselves to be).5 And if he is not receptive to the advice of such men, he reveals himself to be the very tyrant that Diogenes describes. Though the interaction of Greek wise men with Roman emperors in imperial-era literature is hardly a novel topic, there has not yet been a synthetic overview of these relationships through the lens of frankness. My chapter aims to remedy this, and while it cannot be exhaustive, given the volume of pertinent material, it brings together a wider range of theoretical, rhetorical, and narrative texts than can be found elsewhere, looking to gain a fuller picture of the complex ideology around frankness, encompassing both noble guidance and courageous opposition. At the same time, my chapter will also explore the ways in which this ideology breaks down, due to the threat of “counterfeit frankness,” as articulated by Plutarch in How to Tell a Flatterer from a Friend (59d). Imperial-era discourse about false frankness identifies two main forms, the more innocuous being criticism without genuine risk, as illustrated by an anecdote from Philostratus’ Lives of the Sophists, in which Aelian performs a posthumous “indictment” (kate-goria) of the emperor Heliogabalus and Philostratus of Lemnos quips in response, “I would admire you if you accused him while he was alive” (625).6 However, this chapter will concern itself to a greater degree with the variety perceived to be more insidious, namely seeming frankness that actually flatters those it purports to check and thereby corrupts them. The very existence of the power differential that gives parrhe-sia meaning also leaves it open to suspicions of deception and advantage-seeking. But this does not mean that the whole ideological structure necessarily collapses in on itself, just that allegations of real or false frankness are always interested. After all, Greek pepaideumenoi of this era found a reputation for frankness desirable for the very reason that their society invested value in it.

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Much of the existing scholarship on frank speech toward emperors addresses specific authors or works, providing abundant material for engagement throughout this chapter, but allowing only partial views on the place of frankness in later Greek culture. On the other hand, scholars such as Johannes Hahn and Tim Whitmarsh discuss a broader selection of texts but focus exclusively on the figure of the philosopher, whose advisory and adversarial stances toward the powerful they address, for the most part, as separate albeit complementary roles.7 Yet these types of parrhe-sia cannot be so cleanly divided. The texts under examination in this chapter present frankness as both practical and idealistic; it is a means of guiding rulers and a tool for philosophical self-fashioning, either in the assertion of the wise advisor’s authority over the emperor or in his willingness to risk defying him. What is more, by incorporating texts from the end of the “long second century” in which non-philosophers frankly advise and critique monarchs, as I do in the last section of this chapter, we can see more clearly what is distinctive about the type of philosophical parrhe-sia associated with the late first and early second centuries CE. This analysis is informed by my understanding of an overall shift from institutional to interpersonal conceptions of politics in the post-classical world, setting the establishment of one-man rule at an imperial level alongside analogous developments in civic politics. It thus provides a key link between the book’s first two scene-setting chapters and the subsequent ones on different performative contexts for frank speech, where the king provides a structural metaphor for other relationships of unequal power.8 Post-classical writers’ characterization of frankness directed toward a king, tyrant, or emperor is intimately interwoven with the rhetoric around freedom and slavery discussed in chapter 2. This is because Greek culture has a long history of associating tyranny with slavery.9 And yet, in keeping with the reinterpretive understanding of freedom I have already identified, the very existence of the Roman emperor actually provides the perfect foil for the free-speaking and therefore self-determinatively free man. Courageous parrhe-sia requires risk, which is intensified before an audience that is not only powerful (as in the case of any ruler) but also hostile to criticism. My emphasis on danger as a necessary condition for frankness sets my discussion apart from Shadi Bartsch’s influential work on contemporary Roman authors, which argues that such value-laden terms as libertas lose their meaning by the late first century and free speech itself becomes impossible under the principate, not necessarily because it is punished but because it is always entangled in power relations (Bartsch 1994, 180–87). By contrast, according to the post-classical Greek conception of frankness, as employed by intellectuals operating at a greater distance from the imperial court, the more unequal the power, the more valorized is critical speech and the more free is the man pronouncing it. At the same time, when we focus on the monarch rather than the man who addresses him, we find that parrhe-sia is also central to the discursive distinction between legitimate rule and

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tyranny in Greek writings of the early empire. According to philosophical theory, a ruler’s reactions to frank criticism provide a basis for judging whether or not he is a “real” king, and it is to this topic that I turn first.

The tyrant test A common philosophical viewpoint in the imperial world identifies the “good king” as the only true king. This is a man who is virtuous in all ways rather than simply good at ruling – or rather his successful kingship depends on his all-around excellence.10 Tyranny, on the other hand, is conceived in this period as a fundamentally illegitimate and cruel type of one-man rule (as distinct from the more ambiguous earlier use of the term tyrannos).11 At the same time, the notion that a ruler’s legitimacy is rooted in his virtue goes all the way back to the ethical philosophy of Plato and Aristotle, with their presentation of king and tyrant as polar opposites.12 Applying this binary from classical political theory to the emperor introduces a number of problems. Not only is the title princeps designed to create distance from the early kings (reges) of Rome, but neither princeps nor imperator has any clear place in the pre-existing conceptual framework.13 While the basileus is (usually) a good ruler and the tyrannos a bad one, Greek terms for the emperor such as autokrato-r do not automatically imply a value judgment.14 This indeterminacy becomes a rhetorical tool in the hands of writers like Dio Chrysostom, allowing them to manipulate the categories of king and tyrant into a test of the emperor’s character and to challenge that ruler to live up to traditional Greek standards of good kingship, in a dynamic long identified as pedagogical.15 Because of the longstanding association between tyrannical abuse of power and intolerance of parrhe-sia, a ruler’s response to frankness provides a ready measure of his ethics.16 Thus the traditional opposition between flattery and frankness is closely related to that between tyrant and king.17 While these structural antitypes play a role in all of Dio’s Kingship Orations, I devote the most space to Oration 4, approaching it as a dramatization of the test by which philosophical frankness reveals the true nature of a ruler. What connects these speeches as a set (whether or not Dio himself deliberately grouped them together) is the impression they create of having been performed before Trajan.18 Arguing against taking such self-presentation at face value, Whitmarsh has suggested that the primary (and perhaps only) audience for the speeches was the sophistic elite in Greek cities, for whom they enacted “a drama of cultural hegemony between Roman power and Greek paideia” (Whitmarsh 2001a, 200).19 We cannot know whether the Kingship Orations were actually delivered in Trajan’s presence, much less in their surviving form, but we can be confident that these speeches vouch for the advantages to be gained from a reputation for fearlessly addressing the most powerful man in the world. While the dishonest self-presentation that Whitmarsh posits would certainly cut against Dio’s claims to be a risk-

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taking parrhesiast not just toward the emperor but in addressing any audience, the speeches’ most salient feature for understanding the ideology at work is in fact the speaker’s self-presentation. In the Kingship Orations, the good king’s preference for frankness and truth is a recurrent theme,20 both when Dio discusses Trajan directly and when he speaks in the abstract (though these two modes also have a tendency to shade into one another).21 One way in which he expounds such a theory of kingship is his variation on Prodicus’ “choice of Heracles” (as related by an internal storyteller at Oration 1.66–84).22 Unlike the best-known version of this myth from Xenophon, where the hero chooses between virtue and vice, Dio’s Heracles must decide between kingship and tyranny.23 To aid the demigod in making this choice, Hermes shows him the courts of a personified Basileia and Tyrannida. In the former the queen is surrounded by noble attendants like Justice (Dike-), Good Order (Eunomia), Peace (Eire-ne-), and Law (Nomos) (74–75). By contrast, the latter presents an exaggerated facsimile of royalty, with Tyranny herself attended by Cruelty (Omote-s), Insolence (Hubris), Lawlessness (Anomia), Faction (Stasis), and Flattery (Kolakeia). Not only is Flattery introduced last for emphasis but she is the only one to receive an elaborate characterization: she is “slavish and unfree” (δουλοπρεπὴς καὶ ἀνελεύθερος) (82). In the preceding chapter we witnessed the centrality of frank speech to the understanding of freedom in the later Greek world; flattery, as the opposite of frankness, in turn signals the speaker’s lack of freedom. The good king does not wish to be a despot by making slaves of his free subjects (22),24 so he rejects the falseness of flattery and wants the praise only of “free and noble men who would prefer death to lying” (33). By contrast, the third oration explicitly addresses Trajan’s place in the paradigm and accordingly has been seen as the most flattering of the Kingships, though it too uses techniques that are at least superficially evasive. For example, this speech introduces its main themes with an anecdote about Socrates, but, rather than providing a distancing mechanism, the venerable and famously frank-speaking philosopher serves as an explicit model for Dio in his relationship with the emperor.25 Socrates could not judge the happiness of the Great King of Persia, because, as he said, he did not know the man’s dianoia, his mind (which Dio treats as synonymous with his psuche-, his inner being or spirit).26 But Dio claims to know the nature (phusis) of Trajan, whom he addresses here as autokrato-r. As a result, he knows that the emperor “delights in truth and frankness rather than flattery and deception” (χαίρων ἀληθείᾳ καὶ παρρησίᾳ μᾶλλον ἢ θωπείᾳ καὶ ἀπάτῃ).27 Following this chiastic expression, which appeals to oppositions between truth and deception as well as frankness and flattery, Dio praises Trajan for the various other ways in which he shows himself to be a good king (3.1–5). If Dio’s praise is acceptable to the monarch, it follows that it must be truthful and therefore frank; otherwise, in accordance with his own positive evaluation of Trajan, it would not be pleasing to him. With such a logical trap, Dio exemplifies the pedagogical tactic by which one lauds a ruler for traits that are desirable, in the

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hopes of influencing him to display them. At the same time, as an alternate method of correction, this sort of coercive praise is clearly in tension with frankness; in fact, it could even be characterized as flattery toward a noble end (or, on a hostile reading, mere flattery, which puffs up its target by telling him he is immune to such blandishments).29 The last speech I will consider here is Oration 4, which stages a test of a monarch’s character by a wise advisor figure, in the famous meeting of Alexander the Great with the Cynic Diogenes.30 Most literary versions of the encounter emphasize the courage and philosophical sang-froid of Diogenes in the face of worldly power,31 but Dio focuses instead on the way the anecdote reveals Alexander’s character. At the same time, he suggests that this choice reflects a consensus view, stating that many people who have recounted the story “were impressed by (θαυμάζοντες) and admiring of (ἐπαινοῦντες) Alexander no less” than of Diogenes, because, in spite of his unparalleled power, “he did not disdain the conversation of a poor man who had an intellect (νοῦν) and the capacity to be steadfast” (1). And the reason why so many have spoken approvingly of the king’s part in this meeting, is that “all people are naturally delighted at seeing intelligence (φρόνησιν) being honored by the greatest might and power (ἐξουσίας τε καὶ δυνάμεως)” (2). Although this introduction provides an oversimplified and sanitized account of the exchange that follows, in which Diogenes walks a fine line between insult and flattery and Alexander often seems on the verge of erupting into violence, its primary purpose is to set up a correlation between philosopher–king relationships inside and outside the narrative, while also emphasizing the value of such an encounter (along with its real-world analogue) for testing a ruler’s character. As is fitting for a speech in the advice to kings tradition, we first hear of the Cynic philosopher’s reputation for freedom and frankness from Alexander’s point of view. The king shows his own noble nature by seeking out Diogenes because of the man’s great reputation/fame (doxa) for courage (andreia) and steadfastness (karteria) (7). More specifically, he admires the way that the Cynic “insinuated himself into no man’s favor by flattering him, but spoke the truth to everyone” (ὁ δὲ οὐδένα ἀνθρώπων ὑπῄει θωπεύων, ἀλλὰ τἀληθῆ πρὸς ἅπαντας λέγων) (10). In keeping with this description, we see evidence of Diogenes’ Cynic parrhe-sia in the conversation that follows. As soon as Alexander approaches, the philosopher looks up aggressively from the position where he has been sunning himself and orders the king to step aside so that he stops blocking the sun’s rays (14). In spite of the character flaws that are already apparent in Alexander, he passes this first test, reacting with pleasure instead of tyrannical anger and revealing that he is capable of a kingly appreciation of frankness: “he admired the man’s boldness (τὸ θάρσος)” (15). As Dio comments here, “it is natural somehow for the bold to feel affection for the bold” as well as for cowards to hate the same men, since “for the one type truth (ale-theia) and frankness (parrhe-sia) are the sweetest things of all,32 but for the other the same is true of flattery (kolakeia) and falsehood (pseudos)” (15).

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While Alexander’s favorable response to Diogenes is generally presented as a model for Trajan, not all of the king’s responses are worthy of emulation. As John Moles has pointed out, even in the introduction to this speech Dio avoids the total identification of Trajan with Alexander, and he is similarly evasive when it comes to his own association with Diogenes (Moles 1983, 264). While Whitmarsh has focused on Alexander’s possession of the necessary raw materials to become a king given the right guidance (Whitmarsh 2001a, 209–11), the flip-side of this ambivalent presentation of the young conqueror is his potential to become a tyrant, allowing him to be used as a positive and negative exemplum nearly simultaneously.33 For example, while Alexander’s admiration of Diogenes’ freedom paints him in a good light, we see hints of his tyrannical tendencies when the Cynic asks him if he is “the one they call bastard,” resulting in an immediate flare-up of the king’s rage. Alexander manages ultimately to control himself, but it does not reflect well on him that he is mollified only when the philosopher manipulates the insult to make it seem like a compliment (alleging that the charge “bastard” referred to stories about the king’s supernatural parentage) (18–20). The exchange illustrates a number of Alexander’s defining characteristics. First, it shows his inconsistency: he changes abruptly from being impressed by Diogenes’ boldness (14–15) to thinking him a boorish fraud (18), and then just as suddenly decides he is both the cleverest of men and the only one who knows how “to be pleasing” (χαρίζεσθαι) (20). Here, as elsewhere in this speech, we also see Alexander’s preoccupation with fame (doxa), in that Diogenes’ use of the slur is made worse by his insinuation that it is common knowledge about the king. Finally, Alexander’s attachment to his reputation is connected with two tyrannical traits: his quickness to anger when he feels insulted and his corresponding love of flattery. Diogenes’ playful provocation seems to aim at inducing the ruler to reveal his true nature (phusis) by demonstrating whether he is a true king or a tyrant through his reactions to both frankness and flattery, in accordance with the theory of kingship that Diogenes elaborates later in the oration. Alexander’s volatility and capacity for violence loom threateningly throughout the speech, characterizing his current state (though, as we will see, not necessarily his fundamental nature) as both tyrannical and weak. This is illustrated when he nearly throws his spear at Diogenes, immediately after being told that carrying weapons is a sign of fear and that no one who is fearful could become king any more than a slave could (64).34 The ruler’s instability is likewise thrown into relief by the Cynic’s composure.35 In fact, it is Diogenes’ very “courage and fearlessness” (τὸ ἀνδρεῖον καὶ τὸ ἀδεές) in criticism that Alexander admires. This admiration, along with his recognition of the philosopher’s superior knowledge, shows him to be capable of developing into a better type of ruler (76). As it turns out, the fact that Alexander is a “slave to public opinion” (δοῦλον … τῆς δόξης) (60), which has been presented as his primary weakness, also makes his pedagogical redemption possible. When Diogenes dares Alexander to kill him if what he says is displeasing, the

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philosopher knows that this will not happen because he has warned the king that he is the only one who will tell him the truth about himself (58–60). Ultimately, Alexander’s receptivity to frank criticism shows him to have something of the kingly nature, so that, by conversation with the right man, he does not so much “learn” (μαθεῖν) as “remember” (ὑπομνησθῆναι) the divine principles of kingship (33).36

What is at stake in the pedagogical model Imperial philosophical writings stress the monarch’s need for the right formative education in childhood, but they also put great store by the benefits good advisors can provide throughout a ruler’s life. By improving and guiding the monarch, a wise advisor, such as Dio presents himself to be, can claim to benefit the whole kingdom. At the same time, as Whitmarsh has emphasized in his discussion of the Kingships (Whitmarsh 2001a, 180–216), Dio’s casting of himself in the role of educator enacts a power struggle between advisor and emperor.37 While for Whitmarsh these figures are mere tokens for Greek paideia and Roman power, I wish to return the discussion to the level of individual relationships and their consequences. It is clear that for Dio and his audience(s), the notion of a philosophical advisor to a monarch was one freighted not only with symbolic weight but also, at least in theory, with practical value. Indeed, a large part of the self-promotional advantage of such a role depends on the understanding that such men are benefactors to both the monarch and his subjects. The role of the wise advisor is theorized in several works from Dio’s contemporary, Plutarch, who argues for the importance of the monarch’s ongoing education, both for his own sake and for the benefit of his people, in essays like To an Uneducated Ruler (he-gemo-n) and That a Philosopher Ought to Converse Especially with Rulers (he-gemones) (henceforth Philosophers and Rulers).38 For Plutarch, it is important that anyone wishing to improve himself listen to “those who criticize (ἐλέγχουσι) him” and “feel the need of someone to take hold of him and admonish (νουθετοῦντος) him” (How One May Become Aware of Progress in Virtue 82a). He further emphasizes the point (and its Socratic resonances) by continuing with a teaching of Diogenes to the effect that it is valuable to have an earnest friend or a fervent enemy because both will lead you to virtue, either by their “criticism” (ἐλεγχόμενος) or by their “care” (θεραπευόμενος) (82a).39 Other versions of this saying from Plutarch’s corpus locate frank speech even more squarely at the center of benefits gained from both friends and enemies, recalling the quote from Isocrates that began this chapter. In How to Tell a Flatterer from a Friend the second part of the aphorism reads: “for the former instruct (διδάσκουσιν) and the latter criticize (ἐλέγχουσι)” (74c), while in How to Profit by One’s Enemies, where the saying is attributed to Antisthenes, they respectively “admonish” (νουθετοῦντες) and “blame” (λοιδοροῦντες) (89b). Even though the intentions of the friend and the enemy are diametrically opposed, the result is the same: both will make you aware of your shortcomings.40

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While these techniques are broadly applicable, they are especially important for people in positions of power, because, as Plutarch states in To an Uneducated Ruler, power (exousia) intensifies badness (kakia). He elaborates that “there is a great danger that the one who has the capacity to do whatever he wishes will wish to do something he ought not to do” (782c).41 What is more, he argues in Philosophers and Rulers that such powerful men need guidance more than anyone else because they are beset by pernicious influences, such as slanderers, informers, and flatterers (each of whom is typically marked as the opposite of the frank speaker in his particular way).42 And not only are bad influences more prevalent in the case of kings, but the stakes are higher for everyone. At the center of Plutarch’s Philosophers and Rulers is the understanding that, because a ruler wields concentrated power, his ethical state can affect many people. Plutarch compares the corruption caused by these courtiers to the poisoning of a public fountain instead of just a single cup, in that it leads to much broader harm than would result if a private individual were misled in the same way (778d–e). Likewise, the man who educates a monarch well can do great good, an idea that Plutarch conveys through a number of metaphors. These include agriculture, with the comparison of a philosopher influencing a king to a farmer sowing a field that can feed many instead of just a tiny plot of land (778c). His work is also understood as a form of spiritual medicine. Like the doctor who gains greater satisfaction from curing an eye that “sees on behalf of many and guards over many,” a wise man who associates with a king “more eagerly takes care of a soul that he sees being concerned for many and which has to be prudent and self-controlled and just for many” (776d).43 Ultimately, Plutarch characterizes such action as a sign of dedication to his fellow man (philanthro-pia) rather than personal ambition (776b, 778c), and calls it “philosophizing in the public interest” (δημοσίᾳ φιλοσοφεῖ) (778f).44 As Plutarch’s focus on the advisor illustrates, the importance of rulers in themselves becomes diminished when they are presented as mere conduits for the good that philosophers accomplish. And this understanding of the wise advisor is by no means unique to Plutarch; we can find it articulated particularly clearly in Dio Chrysostom’s Oration 49, a speech given in his home city of Prusa, where he argues that he cannot accept the office of archon (for which the council has nominated him) because he can provide greater benefits to both the city and mankind through his close connection with the emperor. While this speech presents the fundamental task of the philosopher as learning how “to rule well” (ἄρχειν καλῶς), which includes both ruling himself and ruling over others (3),45 it also notes that philosophers rarely hold “the things named offices” (τὰς ὠνομασμένας ἀρχάς) (6). Instead, they take up the role of advisor (sumboulos), a practice Dio identifies as nearly universal across cultures (7–8). In this idealized version of the relationship, monarchs are willing to subordinate themselves to philosophers’ superior knowledge of rulership, becoming the “servants and ministers” (ὑπηρέτας καὶ διακόνους) of their advisors’ “judgment” (γνώμης) (8).46 Though Dio ends up asserting that a

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philosopher should generally hold local office if his city wishes it (because he is the man who best knows how to do so), he excludes himself from this principle, on the grounds that he is too busy with other commitments elsewhere (13–15). While he does not explicitly claim to be advising the emperor or even to have business in Rome, his preceding discussion, on the importance of wise advisors to kings, implies that this is the case. Indeed, he closes his speech by telling the Prusans “it is better for me, and perhaps for you too, that I do not remain here,” suggesting (as he does more directly elsewhere in his Prusan speeches) that the city as a whole may benefit from his connections to the imperial power structure (15).47 So far, this chapter has focused on a more or less idealized version of frank speech to kings. However, when we consider the advantages of a reputation for fearlessly correcting the powerful, we find that the monarch– advisor relationship is destabilized by an ambiguity at the heart of the rhetorical use of parrhe-sia. Self-asserted frankness inevitably raises suspicions that it is a form of self-serving deception (and thus the opposite of what it proclaims itself to be), particularly within an environment of extremely unequal power such as the imperial court. And as Bartsch has discussed in relation to contemporary Latin literature (and Pliny’s Panegyricus in particular), disputing the possible interpretation of one’s words as flattery actually highlights their capacity to be read in that way, because autocracy engenders both doublespeak (i.e. the manipulation of a regime’s preferred ideological language to a contradictory purpose) and a resultant culture of suspicious interpretation (Bartsch 1994, 115–16, 148–87). Accordingly, when Dio repeatedly insists on his frankness, going to great lengths to foreclose any appearance of flattery, his very protests threaten to become a critique of the regime, exemplifying what Bartsch has termed “the instability of the praise/blame axis” (Bartsch 1994, 175). What is more, the seeming Trajanic context of Dio’s kingship speeches makes such a reading all the more plausible (whether or not they were performed before Trajan). Whitmarsh, drawing on Bartsch, suggests that power’s corrosive effect on honesty actually intensifies under Trajan, not despite but rather because of a rhetorical emphasis on the supposed new freedom of the age, placing speakers and writers under pressure to enact superficial performances of that freedom (Whitmarsh 2001a, 165–67).48 When Dio appeals to his personal experience of exile under Domitian,49 alleging that this is proof of his frankness and truth-telling then and now,50 he also implies that the experience made him all the more capable of recognizing that Trajan is a good ruler. Yet his characterization of the present as a time “when all may speak the truth without risking danger” suggests that he is making a show of compliance with the image Trajan wishes to promote – that is, he flatters the emperor, paradoxically, by his very claim to frankness and his assertion that there is no need for flattery in the current regime (Or. 3.12–13).51 A similar paradox is at work when Dio speaks of the good king in the abstract in Oration 1, since he acknowledges this technique of figuration in

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the same breath as he disavows flattery. He starts by marshalling a series of frankness-related terms, announcing that his speech is “spoken straightforwardly (ἁπλῶς), devoid of any flattery or abuse.” However, such an elaborate display of frankness actually underlines the fact that the emperor is not only his alleged addressee but also his primary subject. This becomes particularly apparent when he declares that his speech praises a king insofar as he resembles the ideal good king and “exposes and rebukes” (ἐξελέγχει τε καὶ ὀνειδίζει) the one that is unlike the model king, thus acknowledging that his use of general categories is an indirect means of evaluating real-world rulers (15). On one level, flattery (that is, false praise) and abuse (understood as unjustified criticism) provide an explicit contrast to Dio’s own speech, painting it as valid criticism (an identification strengthened by the allusion to the Socratic elenchos in ἐξελέγχει). Yet the use of figured speech undercuts Dio’s parrhe-sia in two ways: it gives the lie to his self-presentation as a plain speaker while also opening him up to the charge of flattery that he goes to such pains to deflect. Ultimately, the passage calls attention to the inherent suspiciousness of any rhetoric that claims to be unrhetorical (in the sense of being unfiltered and disinterested), particularly when it simultaneously shows itself to be highly rhetorical through a device like figured speech.52 Furthermore, this sort of tension is not isolated to Dio’s speeches; as we move on, we will find that it crops up in a number of works.

Apollonius of Tyana and philosophical self-assertion Though Philostratus’ Apollonius of Tyana53 was composed in the early third century CE, it is set in the era of Dio and Plutarch, and its deployment of the theme of philosophical advisors to kings engages in a dialogue with elements of Dio Chrysostom’s legacy.54 We have already seen how Dio’s speeches construct a reputation for bold truth-telling toward Domitian or promote his importance through his putative advisory role toward Trajan, while also flattering the emperor and maintaining the view that an advisor can have a positive effect on a regime. By contrast, Philostratus’ Apollonius of Tyana shows much more interest in valorizing the frank speaker than his royal target. At the same time, tyrants are salient in this narrative mainly because their threats of violence provide opportunities for the wise man to enact his freedom, becoming a foil less for the good king than for the frank speaker himself. Ultimately, not only does Apollonius dominate the tyrannical Domitian, but even in dealings with “good emperors,” he ends up surpassing and even rejecting his advisory role.55 In doing so, he asserts his total superiority over worldly authority, in an extension of the more limited primacy usually claimed by wisdom over power in the discourse of elite Greek paideia under the empire.56 In this discussion of Apollonius, we will look first to the various ways that the trope of the wise advisor to kings is used (and refused), before directing our attention to the title character’s assertion of his own power over that of

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Domitian. The dynasts that Apollonius encounters early in his travels are neither Greek nor Roman, and when they display attributes that fit the image of barbarian tyranny (such as violence, arrogance, and intemperance), they enable Apollonius to display his lack of fear before kings and their agents, prefiguring the final showdown with Domitian.57 Apollonius maintains an uncompromising attitude toward these eastern kings despite warnings from his acolyte Damis not to be too high-handed with them because doing so might result in accusations of contempt (huperopsia). When Damis reminds Apollonius to think of “where in the world” they are, the sage insists that any action unacceptable at Athens, Olympia, or Delphi is equally unacceptable in Babylon because “to a wise man, Greece is everywhere, and a wise man neither believes nor considers any place to be empty or barbarous” (1.34–35).58 By saying this Apollonius asserts that he will use frank speech in the same way no matter where he goes, in keeping with his view that once a man has become wise, his main task is to remain consistent, and only if he masters this challenge will he be able to make others better (6.35). While in practice the wise man turns out to be more adaptable in his dealings with Roman emperors than this bold statement suggests, he does show himself consistent in his interactions with eastern potentates, the majority of whom Apollonius manages to improve by his frankness in spite of their shortcomings. For example, he is somewhat successful at educating the king of India, removing the man’s ignorance and incorrect beliefs by speaking with him (3.31–33). The king is so much improved that Iarchas, one of the Indian wise men known as Brahmins, declares to the ruler that he can speak openly to him only now that Apollonius is the king’s advisor (xumboulos), “since you have become better due to a wise man” (32). In saying this, Iarchas acknowledges not only the Tyanan sage’s effect on the ruler but also his own inferiority in courage. Yet the Indian king’s transformation is incomplete: in entreating Apollonius to be a guest at his palace, his manner is so “servile” (ἀνελευθέρως) that Apollonius becomes suspicious, noting (apparently without any fear of offending the ruler) that a king who degrades himself in such a way must be plotting something (33).59 Even Apollonius’ encounter with Phraotes of Taxila, the one eastern king who does not need his advice, demonstrates the importance of good education and good advisors for a monarch. Not only does Phraotes’ knowledge of Greek prove that he is not a mere barbarian, but, what is more, Apollonius even judges him to be a philosopher (2.26–27).60 And when the ruler tells of how the Indians customarily sing “words of advice” (παραινέσεις) to their king at night, so that in the morning he will wake up “benevolent” (χρηστόν) and “easy for his subjects to deal with” (εὐξύμβολον τοῖς ὑπηκόοις), he makes the point that such advice should be unnecessary, since a king should be more delighted in ruling “moderately and benevolently” (μετρίως τε καὶ χρηστῶς) than his subjects are in receiving such treatment (2.34). In an echo of Dio’s Oration 4, this statement implies that a true king already knows how to rule, but the reader can also conclude that any ruler who has not attained this knowledge needs the advice of wise men.

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Moving from eastern kings to Roman emperors reveals an adjustment in Apollonius’ tactics, in spite of his previous assertions of consistency.61 Initially, the reader is led to expect that the wise man will be frank and direct with the emperor in the same way he was with eastern dynasts. The narrator sets the scene while Apollonius is on his way to Rome by remarking on Nero’s tyrannical hostility to philosophy, including his imprisonment of the Stoic Musonius (4.35).62 Following this, Philolaus, a philosopher fleeing Rome, shows up with dire-sounding warnings to Apollonius (as well as any other philosopher who will listen) to turn back lest Nero “eat him raw.” But the narrator undercuts Philolaus by describing him as a mere clever speaker who is “too soft to be steadfast,” and Apollonius himself responds to the man’s alarm with bravado. In speaking to his men, many of whom have been scared by these warnings, he urges “let no one think it foolish to dare (θαρσεῖν) to take the road that many philosophers are avoiding.” What is more, he calls mastery over fear a definitive quality of a philosopher, adding that danger is necessary for any demonstration of courage (andreia) (36–38). The exchange with Philolaus ratchets up the reader’s anticipation that a confrontation with the famously bad emperor will soon occur, as does Apollonius’ encouragement to his students. Contrary to these expectations, however, once the Tyanan sage arrives in Rome he seems to avoid directly confronting the emperor. Even when he sees the people of Rome flocking to the temples to pray for Nero’s recovery from a sore throat that was preventing his singing, the narrator notes that “he rebuked no one” (ἐπέπληττε δὲ οὐδενί) and even restrained his follower Menippus from railing against this behavior (44). By contrast, another philosopher, Demetrius the Cynic, who “kept loosing himself upon Nero” (ἐπηφίει δ’ αὑτὸν τῷ Νέρωνι), is lucky to be exiled rather than executed for publicly criticizing the emperor’s extravagant gymnasium project (42).63 Apollonius is suspected of spurring his fellow philosopher to these attacks, but this rumor (which Philostratus neither confirms nor denies) certainly does not make the Tyanan seem courageous. And while Demetrius receives leniency, this is the result not of the emperor’s self-restraint but rather his success at singing that day, illustrating both the perverse ethics of the regime and the futility of correcting an unreceptive ruler. However, even avoiding conflict with the emperor is no guarantee that one can stay out of trouble in Nero’s Rome. Tigellinus, the praetorian prefect, puts Apollonius under surveillance in the hopes that he will incriminate himself by his speech (42), and as a result the sage’s private comments to Menippus about the folly of the people praying for Nero’s throat are reported back to the authorities, leading to a charge of impiety (asebeia) (44).64 Apollonius ends up evading punishment by demonstrating his magical powers (44), but he decides to leave Rome rather than put himself in danger by remaining after Nero has banned the teaching of philosophy in the city (47). Later he claims to have been ready to stand against Nero and “to have spoken of him with hostility” (κακοήθως διαλεχθείς) (5.35), but most of this talk takes place when Apollonius is safely away

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from Rome. Ultimately, Apollonius’ behavior at Rome can be described as cautious, but not cowardly or toadying. He does not seek out the powerful, but if they approach him he treats them as he would anyone else (4.41). And in contradiction to the way frankness and flattery are often understood as binary opposites, Apollonius occupies a middle ground, neither courting controversy, like Demetrius, nor flattering the emperor and thus encouraging him in his faults.66 In spite of his avoidance of unnecessary risk, he nevertheless faces genuine dangers, which he meets “without fear” (ἀφόβῳ) (44). Apollonius is likewise careful when he interacts directly with Vespasian and Titus, clearly believing that philosophical influence will have a limited effect on them, even though they are generally presented in this work as “good emperors.” After the sage returns to the eastern half of the empire, Vespasian, on the verge of becoming princeps, seeks him out in Alexandria (5.27).67 By demonstrating that he recognizes and values Apollonius’ wisdom, Vespasian proves that he has the potential to be a good ruler, as reinforced when he asks Apollonius’ advice on kingship (36). Similarly, Vespasian’s son Titus shows he has inherited his father’s good judgment when he seeks out Apollonius’ advice on ruling (6.31). Titus also responds well during his father’s reign when Apollonius criticizes his treatment of the Tarsians. When Apollonius complains that Titus should be as quick to grant concessions as he is to mete out punishments, the future emperor is “exceedingly pleased” at this outspokenness and immediately concedes that Apollonius speaks the truth (34). While this episode illustrates Titus’ receptiveness to frank criticism, it also shows Apollonius’ willingness to take the risk of voicing it. Although both men fit the image of the good king in their willingness to listen to wise advice, Apollonius nevertheless tempers his frankness toward them and advises other philosophers to do the same. In a fashion typical of those trying to exert subtle influence over the powerful in imperial-era rhetoric (familiar already from Dio Chrysostom’s Kingship Orations), he seems to praise Vespasian in advance for the traits he hopes he will display, declaring that his prayers for an emperor who is “just, noble, and self-controlled” will be answered in Vespasian (5.28). A more suspicious reading is of course also possible, in which Apollonius’ words are flattery designed to ingratiate himself with the soon-to-be emperor. Likewise, in the philosophers’ constitutional debate of Book 5, Apollonius seems to tell Vespasian what he wants to hear.68 The sage intuits the future emperor’s intentions and avoids contradicting them. In this he differs markedly from the debate’s other two participants, fictionalized versions of the philosophers Euphrates and Dio Chrysostom, who recommend, respectively, that Vespasian give up his opportunity to rule and make Rome a democracy, or allow the people to choose whether they would prefer a monarchy or a democracy (33–34).69 Euphrates provides an especially suitable counterpoint to the sage’s avoidance of both flattery and unnecessary danger. By recommending democracy, Euphrates cultivates a public image of idealistic, philosophical frank-speaking (in the hopes of outshining Apollonius), but his venality drives him to abase himself in private.70

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Apollonius criticizes these men for talking to an emperor as they would another philosopher, noting that their addressee is a ruler and general, and is therefore under very different pressures. In fact his whole demeanor in this episode suggests that he does not expect any philosopher to have great influence over a ruler who has already made up his mind, hinting at a limitation inherent in the pedagogical model of frankness that will only become fully realized in the encounter with Domitian. Rather than tell Vespasian to give up his power, Apollonius recommends that the philosophers focus instead on advising him in the wise use of that power, leading scholars to understand the debate itself as “an assertion of Rome’s need to be guided by men of Greek culture,” in the words of Simon Swain (1996, 389). Apollonius also seems to speak in his own defense, anticipating that his remarks thus far might be taken as inappropriate to a free-speaking philosopher, when he states, “in the case of a philosophical man, he will say what comes into his mind, but I believe he will take care not to say anything foolishly or madly (ἀνοήτως ἢ μανικῶς)” (35). It is implied that contradicting a king is an example of such madness, since to do so without hope of improving his character would merely risk one’s safety in vain. By saying this, the Tyanan acknowledges that too much consistency is actually foolish and that there are times when it is necessary to adjust one’s words to the circumstances.71 Similarly, when Apollonius appoints Demetrius to be Titus’ teacher (didaskalos) regarding the ethics of kingship (6.33), he describes the Cynic’s philosophy to the future emperor as a matter of “frankness, being truthful, and not being frightened by anyone” (παρρησία καὶ τὸ ἀληθεύειν ἐκπλήττεσθαί τε ὑπὸ μηδενός) (31). Yet he also requests that Demetrius moderate himself in his dealings with Titus, urging him in a brief letter to speak the truth but to restrain his anger (33).72 While the narrator offers no explicit judgment that Apollonius undercuts his philosophical integrity with this emphasis on caution (despite his prior insistence to his followers that danger is a necessary condition for courage and fearlessness is an attribute of the wise man [4.38]), the sage’s interactions with Roman emperors as well as his advice to others certainly illustrate his adaptability, by contrast with his teachings’ emphasis on consistency. When put into practice, Apollonius’ version of philosophical wisdom sometimes appears closer to prudence than a grand display of uncompromising idealism.

Apollonius and resistance to tyranny: Domitian impossible A shift occurs in the last two books of Apollonius of Tyana, as the protagonist faces off with Domitian and returns to the more direct and challenging manner of speaking to rulers that we saw during his eastern travels. The interactions with Domitian are also differentiated from those with other emperors in that his incorrigible wickedness is central to the cultural memory of his reign.73 Therefore, despite the many references to advising Domitian in Apollonius’ speech, the ruler’s ethical state is almost beside the point;74 what

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is important here is the way that persecution enables Apollonius to demonstrate his superiority to worldly authority, not merely by means of philosophical indifference, but also by revealing supernatural powers.75 Book 7 begins with the assertion “I know that tyrannies are the greatest test (basanos) of philosophers,” followed by a long list of wise men who stood up to tyrants, including Zeno, Plato, and the Cynics Diogenes and Crates (7.1–2). This introduction establishes a tradition into which the reader can fit Apollonius, but its main purpose is to show that the bravery of previous philosophers and their ability to check the powerful pale in comparison with the accomplishments of the sage himself (2–3).76 Despite the fact that Domitian rules “the sea and the entire earth,” Apollonius is free (eleutheros) from the man’s violent impulses, by virtue of making wisdom his mistress (despoina) rather than the emperor his master (3–4). The sage demonstrates his freedom by traveling around the empire, “philosophizing” to the provincial governors about how the power of tyrants is not “immortal” (ἀθάνατος), a term implying both that the current tyranny will pass, as all mortal things do, but also that it can be overthrown with the death of an individual ruler. He likewise reminds the governors of various episodes from Greek and Roman history that exemplify resistance to tyranny, including the overthrow of the ancient Roman royal line (here called “tyrannies”) and the plot of Harmodius and Aristogeiton against the tyrants of classical Athens, generally considered a dangerous topic to broach under a monarchy (4).77 During this time, he also shows he is brave enough to criticize Domitian in public (6), and even speaks harshly to his statue (9). While in both of these cases, he still does not use his frankness directly toward the emperor, we can see a clear progression, from private criticism, to public speech, to addressing a likeness of the emperor in his statue (one of many serving as mediators for the emperor himself, multiplying and extending his presence across the empire).78 The next logical step is speaking frankly to Domitian himself, and Apollonius accordingly sails for Italy, thwarting the emperor’s intention to have him arrested and brought there by force (9–10). Once in Italy Apollonius is reunited with Demetrius the Cynic, “who was reputed to be the boldest of the philosophers” but who has now fled the city of Rome to escape Domitian (10). His retreat throws Apollonius’ perseverance into stark relief, especially given that the Cynic had previously been much more eager than Apollonius to court conflict with Nero. The exchange between the two philosophers also gives a sense of what is at stake in the clash with Domitian. Their discussion takes place in a doubly symbolic location: a philosophical locus amoenus on the model of Plato’s Phaedrus that is situated at a villa formerly belonging to Cicero (the dire consequences of whose own resistance to autocracy sit subtly in the background).79 Here Demetrius tries to alert Apollonius to the severity of the threat the emperor poses, warning that the danger philosophers face in Rome is worse than Socrates’ treatment at the hands of the Athenians. In addition, he tells of

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charges trumped up against the Tyanan specifically, and warns that participating in such a mockery of justice as Domitian’s courtroom would lend the emperor an undeserved veneer of wisdom (11). But Apollonius is unafraid, in spite of the alarm with which his friend urges him to seize the opportunity to escape, thus thickening the Platonic atmosphere with additional allusions to the Crito (12).80 In a suitably Socratic manner, Apollonius answers by appealing to nomos (that is, the true law), responding to the warning that he might lose his life by arguing that “dying for the sake of freedom (eleutheria) is enjoined by nomos.”81 Moreover, he contends that, compared with others, “it is even more suitable for the wise to die for the sake of their purpose in life (ἐπετήδευσαν).” He goes on to declare that “a wise man who knows himself … does not dread the same things as most people do” and is consequently not a “slave to tyranny,” in that he does not allow it any power over him. In fact his own conscience (xunesis) would provide a greater punishment to him if he were to run away out of fear, not least by preventing him from speaking with a “free tongue” (ἐλευθέρας γλώττης). In effect, then, when Apollonius states “I will not betray myself, but I will contend with the tyrant,” he is giving two names to the same stance (14). The discussion with Demetrius sets up the events that follow, after Apollonius enters Rome. While he is in prison awaiting trial for charges that range from human sacrifice to “speaking against the emperor both secretly and openly” (20), several people try to influence him to speak in ways that are inconsistent with his character. An informer placed in the prison attempts to entrap him into “abuse (loidoria) of the tyrant” by seeming to use frankness himself, but the effect is merely to throw the sage’s genuine frankness into relief.82 Apollonius tells another man that he will reject any advice that urges flattery (kolakeia) of the ruler. The philosophical frankness that he endorses lies between these poles; he intends to speak his mind directly to the emperor,83 being neither scornful nor flattering (27–28). Indeed, the first time he is brought into Domitian’s presence, Apollonius shows himself to adhere to these ideals by conversing with the emperor in a manner that is calm but forthright (32–33). Later, he characterizes this discussion and the degradations that the emperor inflicts on him because of it by saying that he is being punished “for speaking the truth to Domitian.” He also describes his purpose in coming to Rome as teaching (didaskalia). As distinct from the trope of the wise advisor, however, he has come not to improve the ruler but to educate him in the truth of the sage’s own good character as a man who is kalos k’agathos (isolating the ethical elements of this conventional elite expression of approbation) (36).84 This idea of education also plays an important role in the defense speech that Philostratus attributes to Apollonius, in which he offers the emperor advice in full knowledge that the man will not change his tyrannical ways.85 The speech opens with a declaration that Domitian’s attack on philosophy puts the emperor himself at risk too, and because of this danger, he says, “I will not hesitate to advise you” (8.7.8). It is valuable for the emperor to be

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exposed to Apollonius’ advice because he has been corrupted by hearing “flattery and false accusations” from others (a clear if indirect reference to Euphrates) (8.7.32). Like Dio Chrysostom in his own speech addressed to an emperor (Oration 3.12–13), Apollonius uses his personal history to vouch for his present honesty.86 In the past, he says, he did not “give servile (ἀνελεύθερον) speeches to kings or on behalf of kings,” or “flatter kings for gifts” (8.7.506–10).87 Besides providing evidence that he did not collaborate with usurpers, these details suggest that he can be expected to tell the truth to Domitian now. In fact, Apollonius’ speech of self-defense often seems to be aimed mainly at criticizing the emperor, as the philosopher acknowledges, admitting, “I realize I am rebuking you rather than defending myself” (καὶ ξυνίημι μὲν ἐπιτιμῶν μᾶλλον ἢ ἀπολογούμενος) (8.7.62–63). We have been prompted to expect this role-reversal by the original introduction to this story of persecution, which tells of how Apollonius “left the trial after condemning the tyrant rather than being condemned himself” (7.1). But Apollonius also points out that it is actually a good thing to criticize the emperor: those like Euphrates who flatter Domitian and falsely accuse others to him expect the emperor to behave like a despot, while Apollonius believes him to be a ruler (archo-n), and instead of a sword offers him logos, rational argumentation (8.7.720–22). Though the sage does not end up delivering his speech, Domitian’s hostile response to frank criticism (famously anathema to tyrants) nevertheless undercuts the pedagogical aims of his rhetoric. As Apollonius puts it when he is reunited with his companions after the trial, “having always been a hearer of flattering words, he has now heard rebuking ones (ἐπιπληττόντων), and because of such words tyrannical natures burst forth and rage” (8.13). Indeed, the apologia too seems designed to demonstrate the holy man’s frankness; even without the chance to perform the speech he composed, the sage demonstrates his bravery by being willing to say these things before the emperor, no matter the consequences (6). However, throughout the Domitian episode of Books 7 and 8 (including the unrecited speech), it is unclear from Apollonius’ own statements whether or not the emperor is capable of harming him and what such an incapacity would mean. We are presented with a range of interpretive possibilities, including a philosophical reorientation of the conventional understanding of harm, a more specifically Pythagorean rejection of the concept of death, or Apollonius’ possession of superhuman qualities. As early as the discussion with Demetrius at Cicero’s villa, contradictions begin to appear in the sage’s comments about the coming confrontation. Apollonius explicitly accepts the risk he will take by entering Rome, but, paradoxically, disputes the notion that he is actually in any physical danger from Domitian, saying that he would not be killed “by the tyranny” even if he wished it himself, though the significance of this comment is left vague (7.14). At times, the point seems potentially universal, as when he discusses the scorn that the wise man displays toward death (e.g. at 7.31), suggesting that anyone who achieves

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internal self-mastery can likewise reject the emperor’s power over him, at least in a limited sense.88 Likewise, when his comments reflect his Pythagorean sensibilities, they claim to state truths that apply to everyone. An illustration appears in his planned defense speech; following his observation that people think Domitian will kill him, he interjects, “whatever killing is,” thus questioning whether the emperor’s power to execute is even meaningful (8.7.13–14).89 At the same time, there are repeated suggestions that Domitian cannot hurt Apollonius because Philostratus’ protagonist is something more than human, though the text is highly evasive on this issue.90 The reorientation of the power relationship is illustrated by the famous prison scene in which Apollonius comforts his disciple Damis by showing him in secret that he can take his leg out of its shackle any time he wants, declaring “I have provided you with a demonstration (ἐπίδειξιν) of my own freedom” (7.38).91 He reveals this power to the emperor too by disappearing shortly after he is acquitted, suggesting that he could have done this all along if he so wished. The ambiguity of his status is further exacerbated by his comments in the moments before his disappearance. In refusing a private discussion with Domitian, the sage declares that the tyrant will have to seize his body (so-ma) since it is impossible to seize his soul (psuche-). Up to this point the statement could be attributed to any persecuted philosopher, but Apollonius then destabilizes the normal relationship between persecutor and martyr by adding “but rather you cannot seize my body either” and then reciting a line from the Iliad in which Apollo tells Achilles, whom he has just tricked, “you will not kill me because I am not fated to die.”92 In saying this and vanishing, Apollonius shows that “he could never be caught against his will” (8.5). Typically, a philosopher strives to make his internal state free from outside authority, but in the case of Apollonius, his freedom extends to the manipulation of the external world. As the narrator sums it up, Apollonius shows that “the man terrifying to all Greeks and barbarians is the plaything (παίγνιον) of his own philosophia” (10). Such a display of power stands at odds with other elements of the biography that paint Apollonius as a more conventional philosopher, including the characteristic (even stereotypical) maintenance of frank speaking in the face of danger. The Tyanan privileges living openly in accordance with philosophical principles, as when he replies to Damis’ concern that it will be difficult for him to evade the emperor’s wrath after the trial, by pointing out that “if the whole world belongs to the tyrant, as you believe, those who die in the open (ἐν τῷ φανερῷ) are better off than those who live in secret (ἐν τῷ ἀφανεῖ).” As Apollonius’ actions demonstrate, frank speech in the face of power forms an important part of the open, philosophical mode of existence that Damis characterizes as courting “voluntary and severe dangers” (13–14). We see this when the sage “emboldens himself” (ἐπιρρώσας ἑαυτόν) immediately after Domitian formally acquits him, succinctly telling the emperor all that is wrong with the empire under his rule (5).

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Apollonius also tries to impart this lesson to his followers and repeatedly scolds Damis for showing insufficient philosophical courage in the face of worldly authority.93 When he says “I have chosen to die in the best way and at the time befitting a philosopher” (7.31), he offers himself as a model for Damis and the others. Yet his supernatural disappearance from Domitian’s courtroom undermines the impression of risk-taking that is integral to philosophical parrhe-sia. To draw on a work to which the Apollonius is often compared, we can find an illuminating contrast in the status of Paul in Acts of the Apostles.94 This book of the New Testament ends with a reference to the apostle’s frank teaching at Rome (28), but his parrhe-sia is given point by the readers’ knowledge of his impending trial before Nero and the execution that follows.95 Likewise, in the Pauline letters, the apostle references his own struggles (ago-nes) as a model for his audience (Philippians 1.27–30).96 If Apollonius’ acolytes are to be similarly capable of following his example, his courage in the face of danger must be comparable to theirs.97 Indeed, throughout the Apollonius of Tyana and especially the clash with Domitian, tensions become apparent between Apollonius’ special status and the more conventional trope of the philosopher risking his life to speak out against a tyrant. As Kemezis (2014a, 186–87) has noted, ambiguity about Apollonius’ divinity is necessary for maintaining the impact of his conflict with Domitian, given that Apollonius cannot be simultaneously divine and heroic. Likewise, from the standpoint of evaluating his frank speech, his specialness actually undermines his bravery. We are left with a puzzle that is only compounded by the Tyanan sage’s indeterminate identity: if Apollonius is truly impervious to Domitian’s threats, can he really use philosophical parrhe-sia?98

Cautionary tales from Plutarch’s Lives Apollonius’ triumph over Domitian reinforces the impression of his superhuman nature. Yet for those who are unambiguously mortal, principled parrhe-sia toward a king is an effective means of self-glorification for the very reason that it is dangerous. Pushing back to some degree against this image of uncompromising frankness, Plutarch treats prudence and moderation as philosophical values in themselves. Apollonius’ response to Nero has already indicated that such a stance can compete with a more confrontational philosophical self-fashioning, but the idea is valorized to a much greater degree in Plutarch’s pragmatic account of the wise man, which focuses on the results of speech.99 Just as his theoretical writings on frank speech urge prudent self-restraint,100 the Parallel Lives illustrate the dangers of overly bold frankness and raise questions about philosophical advisors’ effectiveness in improving rulers.101 The most striking versions of such encounters appear in the Life of Dion and Life of Alexander, which depict confrontations between Greeks and rulers who are (or claim to be) Greek.102 Despite this fact, questions about Greek intellectuals’ relationship to Rome are not so much sidelined in these

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works as sublimated. Given that the temporal parameters of Plutarch’s Parallel Lives do not extend beyond the death of Antony, scenarios involving confrontation between advisors and autocrats are limited almost entirely to the Greek lives.103 Yet at the time of Plutarch’s writing, any literary depiction of a monarch is bound to be refracted through the lens of the Roman emperor. What is more, even though these accounts of the workings of power are set in the fourth century BCE, they offer more general lessons that can be extended to interactions not only with emperors but with other powerful Romans as well. The applicability of such exempla is signaled in the introduction to the Lives of Dion and Brutus, when Plutarch speaks directly to his dedicatee Sosius Senecio, who is addressed by name only twice more in the massive composition (1.1).104 As Swain (1996, 140– 45) has noted, Sosius himself can be understood as the beneficiary of Plutarch’s philosophical paideia.105 By calling attention to his pedagogical connection with a very prominent Roman at the outset of the Life of Dion, Plutarch raises the possibility of viewing the didactic relationships within the story as a mirror for his own with the Roman addressees of his works. At the beginning of the Life of Dion, Plutarch introduces Dion along with his biographical companion Brutus by describing both men as products of the Academy in one way or another. As a result, he says, both lives reflect the Platonic teaching that “it is necessary for power and good fortune to come together as one with intelligence and justice.”106 Brutus gained his Platonic influences in the form of words (logoi), but Dion was a disciple of the philosopher himself (1.1–2). According to this work, Plato ended up in Sicily by divine providence, and Dion subsequently introduced him to Dionysius I of Syracuse, his brother-in law, because he mistakenly thought that the tyrant would benefit from the philosopher’s teachings (4.7); Dion later invited Plato to return to Sicily so that he could improve Dionysius II as well (11.2). Elsewhere Plutarch tells us that the philosopher came to the tyrant’s court deliberately in order to “inscribe” (engraphein) his teachings on the soul of the man in power and make him a better ruler. However, his mission failed: he arrived too late and found Dionysius (the Younger, it seems), like a palimpsest scroll, already overwritten and soiled by a tyranny that could not be cleaned off (Philosophers and Rulers 779b–c). In both versions of Plato’s encounters with tyrants named Dionysius, the rulers prove that they are not receptive to philosophical teachings and are therefore truly tyrannical. In the Life, Dionysius I becomes enraged when the philosopher demonstrates his uncompromising frankness by declaring that tyrants lack bravery (andreia) and justice (dikaiosune-), and attempts to have the man killed (5.1–2). While this plot does not succeed, he manages to have Plato sold into slavery, with a mocking reference to the philosophical notion that a just man could be happy even as a slave (5.6). Meanwhile, Dion himself has better luck with the tyrants, at least initially. We are told that he absorbed the teachings of Plato more quickly than any of the philosopher’s other students (4.5–7), and then put them to use in his

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interactions with Dionysius (5.8–10). In spite of his violence toward Plato, Dionysius shows himself capable of listening to Dion as his advisor, insofar as he “put up with the parrhe-sia of one who was practically the only person to tell him what he thought without fear” (5.8).108 After the death of Dionysius I, Dion’s frank speech continues to set him apart from others at court. When Dionysius the Younger calls his “friends” (i.e. his close advisors) together for the first time, Dion’s words are a far cry from the typical flatteries (kolakeiai) the courtiers tend to espouse: “with his intelligence, he showed all the others to be children, and with his parrhe-sia he showed them to be slaves of tyranny” (6.4; cf. 7.4).109 This boldness gains the tyrant’s favor but also incites the envy of others close to the ruler, who try to slander (diaballein) Dion by relabeling his virtues as vices, including his frankness (parrhe-sia), which they call willful presumption (authadeia).110 Ultimately, Dion’s enemies are not entirely wrong, as his frankness does prove to be excessive. Plutarch conveys this point by stating that “even when he admonished, he seemed to accuse” (καὶ νουθετῶν κατηγορεῖν ἐδόκει), juxtaposing language associated with beneficial correction and that of juridical fault-finding (8.1).111 As a result, his harshness is not only disagreeable (acharis) to a young tyrant who has been reared on flattery, but it also alienates many who love him. Even Plato echoes Dion’s critics (and authorizes Plutarch’s reservations about excessive frankness) by writing to warn his student against authadeia (8.3–4).112 The younger Dionysius’ dominant characteristic in this work is tyrannical jealousy, which is oriented at first toward maintaining a grasp on power. To remedy the elder’s denial of an education to his son (attributed to the older tyrant’s own jealous hold on rule and his perception of his son as a threat, 9.2–3), Dion sets out to educate the man, hoping to turn him from a tyrant to a king (basileus), the sort of ruler whose reign is definitively characterized by moderation (so-phrosune-), justice (dikaiosune-), and kindness (eumeneia), which in turn generates goodwill (eunoia) and gratitude (charis) among those he rules (10.3–4). In this Dion is at least partially successful: exposure to these ideas along with Platonic teachings results in Dionysius being overcome with desire (ero-s) for the company of Plato (11.1). The tyrant’s susceptibility to such passions immediately demonstrates that the lessons of philosophy have only affected him superficially.113 Therefore it comes as no great surprise that, when Plato returns to Sicily at the requests of both Dionysius and Dion, the ruler’s jealousy incites in him a “tyrannical passion” for the philosopher, whom he imprisons for a period on the acropolis before sending him back to Athens. Above all else, the tyrant wishes for his own “friendship” with Plato to surpass that between the philosopher and Dion (16.1–4), who has fallen out of favor with the tyrant and been exiled, as if prefiguring the philosophical martyr tropes of Plutarch’s own era (14.4–7; cf. 15.2). After a protracted longdistance conflict with Dionysius, Dion returns to Syracuse to depose the tyrant, an act that the inhabitants welcome “as if it were … a divine procession of freedom and de-mokratia returning to the city after 48 years” (28.4).114

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With Dionysius gone, Dion is accused of setting himself up as a tyrannical master (despote-s) to the people of Syracuse (34.2), and while this charge is framed as false and opportunistic by reference to the accuser’s shameless demagogic parrhe-sia (34.1),115 Dion does in fact seem to develop a tyrannical outlook over time, as illustrated by his use of informers (54.4).116 It is notable too that when the citizens themselves turn on Dion, they draw upon fundamental connections between tyranny and the suppression of the public’s free speech (34.4).117 Unlike the previous references to parrhe-sia in this work, where it took the form of criticism directed at a monarch by his close advisors, unrestrained demagogues and complaints about the tyrannical curtailment of speech are a nod to the broadly “democratic” milieu of the second half of this work. Although Dion tries to govern as a philosopher-king in this context, political intrigue and his emerging tyrannical streak eventually lead to his assassination (52–57).118 As a whole, the Life of Dion throws into question the efficacy of wise advisors to kings and the viability of philosopher-kings themselves. Dionysius the Elder is tolerant of frank criticism only selectively and shows little sign of developing self-restraint, going so far as to try to murder Plato when his words are displeasing. Likewise, even Dionysius the Younger’s passion for Plato is itself a sign that he never truly learns the lessons offered by the philosopher. Lastly, while Dion ultimately seems to fail as a ruler because he falters in his adherence to philosophical ideals, even when he tries to apply these principles he ends up causing problems for himself, as when his highminded treatment of a political rival quickly backfires (47–48).119 In the end, it is not clear whether his attempts to be a wise advisor or a philosopher-king avert more problems than they produce, and we are left with a sense that realworld politics and philosophical idealism are fundamentally incompatible.120 In the Life of Alexander the Great, we find an even more glaring failure of the pedagogical model, though personal failings too play a large role in this work, as Alexander’s potential for greatness makes his decline into stereotypically oriental luxury and despotism all the more tragic.121 Indeed, Plutarch’s ambivalent portrait of the Macedonian conqueror is set up in such a way that both the ruler and his critics are at fault when their encounters go disastrously wrong, in spite of the many levels of overdetermination at work.122 Alexander displays a dangerous temper from early life, which is balanced by his lifelong devotion to philosophy (8.5).123 Yet the worst parts of his nature are not sufficiently checked by the influence of paideia, as becomes apparent when poorly chosen parrhe-sia by some of the king’s most cherished advisors results in violent death at his hands.124 The figure who best fits the model of the philosophical frank speaker we have seen so far is Callisthenes of Olynthus, a younger relative of Aristotle, who presents a mixed bag of philosophical and sophistical qualities, and accordingly shows he is capable of pedagogical parrhe-sia but also arrogant self-promotion.125 Clearly, the “other sophists and flatterers” in Alexander’s retinue view him as a competitor, implying that his logos, which has so

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attracted the young men in the court, can be understood as speechmaking and not just philosophical teachings (as would be the conventional reference point for the opposition of logos and bios, doctrine and way of life, to which Plutarch also appeals here) (53.1–2).126 In philosopher mode, Callisthenes counsels Alexander in a moment of crisis, after the king’s impulsive murder of Cleitus. His gentle (praos) yet severe (auste-ros) guidance strikes a good balance by Plutarchan standards, unlike the dangerous permissiveness of a rival philosopher, Anaxarchus, who tells the king that whatever he does is the law (nomos) and thus makes him “more conceited and lawless” (χαυνότερον καὶ παρανομώτερον) (52.3–7).127 At another point, Callisthenes demonstrates his rhetorical talent by making a speech in praise of the Macedonians, when prompted to do so at a feast; then, at Alexander’s request, he makes a second speech in which he “denounces” (κατηγορήσας) them. The narrator tells us that Alexander intended for this criticism to be didactic, “so that they may become better by learning how they err,” but the lesson fails when Callisthenes “says many things frankly against the Macedonians” (πολλὰ παρρησιάσασθαι κατὰ τῶν Μακεδόνων). The key term here is κατά (“against”), echoed in Alexander’s judgment that Callisthenes’ second speech indicates not his cleverness (deinote-s), that is, his rhetorical ability,128 but his ill-will (dusmeneia, as opposed to the goodwill, eunoia, that motivates pedagogical parrhe-sia).129 Reciprocating this harshness, the Macedonians and Alexander himself become hostile toward the philosopher (53.3–6). This speech is also mentioned in Philostratus’ Apollonius of Tyana, when Callisthenes is listed among the philosophers who previously stood up to tyrants (7.2); he is described as both “praising and rebuking” (ἐπαινέσας τε καὶ διαβαλών) the Macedonians on the same day, just as they were at the height of their power (dunamis). By leaving out the sympotic context that frames Callisthenes’ set of speeches, the philosopher’s critique is made to seem more spontaneous and thus riskier (as suggested also by the mention of Macedonian power, which seems otherwise out-of-place in a discussion of tyranny). The narrator follows this by attributing his death to a “nasty reputation” (ἀηδὴς δόξας), suggesting that his downfall resulted from the speech itself.130 By contrast, in the Plutarchan Life it is not this speech alone that dooms Callisthenes, but also his response to Alexander’s introduction of proskyne-sis, the Persian ritual of self-abasement before the king. Similarly to his previous parrhesiastic speech, his refusal to perform proskyne-sis toward Alexander marks him out as a principled Greek philosopher in opposition to all forms of tyranny.131 By voicing “openly” (ἐν φανερῷ) the matters that “the best and oldest of the Macedonians were indignant about in secret (κρύφα),” Callisthenes benefits not just “the Greeks” (a category that seems to include the Macedonians) but also Alexander, by preventing him from sinking into despotism. This bravery only enhances the philosopher’s reputation, drawing the young men to him “as if he were the only free man among so many tens of thousands” (55).132

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At the same time, Callisthenes wreaks his own destruction by choosing such an uncompromising stance rather than trying to persuade Alexander, whereby, Plutarch implies, he could have guided the king to a better decision more safely (54.3). As Arrian notes in his account of the same story, probably written shortly after Plutarch’s Parallel Lives, this behavior made it easy for Alexander to believe that Callisthenes was disloyal enough to participate in a plot to overthrow him (Anab. 4.12.7).133 Like Arrian, Plutarch seems to view Callisthenes as innocent in the coup, but still blameworthy for the actions that led to his false association with it. Such excessive frankness (which is also, in Arrian’s words, “untimely,” akairos) ultimately results in his execution alongside the conspirators.134 In fact, while the expression akairos parrhe-sia does not appear in Plutarch’s account of Callisthenes’ death, the timely and therefore safe use of frank speech is an object of concern across his corpus. It is particularly notable as a major theme of his treatise How to Tell a Flatterer from a Friend, where inopportune parrhe-sia toward the powerful is presented not just as needlessly risky to the speaker, but as destructive in a broader sense, in that it drives the target of overly frank and ill-timed criticism directly into the arms of flatterers, to the detriment of both ruler and ruled (66b). In Flatterer Plutarch likewise calls attention to the special dangers posed by the influence of wine, which encourages people to speak out at the same time as it makes aggressive frankness particularly inopportune. He advises, “in the presence of wine and drunkenness one must be on guard” against akairos parrhe-sia (68c).135 Bringing conflict-inciting speech into the playful and friendly setting of the symposium is dangerous for the very reason that the participants have relaxed their usual self-restraint, “for feelings are apt to slip towards anger on account of the wine, and often drunkenness creates hostility by seizing control of people’s frankness” (68d).136 This passage makes clear that it is no coincidence when overindulgence in parrhe-sia accompanies overindulgence in wine in the Life of Alexander, and not just in the story of Callisthenes’ banqueting speeches or his refusal of proskyne-sis at a symposium, but also in the affair of “Black Cleitus.” Cleitus is one of Alexander’s Macedonian companions and the man responsible for saving the king’s life at Granicus (16.11). During a party at which “wanton drinking had broken out,” Cleitus quarrels on personal terms with Alexander, his naturally harsh (trachus) and willful (authade-s) temperament having been exacerbated by drunkenness (50.8–11). Cleitus’ speech is characterized by the narrator as parrhe-sia, but, while his pugnacious words may establish him (as he himself says) among “men who are frank speaking and free” in contradistinction to barbarians and slaves, they also lead to his needless death (51.3–5).137 In the stories of Callisthenes and Cleitus, the culpability of the advisor and that of the king exist in tension with one another.138 On the one hand, it is the king’s advisor who pays the price of his life and who should therefore be motivated to guard himself more carefully, making sure to use parrhe-sia only when it will produce some benefit or at the very least will not cause harm. Yet the king’s responsibility for these violent exchanges is also underscored, in

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that his legitimacy as a ruler depends on his virtue and self-mastery. Besides being theorized in works we have already seen, such as Philosophers and Rulers and To an Uneducated Ruler, the notion is even attributed to Alexander himself, who allegedly believes self-mastery to be “more kingly” than victory over his enemies (Alexander 21.7). This wisdom illustrates his potential to be a good king, but when he fails to lead a life that is consistent with his ideals, it is a sign of both his own weakness and the many deleterious influences during his eastern sojourn, despite the efforts of advisors like Callisthenes to make him better. While extenuating circumstances and bad luck (dustuchia) soften the blame on Alexander in the Cleitus affair (in which a sacrifice gone wrong and other bad omens are signs of a doom that is outside the king’s control) (50),140 both episodes throw into question Alexander’s fitness to rule.141 Plutarch paves the way for such considerations earlier in the Life, when he shows Alexander becoming increasingly intolerant of criticism and susceptible to flattery, characteristics which warn of incipient tyranny.142 Whereas another ruler might have attributed Cleitus’ transgression to drunkenness and therefore dismissed it as inconsequential, as Pyrrhus does in a similar situation elsewhere in the Parallel Lives, Alexander allows his own self-control to slip, both in his drunken violence and by drinking excessively in the first place.143 When a king responds to frankness with violence in the way Alexander does, it tends to be a sign of his downfall, as in the case of Perseus, who kills his treasurers for “offering frank criticism and advice inopportunely.”144 The untimely circumstance here is the aftermath of Perseus’ defeat at Pydna; as a result of this rashness on his part, he is abandoned by nearly all of his remaining followers (Aemilius Paulus 23.6). Before moving on, it is worth noting that many of the anecdotes discussed here also appear in Plutarch’s Flatterer, where they are given a noticeably different spin, illustrating the divergence between these texts’ rhetorical strategies.145 For instance, the story of Perseus in Flatterer illustrates larger claims about proper and improper occasions for parrhe-sia by describing how the same men flattered Perseus while he was successful and then criticized him after his defeat, inducing him to murder them in his anger (70a–b). Likewise, in that text’s account of Cleitus’ death, Alexander’s aggravation is attributed less to the influence of wine and more to the poor judgment of Cleitus in embarrassing the king before a crowd (71c). These anecdotes typify Plutarch’s tendency in Flatterer to put more responsibility on the frank speaker, as compared with versions of the same stories in the Parallel Lives, where the blame is generally divided between king and advisor when something goes wrong in their interactions. This discrepancy comes about because How to Tell a Flatterer from a Friend aims mainly to warn its audience against using unnecessarily risky frankness toward those more powerful than themselves (despite the indications of the work’s title, as will be discussed at greater length in chapter 5), whereas the Parallel Lives offer examples of how (and, even more often, how not) to receive criticism as well as give it.

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Beyond Greek philosophers: adversaries and advisors Plutarch’s depiction of Cleitus has already demonstrated that frankly critiquing a ruler is not the exclusive preserve of philosophers. While most of this chapter has focused on figures with a philosophical bent, many other elite citizens of the empire are also depicted confronting imperial power with frank speech, as illustrated in the paraliterary Acts of the Alexandrians. In a manner reminiscent of Apollonius’ run-ins with bad emperors in Apollonius of Tyana, those texts focus almost entirely on the frank critics themselves, and tyrannical emperors are mere instruments in the complainants’ self-fashioning as martyrs to freedom.146 Other works in which non-philosophers frankly confront emperors are more easily datable than the Acts and they arise predominantly from the later end of the period covered in this study. In fact, the two major works discussed here, Philostratus’ Lives of the Sophists and Cassius Dio’s Roman History, were produced by authors connected with the court of Septimius Severus in the late second and early third centuries CE.147 At the same time, the texts under examination reveal important continuities with presentations of philosophical parrhe-sia from the earlier empire, despite the fact that both the imperial advisors of Cassius Dio’s text and Philostratus’ sophists tend to be understood as insiders to imperial power structures, in contrast to the image of the philosopher as a defiant outsider (as discussed in chapter 1).148 The examples in this final section thus complement but also complicate the picture of frankness directed toward rulers, throwing into relief prior versions of these tropes. Like Plutarch’s oeuvre, Philostratus’ Lives of the Sophists has been understood to promote a moderate approach between courtly flattery and excessive frankness (as identified with uncompromising philosophers), a restraint we have also observed at times in the protagonist of Apollonius.149 In enumerating the careers and famous sayings of Greek epideictic orators, Philostratus gives a number of examples of excessive frankness before rulers that led (or nearly led) to the speakers’ deaths. These episodes have been taken to suggest an “aversion to parrhe-sia” on Philostratus’ part, in the words of Jaap-Jan Flinterman (2004, 375). It is true that he consistently blames frank speakers for courting unnecessary risks, but these stories also articulate a principle by which to judge the actions of emperors. These anecdotes can therefore be fruitfully approached through the lens of the advice on kingship tradition, because they are told in such a way as to provide lessons for the wielders of power as well. Furthermore, this feature of the text is perhaps connected with its dedication to the consular Gordian (who was later, briefly, emperor), as well as Philostratus’ personal involvement in the court of Septimius Severus and Julia Domna (the latter of whom is the dedicatee of Apollonius).150 An example of good rule appears early in the text, in the account of Favorinus’ career (488–92). While Favorinus is listed (like Dio Chrysostom) among the philosophers known as sophists and therefore could be approached as a special case, his relationship with the emperor does not differ

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markedly from that of other orators who caused trouble for themselves by confronting autocrats, as we will see. According to Philostratus, Favorinus liked to boast about the three paradoxes of his life: though he was a Gaul, he “Hellenized” (ἑλληνίζειν, usually taken to mean that he mastered Greek);151 though he was a eunuch, he was tried for adultery; and, most significantly for this discussion, he quarreled with a king and lived. Maud Gleason has noted the tension between this account, in which the circumstances of the conflict with Hadrian seem less than life-threatening (Favorinus attempted to claim immunity as a philosopher from an expensive local office and was unsuccessful), and other sources that invariably paint a less favorable picture of Hadrian (Gleason 1995, 145–47).152 Set against this background, the narrator’s seemingly favorable depiction of the emperor (here called Hadrianos basileus) is especially noteworthy.153 While the rhe-to-r’s survival of this encounter could have been attributed to his own clever last-minute evasion when he realized that the emperor would decide against him (with a claim that his teacher Dio Chrysostom had appeared to him in a dream and urged him to accept the office after all), Gleason notes that such courtly evasion and deference, as the opposite of philosophical frankness, actually disqualify him from the category of philosopher for which he had originally sought the exemption. Given Philostratus’ hostility to idealized frank speaking elsewhere in Lives of the Sophists, as we will see shortly, Favorinus’ inconsistency does not seem to have been objectionable in itself (his identity being a complex of contradictions after all). What is more notable for my purposes is the narrator’s repeated praise of Hadrian for his conduct in the affair and his explicit connection of this approbation with the tradition of advice to kings (489): But the praise here must rather be praise of Hadrian, if despite being king he quarreled as an equal with a man whom he could lawfully kill. But a king is stronger if he masters his anger “when he feels ire at a lowly man,” and “the fury of Zeus-nourished kings is great” if it is disciplined (κολάζηται) by reason. It is fitting for those who keep the characters of kings in good order (τοὺς εὖ τιθεμένους τὰ τῶν βασιλέων ἤθη) to add these sayings to the poets’ famous lines. By adding his own commentary to the Homeric quotations,154 Philostratus improves their value for the education of kings, but also calls attention to the paucity of advisory roles for sophists within this work. It is questionable whether Dio Chrysostom’s relationship to Trajan can be characterized this way, particularly given the emperor’s own declaration that he did not understand Dio (488).155 And while scholars have called attention to a few other instances where sophists allegedly advise emperors, only Aristides’ relationship to Marcus Aurelius seems to merit this label (583); in the case of Polemo and Hadrian, by contrast, the emperor’s reference to the advice he received is presented as a wily fiction (534).156 Furthermore, in neither of these episodes

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is the correction or restraint of the emperor at issue. In fact, Philostratus asserts that Marcus would have rebuilt the earthquake-shattered city of Smyrna even if Aristides had not requested it, but that he did so with even more zeal after receiving this advice (xumboulia) from a man whose eloquence had greatly impressed him on a previous occasion (582–83).157 Elsewhere in the Lives of the Sophists, orators do indeed confront emperors, but even here their criticism does not take the form of beneficial advice. What is more, the narrator explicitly finds fault with their actions, which is particularly remarkable given that these speakers are Herodes Atticus and Polemo, figures central to this work in terms of the space given over to them as well as in their role as the author’s most vaunted pedagogical ancestors.158 As in the Favorinus episode, instead of valorizing the sophists, the narrator praises the emperors’ lenient responses. For instance, when Herodes Atticus is on trial before Marcus Aurelius, his grief-induced verbal attacks (diabolai) on the emperor are blameworthy for their openness (literally, their lack of sche-ma, “figuration”). At the same time, the leniency of Marcus’ response is treated as evidence of his philosophical outlook, which is remarked upon repeatedly (560–61),159 in a presentation of Marcus consonant with his tolerance of frankness in other texts, including his own Meditations.160 Likewise, in Polemo’s conflict with Antoninus Pius, Philostratus’ narrator presents the ruler in a similarly favorable light at the same time as he characterizes the sophist as one of “those people who press too hard and irritate” (οἱ προσκείμενοί τε καὶ παροξύνοντες), capping the story of the emperor’s leniency by editorializing “let this serve as an illustration of a mild (πρᾴου) king and an arrogant (ὑπέρφρονος) man” (534–35).161 Even in the case of Antiphon’s death at the hands of the Syracusan tyrant Dionysius, when the ruler clearly behaves despotically in response to criticism, Philostratus blames the speaker, in part for his open praise of Harmodius and Aristogeiton.162 On top of this Antiphon is held at fault for attacking Dionysius’ tragedy writing because his complaint strays so far from the principle of improving the ruler that it actually makes the man more dangerous.163 After all, as the narrator explains, a tyrant who is busy composing tragedies may have his character improved by the practice, and at the very least it directs his time and energy away from more bloodthirsty and rapacious activities. Instead of making a personal sacrifice for the public good in correcting a tyrant, Antiphon both destroys himself and harms others under the ruler’s power. The lesson to be drawn here is that all men should be careful “not to provoke tyrants, nor move their savage characters to anger” (499–500).164 These anecdotes reveal a pattern in which the leniency of autocrats is praised and those who risk inciting their anger are blamed. It is notable that in none of these examples does frankness aim to improve the ruler. Rather, it is treated as an expression of the sophists’ arrogance in the face of power. At worst such confrontations intensify the menace of bad rulers, while at best they provide good emperors the opportunity to demonstrate

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their benevolence. Even though these narratives focus on the faults of frank-speakers and make sophists their protagonists more generally, the presentation of the tyrants and emperors is nevertheless based on an underlying assumption that tolerance of frank criticism is a sign of good rule, which even extends occasionally to overt praise of a monarch on the narrator’s part. Our last examples of frankness by non-philosophers come from Cassius Dio, who belonged to one of the most prominent families of Nicaea in Bithynia and whose ancestors had enjoyed Roman citizenship for several generations. As a senator, consul, and provincial governor who made Italy his primary place of residence, he was more deeply embedded in Roman imperial governance than other authors examined in this study, but he was highly invested in Greek culture as well, writing not just in Greek but in the studied Attic Kunstsprache of contemporary Hellenic literary culture.165 And while his writings are much more centered around Rome than those of many other imperial Greek authors, his history also participates in a long tradition of Greek-language historical writing about Rome, stretching back to Polybius. This fusion of cultures is emblematized in the hybrid style of his history, which combines Greek literary influences with a Roman annalistic format.166 In keeping with traditional Greek theories of kingship, Dio’s depiction of parrhe-sia in the principate foregrounds the emperors’ acceptance or rejection of frankness and presents it as a basis for judging their rule, drawing on his own experience as an advisor to Severus. Given Dio’s participation in the major cultural currents of the Greek-speaking Roman empire, it is no great surprise that his characterization of the ideal relationship between advisors and rulers has much in common with that of his fellow Bithynian, Dio Chrysostom.167 At the same time, as Christopher Mallan notes in his study of parrhe-sia in Cassius Dio (Mallan 2016), the historian’s depiction of imperialera parrhe-sia contrasts sharply with his presentation of frankness during the republic, where it seems to function as something akin to a right, in keeping with his depiction of the Roman republic through the lens of classical Athenian political ideas, including the connection between frank speech and personal liberty.168 The shift in the operation of frankness with Augustus’ establishment of one-man rule helps to delineate this “monarchy” from preceding eras.169 As we will see, even though Augustus is more amenable to frank criticism than many other emperors, the nature of frankness in the Augustan era is still determined by the power dynamic between the ruler and the ruled, and for this reason the transition from republic to principate makes a much greater difference to the exercise of frank speech than the distinctions between good and bad emperors, though Dio certainly recognizes these as well.170 However, it is not clear that the historian values republican parrhe-sia very highly.171 As he asserts in his discussion of Caesar’s assassination, monarchy is more stable and successful than democracy because “it is easier to find

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one good man than many,” though he acknowledges that even this can be difficult (44.2.1–2).172 Given the necessity of such a concentration of power in the hands of one man, the frank speech directed by a good advisor to his superior becomes all the more vital. And for Dio such an advisor is by definition a man from his own senatorial milieu. This principle can be found illustrated negatively in the failings of bad emperors whose courts were filled with parvenus,173 but it is also set out more positively in the famous Agrippa–Maecenas debate of Book 52. Here Maecenas advises the future Augustus to work “in cooperation with the best men” (μετὰ τῶν ἀρίστων ἀνδρῶν), who are also defined as his “equals in honor” (τῶν ὁμοτίμων), in order to make the best decisions in the public interest.174 Among the emperors, Dio writes most favorably about Augustus, whose acceptance of parrhe-sia plays a salient role in this portrayal.175 The original princeps is depicted not just tolerating but encouraging frank criticism of his policies by the public and his elite friends.176 With this lenient and inclusive attitude toward governance, he makes both the people and the senatorial class part of his apparatus of rule, taking on a council of advisors (sumbouloi) from among the magistrates yet simultaneously establishing himself as the supreme decision maker (53.21.4–7). This presentation of Augustus is consonant both with his reputation in other literary depictions, such as Julian’s Caesares,177 as well as with Maecenas’ advice that the monarch disregard abuse (loidoria), neither prosecuting offenders nor even displaying irritation toward them, but rather showing himself above such treatment (52.31.5–8).178 Furthermore, when Tiberius delivers Augustus’ eulogy, he reinforces this characterization, painting a portrait of a leader who allowed any of his friends to express useful ideas with parrhe-sia and who praised “men who spoke the truth” but hated flatterers (56.41.8). The idealizing account of Augustus in Tiberius’ speech fits the superficially republican values of the emperor’s self-presentation, as distilled in Augustus’ memorial inscription, Res Gestae (echoes of which are therefore especially fitting in Dio’s version of the eulogy). In Res Gestae, inscribed at Augustus’ mausoleum in Rome and also set up in various cities across the empire, the emperor (or as he would have it, princeps, suggesting a role of “first among equals” in relation to the senatorial class) presents himself as the restorer of the res publica, the traditional political structure and functioning of the Roman state.179 While Dio certainly does not shy away from the unsavory elements of the man’s rise to power (such as his involvement in the proscriptions of 42 BCE),180 his fairly positive depiction of the princeps allows him to frame his discussions of subsequent emperors in terms of decline, especially when they fail to emulate the Augustan model.181 Indeed, later emperors receive far less gentle treatment than Augustus. Caligula for example demonstrates his perversity by allowing parrhe-sia only from unimportant people, such as the shoemaker who laughs at his Jupiter costume and calls him “a big absurdity” (μέγα παραλήρημα). We might expect

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Caligula to put the man to death because he has insulted the emperor doubly (by the comment itself and by daring to speak this way given his low status), but on the contrary it is the frankness of people in high positions that the emperor cannot bear (59.26.9). Besides illustrating an intolerance of meaningful criticism, this anecdote also reflects Caligula’s characteristically tyrannical fear that elites pose the greatest threat to his position.182 Likewise, Hadrian appears in a similarly negative light. While he was canonized among the “good emperors” after his death, tense relations with the senate during his lifetime contributed to a mixed reputation.183 Dio tells the story of his revenge on the prominent architect Apollodorus, who once insulted him before he became emperor. Later, “having autocratized” (αὐτοκρατορεύσας), he remembered this affront and “refused to bear the man’s parrhe-sia” – and so had him executed (69.4.1–6). As in the previous anecdote about Caligula, this narration depicts Hadrian as tyrannical in carrying out the murder: he is grudge-bearing, abusive of power, and intolerant of criticism.184 Elsewhere, however, the history presents Hadrian in a more equivocal light, setting actions like this one against his good qualities.185 The most distinctive element of Dio’s treatment of parrhe-sia is his firsthand account of experiences with Septimius Severus, whose portrayal, like that of Hadrian, is complex and ambivalent.186 While Dio is highly critical of Severus and largely paints him as a bloodthirsty and vengeful tyrant throughout the epitomized Books 75[74] and 76[74–75], we see a different side to the emperor in Dio’s final judgment after his death (77[76].16.1–17.4).187 In this section we find the declaration that Severus, when hearing cases, “gave us, his assistants in judgment (συνδικάζουσιν), much parrhe-sia” (77[76].17.2), signaling a positive evaluation of the emperor’s sense of justice and his respect for the men around him.188 Of course, the granting of privileges implies the ability to revoke them too and thus articulates not just the generosity of the giver but also his power. By the act of granting frankness Severus makes himself arbiter of frank speech, not unlike the authority he wields in the cases his advisors are helping him judge. However, oppositional, philosophical frankness of the kind promoted in Dio Chrysostom’s Kingship Orations and depicted in Apollonius does exist in Dio’s imperial narratives, in the story of Helvidius Priscus, a Roman senator and adherent of Stoicism. During a discussion of Vespasian’s persecution of philosophers, we hear that the emperor became enraged with Priscus for his frank criticism (65[66].12–13). In the epitome of Xiphilinus, the man is described as imitating the parrhe-sia of his father-in-law Thrasea Paetus, but doing so “inappropriately” (οὐκ ἐν καιρῷ). What little elaboration is given here notes that he insisted on “insulting” (βλασφημῶν) the emperor, though he would normally have been expected to glorify the ruler in his role as a holder of high office (12.1). The version from the Excerpta Valesiana is more elaborate. Here not only is Priscus prone to abuse of the emperor and his close associates, but he also praises de-mokratia and denounces kingship (basileia) wholesale, giving a better sense of the conduct

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that Xiphilinus labeled inappropriate. In spite of his desire to imitate Thrasea Paetus, Priscus’ approach to philosophy stands in stark contrast to that of his father-in-law, who refused to join Nero in his crimes but held back from saying or doing anything “insulting” (ὑβριστικόν) toward the emperor (12.2–3). In fact, the original offense that led to Thrasea’s execution was not anything he said but rather his walking out of the Senate chamber in silence when others flattered the emperor after he murdered Agrippina (62[61].15.1–4, Xiph.).189 By contrast, when Priscus takes a stand against Vespasian in the excerpt, he acts “as if it were the task of philosophy to treat rulers contemptuously (προπηλακίζειν, literally to spatter them with mud)” and to bring about anti-monarchical “revolutions” (νεώτερα … πράγματα) (65[66].12.2). Priscus’ negative presentation in the history seems largely to be motivated by his naïve belief that the senate can recuperate an idealized version of a long-gone era.190 After all, Dio’s account of “democracy” is largely critical,191 whereas his presentation of Vespasian is mostly positive. The emperor stands in contrast to his younger son Domitian, whose offenses include executing a sophist merely for mentioning tyrants in a practice speech (67.12.5), killing members of the senatorial class for venerating the memory of philosophers like Priscus and Thrasea Paetus, and exiling all other philosophers from the city of Rome (67.13.2–3).192 Moreover, Dio’s description of Priscus as having a death wish (at 65[66].12.3) recalls the judgments of Philostratus against Herodes Atticus and Polemo in Lives of the Sophists. But in distinction to that text, where praise is due to the emperors for their forbearance, or even to the Acts of the Alexandrians, where the emperors show themselves to be tyrannical by executing petitioners, Dio’s history passes no explicit judgment on Vespasian for his actions. Rather, like Antiphon at the court of Dionysius in Lives of the Sophists, Priscus is at fault for speaking frankly without justification; he is not advising a better course of action, but simply needling the powerful needlessly and, given the stated necessity of monarchy, to no good end.

Conclusion This chapter began with texts from authors who lived under the Flavians (including the infamous reign of Domitian) and became most productive under Trajan, juxtaposing them with works of authors directly involved in the court of the Severans. As bookends of the “long second century” these writings are mutually illuminating. On the one hand, we find that certain ideas persist even when frank speakers are no longer so strongly identified as philosophers. Later texts demonstrate that frankness still offers a means of testing a ruler’s ethics, as shown in the more positive depictions of emperors in Philostratus’ Lives of the Sophists and Cassius Dio. Likewise, frank speaking is a mode of self-assertion still available for those who wish to perform their independence, suggesting that it continues to be valorized in the culture at

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large. However, without the idealistic and practical ends that justified philosophers’ superiority to worldly authority in the earlier empire, confrontational speech elicits sharp criticism from writers at the turn of the third century CE. In a context where frankly confronting the powerful is mainly characterized as arrogance, emperors prove themselves good by showing forbearance of parrhe-sia even (perhaps especially) when it offers no valuable advice or correction. And while criticism of unhelpful and destructive frankness can be found as early as Plutarch’s Parallel Lives, it is tempered there by equally critical portraits of rulers. What we find in later sources is a more determined shift in the evaluation of frank speakers. This approach is even applied to figures from earlier eras, as illustrated by Cassius Dio’s skeptical treatments of Helvidius Priscus and Cicero. The latter’s republican-era parrhe-sia is notable for being tarred as mere self-promotion by his enemies (as discussed in chapter 1), highlighting suspicions about the rhetorical use of frank speech that were more latent in earlier writings.193 Not only do Philostratus’ Lives of the Sophists and Cassius Dio’s history call attention to the threat of counterfeit, self-promotional frankness in earlier works, but they also illuminate Plutarch’s and Dio’s writings by throwing into relief their depictions of advisory and confrontational frank speech to noble ends. At the same time, such works are shaped not only by contemporary circumstances but also by the cultural memory of the eras they depict. Adam Kemezis has argued persuasively that Philostratus’ portrayal of Apollonius depends on the work’s first-century setting, because the era was remembered as one in which philosophers resisted tyrants like Nero and Domitian. Likewise, Kemezis contrasts the depiction of philosophical self-assertion in the Apollonius of Tyana with the relations between sophists and emperors in Lives of the Sophists, arguing that the latter reflects a memory of the Nerva–Antonine dynasty as a time of benevolent rule and the smooth integration of Greek elites into imperial power structures (though I would argue that the latter text’s emphasis on the emperor’s tolerance of abuse rather than his acceptance of good advice is characteristic of the Severan era).194 Thus, despite the Severan origins of Apollonius, the relationship of its protagonist to Nero and the Flavians distills the earlier era’s philosophical parrhe-sia, amplifying its challenges to and influence over imperial power. The changing depictions of frank-speaking between our earlier and later sources in this chapter likewise correspond to broader changes in the conception of the emperor’s power and especially its expression. Andrew Wallace-Hadrill (1982) has called attention to civilitas as the emperor’s performance of the role of citizen, in a set of rituals first established by Augustus and imitated by many subsequent emperors. Like the tolerance of frankness, the willingness to condescend in this way is treated as a sign of fitness to rule and the mark of a “good emperor.” At the same time, these actions prove his power by showing that he does not fear losing authority. Norms of this sort seem also to have incentivized the majority of emperors from the Flavians thorough the Antonines at least to act as if they were

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receptive to philosophical advisors. By the Severan dynasty, however, martial modes of symbolizing power were becoming more dominant and the rituals of civilitas had begun to lose some of their salience (though of course a senator like Cassius Dio could still judge emperors by their performances of the civilis princeps role).195 It is not until Julian that both civilitas and an emphasis on acceptance of frankness undergo a revival.196 Reading the earlier and later works together in this chapter reminds us that, insofar as emperors of the first and second centuries wished to burnish their image by cooperating with philosophers who were themselves desirous to assert both their own freedom and the primacy of Greek learning, such a moment was historically contingent and fragile.

Notes 1 Besides the passage quoted above, see esp. 28. 2 See Whitmarsh 2001a, 182–83, crediting Dio with introducing a new and influential idiom to the genre of advice to kings, which framed the advisor–advisee relationship as an idealized encounter between Greek wisdom and Roman power; Sidebottom 2006, arguing for Dio’s centrality to the development of kingship literature; Hubeñak 2008, examining the author’s influence on subsequent conceptions of imperial authority. 3 For the long reach of Isocratean ideas about kingship in the second and third centuries CE, see De Blois 1994. 4 On Dio’s use of personae, see Moles 1978, 96–100; Swain 1996, 189–90; Whitmarsh 2004b. 5 On points of contemporary significance in Or. 6, see Ventrella 2016. 6 The narrator himself endorses this judgment, adding, “for indeed, censuring a living tyrant is the act of a true man, but anyone can attack one who is already laid low.” Cf. also Philostratus’ account of Dio Chrysostom publicly criticizing Domitian after his assassination (VS 488). 7 J. Hahn 1989, 182–91; Whitmarsh 2001a, 133–246. Whitmarsh’s approach to contact between Greek pepaideumenoi and imperial power is also notable for the way it moves the discussion beyond the search for pro- or anti-Roman attitudes, by focusing instead on the rhetorical advantages of taking up a critical or advisory stance within complex structures of power and cultural signification (esp. at 214–16). On the figure of the wise philosophical advisor more generally, see also Rawson 1989; Flinterman 1995, 171–76. And on the adversarial duties of the philosopher, see Konstan 2004. 8 For a brief exposition of structural metaphors, see Lakoff and Johnson 1980, 4–5. 9 See Raaflaub 2004b, 89–102, 203–5. 10 Encapsulated in Dio Chrysostom’s brief Or. 62; in addition, see esp. Orr. 4.43– 45, 2.70–78. For Dio’s image of the good king and its Stoic grounding, see Swain 1996, 195–200; on the good king see also Höistad 1948; Moles 1990; Whitmarsh 2001a, 206–8. 11 On the development of the concept of tyranny, see Romilly 1959; Lanza 1977; Hornblower 2006; L. G. Mitchell 2006; Forsdyke 2009; Saxonhouse 2009. 12 Legitimacy: Plat. Rep. passim but esp. 5.484a–87a. King and tyrant as opposites: e.g. Rep. 9.576d–e (“it is clear to anyone that there is no [city] more wretched than one ruled by a tyrant, and none happier than one ruled by a king”). Both points are supported by Aristot. Pol. 5.1313a. Similar themes appear in the

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14 15 16

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works of Xenophon and Isocrates; for a collection of sources from the fourth century BCE, see De Blois 1997, 211 n6. Philosophers of the Hellenistic era also produced justifications of kingship based on the virtues of the king, though these works are almost entirely lost; for a cautious attempt at reconstruction, see Murray 2007. A good overview of Greek ideas about the ethical basis of kingship can be found at Noreña 2011, 38–45, 51–55. For an overview of imperial Greek authors’ reception of classical political theory, see Horst 2013, 139–70. See also Tuori 2012, 111–14, arguing that narratives about historical Greek tyrants were central to Greek writers’ understanding of the emperor’s role. On the importance of benefaction in the image of the good king in these same writings, see Maric 2005, calling attention to continuities and differences in relation to the Hellenistic period. Cf. Philostr. VA, where basileus is the default term for emperor (among other rulers), and VS where basileus and autokrato-r seem interchangeable. On this terminology, see Mason 1974, 119–21. See Palm 1959, 26–29; Moles 1983a; 1990; Whitmarsh 2001a, 200–16. For a political science perspective on Dio’s account of good and bad kings, see Catanzaro 2013, 61–83. Going at least as far back as the Aristotelian account of Peisistratus as an untyrannical tyrant who tolerates frank criticism from a farmer (Ath. Pol. 16.6), on which see Saxonhouse 2006, 89–90. Peisistratus proved a popular imperial-era exemplum for tolerance of abuse and disrespect, with anecdotes appearing e.g. at V. Max. 5.1 (ext).2a–b; Sen. Ira 11.4; Plut. De Cohib. 457f–58a; Regum 189c. The story of the farmer is retold in the second century by Zenobius (4.76). Konstan 1996b traces the history of the frankness and flattery opposition. As Whitmarsh (2001a, 326) notes, the grouping is attested no earlier than Synesius. I follow Moles 1983a in dating Or. 4 to Trajan’s reign along with the other Kingships; see also Moles 1984 on Or. 3, contra Desideri 1978, 279; and more recently Gangloff 2009, 6–14 (summed up at 37). Elsewhere Moles argues that Or. 62 is also addressed to Trajan (Moles 1990, 361–62). Swain 1996, 193–94 is likewise agnostic about delivery before Trajan and suggests that Dio would want to play up his frankness and downplay his flattery if he were to perform the speeches before Greek audiences (or reperform them, as alleged in Or. 57). See also the review of evidence at Whitmarsh 2001a, 325–27. The theme is less salient in Or. 2, although even here Alexander’s frankness seems to test Philip’s forbearance (e.g. at 15–17). Discussed below. On this device, see Whitmarsh 2001a, 198–200; and on the Platonic intertexts of this narrative, see Trapp 1990, 141–44; Anderson 2000, 150–52. For Trajan’s connections to Heracles, see Moles 1990, 323–25. Mem. 2.1.21. For other imperial-era adaptations of this myth, see ch. 2 with n93. “He takes no delight in being called master (δεσπότην) not only by free men but also by slaves; for he believes himself to be king not for the sake of himself alone, but rather for the sake of all people.” The passage suggests engagement with an Aristotelian tradition that holds the distinction between mastery of slaves and political rule over free men to be a matter of whose interest is primarily being served (summed up at Politics 3.6, 1278–79). Cf. Ael. Ar. Or. 26 (To Rome): of all imperial powers, Romans are “the only ones ever to rule free men” (μόνοι γὰρ τῶν πώποτε ἐλευθέρων ἄρχετε) as shown by the way provincial governors “are appointed for the protection and care of those ruled, not to be their masters” (ἐπὶ προστασίᾳ καὶ προνοίᾳ τῶν ἀρχομένων, οὐκ ἐπὶ τῷ δεσπότας εἶναι) (26.36). For a discussion of To Rome alongside Dio Chrys. Or. 3, see Pernot 2011, esp. 291–96. For evasiveness elsewhere in Or. 3, see Whitmarsh 2001a, 196–97.

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26 A reference to Plat. Gorg. 470e, where Socrates says that he does not know the great king’s relationship to education (paideia) and righteousness (dikaiosune-). 27 Cf. Luc. Pro Imag. 20 for similar flattery of the emperor’s mistress, in a speech that threatens to collapse the distinction between praise and flattery, as Goldhill (2001a, 192) notes. 28 Familiar from Seneca’s De Clementia and Pliny’s Panegyricus. Cf. Plin. Ep. 3.18.2, stating that the primary purpose of Panegyricus was to recommend to the emperor his own virtues, as well as providing a model for his successors through the expanded written version. Rhetorical handbooks like [Demetrius] On Style also advise such indirect protreptic for addressing monarchs (292). Moles 1990, 367 n33 provides a list of sources for ancient theorizing about this technique; further discussion of the relationship between praise and advice can be found at Pernot 2015, 93–100. Panegyricus has much in common with the Kingships, on which see Trisoglio 1972. 29 Cf. Ahl 1984, 200 on Or. 3.21. 30 On the importance of Alexander in Trajanic imagery, see Moles 1990, 299–300. 31 See Cic. Tusc. 5.92 (where Diogenes is described as behaving liberius ut Cynicus); V. Max. 4.3.4; Plut. Alex. 14.2–5; Luc. DMort. 13; Diog. Laert. 6.38, 60, 68. For versions of the meeting that resemble Dio’s in their foregrounding of Alexander’s response, cf. Plut. De Alex. 331f–32c; Ad Princ. 782a–b; and to a lesser degree Arr. Anab. 7.2.1. 32 Echoing the famous quote attributed to Diogenes at Diog. Laert. 6.69. 33 Moles makes similar suggestions at Moles 1983a, 264–65; 1990, 348–49. 34 Cf. the fearfulness of tyrants at Plut. Ad Princ. 781e. 35 As a side note, the description of Diogenes as letting out all his sails and delivering the last part of his discourse “with great loftiness and fearlessness” (4.81) seems to me a reference to the heightened moralizing rhetoric that follows rather than greater frankness (as suggested by Swain 1996, 194; Whitmarsh 2001a, 205; cf. Laurand 2009, 114–15), because this section of the speech is actually less direct than the preceding material in its criticism of Alexander. 36 An idea seemingly Platonic in origin; see Moles 1983a, 271 with n74. 37 Encapsulated in Or. 1.8, where Dio asserts that “only the speech/reason (λόγος) of prudent and wise men … is a sufficient and perfect ruler and assistant (ἡγεμὼν καὶ βοηθός) of a nature that is obedient and good” [emphases mine]. See ch. 5 for tension between the moral and intellectual authority of teachers and the superior status of their students, outside the Greek/Roman dichotomy. 38 For Plutarch’s ideas about the centrality of Greek paideia to the control of the passions, see Duff 1999, 173–77. On the dating of these works, see Roskam 2009, 28–30. C. P. Jones 1966, 72–73 addresses the dating of Plutarch’s other political treatises. 39 While therapeuein tends to be identified with flattery rather than frankness, Plutarch seems to use the word here in the same sense as Isoc. Ad Nic. 28, where it indicates service that is truly loyal rather than just superficially fawning (in opposition to kolakeuein). 40 Ch. 5 discusses Adulator at length, along with the theme of friendship in Dio’s Kingship Orations. 41 A point echoed in Dio Chrys. Or. 62.2–4. Cf. the necessity of self-restraint on a master’s part because of the power (exousia) he has over his slaves (Plut. De Cohib. 459b–c). 42 Informers (sycophantes, the imperial Greek equivalent of the Latin delatores) seek personal gain by harming others, in stark contrast to the frank-speaking philosopher, who tries to help others at the risk of his own safety. This reference to the informer therefore calls attention to the personal risk involved in frank speech. Cf. slanderers, who tell lies about external parties to harm them, and flatterers, who tell lies about their addressees in order to promote themselves.

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43 Cf. the similar themes of Muson. Diss. 8, “That Kings Also Should Study Philosophy,” esp. p62, 10–23 (Lutz). 44 As Martin has noted in the context of Plutarch’s Lives, philanthro-pia is the “virtue par excellence of the civilized, educated man” (Martin 1961, 174; see also Frazier 2016, 315–18). Regarding this passage, Roskam 2009, 119–24 discusses how Plutarch uses Epicurus’ own priorities to argue against the (perhaps oversimplified) Epicurean ideal of avoiding political involvement; a similar argument is advanced by Shiffman 2010 about the work as a whole. 45 For more on this theme, see also Or. 49.9–13. 46 Kings likewise “receive orders” (προστάγματα λαμβάνουσιν) from philosophers at the same time as they “give orders” (προστάττοντες) to others (3). Cf. also the story of Philip of Macedon assigning Aristotle to be his son’s “teacher and ruler” (διδάσκαλον καὶ ἄρχοντα) because he thought the philosopher more capable than himself to instruct the young Alexander in kingship (4). 47 See Arnim 1898, 384; Moles 1990, 363 for theories as to the dating and context of Or. 49. On the Prusan speeches, see ch. 4. 48 See also Bartsch 1994, 184. 49 Also mentioned at Orr. 1.50, 13 passim, 40.12, 45.1. Cf. Philostr. VS 488, disputing this account and downplaying Dio’s exile, a choice that has frequently been attributed to the author’s desire to undermine the prior philosopher’s reputation, either as a critique of his self-staging (Whitmarsh 2001a, 238–39) or as a way to promote the greatness of Apollonius (Arnim 1898, 225–26; Desideri 1978, 36); cf. Kemezis 2014a, 214–18, esp. n48 arguing that it is the threat posed by Domitian that is being downplayed in VS, in the service of a narrative about the harmonious relations between sophists and emperors. On the relationship between exile and frankness in the imperial era, see further ch. 2. 50 Literally it provides a basanos (“touchstone,” but also “inquiry by torture,” a sense relevant for Dio’s claims that his painful experiences vouch for his veracity). This passage and Dio’s general representation of his exile are discussed at length by Whitmarsh 2001a, 156–67, 194–97. 51 An obvious parallel is Tac. Hist. 1.1, with its characterization of the Trajanic era as one in which “it is permitted to think what you wish and to say what you think” (sentire quae velis et quae sentias dicere licet). On the topic of freedom (verbal and otherwise) in Tacitus, see further Jens 1956; Morford 1991; Pagán 2000; McHugh 2004; Rutledge 2009; Strunk 2017. 52 Moles 1990, 313 has also noted the way such abstract discussion of the good king makes Dio’s praise conditional (discussing Or. 1.36; see also Whitmarsh 2001a, 210–11). A similar dynamic is at work in Or. 3 (esp. 25, 39), though, as Ahl 1984, 200 has pointed out, Dio’s indirectness also makes it possible to read coded insults within the flattery of this speech. 53 The work is best known in English as the Life of Apollonius (from the Latin Vita Apollonii), though its conventional Greek title, Τὰ ἐς τὸν Τυανέα Ἀπολλώνιον, has been translated as “In Honor of Apollonius of Tyana” or “Things concerning Apollonius of Tyana” (vel sim.), and the work itself has been compared to Greek novels partly on the basis of its title (Bowie 1978, 1663–67; 1994; on the connections between this work and novels see also Anderson 1996; Francis 1998; Billault 2000, 105–26). Recently, Boter 2015 has argued that the Greek title should read Εἰς τὸν Τυανέα Ἀπολλώνιον, suggesting that this supports the encomiastic translation “In Honor of” (though, even if this is the case, I do not think it necessary to take at face value the favorable-sounding title of such an ambiguous narrative; on the work’s resistance to classification, see further Gyselinck and Demoen 2009; Miles 2009; Schirren 2009; Kemezis 2014b, 61–78). Whatever the merits of these translations, I have chosen simply to refer to the work as Apollonius of Tyana (or, more briefly, Apollonius and VA).

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54 On the composition date of VA, see Bowie 1978, 1670 n71. For attempts to sort out the historical Apollonius, see Bowie 1978; Dzielska 1986. On the indeterminacy of Philostratus’ Apollonius, in whom are combined elements of the philosopher, sophist, holy man, and magician, see Flinterman 1995, 160–65; Praet 2012; Paschalis 2015. Other ancient references to Apollonius are more unambiguously critical; see Luc. Alex. 5; Cass. Dio 77.18.4. In general, sources from the second and third centuries present a lot of slippage between magicians and philosophers (Pythagoreans in particular), on which see Gascó 1986; Dickie 2001, esp. 195–215. 55 Besides the interactions with emperors discussed in this chapter, Apollonius also seems to reject the role of advisor to Nerva (8.27–28), as discussed in ch. 4. 56 The latter is central to Whitmarsh 2001a, 181–246. 57 VA 1.21, 27–28; 3.28–29, 31, 33. 58 As a counterpoint to the Hellenocentrism of this claim, cf. Abraham 2013 on the reversals of cultured center and barbarian periphery that also exist in this work. 59 We are helped in the interpretation of the vague term ἀνελευθέρως by the use of ταπεινότερον (“rather degrading”) as a synonym. Apollonius’ response suggests that the expression conveys both servility and the treachery associated with a slave’s character. 60 Cf. the Babylonian king whom Apollonius describes as “too good to rule barbarians.” He has shown himself eager to listen to wise advice (1.40), thus demonstrating that he is noble (in Apollonius’ self-consciously archaizing Greek expression, kalos k’agathos) and worthy of the sage’s praise (1.27). Cf. also Apollonius’ “Assyrian” acolyte Damis, who joined the sage because he aspired to become an educated/cultured man (pepaideumenos) and a Greek (Helle-n) in place of a barbarian by the wise man’s influence (3.34); according to Apollonius, however, he was not fully successful (7.14). 61 On the protean nature of Apollonius’ dealings with emperors, see Francis 1995, 184–85. While Anderson calls these inconsistencies “slips” and attributes them (at least partly) to Philostratus’ attempt to “harmonise treacherously incompatible sources” (Anderson 1994, 161), Elsner finds a logic in such disparate episodes by characterizing them in terms of the protagonist’s “saintly progress” (Elsner 1997, 33–34). Cf. Billault 1990, esp. 31–32, emphasizing the consistency with which the sage exerts his authority (connected with the primacy of philosophy) over the power of earthly rulers; similarly, Galimberti 2014 argues that Apollonius’ anti-tyrannical image is centered around ethics, as distinct from politics. 62 For Apollonius on Nero’s tyrannical nature, see also VA 4.38. 63 For an attempt to reconstruct the historical Demetrius, see Kindstrand 1980. 64 As an illustration of how easy it is to be charged with impiety, Philostratus introduces life at Rome with the story of a man who goes around singing Nero’s songs for a fee. If anyone refuses to pay or merely listens with insufficient attention, this singer has the privilege of arresting them for asebeia (4.39). 65 See esp. 5.7, 10. Cf. also 7.3, where Apollonius is described as having an intention (dianoia) to take a stand against Nero. 66 Cf. his characterization of the tyrant as a kind of beast that is not tamed by flattery but becomes even more savage as a result of it (4.38). It is also worth noting that Apollonius’ philosophical moderation is different from the rhetorical middle ground of figured speech promoted at [Demetrius] On Style 294. 67 On this role-reversal, see Whitmarsh 2001a, 231; it is consistent with the way Apollonius leaves it to the powerful people of Rome to seek him out if they wish to partake of his wisdom. 68 On this debate, see Bowie 1978, 1660–62; Levi 1981; Flinterman 1995, 194–205; Crampon 1999. As many have noted, it is modeled primarily after Herodotus 3.80–82 (and for comparisons between the two, see Swain 1996, 389; Whitmarsh 2001a, 230). Nearly all scholarship treats the debate itself as a fictional construct;

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see further Meyer 1917, 404–5; Brancacci 1985, 71–72; Flinterman 1995, 137 with n37. Jackson 1984 considers the evidence for Apollonius’ involvement with emperors in general. In this speech Dio’s comments on aristocracy, democracy, and monarchy directly contradict his own Kingship Orations (esp. 3.45–49). While the Kingships (and the biography constructed by Dio’s speeches in general) seem to provide the central model for Philostratus’ protagonist, Apollonius often surpasses and even undercuts Dio’s legacy, as Whitmarsh (2001a, 227–38) discusses at length. See esp. the written requests he makes of Vespasian and his embarrassment when his letter is read aloud (5.38; see also 1.13, 8.7.519–32; I use Kayser’s line numbers for VA 8.7). Euphrates’ rivalry with Apollonius likewise leads him to badmouth the sage to Domitian, thus inciting his persecution (7.9). Cf. Apollonius’ own account of this discussion in his apologia, where he defends his support of Vespasian on the grounds that he showed signs of being a good ruler (in implicit contrast to Domitian himself, before whom the speech was to be delivered) (8.7.74–97). Kasprzyk 2013, 285–86 notes that the letter to Demetrius subordinates political power to philosophy by serving as a recommendation of the emperor to the philosopher; however, this is not the case with the letter to Titus, making clear the adjustments necessary in addressing these different parties. Apollonius’ companions present Nero as a lesser evil than Domitian (7.12–13). It is also notable that Nero performed at least one redeeming act by granting eleutheria to mainland Greece; Vespasian rescinded this grant and as a result lost Apollonius’ approval (5.41), which was only ever conditional (37). 8.7.8, 12, 20, 36, 40, 86, 335, 488–89. He clearly does not expect the emperor to follow his advice. For Apollonius as a figure of discursive resistance, see Whitmarsh 2013, 69–72. Only the most obvious example of this dynamic in the work as a whole, which Anderson describes as “an encyclopedia of hagiography,” noting that Philostratus makes his protagonist “outdo every philosopher or holy man in every known genre” (Anderson 1986, 136). On this section of Book 7, with comparisons to acts of philosophical resistance in other sources, see Flinterman 1995, 165–71; for the previous tradition of politically engaged wise men on which Philostratus draws, see Koskenniemi 1991, 33–34. Cf. the story of Antiphon and Dionysius, told at VS 500 and Plut. Adulator 68a–b (discussed further below). Both authors blame the speaker for his choice of subject matter, illustrating the continuing relevance of this anecdote to their own times. Hopkins 1978, 221–26; Stewart 2003, 161–62 (noting also that, while these statues were not set up on the emperor’s initiative, they required his consent). On this setting, see Whitmarsh 2012, 465–66. See further Robiano 2016, 105–7, noting also references to Phaedo. There follows a paradoxical argument that humans are subject to nature (phusis) by choice but law by compulsion; on this dichotomy across Philostratus’ corpus, see Swain 2009. A tactic later repeated by a second informer (36). Cf. Arr. Epict. Diss. 4.13 on the use of false ingenuousness to elicit confessions. “All the matters for which I censure the emperor, I will say before him” (ἐγὼ δὲ ὁπόσα μέμφομαι τὸν βασιλέα, πρὸς αὐτὸν λέξω) (27). For Apollonius’ application of the phrase to himself, see also 7.14. The speech is widely believed to be Philostratus’ invention rather than something drawn from a previous tradition about Apollonius (Flinterman 1995, 96 with n33). Robiano (2016, 99–100) has even suggested that it may have been composed for independent performance.

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86 Also echoed at VA 7.1 in the reference to tyranny as a philosophical touchstone (basanos). 87 On the term basileus in VA, see above n14. 88 Cf. parallels with the philosophers persecuted for their frank criticism in Tacitus’ works (Flinterman 1995, 168–69), as well as Secundus and other forms of martyr narrative (J. Hahn 1989, 188–89). On Secundus, see also Anderson 1994, 158–59; Overwien 2016. 89 According to Apollonius, death is a false belief of the majority, an idea seemingly based in the Pythagorean doctrine of reincarnation, which arises most explicitly at 5.46; cf. his comments that Socrates and Vespasian are not dead even though they are thought to be (8.2, 8.7.69). Cf. also the Brahmins on reincarnation (3.19, 22); and see further on reincarnation in VA MuckensturmPoulle 2016. 90 For the controversies over whether we should class Apollonius as a theios ane-r and what this label means, see Betz 1983; Francis 1995, 118–26; du Toit 1997; Koskenniemi 1998; J. Hahn 2003; Sfameni Gasparro 2007; Flinterman 2009a; Kanavou 2018, 123–34. 91 It is worth noting that both before and immediately after this anecdote, Apollonius is distinguished from a magician (goe-s) in his own words and those of the narrator, though it is difficult to know how seriously to take these denials (34, 39); see Anderson 1986, 135–53; Whitmarsh 2001a, 228–29 with n185. Anderson (loc. cit.) 126 also notes that similar accusations of magic are made against sophists, as related at Philostr. VS 523, 590. 92 Hom. Il. 22.13. The significance in the context of VA is ambiguous, with possible interpretations including a claim to divinity, a claim to foreknowledge of his own death, and a Pythagorean rejection of the very idea of death. The mention of fate also serves as a reminder that the power is out of Domitian’s hands as a mere mortal himself. For discussion of a reference to the same line in Iambl. VP, see Flinterman 2009a, 172. On quotations of Greek literature and especially Homer across VA, see Bowie 2009. 93 E.g. as they approach the imperial court for the first time, Apollonius upbraids him for his fear, telling him that philosophers must be ready for death and face it neither in an undisciplined way nor with a death wish, but instead “with the best choice/thinking” (ξὺν ἀρίστῃ δ’ αἱρέσει, perhaps also incorporating a pun on the “best philosophy”) (7.31). 94 The depiction of special individuals who reveal the emperor’s lack of meaningful power is only one point of convergence between VA and early Christian writings, and particular similarities have been noted between the travels and trials of Apollonius and those of Paul in Acts; see Reimer 2002; Van Uytfanghe 2009; Kanavou 2018, 110–23. In addition, Apollonius himself was compared favorably with Jesus in antiquity, a view Eusebius contests in his Contra Hieroclem (though on the attribution of this work, cf. C. P. Jones 2006, 49–52, with further references). 95 See further Moles 2014, 98–100. 96 On the metaphor of the ago-n in Paul, see Pfitzner 1967. 97 Similar questions arise when reading VA itself as a paradigm for the reader (Schirren 2005, 67–68). 98 A variation on this problem persists in the later Apollonian tradition. After conquering Tyana, the emperor Aurelian sees an apparition of Apollonius, who speaks forthrightly to him (in Latin, in order to communicate better!) and terrifies him into relinquishing his plans to destroy the city (SHA Aurel. 24). Speaking frankly to an emperor carries little risk for an otherworldly spirit. 99 On the balance of pragmatism and idealism in Plutarch, see Tirelli 1995, esp. 446–55; Roskam 2002.

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100 Esp. Adulator, discussed at length in ch. 5. 101 For a similar argument about the unpaired Aratus, see Monaco Caterine 2018. 102 On ambivalence around the Macedonians’ Greekness in the Roman empire and earlier, see Murray 1996; Asirvatham 2000; J. M. Hall 2001; Spawforth 2006, 15–19; Asirvatham 2008a; 2008b. Alexander himself traced his descent from Heracles and Achilles, unimpeachably Greek heroes; however, the progress of his seeming barbarization as he conquers the Persian empire presented an ideal story for exploring questions of identity in the imperial era, given the Isocratean, culture-oriented approach to Hellenism that was dominant at this time (as discussed in Whitmarsh 2001a, 7–17). On the ways Alexander throws into question its subject’s Hellenic identity, in terms of both innate barbarism and eastern influence, see Asirvatham 2001; Whitmarsh 2002. 103 Cf. the mostly lost Lives of the Caesars (on which see C. P. Jones 1971, 72–80; Georgiadou 1988; 2014; Stadter 2015, 57–69); those that remain do not have much to contribute to this discussion beyond a brief reference to Seneca’s role as advisor to Nero (Galb. 20.1). At the other end of the timeline, Romulus and Numa are the only early Roman kings who are subjects of lives, with the former devolving into a tyrant (Comp. Thes. Rom. 2.1) who has no interest in hearing advice (Rom. 27.1–2), whereas the latter is explicitly Plato’s philosopher-king avant la lettre and therefore needs no advice (Num. 20). In addition, Tarquinius Superbus plays a significant part in Publicola, which presents the protagonist as both a frank speaker (1.2) and receptive to parrhe-sia once he gains power (10.1–5) (in contrast to the tyrannical qualities of the king he deposes). Cf. also the reference to the parrhe-sia of Appius Clodius toward the Armenian king Tigranes at Luc. 21.6, and the reversal of the Greek advisor to Roman ruler trope when Cato offers Ptolemy of Cyprus advice that is full of nous and parrhe-sia at Cat. Mi. 35.4–5 (an anecdote also containing echoes of Solon’s encounter with Croesus at Hdt. 1.30–33, 86). 104 Cf. Thes. 1.1; Dem. 1.1, 31.7. Quaes. Conv. and Quis Suos are also addressed to the same man. We cannot be sure that the entire set of Parallel Lives was addressed to Senecio because the original opening of the work did not survive; the lost Epaminondas and Scipio are thought to have been the first pairing (Swain 1996, 137–38). 105 Swain connects this relationship with the greater significance given to the acceptance or rejection of Greek learning in the Roman lives, as well as these statesmen’s success or failure at internalizing it; see also Pelling 1989; Swain 1990a; 1990b. Plutarch’s identification of himself as a philosopher is discussed at Swain 1996, 136. For Plutarch’s programmatic statements about the ethical-pedagogical aims of the Parallel Lives, see Duff 1999, 13–51; on the work’s more general educational (and esp. philosophical) tenor, see Russell 1966. On Sosius Senecio, see also C. P. Jones 1971, 28–29, 54–57; Puech 1992, 4883; Swain 1996, 426–27; Stadter 2015, 21–44. 106 De Blois 1999, 299 notes the adjustment of this Platonic precept to the imperial power structures of Plutarch’s own day by the omission of the original reference to poleis; cf. Plat. Rep. 473c–d. On Plutarch’s reception of the Platonic philosopher-king, see further Aalders 1982, 41–44; Muccioli 1995; Zecchini 2002; Boulet 2005; Liebert 2009; Dillon 2010; Desmond 2013, 61–86; Boulet 2014. On the broader influence of Platonism on Plutarch’s political thought, see Aalders and De Blois 1992, 3389–97. 107 Cf. Plat. Ep. 7.327a–b. The letters, which Plutarch clearly treated as genuine, are important sources for Dion; see further Mossé 2006; Zadorojnyi 2011, 151–53. 108 τὴν παρρησίαν ἔφερεν αὐτοῦ μόνου σχεδόν, ἀδεῶς λέγοντος τὸ παριστάμενον. I question Ziegler’s punctuation in the Teubner edition (reproduced here), because it seems to me to suggest a causative relationship between Dion’s fearless speaking and Dionysius’ tolerance, a reading undercut by the tyrant’s response to Plato.

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109 On the theme of flattery in Dion, see Nerdahl 2011. 110 Cf. Plut. Tim. 15.5, recounting a saying of Dionysius II from his period of exile: “tyranny, though full of evils, holds none so great as this: no one of those called your friends speaks to you with frankness (μετὰ παρρησίας),” using the same term for friends (philoi) as in Dion, where it clearly refers to the tyrant’s council of advisors. On philia and frankness, see further ch. 5. 111 Cf. Adulator 66a–b on the harm done by excessive frankness. 112 Cf. Plat. Ep. 4.321b–c. 113 Cf. the fad for learning at the palace (13.4; cf. Adulator 52d, where this is characterized as a form of flattery toward Dionysius). 114 Perhaps recalling the Athenian tyrannicides at the Panathenaic procession; the theme of tyrannicide is also implicit in the pairing of Dion with Brutus, though Dion merely asks for Dionysius to renounce his rule (30.2) and his leniency toward the tyrant becomes a cause of suspicion among the Syracusans (32.1–2). 115 To say nothing of the staged attack on himself that he tries to blame on Dion (34.3–4). 116 Reminiscent of Dionysius’ practice (22.3, 28.1); cf. Aristot. Pol. 5.1313b on the informers of Syracusan tyrants and their chilling effect on parrhe-sia. The public’s hostility may also be connected with Dion’s own antipathy to popular rule, which he viewed as preferable only to tyranny (12.3). This stance seems to meet with Plutarch’s approval when he explains Dion’s unpopularity by comparing him to a physician (37.7), drawing on the Platonic metaphor for a wise but unappreciated statesman most famous from Gorg. (discussed further in ch. 4). 117 References are collected at Zadorojnyi 2011, 158 nn52–53. 118 See also De Blois 1992, 4600–11; 1997, 216–19, discussing this trajectory as a trope in the Parallel Lives. 119 On the insufficiency of philosophical qualities for political success in the Lives, see van Raalte 2005. 120 As discussed by De Blois 1997; Pelling 2004, 91–97; Dillon 2010; Desmond 2013, 83–84. See also Zadorojnyi 2011, esp. 147: “Dion’s failure in politics offsets and potentially deflates his first-hand experience of Plato’s philosophy,” thereby raising questions about the privileging of oral communication in Platonic pedagogy. Cf. Opsomer 2011, 159–68, attributing Dion’s downfall to bad luck. 121 On tragic elements in the Life of Alexander, see Mossman 1988. 122 Cf. the strain of physiological determinism in this work (4.5–7), though, as Whitmarsh argues, the influence of Alexander’s natural humors is exacerbated by the climate on his journey east (Whitmarsh 2002, 188–90), implying that his humors could have been counterbalanced by a better-chosen physical environment. Cf. also the role of the gods and fate in the Cleitus episode, including Alexander’s attribution of the murder to the vengeance of Dionysus for the destruction of Thebes (13.4), and the narrator’s reference to the bad luck (dustuchia) of Alexander and a daimo-n (seemingly a malevolent spirit) belonging to Cleitus (50). 123 While still a boy (pais), he shows self-restraint in regard to pleasure, but in all other matters “he is violent and behaves impetuously” (ῥαγδαῖον ὄντα καὶ φερόμενον σφοδρῶς) (4.8); see also Alex. 9.8. On the positive elements of Alexander’s character, as identified with his Hellenism, see Humbert 1991. As has been widely noted, Plutarch’s portrait of the king in De Alex. is more unambiguously positive. For a discussion of the various accounts of Alexander in Plutarch and Dio, see Desideri 2010. 124 On the combined effects of phusis and paideia on character in the Lives, see Frazier 2016, 108–11. 125 He is first presented as a court philosopher (52.3) but is elsewhere labeled a sophist (55.2, 7). While Plutarch (and Alexander) call Callisthenes a sophist disapprovingly, the term does not necessarily convey disparagement (cf. the gymnosophists at 64.1 and Calanus at 69.7).

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126 LSJ s.v. λόγος III 2, V 4. 127 On the opposition between these two figures, see Brunschwig 1992, 66–70. A fragment of Anaxarchus’ lost work On Kingship (DK 72B1) echoes a comment on parrhe-sia by the philosopher’s fellow Abderan and supposed intellectual ancestor, Democritus (DK 226), both of which emphasize the perils of determining the opportune time (kairos) in the use of speech. Cf. also Plut. Ad Princ. 781a–b, for Anaxarchus’ words to Alexander as an example of unhelpful advice to a king, since they encouraged further violence. A similarly negative judgment appears in Arr. Anab. 4.9.7–8, suggesting that the advice harmed Alexander himself and not just those he ruled. 128 The immediate context suggests skill in producing dissoi logoi, diametrically opposed arguments, though the connection between deinote-s and the evasion of risk through figured speech is also salient (as noted by Whitmarsh 2002, 184, drawing on Ahl 1984). 129 Cf. Diog. Laert. 5.4–5. 130 Cf. also VA 7.3, where he is blamed for producing dissoi logoi, since one of the speeches must have been insincere, and therefore he must be either a slanderer or a flatterer. And cf. also Diog. Laert. 5.4–5, where Callisthenes is described as “speaking too parrhesiastically” when introduced to Alexander. 131 However fictitious this account may be, as discussed by Bowden 2013, it is important that Callisthenes is said to refuse this obeisance “in the manner of a philosopher” (φιλοσόφως) (54.3). Even if Plutarch’s explicit approval of this stance is qualified (as argued by van Raalte 2005, 106), it contrasts with his disapproval of the man’s previous antagonism toward Alexander and the Macedonians (expressed by citing Aristotle’s judgment that his relative was an able speaker “but did not possess nous,” that is, good sense, a viewpoint Plutarch calls, with characteristic litotes, “not worthless”) (54.2–3). 132 He is also rumored to be intending a “destruction of tyranny” (55.2); cf. Arr. Anab. 4.10.3, which has Callisthenes praising Harmodius and Aristogeiton. 133 On the composition date of the Anabasis, see Stadter 1980, 179–85; Burliga 2013, 63–79. Arrian’s more straightforwardly historiographic aims can be contrasted with Plutarch’s moralizing exempla (even taking into account Burliga 2013, arguing for the importance of philosophy in the composition of the Anabasis); see further Stadter 1980, 60–66; Bosworth 2007; Rodríguez Horrillo 2011. However, on the Cleitus and Callisthenes scenes as part of a distinctive digression on Alexander’s character in Anabasis, see Bosworth 1995, 45–47; Stadter 1980, 83; Burliga 2013, 94–98. 134 Plut. Alex. 55.3–7; Arr. Anab. 4.12.6–7. 135 On both kairos and wine in relation to parrhe-sia, see further ch. 1. 136 On tensions between Plutarch’s idealized sympotic settings (as in Sympotic Questions and Symposium of the Seven Sages) and the symposium as a scene of violence and excess in the Lives, see Billault 2008. On sympotic scenes in the Life of Alexander, see also Beneker 2010; Gómez and Mestre 2010. 137 While Cleitus’ actions seem to be based in a tradition of frank speech between Macedonian elites and their king (on which see Carney 1981, 158–60; Adams 1986; Carney 2007), Asirvatham (2001, 114) argues persuasively that Plutarch coopts this frankness into a markedly Greek discourse about distinctions between Greeks and barbarians. 138 This is also the case in Arrian’s account, which blames both parties even more explicitly than Plutarch does (see e.g. 4.8.4–9.1, 10.1, 12.6), as well as in other imperial-era writings on Alexander (on which see Dognini 1998, contrasting these with the uncritical presentation of the king in earlier sources). Cf. also Luc. DMort. 13, where Cleitus and Callisthenes seek violent revenge against Alexander in the underworld, and Aristotle, the king’s tutor, is characterized as his flatterer.

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139 There is no contradiction in reading these scenes as depicting both transgressions of sympotic ethics (as argued by Whitmarsh 2002, 182–84) and also Alexander’s failure to live up to the ideals of humanitas and civilitas so important for Trajan (as suggested by Stadter 2015, 171; see further Wallace-Hadrill 1981; 1982). 140 Cf. Mossman 1988, 88, suggesting that Cleitus too is presented as a victim of “some inexorable divine plan.” Certainly there is overdetermination at work here, as there is in the forces motivating Alexander. 141 Cf. Gómez and Mestre 2010, 216–17, suggesting that in killing his companion Alexander shows the qualities of a good ruler, as understood by Plutarch and his contemporaries. The passage cited in support of this interpretation (Dio Chrys. Or. 2.71–72) provides justification for kings who use force to protect their people from tyrants, though this does not seem a fitting characterization of the scene with Cleitus. 142 Imbibing makes Alexander boastful and susceptible to flatterers (23.7); over time he becomes harsher in judgment and especially sensitive to being spoken ill of (κακῶς ἀκούων) (42.3–4). 143 At Pyrrh. 8.12, the king laughs off drunken insults (loidoria). For the way Pyrrhus’ character is defined against Alexander more generally, see Mossman 1992 (without discussion of this passage). 144 παρρησιαζομένους ἀκαίρως καὶ συμβουλεύοντας (reading ἀκαίρως as a zeugma). 145 Cf. the approach of Nikolaidis 2008a, using such discrepancies between stories in the Lives and Moralia to search for Plutarch’s real opinions on historical figures. 146 See esp. Acts of Appian in Musurillo 1954. On frankness in the Acts, see also Crook 1955, 142–44, and on these works more generally, see Harker 2008, esp. 164–73, situating them in relation to imperial-era Greek literary culture. 147 See also Sidebottom 2007, 65, arguing that the Acts were rewritten in the Severan era (though only one has a Severan setting). 148 Sophists’ relationships with imperial power in VS are frequently contrasted with the depiction of Apollonius in VA (Flinterman 1995, 120–21; Kemezis 2014a, 218–26) and with the image of philosophers in general (Flinterman 2004; Side. . bottom 2009; Jazdzewska 2018, arguing that sophists act as advocates for their communities, while philosophers give more general ethical and political advice). Cf., however, Bowie 1978, 1668; Anderson 1986, 125–27; Koskenniemi 1991, 51 on similarities between Apollonius and Philostratus’ sophists in their dealings with emperors. . . 149 On Plutarch, see Flinterman 2004, 363; on VS see Jazdzewska 2018, 169–71. By contrast with this image of Philostratus advocating a middle ground, König 2014 argues that the work offers both oppositional and harmonious models for the relations between Greek intellectuals and Roman elites. 150 Civiletti 2002, 409 n18; see also Anderson 1986, 6; Flinterman 1995, 40. For Philostratus’ connections to the Severans, see further Bowersock 1969, 101–9; Flinterman 1995, 19–24. On the dating of VS, which is based largely on the status of Gordian indicated in the text (though there is some disagreement as to which Gordian), see the review of scholarship and evidence at Kemezis 2014a, 294–97. 151 Scholarly views are summarized at Civiletti 2002, 380 n6; see also Goldhill 2002, 75. On Favorinus’ cultural identity, see further Whitmarsh 2001a, 119–21. 152 On Favorinus’ strained relationship with the emperor, see also Swain 1989. 153 On the voice of the narrator in VS, see Schmitz 2009; for comparison of the narrators of VA and VS, see Whitmarsh 2004b, esp. 435–39; Kemezis 2014a, 156. 154 Drawn from Il. 1.80 and 2.196. 155 See further Whitmarsh 1998, esp. 202–10. 156 Cf. Swain 1996, 390; Bowie 1978, 1668, which also includes VS 562, though the justification is unclear.

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157 Cf. Ael. Ar. Orr. 18 (Monody for Smyrna), 19 (Letter concerning Smyrna), esp. 19.5 with its rejection of an advisory or pedagogical stance on the grounds that this would imply the emperor’s ignorance (as discussed by Flinterman 2004, 366– 67) – though such a disavowal of advice-giving is itself a rhetorical strategy for dealing with the powerful. On Marcus’ relations with sophists and sophistic rhetoric, see further Bowie 2018, 147–53. 158 Along with Hadrian of Tyre; Eshleman (2012, 130) provides a helpful chart of intellectual filiation among the sophists of VS. On these anecdotes, cf. Flinterman 1995, 39–40, stressing the importance of mutual and complementary respect between sophists and emperors in their respective areas of preeminence. 159 I am not persuaded by Kemezis’ suggestion that “philosophical” in the VS passage should be read as a subtle dig at Marcus (Kemezis 2014a, 217 n51). For the politics of this affair, see Kuhn 2012. For Herodes’ failure to use “figured speech,” see Ahl 1984, 201–2; and for the sophist’s own forbearance in the face of frank abuse (belying his tyrannical reputation), see VS 563–64. On the historical Herodes, see further Ameling 1983; Tobin 1997; Rife 2008. 160 See e.g. SHA Marcus 8.1; M. Aur. Med. 1.6, 16, 6.21, and esp. 30, where Marcus states his desire to emulate the philosophical virtues of Antoninus Pius, including the ability to accept parrhesiastic criticism with equanimity. See also Ep. 3.12 in the correspondence of Fronto and Marcus (p49 Naber) for the future emperor’s discussion of beneficial criticism and truth-speaking (verum dicere). In keeping with his acceptance of criticism, Marcus also internalizes the role of the wise advisor, as discussed by Whitmarsh 2001a, 216–25. 161 For praote-s as a kingly virtue, cf. Plb. 1.8.4; Philodemus Good King (esp. Col. 24–25 Dorandi); Dio Chrys. 1.20, 40, 74, 2.26, 74; Plut. Ad Princ. 781a; see also Philostr. VA 6.32, 7.33 on Titus and Nerva; and see further Romilly 1979, passim but esp. 127–44. The VS passage continues with a famous description of the sophist: “For indeed Polemo was so arrogant that he interacted with cities as their superior, rulers (δυνασταῖς) as not their inferior, and the gods as their equal.” However, it is ambiguous whether the category of dunastai is meant to include the emperors, since the anecdote illustrating this comment depicts the sophist’s supercilious treatment not of an emperor but of an eastern client king (“the man who ruled the Bosporus”) (535). On the career of Polemo, see Gleason 1995, 21–54; Connolly 2001b. 162 Cf. the version at Plut. Adulator 68b, where his execution is blamed exclusively on his comment about the tyrannicides. Philostratus conflates the Athenian orator with a Sicilian poet by the same name (Civiletti 2002, 409 n17), but this does not affect my argument. 163 Cf. the equally forthright but more humorous mode of literary criticism attributed to Philoxenus at Diod. Sic. 15.6.1–3. 164 The word translated here as “tyrants” is literally “tyrannies,” an expression often used by Philostratus to characterize bad Roman emperors and kings; cf. VS 488; VA 7.1, 4. 165 See Millar 1964, 5–27, 177–81; Ameling 1984; Swain 1996, 402–8; FreyburgerGalland 1997, 18, 27–28, 221–23. 166 On Dio’s combination of Greek and Roman modes of historiography, see Millar 1964, 40–43; Flach 1973; Hose 2007, 464–65; Simons 2009, 15–21; Kemezis 2014a, 92. For a review of debates on the degree of Dio’s “Romanization,” see Sidebottom 2007, 76–77. 167 Once thought to have been a relative; see, however, Gowing 1990. The most recent voice to argue for Cassius Dio’s resemblance to the figures of the Second Sophistic is B. Jones 2016, 297–306, with an emphasis on kingship discourse. See also Ameling 1984, 127–29; Gowing 1992, 290; Freyburger-Galland 1997, 16–22.

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168 The influence of classical political categories is most noticeable in Dio’s use of de-mokratia to refer to the republican form of government, a fact that de Ste. Croix (1981, 323) views as evidence of the term’s degeneration; cf. Horst 2010 on the understanding of de-mokratia in the Agrippa–Maecenas debate. In addition, Dio sometimes treats “the democracy” as the period in Roman history under this form of government (on which see B. Manuwald 1979, 9 n10). On Dio’s use of Greek political terms to discuss Roman matters, see Freyburger-Galland 1997, esp. 116–23 on de-mokratia, attributing the word choice largely to his Attic style and arguing that republican government was just as far removed from the author’s experience as Athenian democracy; similarly, Aalders (1986, 296–97) notes that Dio’s use of political terms is often (though not always) conventional for Greek historians writing about Rome. 169 On the principate as a monarchy, see Swain 1996, 403 with n10; FreyburgerGalland 1997, 131–42. According to Dio’s own account, a period of dynasts intervenes between the prior de-mokratia and Augustus’ establishment of monarchy, which is itself “strictly speaking” (ἀκριβῶς) a return to Rome’s original basileia (52.1.1); on periodization in Cassius Dio, see further Kemezis 2014a, 90–149. 170 See esp. 72[71].36.4, marking a decline after Marcus Aurelius. I use the numbering of Boissevain; where Boissevain’s book numbers differ from prior editions, the previous numbering is indicated in brackets. The material cited from Books 65–77 is drawn from the epitome of Xiphilinus, occasionally supplemented by excerpts found in Excerpta Valesiana and Peter the Patrician. I will not specify the sources of fragments further except where the distinction between excerpt and epitome is significant for my argument. 171 The idea that the people are insufficiently “moderate” (so-phro-n) for freedom of speech and action becomes a refrain in the late republican section of the text, voiced by the narrator as well as historical figures; see esp. 47.39.4–5 (on the beneficial results of the defeat of “democracy” at Philippi), 52.14.1–5 (where Maecenas disparages the “freedom of the mob” to do and say what it likes, arguing that a good monarch can guarantee “true de-mokratia and eleutheria”). Even Cato of Utica, that most republican of republicans, treats his own long familiarity with eleutheria and parrhe-sia as a handicap in the age of Caesar (43.10.3–5). For Dio on “democracy,” see also Millar 1964, 74–76; and on the political trajectory of Rome across Dio’s work, see Madsen 2016. 172 See also 53.19.1 for Augustus as inaugurating a beneficial change in the politeia. 173 On the problematic influence of low types during the reigns of emperors contemporary to Dio, see Kemezis 2014a, 144–45. 174 52.15.1–2. See also 52.33.4 on techniques for eliciting frank advice; 52.38.2–3 on subjects’ avoidance of open (phaneros) complaints against a ruler. 175 On the paradigmatic place of Augustus in this work (even taking into consideration the ambiguous elements of his reign), see Kemezis 2014a, 120–24, with further references. 176 Public: 53.21.3, where Augustus is said to bestow parrhe-sia on the people, a usage that calls attention to the changed sense of frankness in a monarchic context. Friends: 52.41.1, 56.43.1. 177 While making the case for his superiority to Alexander the Great, Augustus declares that he put up with parrhe-sia from the Stoic philosopher Athenodorus and even delighted in the man’s frankness, respecting him as a guide (paidogo-gos) or father (Caesares 326a–b); see also 309b–c on the emperor as temperate (so-phro-n) due to Stoic influence. Alexander’s attack on Cleitus is more directly referenced later in the text (331b–c). On Athenodorus, cf. Cass. Dio 56.43.2. 178 See also Plut. Adulator 68b for Augustus’ mild treatment of Timagenes (on whom see further Capponi 2018), thrown into relief by the violence of Dionysius

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182 183

184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195

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of Syracuse toward Antiphon; Philostr. VA 5.27, where Augustus is contrasted with his tyrannical successors. For an overview of Res Gestae, see Cooley 2009. 47.3.1–13.4, though the role of the future Augustus is minimized at 7.1–3. For the persistence of the civilis princeps ideal in Dio, see Davenport 2014; Davenport and Mallan 2014. Furthermore, Ando 2016 argues that Dio’s judgments of legitimacy rely on such conventional traits while disregarding the method by which an emperor came to the throne. For the way such judgments of emperors are embedded in their own political circumstances, cf. Hose 2011. Cf. 59.27.4. Cf. the senate’s resistance to deifying Hadrian, though they submit to the wishes of Antoninus Pius in the end (Cass. Dio 70.1.2–3; SHA Hadrian 27); see also Secundus for a (mostly) tyrannical Hadrian. Bowersock 1969, 50–53 discusses tensions between Hadrian and Greek sophists, including those who served as ab epistulis. By contrast, Greek authors at a distance from the political intrigues of the capital tended to have a more favorable outlook on the emperor in keeping with his famed philhellenism; see esp. Pausanias (passim but esp. 1, on Athens). On Hadrian’s philhellenism, see also Hutton 2005, 35–36, with further references. See further 69.3.3–6. The hostile presentation of Hadrian in these anecdotes is particularly notable when set against the history’s depiction of Trajan (esp. 68.6.2–7.5). See esp. 69.3.1–2, 5.1–7.4, 23.2–3; and see further Madsen 2016, 151–52. On Dio’s depiction of Severus, see Madsen 2016, 154–58; Rantala 2016. As noted by Millar 1964, 138–39. For this sense of sundikazein, cf. 76[75].16.4. For another example of Severus’ tolerance of frankness in court, see the story of Cassius Clemens (75[74].9.1–4). Cf. Tac. Ann. 14.12, where Thrasea is said usually to show his disapproval with silence or even a lack of enthusiasm in assent. Cf. the more positive account of Priscus’ idealism at Arr. Epict. Diss. 1.2.19–24. See n171 above. Cf. Tac. Ag. 2, 45. On Dio’s account of Domitian, see Schulz 2016. For positive elements of Vespasian’s reign, see Madsen 2016, 149–51. For Dio’s criticism of Helvidius Priscus, see also Flinterman 1995, 139; Mallan 2016, 271–72. A similar judgment against Priscus may also play a role in Dio’s text, but if so it is far less explicit than at Tac. Hist. 4.6. Kemezis 2014a, 190–93, 218–19. See Noreña 2011, 240–43, noting discrepancies between the numismatic record under the Severans, which attests to the promotion of “civilian” values, and the epigraphic record, where these values are “overshadowed by the ideals of militarism and absolutism” (at 242). On the diminishing salience of the civilis princeps ideal after Marcus Aurelius and its revival in connection with Julian, see Scivoletto 1970; Wallace-Hadrill 1982, 48. The return to parrhe-sia as an ideal within the imperial court can be seen in the works of Themistius, Libanius, and Julian himself.

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De-mos Rhetoric in the post-classical city

Although he often rebuked arrogant cities, he did not revel in being abusive, nor did he seem disagreeable but like someone disciplining the willfulness of horses with a bit rather than a whip, and when he set himself to the task of praising well-ordered cities he did not seem to praise them but rather to warn them that they would perish if they changed their course. (Philostratus, Lives of the Sophists 487) There is such a thing, men, as the education of a de-mos and the character of a city, being philosophical and reasonable. (Dio Chrysostom, Oration 44.11)1

Though this first quotation comes from an account of Dio Chrysostom written approximately a century after the orator’s death, it paints a portrait of his relationship with cities and civic audiences that is familiar from his speeches, occasionally even echoing Dio’s own words.2 At the same time, it more generally characterizes the rhetorical stance taken by advisors speaking to mass gatherings in cities of the eastern empire. In this chapter we will see this role theorized by Plutarch, then thematized extensively in Dio’s speeches to eastern cities (with a few comparisons to the civic orations of Aelius Aristides along the way). Finally, the biographical tradition in Philostratus’ Apollonius of Tyana will provide a view of this practice from outside. These authors are broadly consistent in the role and techniques they envision for a public speaker, in which we will recognize the hallmarks of frankness discourse, including a benevolent attitude toward the people addressed, a willingness to take personal risks in offering unwelcome correction, and an understanding of good advice as comparable to medicine. Resemblances to the relationship between a king and his advisor should also be apparent from this description. In the same way that the de-mos tyrannos metaphor characterizes the power of the masses, the techniques of tempering blame with praise and using compliments for pedagogical ends also apply to civic rhetoric. Yet there are important differences among this chapter’s sources, which are linked to the genre of each work or the particular self-presentation of each speaker.

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Theory Political Precepts is a manual of explicitly practical advice (798b), aimed at the elites of eastern cities and concerned throughout with uses of oratorical skill beyond the classroom or lecture hall that we often identify with first- and second-century rhetorical culture.3 In it Plutarch urges the would-be statesman to eschew harsh confrontation when attempting to improve the de-mos, but instead “to try to train them, leading them gently toward what is better and treating them mildly” (800a–b), a variation on the spoonful-of-sugar technique he promotes for delivering the medicine of criticism (818e).4 Alongside the imagery of medicine, an extended familial metaphor figures the statesman as patriarch to his childlike fellow citizens. Early in the treatise, Plutarch recommends the use of “fatherly frankness” (παρρησίας πατρικῆς) toward civic audiences (802f), but it is not until later that he spells out what such an approach actually entails: instead of being severe and inflexible in all matters, which will only habituate the de-mos to resistance, you should ignore small transgressions as you would those of younger family members, reserving harsh correction for situations that are critical. Otherwise, frank criticism and rebuking (nouthetein) will lose their sting from overuse, like an overprescribed or misapplied drug (pharmakon).5 Instead, the statesman should make the populace happy (charizesthai) by giving way in small things, so he can stand up to them when it matters and prevent them from making big mistakes (818a–b).6 In order to fight against the harmful desires of the de-mos (e.g. for violence, confiscation of private property, or distribution of public funds), he uses the verbal weapons available to him: “persuading, teaching, and frightening” (πείθων καὶ διδάσκων καὶ δεδιττόμενος) (818c). The application of fatherly parrhe-sia also includes “thoughtfulness and caring understanding” (πρόνοια καὶ συνέσεως κηδομένης) (802f–3a).7 The statesman’s frank criticism is made more palatable by being delivered gently, but a great deal of importance is also placed on the audience’s understanding of his good intentions, which are signaled by references to goodwill (eunoia), thoughtfulness (pronoia), and care (ke-demonia, epimeleia), as well as kindness (philanthro-pia), and terms denoting utility such as chreiai and o-pheleia,8 echoing language we have already seen applied to the “good king” in chapter 3. As I will demonstrate shortly, such ideas of goodwill and benefaction play a large part in Dio’s self-representation in his public speeches.

Praxis When we compare Plutarch’s advice with the civic speeches of his contemporary, Dio Chrysostom, we find it largely consistent with Dio’s self-presentation, even though Dio’s advisory role is not always that of the statesman strictly defined. The speeches I am grouping together as “civic” are those addressed to cities in his home province of Bithynia as well as cities farther abroad such as Alexandria, Rhodes, and Tarsus (Orations 31–51).9 Among

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these, there is a subset of shorter speeches with simpler rhetorical structures in which he addresses the inhabitants of his native Prusa. Despite the orations’ differences, they are clearly linked by Dio’s self-fashioning as a corrector of the citizens’ foibles for their own good, separating them from other speeches explicitly or implicitly addressed to civic audiences in his corpus. However, we cannot be sure that these speeches were actually delivered in the form that has come down to us, or even that they were performed before their purported civic audiences at all. Apart from Philostratus (who clearly draws on the speeches themselves), we have no independent evidence for Dio’s practice of civic rhetoric. We can be confident, nevertheless, about his desire to give the impression that he was willing to confront unruly crowds, regardless of whether he actually did so.10 Such considerations raise the possibility that deception in the interest of promoting an image of ingenuousness is a feature of his civic speeches as well as those addressed to Trajan. All the same, I will analyze Dio’s rhetoric largely on its own terms, looking to the relationships he constructs with his audience, whether real or illusory. When Dio’s civic orations are studied together, patterns emerge in his portrayal of himself as a frank speaker, which will provide the structure for my analysis. In a captatio benevolentiae (and on the model of Demosthenes), he tends to start with an emphasis on his own benevolence and the risks he is willing to take in order to benefit his audience. His Platonic self-fashioning is prominent here too, in the medical metaphors that characterize the benefit he offers his listeners. In addition to the advice itself (which is generally tailored to each city even if there are repeated elements, such as calls for harmony), the middle of a speech often includes references to the audience’s response to him, which he presents as a test of their collective character. Finally, in his perorations, Dio stresses the urgency of his advice, by calling attention to the situation of Greek cities in the contemporary world and arguing that personal ethics have political consequences. As indicated by this précis, Plato and Demosthenes are integral to Dio’s self-presentation, in keeping with their central place within imperial-era discussions of frankness.11 But Dio’s distinctive melding of these figures was noted even in the ancient world, for example by Philostratus, the author who coined the phrase “Second Sophistic” and was preoccupied with establishing continuities between the world of classical Athens and that of the empire. In Lives of the Sophists, Philostratus describes Dio’s rhetorical style as (487): composed of the noblest of those things expressed most nobly (ξυγκείμενος μὲν τῶν ἄριστα εἰρημένων τοῦ ἀρίστου), looking to the echo (ἠχώ) of Demosthenes and Plato, insofar as, just like the bridges of musical instruments, Dio reechoes (προσηχεῖ) something distinctly his own, with studied simplicity (ἀφελείᾳ ἐπεστραμμένῃ).12 If we set aside the paradox of a visual echo and the coy reference to art concealing its own artfulness in “studied simplicity,” we find comparable slyness

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in an echo that produces something new and distinctive. In this way Dio exemplifies the delicate (and perhaps illusory) balance of tradition and innovation that characterizes the cultural products of later Greece. Building on this image, Philostratus subsequently adds that during the man’s travels in the reign of Domitian he carried with him two books, purportedly so that he could maintain his serious studies: Plato’s Phaedo and Demosthenes’ On the False Embassy (488).13 Whether or not this detail is factual, it reflects an image that Dio himself was eager to promote, in which he is heir to both these classical masters.14 These connections between the orator and his predecessors also play an important role in Philostratus’ larger characterization of the man as a combination of sophist and philosopher, in spite of a longstanding tension between these roles that is traceable back to Plato himself.15 Furthermore, if we read Dio’s civic orations as consistent with the pragmatic aims of Plutarch’s Political Precepts, his adoption of a Demosthenic persona (or a Socratic/Platonic one for that matter) is not a sterile imitation of the past but rather a means of claiming legitimacy in the present through connections with figures from classical antiquity famed for their criticism of the de-mos. In previous chapters we saw Dio’s self-positioning as a philosopher and a wise advisor to a ruler, but now we will witness his melding of public rhetoric and philosophy.

Benevolence and benefit Demosthenes is certainly the dominant model when Dio opens his speeches by making the case for the value of his parrhe-sia.16 But it is also standard rhetorical practice in the ancient world to declare one’s benevolence (eunoia) in an exordium to secure the audience’s good disposition, a technique best known from its Latin name, captatio benevolentiae.17 The connection between such an opening and parrhe-sia can be illustrated by a speech called A Political Address in His Native City (Oration 43) in which Dio defends himself from the accusations of a local detractor.18 In all of Dio’s speeches to the Prusans, he insists that his goodwill is reflected in the benefits he has provided and will continue to secure for the city, understood as local building projects, concessions from Trajan, and his own support of the common people’s interests,19 but here he claims a special privilege of parrhe-sia toward the Prusans because of these benefactions.20 However, what is far more intriguing is Dio’s extension of euergetistic language to orations where he cannot claim the role of material benefactor.21 Instead, he tries to convince his audiences that the very act of giving them frank advice is a form of benefaction, even if that advice is unsolicited. In referring to both kinds of benefaction, Dio uses key terms connected with formal acknowledgments of euergetism (some of which are already familiar from Plutarch’s discussion of “fatherly frankness”). These include eunoia (“goodwill”), charis (“gratitude/favor”), philia (“friendship/affection”), time(“honor”), so-te-r (“savior/preserver”), and ke-demo-n (“guardian/patron”), along

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with their cognates.22 At the same time, he draws on the language of Cynic and Stoic philanthro-pia (“kindness toward one’s fellow man”), which itself stems from a conceptual reorientation of aristocratic or royal benefaction that can be traced back to Socrates.23 A certain overlap in vocabulary is to be expected in the case of terms like so-te-ria,24 but philanthro-pia also has a terminology of its own, made up of words such as o-pheleia (“help/benefit”) and chre-simos (“useful”), all of which have both material and moral points of reference.25 An illustrative passage is found at the beginning of Oration 31, which was addressed to the citizens of Rhodes and focuses on the treatment of the city’s benefactors.26 Dio criticizes the Rhodians for inscribing the names of new honorees on old statues and thus dishonoring both the original benefactors and the men currently being recognized. In doing so, he sets himself up as an alternative type of benefactor, explicitly comparing gifts of money from outsiders (which the city welcomes) with the advice that he himself offers and which he expects will meet a hostile reception (3). He goes on to characterize his visit in terms of the aid he intends to provide, namely calling attention to problems that the Rhodians were neglecting despite their harm to the city as a whole. In conveying this, he emphasizes both his eunoia, the usefulness of his advice, and the gratitude (charis) that they should feel in return (2–4), themes that he reprises at the end of the speech (157). While the theme of euergetism appears across Dio’s civic orations, it is most elaborated in the speech to the Alexandrians (Oration 32). Here the rhe-to-r portrays himself as a benefactor in his own right but also the emissary of greater benefactors, namely the Roman emperor and the gods. Such self-positioning allows him to inflate his importance by posing as a broker for imperial benevolence or even divine favor.27 Mainly, however, he emphasizes his own goodwill, which he presents in the opening of the speech as the main determinant of his words’ value. When he declares that men who receive “education and reason” (παιδεία καὶ λόγος) become the “saviors” (σωτῆρες) of cities, he promotes himself as an educator via his frank criticism, a metaphor that plays a dominant role in the oration, tying paideia and parrhe-sia closely together (3).28 The theme of benefaction is then extended to include a broader philanthropic outlook when Dio tells the Alexandrians that they should listen to a “useful speech” (λόγου χρηστοῦ) and “welcome [or at least tolerate] frankness that is for their own good” (τὴν ἐπὶ τῷ συμφέροντι δέξασθαι παρρησίαν) (5). His sales pitch continues when he elaborates the ways in which speeches like his are useful, with good effects that include making men happier, “more excellent” (κρείττους), and “more self-controlled” (σωφρονέστεροι), as well as better able to manage their cities (7). Indeed, such benefits are key to distinguishing “real” frankness from both flattery and abuse, as we see when Dio contrasts his benefaction with the actions of orators who previously visited Alexandria. These men came only to pronounce epideictic speeches for their own material gain and reputation rather than for the benefit (o-pheleia) of the city, speeches implied to be inoffensive but worthless (10). At best, prior speakers addressed the Alexandrians

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with parrhe-sia, but they failed to accomplish anything because they spoke in a manner that caused offense yet was still worthless, in Dio’s words, “abusing rather than instructing” the population (11). It is important therefore that he distinguish his own style of frankness, in which harshness is not an end in itself (11): But to find a man who uses frankness plainly and without trickery (καθαρῶς καὶ ἀδόλως παρρησιαζόμενον), and who does not dissimulate for the sake of fame or money, but out of goodwill and care for others (ἐπὶ εὐνοίᾳ καὶ κηδεμονίᾳ τῶν ἄλλων) is ready, if necessary, both to be ridiculed and to endure the disorder and uproar of the populace – to find such a man is not easy; on the contrary, it is the lot of a very lucky city, as there is such a great scarcity of noble and free men (γενναίων καὶ ἐλευθέρων ἀνδρῶν), but such a generous number of flatterers, swindlers, and sophists (κολάκων καὶ γοήτων καὶ σοφιστῶν). It is implied throughout this passage that Dio is describing himself and the speech he is currently giving, even if he only makes this identification explicit afterward (12). And while his argument merely assumes that eunoia guarantees the value of parrhe-sia, he expends more effort in persuading the audience that his frank criticism is motivated purely by care for the city’s well-being. Making such a case is necessary because, unlike in Prusa, he cannot appeal to a prior relationship with the city or a history of benefaction. It is for this reason that he emphasizes his lack of personal interest and his willingness to take risks in order to provide worthwhile advice, tactics which crop up in many of his civic speeches and which are integral to his self-presentation as a philosophical frank speaker.

Evidence of eunoia In promoting his goodwill, Dio turns his status as an outsider to his advantage, arguing that he can give better advice than local statesmen because he has nothing to gain from his audience. This is illustrated clearly in the Second Tarsian Oration, when he lambastes bad politicians who are motivated by the desire for honors and power rather than the wish to promote their native land’s well-being, contrasting them with a city’s true patron (ke-demo-n), described as “a noble man of good judgment” (γενναῖον δὲ καὶ φρόνιμον ἄνδρα), “who thinks and speaks the truth” (φρονοῦντα καὶ λέγοντα τἀληθῆ). While he acknowledges that a frank critic could arise within the city, he notes that such a speaker is extremely rare, thus emphasizing his own value as a benevolent and truthful outsider (34.29–32). Such a pose is already signaled at the speech’s opening, when Dio announces that he has come to Tarsus “not because I want anything from you, but because I have been eager to do something to your advantage (τῆς ὑμετέρας ὠφελείας)” (4).29

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Often, however, he provides even stronger proof of his good intentions, namely his willingness to incur harm in telling his audiences unwelcome truths. To accomplish this, he borrows techniques from Demosthenes, even though his relationship to audiences elsewhere than Prusa is quite different from that between the Athenians and their statesmen. Demosthenes’ corpus provides plenty of material for emulation when it comes to parrhe-sia, goodwill, and risk, since a number of his political speeches attempt to disarm his listeners’ objections by urging them not to become angry but rather to be patient with his advice.30 In doing this, Demosthenes emphasizes his willingness to face the hostility of the people he is trying to help, because good advice is crucial in the city’s current time of peril. Dio in turn adopts this Demosthenic plea for acceptance of frank criticism, claiming that, as in the case of the Attic orator, the public advantage to be had from his advice offsets the risk he takes upon himself in offering it, thus promoting both his utility and his selflessness, and transforming Demosthenes’ rhetorical strategy into one suited to his own time and role. We can see these techniques at work in Dio’s First Tarsian Oration.31 In preparing his audience to hear criticism of some obscure but apparently offensive habit,32 the orator begins with a prooimion so aggressive that Cécile Bost-Pouderon describes it as “moins captatio beneuolentiae qu’avertissement” (Bost-Pouderon 2009, 249).33 In it, he appeals to the Tarsians to put up with (anechesthai) his criticism on two conditions: if he moderates his parrhe-sia (33.7)34 and if his advice is beneficial (5).35 Having given this warning, he later returns to the theme when he asserts that his audience have indeed become annoyed despite his disclaimers, and again calls on them to tolerate criticism for their own good. This time, in addition to referencing the potential benefits of his criticism, he also attempts to justify the offense by appealing to its truthfulness, urging his listeners not to “be intolerant” (δυσχεραίνετε) or “be aggravated” (ἄχθεσθε) at his choice of words, since they accurately describe the Tarsians’ faults (44).36 The same tactic underlies Dio’s characterization of the Alexandrians in Oration 32, albeit applied with a lighter touch. In keeping with his primary criticism of the Alexandrians’ frivolity, he seems less concerned that they will take offense at his words, compared with his addresses to other audiences, and suggests rather they are more likely to feel “oppressed” (βαρύνεσθαι) by the speech because they perceive it as overly serious and insufficiently entertaining (7). This image of the Alexandrians is reinforced by Dio’s lack of restraint in insulting them; over the course of the speech he calls them “rather worthless” (εὐτελέστεροι) (31) and compares them to a long list of inferior beings or lowly objects, including children (51, 72), slaves (87), birds, sheep, dogs (63–66), asses (101), dung beetles (98), and even a pile of feces (87). Yet he speaks of his bravery in advising them, in a manner reminiscent of other civic speeches, raising questions about how much we should take any of this self-presentation at face value. At points in Oration 32, Dio attacks the failure of philosophers in particular to speak out against the Alexandrians’ bad behavior at public events,

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attributing that failing (at least in part) to their fear of the crowd’s uproar (thorubos). With this declaration, he simultaneously blames the Alexandrians themselves for their hostile response to serious advice, and draws a strong contrast between these cowardly philosophers and his own divinely inspired courage (which allows him to be unafraid of the Alexandrian crowd’s many intimidating attributes, including laughter and anger) (20–22). Even Dio seems to have his limits, however, as when he claims he is afraid to confront them about all their errors at once (33). While this comment may seem tongue-in-cheek, it suggests an unfavorable judgment of his audience, as do his references to thorubos throughout the speech, which resonate with his main subject: the Alexandrians’ unrestrained manner of conducting themselves in crowds.37 Such complaints about thorubos in Dio’s civic speeches dramatize his risktaking in the face of audience objections, in imitation of his classical predecessors.38 At the same time, however, Dio’s treatment of thorubos is distinguished from earlier accounts by the way he foregrounds an orator’s response to such hubbub as proof of the man’s character. A striking example comes from his Second Tarsian Oration, in his description of a city’s “good advisor” (τὸν σύμβουλον τὸν ἀγαθόν) (34.33): I say that it is necessary for him to be completely prepared against all those things considered disagreeable, and especially against the reproaches and anger of the populace. Just like the headlands that produce harbors, which receive the full force of the sea but preserve stillness and calm within, he is likewise at the mercy of the people, if ever they wish to be enraged or revile him or do anything else they please, and he is not affected at all by their uproar. An advisor’s value to the city is based therefore not just on his ability to give good advice but also on his capacity to withstand wrath. He should also be unaffected by blame and (as the passage continues) by praise, as if he were some solid and immovable geological formation. However, by referencing a good advisor rather than a politician, Dio privileges speech over other forms of leadership, and thus makes a place for his own Demosthenic self-presentation despite his status as an outsider.39 Of course, this is not the only disparity between Demosthenes’ position and that of Dio, due to differences between the political circumstances of classical Athens and those of Greek cities in the late first century CE. Dio’s audiences in places like Tarsus, Alexandria, and Rhodes had little power to punish a visiting rhe-to-r, no matter how much resentment his speeches might incite, and this is true even for speakers lacking Dio’s alleged ties to the emperor or his administrators. By contrast there were various forms of retribution open to the classical Athenian de-mos if they were displeased with a politician.40 But despite these important distinctions, Dio’s and Demosthenes’ uses of this trope both aim to inoculate their audiences against rejecting frankness while

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they simultaneously promote the speaker as a public-spirited risk taker. At the same time, however, these features of Dio’s self-presentation also contribute to his image as a philosopher who makes the improvement of others his first priority. This stance is apparent when he tells the Tarsians, “I myself want nothing from you, but on the contrary I am eager to act for your benefit (τῆς ὑμετέρας ὠφελείας ἕνεκα). Therefore, if you will not put up with (ἀνάσχησθε) me, it is clear that you will punish yourselves, not me” (34.4). Given that the opening of this speech foregrounds Dio’s identity as a philosopher, he seems to allude to Socrates’ allegation in the Apology that the Athenians, in killing him, would harm themselves more than him (rather than referring to the audience’s inability to exact their vengeance on him, though it is probably true that Dio was in little danger from them).41 As we will see in the next section, he develops these themes of benevolence and risk into a set of Platonic-Socratic metaphors, the most important of which is medicine.

Frankness as medicine Dio’s civic speeches are filled with medical imagery that originates in the writings of Plato (though Dio’s use of it is also shaped by the reception of Plato in Hellenistic philosophy).42 An especially prominent influence is the Gorgias, which sets up an elaborate opposition between truth and pleasure in its famous discussion of rhetoric (462b–65d). According to Socrates, just as sophistry impersonates legislation and rhetoric mimics justice, adornment superficially replicates athletic exercise and “cookery is flattery under the guise of medicine” (τῇ μὲν οὖν ἰατρικῇ … ἡ ὀψοποιικὴ κολακεία ὑπόκειται) (465b).43 While Dio is far from the only imperial-era philosopher to develop his own version of this metaphor, which is so well-suited to articulate the simultaneous discomfort and benefit that frank speech putatively produces, his adaptations of it are surely the most elaborate.44 Consider his warning to the Rhodians about the “bitterness” of his advice: It is not possible for the difficulties of the body to be cured without pain (οὐδὲ γὰρ τὰ ἐν τοῖς χωρὶς ὀδύνης ἔστιν ἰάσασθαι), and it is often the case that serious pain in the part being treated (τὸ θεραπευόμενον) is itself a sign that the treatment is making serious progress. Therefore, he says, the greater the shame an audience feels at an accusation, the more eagerly they should attend to that criticism (31.35). Here as in Plato’s writings, an analogy between body and soul forms the background to the physician metaphor. And in a further echo of Plato, Dio is not concerned merely with the actions and sufferings of individuals, but also with the collective ethics of a city.45 Dio’s uses of this metaphor vary in their complexity. At the most basic level, the civic orations are peppered with Platonic language, referring to Dio’s self-described inability to gratify, flatter, or otherwise pander to his

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audiences. At other times more layers emerge, such as at Alexandria when he denigrates the efforts of other speakers (32.1) while also criticizing “socalled philosophers” for avoiding a public role (8). Even those who do speak publicly “as cultured men” (ὡς πεπαιδευμένων) fail to communicate anything worthwhile, but instead give “stupid” (ἀμαθεῖς) epideictic speeches or recite their own poetry. He declares, “It is just as if some doctor, when visiting sick men, should neglect their preservation (σωτηρίας) and their treatment (θεραπείας),47 and instead bring them garlands and courtesans and perfume.”48 What is seemingly most troubling to Dio about this scenario is that, just as a doctor prescribing ineffective remedies would be misusing his skill, the speakers at Alexandria likewise sully the name of philosophy in giving such addresses “as philosophers.” To make things worse, they do so out of a distinctly unphilosophical desire to become wealthy and famous. When he transitions directly to the subject of parrhe-sia at this point, he shows that he considers frankness the kind of speech proper to a philosopher as well as the rhetorical counterpart to true medicine (10–11). In addition, Dio’s elaborations on this metaphor often reflect current intellectual developments. For instance, at Tarsus he promotes the value of his speech by drawing a contrast between “real medicine” and “the exhibitions of so-called doctors” (ταῖς ἐπιδείξεσι τῶν καλουμένων ἰατρῶν) (33.6), referencing a phenomenon of public display known as “medical sophistry” (about which the physician and polymath Galen complained in the second century CE).49 In medical writings of the imperial era, diagnosis was gaining importance as a crucial first step in the curative process.50 When Dio tells the Alexandrians that they need someone who can criticize them and reveal their weaknesses, his reference to “making the city’s failings apparent” (φανερὰ ποιήσει τὰ τῆς πόλεως ἀρρωστήματα) reflects the growing salience of diagnosis in contemporary medicine (32.7). We can compare the account of Galen, who also appeals to diagnosis when discussing ethical improvement. In Diagnosis and Cure of the Soul’s Passions he recommends finding someone who can identify and articulate one’s vices using parrhe-sia. Once it has been diagnosed, vice can then be surgically cut away (5.36). Ultimately, however, treatment rather than diagnosis is at the heart of this metaphor, and it receives the most embellishment. In a few civic orations Dio draws distinctions between different kinds of doctor, illnesses of greater or lesser severity, and treatments that correspondingly vary in intensity. In doing this, he adapts another Platonic variation of the medical metaphor, found in Republic 4, where illness is used to articulate an entire city’s faults. According to Socrates, when a state tries to ensure correct action by setting up laws without making the citizens good through education, it is like a sick man who refuses to give up the way of life (diaita) that is making him ill and who resents being told the truth about his condition. Other kinds of treatment (namely drugs, cautery, or cutting) will be no help to such a man unless he first corrects his lack of self-control (akolasia) and stops getting drunk, overeating, and indulging his lust (425e–26b).51 These two types of remedy

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(namely, lifestyle adjustments versus drugs and surgery) are differentiated by the degree to which the patient is capable of governing himself and the severity of the medical intervention. The less severe treatment requires the sick man to follow the advice of the doctor, while in the more severe case he must be acted upon by the doctor. Such a schema has an important afterlife in Dio, as we can see from the Alexandrian Oration, where he uses an extremely intricate version of this metaphor to convey what is at stake in his listeners’ response to his advice. It is worth quoting his comments at length (32.17–18): The treatment and prevention of vice (θεραπεία κακίας καὶ πρόνοια) is divided in two, just as in the case of other ailments: the one kind resembles diet52 and drugs and the other cautery and cutting, the latter belonging to magistrates and laws and judges (ἄρχουσι καὶ νόμοις καὶ δικασταῖς), who remove what is already excessive and incurable. And the ones who do not perform this deed lightly are preferable. But I say that the other treatment is the business of those who are able through persuasion and reason (διὰ πειθοῦς καὶ λόγου) to soothe and soften the soul. These are the saviors and guardians of those who can be saved (οὗτοι δὲ σωτῆρές εἰσι καὶ φύλακες τῶν οἵων τε σώζεσθαι),53 stopping and restraining wickedness before it becomes complete. Both types are certainly necessary for cities, but the type in public office needs to be the milder one by far. For it is fitting to be lenient in the act of punishing, but not to be lenient in teaching; and indulgence is the quality of a good leader (ἡγεμόνος), but the failure to be harsh is characteristic of a bad philosopher. For an unyielding quality in punishment causes destruction, but harshness of speech is by nature salutary (τὸ δὲ τοῦ λόγου πικρὸν σῴζειν πέφυκε). This complicated metaphor has two key variables, one of which is the progression of disease, while the other is the type of medical practitioner. At an early stage, the gentler treatments of diet and drugs are effective,54 and these are comparable to instruction. But later, when matters have become desperate, “more severe” (ἰσχυρότερος) medical intervention in the form of surgery is necessary (17). The second variable, the type of doctor, maps onto different forms of authority. A doctor who controls his patients’ consumption of food and medicine is comparable to a philosopher who addresses the public.55 His bitter medicine aims to prevent the need for much more painful techniques, which are the purview of political leaders. But while the philosopher’s frank criticism is characterized as the milder treatment, Dio complicates the matter by saying it should be applied more strictly, while the more drastic punishments of worldly authorities should be imposed with more leniency. The justification for this seeming paradox is that the philosopher is ultimately envisioned as a teacher, whose strictness prevents the development of more serious mistakes, whereas the political authority’s punishment is destructive rather than redemptive.56

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Therefore, if the Alexandrians do not heed Dio’s harsh yet beneficial advice (much of which concerns their exhibiting more self-control), others will have to step in and use force instead of guidance. Given the context provided by the rest of the speech, it is clear that when Dio speaks of these powerful others as archontes or a he-gemo-n, he is not referring only to “magistrates” or the role of “leader” (as given in the translation above), but rather choosing words that also call up specifically Roman authority figures.57 Likewise, when he argues that the absence of politically engaged philosophers leads to an increase in trouble, in the same way that a lack of qualified doctors leads to more opportunity for people performing burials (19), he is not necessarily comparing the Roman authorities to “grave-diggers,” but he leaves that interpretation available.58 Such an implication would be clear enough to Dio’s audience, who were all too aware of the soldiers garrisoned outside Alexandria at Nikopolis, figures whose presence exemplifies a key distinction between Alexandria and cities with “free” status like Rhodes.59 In the case of Alexandria and other cities, Dio claims that his own “medicine,” unpleasant though it might be for the moment, can help his audiences avoid a far worse outcome. More precisely, it is valuable because it obviates the need for “outside medicine,” as Dio says when he exhorts the Prusans not to follow the historical example of the Athenians, who handled their own affairs so badly that, like an incurable patient, they were “not satisfied with their own leaders (ἡγεμόσιν)” and required the attentions of “foreign doctors” (ξένων ἰατρῶν) (48.13). This expression is very close to one found in Plutarch’s Political Precepts, at the end of a passage urging the avoidance of unnecessary Roman intervention. Here Plutarch guides the would-be statesman to act like a physician who, by his effective treatment, can prevent introduction of “outside doctors and medicine” (τῶν ἐκτὸς ἰατρῶν καὶ φαρμάκων) (815b). A variation on this image can also be found in Aelius Aristides’ To the Rhodians: On Concord: “And if you do not change your course willingly, someone else will come who will save you by force (ὑμᾶς σώσει πρὸς βίαν)” (24.22). The language of salvation here echoes a comparison of rhetoric to medicine that appears earlier in this speech (5) as well as elsewhere in his corpus, for example in Oration 23 (To the Cities on Concord). Yet Aristides’ application of the medical metaphor differs in key ways from its use in Dio. While Aristides concedes that medical treatment is not always pleasurable, he does not put a premium on the value of pain (Oration 23.61),60 instead focusing on pleasure as an element of beneficial persuasion (for example, at Orations 2.185, 24.6). The prooimion to Oration 23 likewise echoes other themes from Dio, such as the speaker’s usefulness, courage, and aim of improving his listeners, by contrast with other speakers’ flattery of their audiences (4–5). At the same time, however, Aristides claims a legitimate role for praise in advisory speeches and even identifies a speaker’s willingness to praise as evidence of courage (7). All this should be understood as part of a larger project of recuperating the value of pleasure in rhetoric from Platonic opprobrium.61 We find a stark contrast in Dio’s First

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Tarsian Oration, when he declares that doctors too have to cause their patients pain and annoyance but nevertheless continue carrying out their treatments for their patients’ own good, even if the doctors themselves find these practices unpleasant. It is fitting that this passage focuses on surgery, the most painful and invasive form of medical treatment, which is made to sound even more violent than usual by being called “tearing and wounding” (ἀμύττει … καὶ τέμνει) rather than the standard “cutting and cauterizing.” For Dio’s part, he says, “I certainly will not stop talking about this until you are in severe pain (σφόδρα δηχθῆτε). Even so, you are obtaining a very weak drug (πάνυ ἀσθενοῦς φαρμάκου) in this speech and much less than your case justifies” (33.44).62 Dio’s statement illustrates the close alignment of benefit and pain in his reception of Plato, by contrast with the account in Aristides. Starting from the classical philosopher’s insight that pleasure is no guarantee of goodness, Dio takes things a step further by presenting pain itself as evidence that a treatment is beneficial.63 It follows, then, that if advice is unwelcome it must be truthful and useful.

Praise and blame As we have seen, Aristides’ civic orations valorize both praise and blame, while Dio, following the model of Demosthenes, makes criticism the principal sign of an orator’s courage. Yet for Dio, both blame and praise also play an integral role in his manipulation of audience response. That is, he criticizes audiences for refusing to accept his parrhe-sia (which he uses in a manner practically synonymous with blame) and praises those who do. A public speaker’s frankness therefore serves as a test of the collective character of a de-mos, revealing its resemblance either to a benevolent sovereign or to a tyrant. Throughout the civic orations, Dio repeatedly attempts to cajole his audiences into compliance. In the First Tarsian, he urges his listeners to turn to “the man who will point out to you some of your mistakes and above all else, if possible, make you capable of being wise (φρονεῖν)” (33.23). They need such a critic because they have not been adequately exposed to frankness (15–16): Your ears have not been made ready to receive harsh and stubborn words (τραχεῖς τε καὶ στερεοὺς λόγους); but just as the hooves of animals reared on soft and smooth fields lack strength (ἀσθενεῖς), likewise ears reared in the presence of flattery and lying words are tender (ὦτα τρυφερὰ ἐν κολακείᾳ τραφέντα καὶ λόγοις ψευδέσι). In this analogy, the Tarsians have been so coddled by previous speakers’ deceptive flattery that they are incapable of responding to the unvarnished truth in a manly fashion, as suggested by the effeminate tinge of terms like ἀσθενεῖς (weak) and τρυφερά (tender, delicate, luxurious).64 In addition, he

De-mos: rhetoric in the post-classical city 119 uses the common pun on trophe- (nurture, food) and truphe- (softness, delicacy) to convey the ethical deformities that arise from a detrimentally luxurious environment.65 Shortly after these comments, he switches metaphors to compare philosophical speech to medicinal uses of honey, claiming that the Tarsians would not even recognize philosophical speech, but would mistake its beneficial effects for “abuse and harm” (λοιδορίαν καὶ βλάβην) due to the “stinging” (δακνόμενοι) it causes (as does honey when applied to the eyes as a medical treatment) (16).66 Though framed as a set of criticisms against the Tarsians, the entire passage could be seen as a challenge to them to refute the speaker’s expectations and assert their masculinity by accepting his philosophical frankness.67 Distinctions between good and bad de-moi are central to Dio’s manipulation of his listeners, as we can see when he praises the citizens of Prusa for their unusual love of frank criticism (51.4–5): Most people hate those who admonish (νουθετοῦντας), even if only in words, and they welcome in an extraordinary way those who use pleasure to flatter (κολακεύοντας); but among you on the contrary, the man is most cherished who uses the greatest frankness (πλείστῃ παρρησίᾳ) and rebukes (ἐπιπλήττων) those erring and chastens them (σωφρονίζων). Who then would not cherish the sort of city in which … the man admonishing with good will (ὁ δὲ μετ’ εὐνοίας νουθετῶν) is more beloved than the one speaking with flattery, and the masses are more eager to be chastened and corrected than to be indulged and to live luxuriously (σωφρονίζεσθαι καὶ ἐπανορθοῦσθαι ἢ θεραπεύεσθαι καὶ τρυφᾶν)? This account of a good civic audience valorizes those who do not merely endure parrhe-sia but actively court it. Such a city becomes praiseworthy in a genuine way, by contrast with flattery-loving cities (praise of which can only ever be false, by this logic). There is of course a certain irony in praising a city for its immunity to flattery, as paralleled by Dio’s praise of emperors for the same ethical fortitude in the Kingship Orations.68 In fact, Dio’s approach to the Prusans bears several similarities to an advisor’s guidance of a monarch. By commending the people in this manner (for qualities they may or may not actually display), he attempts to shape their current and future behavior, not unlike the way a panegyrist tries to influence a king by praising him for the attributes the speaker most desires him to show.69 The parallels between a speaker’s approach to a public assembly and his treatment of a king reflect longstanding political ideas about the nature of the masses. Underlying Dio’s Demosthenic self-presentation as a risk-taking frank speaker is an image of the de-mos tyrannos, which is also imported from classical Athenian rhetoric70 despite the dramatic differences between the radical democracy of Athens and the local political life of Greek cities in the early empire.71 For Dio, however, unlike his classical models, a tyrannical populace is not the result of giving political power to the majority of

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people, but rather the threat of mob violence.72 This adjustment enables the Prusan orator to frame his test of the audience in terms of the despotism of the crowd. Among Dio’s civic orations, the de-mos tyrannos trope plays the most salient role in his address to the Alexandrians, whose famed rowdiness is one of the speech’s main themes.73 He starts by laying out a theory about “the nature of a de-mos” (δήμου φύσεως): it resembles more than anything else a “sovereign man” (ἀνδρὶ δυνάστῃ), who is characterized with a number of words signaling power, including ischuros (“strong”), exousia (“authority”), and rhome(“might”) (32.25).74 But under the heading of “sovereign,” there are two subcategories: “kings,” who are idealized good rulers, and their cruel, savage, and bestial opposites, “tyrants” (26). The de-mos too can resemble a good or a bad sovereign, showing itself to be either gentle or monstrous (27–28). Among the qualities that mark out the kingly de-mos, the acceptance of frank criticism plays an especially prominent role, as can be seen from the description when quoted in full (27): It is sensible and gentle and calm, the sort that tastes [i.e. is willing to experience] parrhe-sia and does not wish to live luxuriously, fair, highminded, respectful toward both good men and good arguments (λόγους), knowing gratitude for admonishers and teachers (νουθετοῦσι καὶ διδάσκουσι). This description is replete with frankness language. As in the passage from the First Tarsian above, frankness is once again the antithesis of coddling luxury.75 And as in the speech to the Prusans, the good de-mos is likewise marked out by the people’s gratitude toward those who rebuke and teach (as figures of painful correction) as well as their respect for advisors making good arguments, among whom Dio implicitly counts himself. We can also see a sharp contrast between this extended discussion and a passage that precedes it, where Dio puts special emphasis on the tyrant’s anger, an attribute that makes him unapproachable unless one is willing to use “flattery and deception” (26). The ability to listen to critical advice is therefore one of the characteristics that most distinguishes the royal de-mos from the tyrannical one. It becomes clear that this extended classification of de-moi is preliminary to a test of their character when Dio asks his audience: “So, when it comes to the de-mos of the Alexandrians … in which class should we put it?” He goes on to cajole them into responding favorably to his speech by saying, “For I have provided myself to you on the basis that you are of the better type; and perhaps another man, one of my superiors (κρειττόνων), will choose to do so too.” If the Alexandrians are not the better sort of de-mos, they should aspire to become such, both to live up to Dio’s high expectations and to earn the favor of some unnamed higher authority. Scholars have long noted Dio’s tendency to hint at his close relationships with Roman

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emperors (truthfully or otherwise) and this may be the case here, though there is some debate over the oration’s date and the identification of the emperor he references.76 At any rate, it is clear that, in calling upon these alleged powerful connections, Dio offers extra incentive for the assembled Alexandrians to listen to his advice: “Truly, you could provide no spectacle more beautiful and paradoxical than by showing self-control and paying attention (σωφρονούντων καὶ προσεχόντων)” (29).77 While rioting was the greatest exercise of power currently available to the populace and as such is integral to Dio’s image of the de-mos tyrannos, the most serious threat Dio himself seems to have faced from a crowd outside Prusa was a much milder form of disorder: hubbub (thorubos). As is widely attested for classical Athens, making an uproar was a way for the crowds at mass gatherings to express their approval or displeasure at what was being said. It should be understood then not as a check on the freedom of the speaker so much as the audience’s opportunity for free speech.78 Indeed, without the robust institutions of radical democracy, thorubos (along with its more licit counterpart, acclamation) was one of the few remaining outlets for the expression of popular will in Greek cities of the imperial era.79 Although Dio occasionally treats thorubos as a preferable alternative to violence,80 a propensity toward uproar is generally a sign that a city lacks self-control and is thus failing his test. For instance, due to a lack of internal harmony at Tarsus, the smallest provocation whips the people into a frenzy of thorubos, comparable to the effects of clashing winds on the sea (34.19).81 This image reveals that the city is driven by the violent impulses of nature rather than governed by civilized self-restraint. Likewise, in the Alexandrian Oration, uproar is a persistent motif, characterizing the citizens as unrestrained, child-like, and even tyrannical in their lack of discipline (32.4, 29, 74). But most importantly, Dio notes the crowd’s uproar in response to him. When he says that the Alexandrians might swallow him up with their “uproar and disorder” (τῷ θορύβῳ … καὶ τῇ ταραχῇ), he not only promotes his own courage (as we have already seen) but also tests the character of his audience (24). This is apparent in his insistence that “not every populace behaves outrageously and refuses to listen, and it is not necessary for cultured men (πεπαιδευμένους) to avoid all of them.” This declaration provides both a positive model for the Alexandrians and an implicit critique of their comportment up to this point. In addition, he offers the enticement of potential praise from other sources, though this is conditional upon their quiet docility in this moment: “if you wait and listen through to the end, you will seem admirable to all men” (μείναντες δὲ καὶ ἀκούσαντες διὰ τέλους πᾶσι θαυμαστοὶ δόξετε).82 If the Alexandrian crowds maintain their current unruliness they will fail the test, but if they quietly put up with critical speech they will gain universal approbation.83

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What is at stake The perorations of Dio’s civic speeches frequently convey the value and urgency of frank public criticism with a pair of closely interconnected themes, namely a contrast between the contemporary world and the past, and the political consequences for a city of its citizens’ ethics.84 In making this case, the orator-cum-philosopher contributes to the narrative of decline that has played such an important part in depictions of the imperial Greek world.85 While we should not take this or any other ancient account of Greek decline at face value, it is undeniable that the political conditions of cities in Dio’s day differed markedly from the poleis of the classical period, particularly when it came to their freedom of action in foreign affairs. However, this does not mean that their internal politics were mere play-acting, as famously suggested in Plutarch’s Political Precepts, which notes the limitations that Roman imperial rule imposed on Greek cities and their statesmen (esp. 813d–14c). Because cities were still internally self-governing, and because their handling of internal affairs (along with their capacity to maintain concord with neighboring settlements) greatly affected their treatment by imperial authorities, a public speaker like Dio could argue plausibly that the fortunes of a city depended on his advice.86 A common theme in many of Dio’s civic speeches is the glory of the Greek past contrasted with the status of contemporary Greek cities, a change he, like the author of On the Sublime, attributes to ethical deterioration.87 Whereas in the past Greek cities were able “to govern themselves in an orderly manner” (τὸ κοσμίως πολιτεύεσθαι) (44.11), their greatness persists only in the ruins left behind, not in the men living now. The Rhodians, however, are the exceptions that prove the rule; they are “the only ones left of the Greeks to whom someone could even give advice (παραινέσαι) and about whom it is possible to be distressed when they seem to make a mistake” (or so he tells them) (Oration 31.159–60). While these passages emphasize the connection between self-control and political independence, Dio also acknowledges that contemporary cities’ freedom of action is more limited by circumstance than was the case for classical Athens or Sparta. As he remarks in the Second Tarsian Oration, nothing can be gained from Greek cities fighting with one another, “for leadership and rule belong to others” (τὸ γὰρ προεστάναι τε καὶ κρατεῖν ἄλλων ἐστίν) (34.48). Despite the seeming gloominess of this assessment, he also assures his listeners that loss of independence in foreign affairs is a blessing in disguise for the inhabitants of Greek cities, because it redirects their attentions to what is truly valuable: personal self-governance. Accordingly, in the same speech to the Tarsians, after he acknowledges the diminished position of Greek poleis, he downplays the importance of this change and promotes the timelessness of a philosophical perspective on ambition. Not only were rivalries pointless even when the city-states wielded “genuine power” (ἀληθῆ δύναμιν), but in fact the good that one can strive for in his own day is the

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same as in the past, namely the values connected with philosophy (49–51). Likewise, he contrasts the Rhodians with their ancestors, who had the opportunity to display their virtue “in leading others” (ἐν τῷ προεστάναι τῶν ἄλλων), unlike the present day when all that is “left” (καταλείπεται) is “to rule over oneself” (τὸ ἑαυτῶν προεστάναι) (161–62). Yet far from arguing that Rhodes experienced a decline, he actually suggests that things have changed for the better, since the preeminence of Rome has freed the Greek cities from the burdens of military conflict (31.101–4). Furthermore, he makes the counterintuitive argument that the pax romana actually provides a better testing ground than war for virtue, since “in such peace and ease it is characteristic [only] of the best men not to be brought to anything shameful or disorderly,” while more urgent circumstances give lesser men the impetus to display the best elements of their characters (165).88 But it is not only ethical self-mastery that is at issue for Rhodes; Dio encourages his audience to show how well they can perform practical tasks like managing their city, sitting in council, passing judgment in court, sacrificing to the gods, holding festivals, and (not coincidentally) honoring a good speaker. Indeed, the Rhodians are much better equipped for self-governance than other contemporary cities for the very reason that their personal conduct is widely known to be unimpeachable, even in such seemingly small matters as their walk and their dress (162–63) (and thus they serve as the perfect foil to the unrestrained Alexandrians elsewhere in the civic speeches).89 Rhodes is therefore eleutheros not only in terms of officially granted status but also (and more importantly) as determined by the citizens’ own respectable and self-controlled behavior. The orator’s task is merely to recall them to themselves.90 The understanding of ethical and political freedom as intertwined is developed further with Dio’s comparisons of civic populations to children and slaves to identify or warn against the audience’s shortcomings. These metaphors are particularly apt for making such a point because both children and slaves are held to lack personal self-mastery, revealing that they are also incapable of self-governance (or, in the case of children, not yet capable of it), by contrast with full-grown free men.91 Such images of childlike contemporary Greeks again recall the passage from Political Precepts about the dangers posed by hewing too closely to classical rhetorical models. More specifically, they echo Plutarch’s warning that those attempting to imitate the greatness of the Greek past are like “little children” (μικρὰ παιδία) trying to wear their fathers’ boots (814a).92 Slavery too is an especially salient metaphor for Greeks within the Roman empire due to the strong conceptual ties in classical Greek thought between the subjects of a king and slaves of a master, on top of which Greek writers were surely influenced by the slavery language prevalent in contemporary Roman elite discourse about citizens’ relationship to the emperor.93 We can see this imagery at work when Dio compares the Greek cities to slaves within a household squabbling over “glory and the rank of first” (δόξης καὶ πρωτείων) (34.51), using the same terminology that officially designates

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the preeminence of a city.94 No matter who wins this contest, all parties involved are still slaves of an implied master: the Roman imperial authority.95 Elsewhere it is childishness that is the dominant metaphor for contention over empty honors, as when the orator addresses the rivalry between Nicomedia and Nicaea. He scolds the audience for their immature conduct, which has caused the Roman authorities to treat them like children (38.37). The Alexandrians, meanwhile, are at once childlike and slavish; they too resemble foolish children, whom the god has accordingly provided with “child-minders” (paidago-goi). With this thinly veiled reference to the Roman soldiers stationed at Nikopolis, Dio asserts that the Alexandrians benefit from such oversight because their metaphorical pedagogues are wiser (φρονιμωτέρους) than the de-mos and improve its conduct.96 Yet the presence of these soldiers is also a sign that the Alexandrians are unfree, as implied by the question Dio poses next: “And yet, what sort of humans are they, do you think, to whom freedom does not bring benefit? By Zeus, the matter is such by its very nature” (50–51). Therefore, even though being free is naturally advantageous, the people of Alexandria are so much in need of external discipline that they are better off without their freedom, in a characterization that recalls both On the Sublime 44 and Aristotelian natural slavery. Under these circumstances, Dio’s role as wise advisor necessarily combines philosophical wisdom with political pragmatism. He repeatedly addresses the causative relationship between displays of self-control and advantageous treatment by the imperial authorities. The actions of citizens in everyday life therefore have real effects on the fortunes of a city, and this is especially true when they gather in public and make themselves visible as the collective de-mos.97 Of all his civic speeches, Dio makes the point most explicitly in the Alexandrian Oration, after mentioning the city’s failed rebellions (32.73): Why then did I bring up these events? In order that you might come to realize the natural effects of this disorder (ἀταξίας)98 that characterizes your way of life. For it is not possible for those who are passionately excited about trivial and worthless things, who are careless and intemperate (φαύλως καὶ ἀκρατῶς ἔχοντας) in the things they do every day, to exert self-control (σωφρονεῖν) in other matters and to decide correctly regarding more consequential issues. Dio illustrates the problems that ensue from this lack of self-discipline by noting that the Alexandrians’ “high-spiritedness” (ἀγερωχίαν) has incurred the suspicion of their governors (he-gemones), despite the fact that the men currently in these positions of authority are epieike-s (“reasonable” or even “kindly”) (71).99 Because everything the citizens do is interconnected, he urges them not to think that anyone who calls attention to their “unruliness” (θορύβων) at the theater is making “a speech about trifling matters.” Rather, unchecked error leads to other errors and ultimately “destruction” (ὄλεθρον) (74).100

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Yet, however important the political advantages to be gained from the Romans, we should not discount self-control as an end in itself. Dio makes this point in Oration 44, by contrasting the favor of the Roman authorities with the self-determined qualities on which it is predicated. Here he urges the Prusans to hope for the kinds of benefits that “the rulers” (τῶν κρατούντων) can grant, but also to possess the kind that come from themselves, such as being well ordered, respectful, and obedient to good leaders in public, as well as self-controlled in their personal lives. These feats of self-discipline fall under the category of matters “up to us” (eph’ he-min);101 honors from Rome, on the other hand, can only be prayed for (10). Elaborating on the distinction between internally and externally determined advantages, Dio instructs the Prusans to administer their own affairs well, both as individuals and as a polis, specifying that they should do so “in a non-servile manner” (μηδ’ ἀνελευθέρως). Acting in a way characteristic of free men is crucial because it will enable the Prusans to achieve “true freedom” (ἀληθῆ ἐλευθερίαν), as opposed to the mere “title” (ὄνομα) of “so-called freedom” (λεγομένην ἐλευθερίαν) granted (if one is lucky) by the imperial authorities. In setting up such a dichotomy, Dio draws on the reinterpretive logic of freedom discussed in chapter 2, but applies it to an entire city. It is this reasoning that enables Dio to claim his advice is more valuable than the privileges Prusa might gain from Rome (44.11–12).

The civic sumboulos in Philostratus’ Apollonius of Tyana So far, this chapter has primarily examined the idea of frankness in earlyimperial Greek rhetoric, especially the civic speeches of Dio Chrysostom. But what might frank advice to civic audiences look like from outside? A possible answer can be found in Philostratus’ Apollonius. This work from the third century CE is set during Dio’s lifetime, includes the Prusan orator as a character, and even seems to draw on his corpus for some of Apollonius’ interactions with cities.102 While it presents an idealized version of the itinerant advisor trope, the eponymous sage’s actions (along with others’ reactions to him) are nevertheless helpful for understanding the role frankness was envisioned to play in the relationship between speakers and civic audiences. Tim Whitmarsh has analyzed in detail how Apollonius sets up the eponymous wise man as Dio’s competitor for the role(s) of wise advisor and critic of emperors (Whitmarsh 2001a, 227–38). Not only is that contest dramatized within the work, with Apollonius as the clear winner, but his superiority also serves as a rejoinder to Dio’s legacy as transmitted through his speeches. As we will see, a very similar dynamic can be found in the narratives about Apollonius’ advice to cities. Books 4 and 5 of Apollonius of Tyana contain the bulk of Apollonius’ frank criticism toward civic audiences from his time traveling around Greece, providing a rich source of parallels to Dio’s speeches.103 Even more consistently than Dio, Apollonius takes up the role of wandering philosopher,

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offering his (often unsolicited) advice in many urban centers of the eastern Mediterranean, including the venerable ancient poleis of mainland Greece.104 And while he presents himself as an opponent of rhetoric, in keeping with his philosophical identity, he often gives public lectures of some kind in the cities he visits.105 In Philostratus’ narration the terms for such a speech are dialexis, diatribe-, and logos, all of which can be translated in their contexts as “discourse” or “lecture.” Among these, dialexis is the most interesting in that it seems to fit both rhetoric and philosophy.106 It applies to certain types of rhetorical performance in Lives of the Sophists, mainly short introductory speeches, refutations, or classroom lectures, whereas diatribe-, when referring to speech, is exclusively philosophical in Philostratus.107 By contrast with dialexis, Apollonius explicitly rejects melete- (“declamation”) as a mode of speaking because it is “too rhetorical” (5.27).108 Apollonius’ speech in these cities is further presented as philosophizing (philosophein, sumphilosophein) and setting right (diorthoun), the latter being cognate to a term Dio uses for his own aims of setting cities straight.109 And closely connected with the correction conveyed by diorthoun is the act of rebuking (epiple-ttein).110 These terms are fundamental to understanding Apollonius’ task in traveling around the Greek cities, as illustrated by this summary of his activities in mainland Greece: he left for Egypt, “having given many rebukes and much advice to the cities” (πολλὰ μὲν ἐπιπλήξας, πολλὰ δὲ συμβουλεύσας ταῖς πόλεσι) as well as praising them when their actions merited it (5.20). While parrhe-sia itself is not referenced in Apollonius’ interactions with the cities, words like philosophein, diorthoun, and epiple-ttein, along with the critical content of Apollonius’ speeches, suggest that the reader is meant to recognize philosophical frankness in Apollonius’ civic interactions. Additional support for this interpretation can be found when Apollonius quarrels with Bassus of Corinth, a would-be wise man who serves as his foil (4.26). Apollonius’ own philosophical qualities are thrown into sharp relief by Bassus’ false claims to wisdom and his unbridled, “slandering” (λοιδορούμενον) tongue. By contrast, the narrator declares that Apollonius must have spoken the truth when he called Bassus a parricide, since that sage would never stoop to abuse (loidoria). Dismissing the man’s harsh speech as mere abuse is an integral part of his characterization as a false philosopher. At the same time, Apollonius is presumed to be truthful even when using a textbook slur because he is a genuine philosopher and therefore his criticism is to be understood as frank speech.111 The particular mixture of philosophy and rhetoric that Apollonius embodies in his role as advisor (sumboulos) to the Greek cities can be seen clearly from the first speech the sage gives on landing in Ionia.112 This takes place on the steps of the famous temple of Artemis in Ephesus, calling attention to the centrality of a proper relationship with the gods in Apollonius’ philosophy. However, this location is also compatible with rhetorical performance, since, as Jason König has pointed out, “the sophists of the VS speak regularly in sanctuaries before the assembled Greeks” (König 2014, 270). Here the sage produces a dialexis that is

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explicitly distinguished from “Socratic techniques” (οἱ Σωκρατικοί), suggesting that he delivered a continuous speech. However much this style approaches that of an orator,113 the speech nevertheless also functions as a philosophical protreptic: “leading them away and dissuading them earnestly from other matters, he advised them to devote themselves to philosophy alone” (4.2). His other speeches in Ephesus, which occur elsewhere in the temple precinct, likewise combine rhetoric and philosophy in their synthesis of “lecturing and teaching” (διαλεγομένου … καὶ διδάσκοντος) (4.3). What Apollonius says in these speeches is also significant. Many of his complaints about civic failings echo those we have already seen in Dio’s orations: the Ephesians are too overcome by their love of entertainment (4.2);114 likewise the Alexandrians by their love of horseracing (5.26). The Athenians have polluted the theater of Dionysus, where the Assembly also meets, by holding gladiatorial games there (4.22).115 In addition, his criticisms frequently evoke the moralizing of Dio’s speeches in less direct ways. In Athens, for example, he rebukes the citizens over their celebration of the Dionysia, which he found disrespectful of tradition and full of effeminate revelry (4.21). The degeneration of a revered ancient Greek city from the standard of archaic manliness is a recurrent theme in Apollonius’ complaints, and it plays an important part in illuminating his value system.116 In general, he seems far more concerned with the ethics of Greeks than of any other people he visits, including the Romans.117 And finally, elements of Philostratus’ narrative sometimes recall the benefaction tropes we have seen in Dio. The sage’s lectures in Olympia address topics that are described as “very useful” (χρησιμωτάτων) and elaborated as the philosophical virtues of wisdom, courage, and self-control (so-phrosune-) (4.31). Likewise, other benefaction terms occasionally characterize his advice, such as those connected with sote-ria (“salvation” or “preservation”).118 But Apollonius also differs from Dio in important respects. One obvious distinction concerns the supernatural elements that are woven through the account of the holy man’s travels, even when he visits sites at the very center of Greek civilization, giving the story a heightened, mythical feel.119 A less dramatic (though no less significant) point of departure from Dio’s legacy can be identified in the ways Apollonius contrives to speak without speaking. As a young man, he adopts the Pythagorean practice of maintaining silence for five years, during which time he still manages to correct and advise cities.120 As the narrator notes at the beginning of the work, the disciples of Pythagoras understood that “even being silent is speech” (καὶ τὸ σιωπᾶν λόγος) (1.1). Apollonius lives up to this aphorism, making his own silence into a form of communication. While he has to restrain his rebukes toward individuals, he conveys his disapproval of the stasis-ridden cities he visits in Pamphylia and Cilicia using hand gestures and facial expressions, which successfully quell the disturbances (1.14–15).121 In one city, he even stops a grain riot without uttering a sound (1.15).122 This scene recalls Dio’s Oration 46, which relates the speaker’s first-hand experience as a target of mob

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violence over alleged grain-hoarding.123 Therefore, with the observation that “it is no easy task to correct (μεταδιδάξαι) a city oppressed by hunger and to stop their anger with patient and persuasive speech, but in the case of Apollonius even silence was sufficient for dealing with people in this condition” (1.15), the narrator seems to suggest that the holy man’s ability to calm such unrest even without the benefit of language indicates his superiority to Dio, who says luck (tuche-) was the only reason his house was not put to the torch (46.12–13). In criticizing these grain-hoarders of Aspendus during his silent period, Apollonius writes his rebuke on a tablet (1.15). Later in life he maintains a version of this practice by giving advice to cities not only in person but also via letters.124 As a young man studying in Tarsus, Apollonius is appalled by the citizens’ love of luxury, their lack of seriousness, and their “lewdness” or “insolence.”125 He sends them a letter (presumably somewhat later), excoriating them for their failings (1.7).126 He writes similarly critical missives to Athens (4.22), Sparta (4.27), individual Ionian cities (4.1), and the Ionian League as a whole (4.5).127 Like his use of writing for communication during his five years of silence, these letters often substitute for advisory speeches. In this way, Apollonius’ letters bear a formal resemblance to Aelius Aristides’ epistolary speech of civic advice, To the Rhodians on Concord. However, Aristides’ use of a letter is also a sign of his failure to live up to the ideal of rhetorical stamina, as he concedes by apologizing for the ill health that prevented him from delivering the message in person.128 For Apollonius, by contrast, the choice to send letters is a means of extending his influence over the Greek world beyond his physical person, mirroring the emperor’s use of a letter to communicate with an entire city in this narrative (4.33). The fact that Apollonius’ advice to cities is represented in a continuous narrative gives us a better vantage point on the workings of the trope, because it can show a speaker’s effect on his addressees. As is frequently the case with embedded audiences, their reactions can model the desired response to Apollonius, but they also enable us to gauge the effectiveness of the holy man’s criticism on its targets. Sometimes these critiques engender hostility, as in the Tarsians’ response to the letter mentioned previously: “they were irritated with Apollonius because of his rebukes (ἐπιπλήξεις), seeing that he made them vehement (ξυντόνους), and because due to their ease and luxury they were not able to endure the strength of his speech (τοῦ λόγου … ῥώμην)” (6.34). But at other times, he succeeds in persuading the citizens to correct their problems, as for example when he “unifies” (ξυνεῖχε) the quarrelling Smyrnaeans by giving a speech on “how cities can be safely governed,” which teaches the citizens to distinguish between beneficial and harmful forms of stasis (4.8–10).129 Perhaps his greatest triumph comes when he convinces the Spartans to return to their former austerity. After he meets an embassy of effeminate Spartans at Olympia, he sends a letter urging the ephors to restore everything at Sparta to “the ancient form” (τὸ ἀρχαῖον). Following his advice, the Spartans return to their old practices of wrestling, eating in communal messes, and generally

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concerning themselves with serious things. The narrator sums it up by noting that once again “Lacedaemon came to resemble itself.” As for Apollonius, he sees this revival of the ancient ways as the citizens “correcting themselves” (τὰ οἴκοι διορθουμένους) and praises them for realizing their errors (4.27).130 These anecdotes reveal that at least part of Apollonius’ task in these cities is to persuade the citizens. This is no frivolous or harmful persuasion, as in the Platonic critique of rhetoric, but rather persuasion to the good. In this, Apollonius and Dio have much in common. Yet the apparently discrepant aims of the texts’ authors contribute to different presentations of frank civic speech. While both Dio and Apollonius are sometimes invited to give advice to cities, Dio seems more interested in calling attention to his bravery in facing hostile crowds (in keeping with his classical Athenian models), whereas Philostratus’ work puts more emphasis on the audiences’ desire to hear advice from Apollonius, thus playing up his protagonist’s reputation as a wise man. By contrast, fearlessness plays a much more important part in Apollonius’ characterization when it comes to his interactions with worldly authority figures.131 At the end of Apollonius, after defying Domitian and disappearing from the court in Rome by supernatural means, the sage journeys back to the Greek-speaking world. He does so having gained additional glamour, not only because he was persecuted by imperial authorities and showed himself superior to worldly concerns like a true philosopher, but also because, by toying with Domitian before showing the emperor that he had no power over him, his triumph over those authorities had a direct impact on the external world. When the holy man arrives at Olympia, Greeks all over the mainland are thrilled to discover that he has survived his ordeal in Rome, and in their excitement they assemble on the spot as if the Olympics were being held (8.15). On leaving that city, after 40 days of “discoursing” (διαλεχθείς) and “paying serious attention to many things” (πλεῖστα σπουδάσας), he announces his plans to travel around to various public gatherings and correct the collective ethics of the Greeks: “City by city, men of Greece, I will discourse to/with you (διαλέξομαι ὑμῖν), at festivals, processions, mysteries, sacrifices, and libations, which need a good (ἀστείου) man” (8.19).132 Then, after two years on the mainland, he journeys to Ionia, where he continues teaching philosophy and is welcomed as a source of “great benefit” (κέρδος μέγα) in every city he visits (8.24). Throughout the final period of his life following his return from Rome, Apollonius turns his attention decisively toward the Greek cities, even going so far as to turn down Nerva’s request that he come to the imperial capital as his advisor (xumboulos) (8.27).133 While the narrator suggests that a foreknowledge of his own impending death as well as the emperor’s short reign may have been the reason Apollonius demurred, he does not foreclose other explanations, including the possibility that it reflects the sage’s desire to guide the Greeks even in preference to the role of the emperor’s wise advisor.134

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Conclusion: insiders, outsiders, and the rhetoric of parrhe-sia In this chapter, we have seen a number of rhetorical strategies that orators use to promote and justify their frank criticism of civic audiences. On top of this, a public speaker’s standing in relation to his audience, as an insider or outsider (or a combination thereof), can lend extra authority to his parrhe-sia. In his civic orations, Dio often seems to take the outsider stance that was conventional for a philosopher and gave such a man the distance required for honest criticism.135 However, other elements of his self-presentation complicate this picture, including varying degrees of political integration into the cities he addresses, and especially his putative connections to imperial power. For instance, the speeches delivered at Prusa form a distinctive subset, in which Dio exercises a different kind of authority, one based on citizenship and family connections. In support of his ability to criticize, he appeals to his family’s history of benefactions and his own good work for the city. His insider status and self-appointed role as wise advisor to his native city also seem to be connected with his habit of comparing himself to Socrates, Athens’ best-known internal critic, who chose to stay in the city even at the cost of his life, as immortalized in Plato’s Crito.136 Yet Dio also resembles Socrates in another way: he often seems not to be fully integrated into Prusa. Hints at tensions with his fellow Prusans appear in nearly all his speeches to that city as well as a few others.137 H. Lamar Crosby has suggested that these can be attributed to Dio’s long absence during his exile (an element of his self-presentation that is signaled by his repeated comparisons of himself to the wandering Odysseus),138 but he also notes that Dio’s wealth and exalted social position may have been a source of suspicion (Crosby 1946, 244). And indeed, Dio mentions his imperial connections frequently in the Prusan speeches. Although parading his intimacy with powerful Romans lent additional authority to his advisory role, it may also have given the impression that the orator was not fully committed to his native city, causing him to be perceived as somewhat of an outsider even there.139 Conversely, in speeches to other Bithynian cities, he speaks as an outsider who has been granted honorary citizenship and become a quasi-insider. We see this for example at the beginning of To the Nicomedians on Concord, where he claims that the people gave him citizenship precisely because he has greater ability and inclination than others to give advice (sumbouleuein) for the public good. He also rules out the possibility that they may have given him the honor in the expectation of receiving flattery, since he is not in the habit of gratifying the masses (38.1).140 This connection between citizenship and frankness helps explain why Dio remarks at the beginning of his Rhodian Oration that he risks annoying his listeners by offering criticism despite being an outsider (31.1). All of these passages use a conception of parrhe-sia as a citizen’s privilege and responsibility that can be traced back to the term’s early connections with the radical democracy of classical Athens.

De-mos: rhetoric in the post-classical city 131 However, as we have seen throughout this study, parrhe-sia in the post-classical world ramifies in several ways, some of which can even seem mutually contradictory. Though Dio’s comment at the opening of the Rhodian Oration appeals to the understanding that parrhe-sia is an insider’s tool, this is also a rhetorical feint, as is evident from the rest of his address, which uses his outsider status to great advantage, as do speeches in Alexandria and Tarsus. In these orations, Dio’s authority rests on his position as a privileged outsider. As Anthony Kugler has noted in reference to Oration 34, the civic speech in which Dio identifies himself most explicitly as a Cynic philosopher, an outsider can speak freely because he escapes the suspicion that his advice is self-interested.141 However, in a further twist, we find that Dio identifies himself as both a philosopher and a representative of imperial power, a self-positioning that Kugler characterizes as “a blow to local autonomy and an integral part of the Imperial myth, according to which cities will inevitably collapse into strife and chaos without the guiding hand of a wise and kindly overseer” (Kugler 2002, 162).142 Somehow the philosophical rhe-to-r borrows from worldly authority and simultaneously invalidates it in his role as wandering Cynic. This seeming contradiction is resolved (or at least a resolution is attempted) with his repeated suggestion that he has been sent to these cities by the gods, who authorize both the worldly exercise of power and the philosophical search for truth, and who allow him an even greater ability to speak frankly.143 When we look to the significance of public speeches in Apollonius of Tyana, we find many similarities between Apollonius and Dio. Both men occupy a space somewhere between rhetoric and philosophy when they address civic audiences throughout the Greek world, and both gain authority from presenting themselves as itinerant wise men (in a role that had become stereotypical by the time of Philostratus’ writing if it was not already so in the first century CE). Yet Philostratus distinguishes his third-century construct from its first-century model. Unlike Dio, Apollonius does not claim authority through connections to worldly power (though, as we saw in chapter 3, he was viewed favorably by some Roman emperors). And while Dio’s rhetorical self-presentation shifts between and even within speeches, allowing him to speak as an insider or outsider as it suits his purposes, Apollonius’ very being is ambiguous, since Philostratus makes it impossible to determine whether he is superhuman or merely a wise man (or, at the other extreme, a total fraud). The hints at divinity authorize his parrhe-sia in a way that supersedes even Dio’s most egregious selfaggrandizements. Apollonius’ wisdom and authority to criticize seem to be rooted not just in his performance of the wandering philosopher role, but also and perhaps more importantly in his distinctive supernatural charisma. For who is a greater outsider than someone beyond the bounds of mortal existence? Despite these differences, however, the speakers share a set of rhetorical strategies. Taken together, every insider or outsider identity assumed by Dio or Apollonius leads to the same ultimate judgment: such a man has special dispensation to speak critically and even harshly because of who he is and because his words offer benefits to the city.

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Notes 1 ἔστι γάρ, ὦ ἄνδρες, καὶ δήμου παιδεία καὶ πόλεως ἦθος φιλόσοφον καὶ ἐπιεικές. 2 Cf. esp. Or. 48.13, comparing a city’s need for external restraint to that of a horse. 3 See esp. 801c–4c. 4 For another comparison of a statesman to a doctor, see [Luc.] Dem. Enc. 35–36. 5 In this mixed metaphor, the “bite” or “sting” (δάκνῃ) is more likely a reference to the Socratic gadfly than the Cynic dog. 6 Though Plutarch understands small things to have larger consequences (like his contemporary Dio, as we will see), he is less concerned than Dio about the foibles of the populace and more concerned about strife among elites (as discussed in ch. 5). 7 Cf. his discussion of using ridicule to rebuke a political opponent, especially in self-defense (803b–d); or his recommendation of frank criticism toward opponents that stops short of abuse (810c). 8 Eunoia (812b, 820f–21d), pronoia (802f, 817d, 823c), ke-demonia (803a, 812b, 823a, 823c), epimeleia (823f), philanthro-pia (823a), chreiai (823a), o-pheleia/-ein (812f, 817d). 9 Excepting Or. 37, which is widely held to be a speech of Favorinus. For an analysis of the types of speeches in Dio’s corpus, see Desideri 1991, 3926–29. 10 Problems of origin and transmission for Dio’s corpus, as enumerated in Arnim 1898, are well summed up by Fuhrmann 2014, 161–62. See also Bost-Pouderon 2006, 1:44–45; Bekker-Nielsen 2008, 38–39, noting that “despite their ‘documentary’ appearance, the orations of Dion are literary works, composed or recomposed with a specific public in mind and intended to convey a very specific image of their author” (at 39). Cf. Desideri 1991, 3916, suggesting that the civic speeches do not lend themselves to repeat performance (unlike speeches before Trajan, as referenced in Or. 57); at least in regard to Orr. 32–35, I am unpersuaded, especially if Dio’s aim is self-fashioning. 11 For the reception of Platonic and Demosthenic frankness generally, see ch. 1. For Plato’s profound influence on Dio, see Trapp 2000; and on Plato and . . Demosthenes as models for Dio’s criticism of civic audiences, see Jazdzewska 2015. For Dio’s use of Demosthenes as a model more broadly, see C. P. Jones 1978, 25; Whitmarsh 2001a, 182, 239–40. 12 For aphele-s as a term for the “plain” rhetorical style, see Civiletti 2002, 373 n5. 13 On Dio’s disputed exile, see ch. 3. 14 Cf. Plutarch’s report that Alexander the Great kept under his pillow a copy of the Iliad in a small box, alongside a dagger (Alex. 8.2). Whitmarsh 1998, 206 also notes the philosophical and political resistance to tyranny and abuse of power signaled by Dio’s choice of texts. There was clearly an understanding during the empire that one’s reading list was a valuable tool for image management (whether in the case of VS we attribute this to Dio, Philostratus, or both). 15 Philostratus groups Dio among the philosophers who appeared to be sophists and were given that label, even though they were not sophists (484) and “pursued philosophy while having a reputation (ἐν δόξῃ) of being sophists” (479). At the same time, he suggests that Dio in particular defied categorization (486). For a broader discussion of the imperial-era figures who occupy a middle ground between rhetoric and philosophy, see Anderson 1993, 133–43. And on the rivalry between rhetoric and philosophy, see ch. 1. 16 On Demosthenes’ instruction of his audiences in how they should receive his speeches, see Yunis 1996, 247–68. 17 Among Greek writers, the importance of eunoia and its central role in prooimia is discussed, e.g. in Aristot. Rh. 2.1378a6–19; [Aristot.] Rh. Al. 29 (1436a–38a); Luc. Hist. Conscr. 53; Philostr. VS 579, relating a quip of Herodes Atticus.

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18 On the tensions in Dio’s relations with Prusa see C. P. Jones 1978, 19–25, 54, 95–114 (including 102–3 on the obscure events in the background of Or. 43); Swain 1996, 225–30; Salmeri 2000, 63–73; Bekker-Nielsen 2008, 125–36; Fuhrmann 2014. 19 Cf. the advice of [Aristot.] Rh. Al. about reminding the audience of one’s goodwill (29.6–8 [1436b19–29]). Among other Prusan speeches, see Orr. 40.3–5, 19, 45.3, 7, 46.3–4, 6, 47.17–18, 48.10, 12, 50.3–5. See also Or. 44 (passim), and cf. his claim at 43.2 that he avoids talking about his benefactions! 20 Or. 43.1–2, 4 (where he positions himself as a latter-day Epaminondas), 7 (the only instance of the phrase ἔχειν παρρησίαν in Dio’s corpus; cf. Eur. Phoen. 391 and Ion 675, where it indicates a privilege of free and frank speech). Cf. the critic’s charge that Dio has bribed the de-mos, seemingly an alternate interpretation of these benefactions (12). 21 Cf. imperial efforts to extend the idea of benefaction, discussed at Maric 2005, 141. 22 On the vocabulary of euergetism in imperial-era honorific inscriptions and its relation to a larger discourse of praise, see Zuiderhoek 2009, 122–28. 23 See e.g. Apol. 36b–d. Cf. Arr. Epict. Diss. 3.24.64, 4.4.27, 4.8.32 for the sage’s philanthro-pia, and on Cynic philanthro-pia specifically, see Moles 1996, esp. 114– 16; Desmond 2008, 124–25, 192, 198–99. On philanthro-pia as a virtue of condescension in the fourth century BCE, see Romilly 1979, 127–44; cf. Dio’s attribution of it to cities, the ideal king, and the emperor (Orr. 1.17, 31.25, 34.48, 38.20, 40.15, 24, 41.9, 45.2–3). For the history of the word philanthro-pia, see Ferguson 1958, 102–17; Le Déaut 1964. 24 An important term across Plato’s corpus and especially Laws; it is often the result of painful discipline, which is applied not only to the bodies and souls of individuals (e.g. Laws 10.909a) but also to cities (e.g. Prot. 354a–b; Laws 4.704d, 714a). For so-te-ria in Cynic thought, see e.g. Antisthenes Odysseus 8 (fr. 15.8 Caizzi); Stobaeus 3.8.20, 3.13.44. 25 Cognates of o-phelein and chre-simos are pervasive, e.g. in Arr. Epict. Diss. as well as Diog. Laert. 6–7 (on the Cynics and Stoics). One of Lucian’s Cynic heroes wishes to be useful after death as sustenance for animals (Demon. 66), while a Cynic anti-hero wishes to benefit mankind through the act of suicide by teaching them to despise death (Peregr. 33). On the connection between Cynic philanthro-pia and o-pheleia, see Kindstrand 1978, 381; Moles 1983b, 111–14 esp. n73. On Stoic utility, see Bost-Pouderon 2006, 2:335–36. 26 For a recent approach to this speech as a window onto the imperial-era polis, see Bailey 2015. And on Dio’s use of Dem. Lept. as a model for this speech, see C. P. Jones 1978, 31, 35; Kremmydas 2016. 27 For Dio as the messenger of divine and imperial benefactors, see Or. 32.13, 15, 95–96. Cf. the similar representation of himself in Or. 34, on which see Kugler 2002; and cf. Or. 38.51 for a reference to divine inspiration. 28 The dyad παιδεία καὶ λόγος recurs at Or. 32.16, 60 (identified with the gods and the emperor, respectively; cf. Or. 4.139). As Kasprzyk and Vendries (2012, 169) have pointed out, the capaciousness of the term logos allows this expression to conflate philosophical teaching with rhetorical skill. 29 See also Or. 41.9, addressing the Nicomedians and praying that the gods grant him sufficient eloquence to convince the audience that they should heed him, “if I say these things now because of goodwill to you alone, and not pursuing any personal glory or advantage.” 30 Phil. 1.51; Olynth. 3.3; Phil. 2.31–34; De Chers. 21–24, 32–34, 68–70; Phil. 3.3–4. 31 Because the dates of the Tarsian speeches are uncertain, their titles are merely conventional; see however Bost-Pouderon 2006, 2:37–39, arguing that Or. 33 is significantly earlier than Or. 34. 32 The extensive scholarly debates about the identity of this offense, often referenced as “snorting,” are summed up at Bost-Pouderon 2006, 2:149–59 (to which

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De-mos: rhetoric in the post-classical city can be added Kokkinia 2007, making the case for flatulence). Kim 2013 takes a more literary tack, suggesting that the vagueness of the charge is itself the point, as part of a rhetorical experiment. I am not persuaded, however, by her division of blame speeches into those that instruct and those that merely abuse (Bost-Pouderon 2009, 249–50), since this distinction is often a matter of fluid and opportunistic self-presentation. A similar three-part taxonomy (blame/warning/correction) can be found at Grandjean 2009, 160–70. It seems unnecessary to follow Arnim 1893 in treating these lines as belonging to a different version of the speech (due to a seeming contradiction with 33.16). Cf. Orr. 31.1–2, 38.5–7. An example of his choice words for the Tarsians can be found at the close of the oration, where he refers to genitals and bellies as their only necessary body parts (64), a harsher version of the Muses’ scornful address to Hesiod at Th. 26. References to thorubos appear at Or. 32.4, 11, 20, 24, 29, 74, 90. For Dio’s elitism in this speech, see Barry 1993. See Balot 2004, esp. 242–53 (lightly revised at Balot 2014, 60–70) for fourthcentury orators’ practice of “foregrounding the dangers of free speech in order to claim courage for themselves” (235); see also Roisman 2003, 130–31. On thorubos in the classical Athenian Assembly, see also Tacon 2001; R. W. Wallace 2004, 223–27; Roisman 2004, 264–66. On the lawcourts, see Bers 1985. Cf. also Or. 31.1–2, for the exceeding badness of the citizens’ behavior as justification for Dio’s public criticism, despite his lacking citizenship and an invitation to speak. Balot 2014, 61 neatly sums up the legal means by which the Athenians could punish their politicians; see further Piepenbrink 2001, 146–47. On the risks of political leadership more generally, see Sinclair 1988, 136–61. Plat. Apol. 30c; see also 41c (“a good man cannot be harmed in life or death”). See Brancacci 2000 for the “matrix” of philosophical influences on Dio, arguing that we should understand Dio’s reception of Socrates largely through Antisthenes. See also Gorg. 478b–c, 521a as well as other passages discussed below. On the medical metaphor in Plato, see further Kenney 1969; Vegetti 1995; Lidz 1995; Plastira-Valkanou 1998; Brock 2000; Moss 2007; Levin 2014. Demosthenes too occasionally used health as a metaphor for the well-being of the city, on which see Wooten 1979. On Dio’s variations as “parfois banals, parfois plus originaux,” see Kasprzyk and Vendries 2012, 158–60. See also Orr. 31.144 (comparing longstanding vice to a long-lasting disease that is nonetheless curable), 32.15–16 (for “education” [παιδείαν] and “reason” [λόγον] as the only “remedy” [ἴαμα] and “drug” [φάρμακον] for human foolishness), 32.91–92 (comparing collective moral failings to a plague, and perhaps drawing on Thucydides 2.47–58, 3.82–83). On body and soul in Plato, cf. Gorg. 478d, 504a–e. On sickness as a metaphor for the faults of a city, see e.g. Rep. 425e–27a, discussed below. See e.g. Orr. 33.1–3, 38.1–3, 48.2, 50.3–4, 51.8. Cf. Socrates asking (rhetorically) in Gorgias which is the best way to care for the city: “battling against the Athenians in order to make them as good as possible, as a doctor does (ὡς ἰατρόν), or acting like a slave and attending to their pleasure (χάριν)?” (521a). Here as elsewhere there is a possible pun on therapeia as flattery; cf. Or. 38.3. Cf. Orr. 33.7, 48.12 for variations on this simile. Praecog. 1, which shows its own Platonic influence. On disciplinary links between medicine and philosophy, see Edelstein 1952; Reardon 1971, 42–63; and

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for Galen’s place in the Second Sophistic (as imperial culture of agonistic display), see von Staden 1997. On medical sophistry, see further Bowersock 2010. See e.g. Sor. Morb. Ac.; Morb. Ch. (via Caelius Aurelianus); Gal. Diff. Morb.; Praecog.; Subfig. Emp. 5–6. By contrast, the Hippocratic corpus puts much more emphasis on general and unclassified pathology, e.g. in Prog., esp. 25; Prorrh.; however, Morb. II, III, and Int. indicate some interest in classification. See further Grmek 1989, 292–94; Johnston 2006, 65–67. Cf. Gorg. 521e–22b on the unpleasantness of “cutting and cauterizing” as well as “intensely bitter medicinal drinks”; just like children who dislike these therapies, the Athenians cannot distinguish “good deeds and benefits” (εὐεργεσίας καὶ ὠφελίας) from pleasures. Diaita, originally “regimen,” had since Plato’s time developed a narrower sense as a regimen pertaining to food, which Dio seems to use here. On contemporary dietetics, see Van Hoof 2010, 211–54. Cf. Plat. Rep. 463b, 502d for the rulers of the ideal city as “saviors” (so-te-res); passim for “guardians” (phulakes). Cf. the classing of drugs among the more invasive techniques in Plat. Rep. (above). The references to persuasion (peitho-) as well as speech or reason (logos) also suggest a marriage of philosophy and rhetoric that Dio himself exemplifies; on logos, cf. Rep. 549b. Education is an apt metaphor to sit alongside medicine because it too was strongly associated with pain. On violence in ancient education, see Marrou 1956, 158–59, 272–73; Cribiore 1996, 24–26; 2001, 65–73; Connolly 2001a, 367– 70; Bloomer 2015. In Dio, both archontes and the plural he-gemones often refer to the Romans. Likewise, across many imperial-era Greek authors the singular he-gemo-n indicates the Roman emperor or one of his governors, and it even served as a Greek translation for princeps. For evidence of the practical equivalency of he-gemo-n and princeps see e.g. Strab. 4.3.2; Plut. Cic. 2; Aug. Res Gestae (Mon. Anc. 7.9, 16.7). For he-gemo-n as provincial governor or prefect of Egypt see Strab. 17.3.25; Matthew 27.2; Acts 23.24, and various papyri and inscribed tablets (LSJ s.v. ἡγεμών). See also Mason 1974, 144–51 on he-gemo-n and its cognates. For an imperial governor described as a physician, see Dio Chrys. Or. 48.2. These grave-diggers map most explicitly onto those involved in the workings of the courts. The passage also recalls Plat. Rep. 405a. On Egyptian Nikopolis, which could hold 10,000 soldiers, see Alston 1998, 33, 36–37, 192–93. As Alston puts it, these troops “represented a political force within Egypt, reinforcing the power of the Roman authorities” (37). On Rhodes’ freedom, see C. P. Jones 1978, 27–28. More generally, while the parameters of free status for Greek cities in the Roman empire were by no means consistent (on which see Bernhardt 1971, esp. 229–40; Millar 2004, 203–4, 328), being “ungarrisoned” (ἀφρούρητος) was closely connected with freedom in the formal language of decrees going back to the early Hellenistic period, on which see Ma 1999, 160–74 (which also notes variation in the treatment of “free” cities); S. C. Wallace 2011, 83–89 (on complexities in the significance of garrisons). The Romans too employed such grants, the most famous being Flamininus’ declaration in 196 BCE that the cities of mainland Greece were to be free and ungarrisoned. For the sources, see Eckstein 1990, n1; and for a more jaundiced reading, see Dmitriev 2011, 209–12. See also Or. 34.52–53. We can only speculate as to how his health problems may have informed his use of the metaphor. For Aristides on his own frankness, see e.g. Orr. 28, 33, with Fields 2008. Or at least the “proper pleasures” of rhetoric, to borrow a phrase from the title of Downie 2008; see esp. Or. 34. On mixing praise with advice see also Ael. Ar.

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De-mos: rhetoric in the post-classical city Or. 27, esp. 42, a speech that also addresses homonoia. Cf. Dio’s explicit rejection of civic encomium at Or. 32.35–38, on which see Trapp 1995, 167–74. Cf. Dio’s advice as “the most pleasant of medicines” (ἥδιστον … φαρμάκων) at Or. 38.7, but in this speech it is the prescription of concord that is pleasant, not the criticism itself (which is again compared to surgery). An attitude also reflected in Max. Tyr. 34; Arr. Epict. Diss. 3.22. Dio addresses his audience as male, regardless of whether women were present; for more evidence, see Kim 2013, 41 on Or. 33.45. For other instances, see ch. 2. For parrhe-sia as stinging yet beneficial honey, see also Plut. Adulator 59d; Phoc. 2.2 (the latter of which specifically addresses the statesman’s frankness toward the de-mos; see further van Meirvenne 2002, 144–53). Cf. Visa-Ondarçuhu 2006; Hawkins 2014, 186–215, reading this speech’s discussion of abuse as engagement with the iambic tradition, prompted by Dio’s references to Archilochus as the consummate poet of blame (11–12, 17–18, 61). He also flatters the Prusans by suggesting that they would not have killed Socrates, as evidenced by their treatment of Dio (Or. 51.7–8); for the Athenians’ execution of Socrates as the ultimate test of civic character in the face of critical frankness and a negative exemplum for the Prusans, see also Orr. 43.8–12; 47.7; . . and see further Jazdzewska 2015, 264–65. A type of rhetoric dubbed “le mode conjuratoire” by Quet (1978, 75). On monarchs, see ch. 3 with n28. On this depiction of the Athenian masses, see Kallet 2003; J. J. Henderson 2003; Raaflaub 2003, 81–82; Ober 2003, 229–32; and on the connection between this image and risk-taking frankness, see R. W. Wallace 2004, 228–30; Landauer 2012. In fact, Alexandria was so far removed from classical Athenian democracy that it had neither a boule- nor an ekkle-sia in Dio’s time, and was mainly administered by magistrates (Bowman and Rathbone 1992, esp. 114–19). Cf. Tarsus, which required a 500drachma fee for the exercise of full citizenship (Dio Chrys. Or. 34.23); a few other Greek cities of this period had property requirements for membership in the assembly as distinct from citizenship (A. H. M. Jones 1940, 173–74). On political institutions in Greek cities of the imperial era, see further chs. 1 and 5. See e.g. the threat to Dio in the Prusan grain riots (discussed in Or. 46, esp. 2, 10–14) and the stasis (intra-civic conflict) implied by the temporary suspension of public assemblies in that city (noted at Or. 48.1), as well as the stasis at Nicaea that is the impetus for Or. 39. On unrest in Asia Minor and appeals to concord, see Sartre 1991, 187–90; Salmeri 2000, 74–75. See further Kasprzyk and Vendries 2012, 106–12. On Alexandria’s reputation for disorder in imperial Greek literature, see Trapp 2004, esp. 117–24. Significant rioting in 66 CE between Greeks and Jews, for which our main source is Josephus BJ 2.487–98, would have been a fairly recent instance (regardless of the speech’s exact date, on which see n76 below). Dio also mentions some feeble attempts at rebellion from Rome (Or. 32.71–72). On Greek unrest in Roman Egypt more generally, see N. Lewis 1983, 196–202. Just as in classical Athens, elite authors of the empire can use the term de-mos simply to refer to the population of a city, but it also has the more specific connotation of “the masses,” implying both social categorization and ethical judgment. Or. 33.16, also using the metaphor of tasting frank speech. A scholiast identifies the emperor as Vespasian, a view also taken by C. P. Jones 1973; Desideri 1978, 68–70; Moles 1978, 84; Salmeri 1982, 97 n30; Kasprzyk and Vendries 2012, 81–82; Amato 2014, 35–56. On the other hand, Arnim 1898, 435–38 identifies the speech as Trajanic (citing thematic similarities to the

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Kingship Orations), a dating also favored by Kindstrand 1978; Sidebottom 1992; Swain 1996, 429. Sheppard 1984, 173 is agnostic. See also Or. 32.32, where he argues that, like “a leader or a king” (ἡγεμὼν καὶ βασιλεύς), a de-mos should be most careful to control itself when in public. On thorubos as a form of democratic participation see Tacon 2001, 180–81, 188; R. W. Wallace 2004, 225–27; Roisman 2004, 266. On the growing importance of acclamation during the Roman empire, see Roueché 1984, and for a consideration of acclamation in the context of rhetoric, see Pernot 2009, noting that although acclamations often have formulaic qualities they also contain “una parte di libertà e creatività” (at 182). Or. 34.6: if the Tarsians object to Dio’s advice, they will do so with thorubos, not by throwing stones, as in the fable he has just recounted. All the same, as Kugler (2002, 161) notes, “stone-throwing and commotion-raising differ in seriousness, not in character.” Reminiscent of Hom. Il. 2.144–46. Cf. also the comparison of a good advisor withstanding thorubos to a harbor wall at Or. 34.33 (discussed above). There is perhaps a double entendre in θαυμαστοί (translated here as “admirable”), since it can also suggest an unnatural marvel, possibly commenting on the unlikeliness of the Alexandrians’ compliance. Cf. Or. 32.48 where the word is applied pejoratively, and 86 where the wonders of the city itself are contrasted with the shameful behavior of the people. Thaumastos and related words also characterize the worthless entertainments enjoyed by the Alexandrians (7, 96). Cf. hints elsewhere in this speech that Dio is a conduit for imperial favor; “all men” implicitly includes the emperor. For other instances where thorubos is framed as a test of the audience rather than the speaker, see Orr. 38.6, 46.10. Documentary texts of the era share Dio’s emphasis on the latter, as discussed by Lafond 2010. See further ch. 1. And as Kokkinia 2006 reminds us, it is important to approach such representations with skepticism for the additional reason that it is in the interest of Greek elites to overemphasize the importance of the Romans in eastern civic life, whether painting them as benevolent or menacing. On Longinus, see ch. 2. Cf. 125 connecting the pax romana with slavery, as noted by Swain 1996, 209–10. See esp. Or. 32.52–54. See e.g. 164: if the Rhodians guard their reputation they will not be thought worse than their ancestors. As Cribiore puts it, the disciplining of children and slaves with violence in the Greco-Roman world reflects a belief that they “could not be controlled with rationality and occupied an intermediate position between human and beast” (Cribiore 2001, 69). While elite Romans were familiar with the Aristotelian theory of natural slavery, slavery in Roman society was legally an unnatural state, at least according to Dig. 1.5.4.1 (Bradley 1994, 134). All the same, the limited rights afforded to freedmen in Roman law suggest that the conditions of slavery were held still to constrain the development of a libertus even after his manumission, with his descendants gaining full franchise only a generation or two later (Garnsey 1975) and his former master retaining a quasi-parental role (Mouritsen 2011, 36–42). At issue in this passage are certain elements of prior rhetoric but not classical rhetoric or classical models tout court; see further Connolly 2001a; Webb 2006 on the perceived distance between the contemporary world and the classical exempla so popular in declamations.

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93 On the development of the conception of freedom in Greek culture in connection with the Persian Wars, see Raaflaub 2004b; on Roman authors and the emperor, see Roller 2001, 213–64. 94 See also Or. 38.38, including the alleged Roman view of such squabbling as “Greek failings,” which is echoed by Ael. Ar. Or. 3.693, dubbing “engaging in faction for leadership” (στασιάζοντες περὶ τῆς ἡγεμονίας) a “Greek vice” even in relation to intellectual rivalries. 95 See also Orr. 31.111–13 (slavish flattery of powerful Romans suggests that the Rhodians would be better off as slaves), 32.35–38, 86–87 (the Alexandrians are compared to a slave who is, paradoxically, the master of a very fine house). 96 Cf. Or. 46.14: just as relatives denounce children who are undisciplined at home to their teachers (a class known in antiquity for the violence of their punishments), the errors of the de-mos are reported to the provincial governors (he-gemones). Additional references to teachers and teaching appear in the Alexandrian Oration at 3, 11, 13, 27, 33; and see also 72 for a Roman military commander who toyed with the Alexandrians as if they were children when he put down their rebellion. 97 For the greater significance of public actions over private, see Or. 32.35. 98 On eutaxia (“good order”) as a civic ideal in the imperial era, see Salmeri 2008. 99 He-gemones here could also refer to the Romans in general, in which case Dio may be comparing Trajan favorably with earlier emperors (if the speech is indeed Trajanic). 100 Cf. Or. 32.88–89. For the political consequences of a city’s ethics, see also Orr. 31.65, 33.50–51, 46.14. 101 A notion prominent in Stoic thought; see e.g. Arr. Epict. Diss. 1.1, with Frede 2014. 102 For Philostratus’ “exploitation” of themes from Dio’s speeches, see Bowie 1978, 1667–69; and also C. P. Jones 1978, 14–15, 32 with n53, 43 with n78, 91. On Apollonius, see also ch. 3. 103 An extended comparison can be found in Grandjean 2009, though this study mainly addresses whether it was as philosophers, holy men, or sophists that the two criticized cities, and its aim of uncovering the roles of the historical Dio and Apollonius seems naïve in light of the complex rhetorical self-presentation of the former and the source problems of the latter. For an overview of Apollonius’ involvement in the affairs of Greek cities, see Flinterman 1995, 92–95, 107–16, arguing that this depiction of Apollonius predates VA; to my mind, however, the evidence is far from conclusive. Cf. VS, which contains very little about sophists as advisors to cities, with the exception of Polemo’s rebukes of Smyrna (531); on this distinction between VA and VS as a reflection of differences in the cultural memory of the Flavian and Antonine periods, see Kemezis 2014a, 218–19. Cf. Bowie 1978, 1667–70; Anderson 1986, 125–27; Koskenniemi 1991, 51–54, arguing for more continuity between Apollonius and the sophists in their relations with cities (and more broadly). 104 For the centrality of travel to Philostratus’ portrait of Apollonius, see Elsner 1997, esp. 27–28, focusing on the religious content of the sage’s critiques to cities and shrines. Anderson 1994, 167–77 situates Apollonius’ travels among those of other imperial-era holy men. 105 For Apollonius as a critic of oratory who also puts it to his own philosophical use, see Billault 1993. Lauwers 2015, 44, reads the Apollonius of VA as an “ambiguous figure balancing between sophistry and philosophy.” On Apollonius’ ambiguity, see also Flinterman 1995, 160–65; Praet 2012; and cf. Grandjean 2009, 144 on the comparable ambiguity of Dio within Philostr. VS. 106 As noted by Swain 1996, 392, Apollonius expects his trial by Domitian to be a discussion (διαλέξεσθαι, 8.2); yet as an account of what Apollonius would have said in court, Philostratus supplies an extended defense speech, which he says

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Apollonius wrote in advance and which he also assures his reader is worthy of a wise man (8.6–7). On the meaning of dialexis in the context of both sophistic performance and imperial-era philosophy, see Russell 1983, 77–79; Anderson 1993, 53–55; Pernot 1993b, 2:553–54; Lauwers 2015, 129–32 (as well as Van der Stockt 2000, 98–99 on Plutarch’s use of dialegesthai to refer to philosophical lectures, which is also consistent with usage in VA). On the history of the term dialogos, also derived . . from dialegesthai, see Jazdzewska 2014. Cf. Epp. Apoll. 10, 34 where Apollonius claims that he no longer gives extended speeches; it is unclear whether this abstention would include dialexeis. Echoed in the judgment of Dio’s rhetoric attributed to Apollonius (VA 5.40; similar comments at Ep. Apoll. 9), which redeploys against Dio himself the Platonizing criticism of pandering speeches found in the Prusan’s civic orations; cf. Apollonius’ affection for him in his defense speech (8.7.104–5) as well as Philostratus’ more favorable characterization of Dio’s combination of philosophy and rhetoric at VS 486–88 (as discussed above). Philosophein/sumphilosophein: VA 4.8, 19. Diorthoun: 4.1, 4, 27, 5.25, 6.20, 8.7.288; cf. 4.24, 6.40 on Greek shrines. Philosophein and diorthoun: 1.16 (in a shrine), 4.22. Cf. epanorthoun, at Dio Chrys. Orr. 31.1, 51.5. Cf. also VA 5.40, with an example of Apollonius “correcting” (διορθούμενος) Dio. Epiple-xis and/or epiple-ttein: VA 4.5, 21, 5.20, 26. Cf. Dio’s rebuking of cities at VS 487, quoted at the opening of this chapter. Cf. the loidoria and intemperate anger exhibited by Apollonius’ rival Euphrates, contrasted with Apollonius’ properly philosophical response (5.39). When the holy man departs Alexandria to visit the gymnosophists, he leaves behind his student Menippus to continue the dispute with Euphrates. When Philostratus attributes this assignment to the fact that Menippus is “clever at using parrhe-sia” (παρρησίᾳ χρῆσθαι δεινός), he seems also to characterize Apollonius’ previous exchanges with his rival as parrhesiastic (5.43). Sumboulos/sumbouleuein (generally at the cities’ request): 4.2, 31, 33, 5.20. Cf. 1.17, for a discussion of the “style of speech he practiced” (λόγων … ἰδέαν ἐπήσκησεν), including his preference against drawing out speeches; and see 4.31, for Apollonius’ speech from the steps of the temple of Zeus at Olympia and the audience’s admiration of his “style of speaking” (ταῖς ἰδέαις τοῦ λόγου). Elsewhere we are told that he also criticized their bathing practices (1.16). Cf. Dio Chrys. Or. 31.121 and also Luc. Demon. 57. See also his attacks on latter-day Spartan effeminacy (4.27). He also censures Greeks for adopting elements of Roman culture, which he seems to view as degeneration (4.5, 22); cf. Dio Chrys. Or. 31.41, which can be read to suggest that honoring Romans with statues is a sign of decline. Cf. the exchanges between Apollonius and the gymnosophists (6.6–22), where he seems not to be correcting them for their own benefit so much as displaying his superior knowledge in refuting them. Kemezis 2014a, 180 notes that until Apollonius travels to Rome during the reign of Nero in Book 4, he is primarily concerned with “the correct performance of Greekness by Greeks.” While this part of the narrative contains the most obvious instances of his policing of Greek identity, I would argue that this is still a prominent motivation upon his return to the Greek cities in Book 8, and, to a lesser degree, in Book 5 (esp. 20, 26) and Book 6 (esp. 36, 41); see also Flinterman 1995, 92–97. VA 4.4, 8. For the place of so-te-ria in the holy-man tradition see Kanavou 2018, 120–21. Cf. 6.34 for other language evocative of benefaction, such as oikiste-s (“founder”). E.g. Apollonius thwarts a plague-causing demon in Ephesus (4.10), meets the ghost of Achilles at Pergamon (4.11, 16), and unmasks a vampire bride in

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De-mos: rhetoric in the post-classical city Corinth (4.25.2–6), though the narrator tends to abjure responsibility for the more outlandish stories by attributing them to Damis. On Apollonius’ relationship to Pythagorean philosophy, see Francis 1995, 105–7; Flinterman 2009a. This stasis is attributed to frivolous entertainment, again echoing Dio Chrys. Or. 32. Cf. Luc. Demon. 64. On this episode in VA, see Raeymakers 2000. Cf. also VS 526. On the continuity between these two practices, see Kasprzyk 2013, 274. While epistolary communication with the public has no equivalent in Dio’s modern corpus, it may nevertheless have been part of his literary production. There are only six surviving letters attributed to Dio, all of which are addressed to friends; the texts along with a discussion of their authenticity can be found at C. P. Jones 2015. Cf. the declaration by Philostratus of Lemnos in his De Epistulis (text in Kayser 1870, 2.257–58) that Dio and Apollonius were the two philosophical masters of the epistle (on which see Kasprzyk 2013, 263). Philostratus claims to have used the letters of Apollonius as a source for his narrative (VA 1.2), which frequently matches the surviving Epistles; for comments on letters to Greek cities in this collection, see C. P. Jones 2009, 250–55. On the question of the authenticity of the Ep. Apoll., see Penella 1979, 23–29. Whether or not we take any of the surviving letters to be genuine or even to predate VA are matters less important for the purposes of this discussion than the authority Philostratus claims through citing these purportedly documentary sources (as he does also by referencing the alleged first-hand account of Damis, on which see Bowie 1978, 1653–71). Or, at least, this is what is happening on the surface of the narrative; cf. Whitmarsh 2004b, 426–30, making the case that Philostratus is simultaneously sowing doubt about his use of Damis; Kasprzyk 2013, 274–82, 287–89, advancing a similar argument about the letters. See also Kemezis 2014b, esp. 63–68 for this work’s resemblance to pseudo-documentary fiction, and ibid. 73–78 on the ironic use of Damis. They are ὑβρισταὶ πάντες (1.7). This letter is not included in the Epistles. Cf. Dio’s critiques of this city in Orr. 33, 34. And on the relationship between the sequence of events (the “story” in narratological terms) and the inclusion of letters in the narrative, see Kasprzyk 2013, 266. Cf. Ep. Apoll. 63 (to the Spartans), 71 (to the Ionians). A number of other letters of criticism addressed to cities can be found among the Epistles. Or. 24.1. Cf. the way Aristides turns his ailment to his advantage in Hieroi Logoi as an exceptional figure (Gleason 1995, 122–23), whose rhetorical skill testifies to the favor of healing divinities (Downie 2013). For the manly vigor required of sophistic performers, see Gleason 1995 (and, concerning orators more broadly, Gunderson 2000). The paradox of good stasis is clearly a play on the original Hesiodic paradox of good strife (eris) from WD 11–26, updated for the age of philotimia (“competition for honor”) (at 4.8). On the intellectual background of this speech, see further Flinterman 1995, 112–13. Elsewhere Apollonius asserts that the Spartans are “the freest of the Greeks” and also that “they alone obey those who give good advice (τοῦ εὖ ξυμβουλεύοντος),” seemingly seeing no more contradiction between freedom and obedience than he does between freedom and flogging (in keeping with developments in the conception of freedom discussed in ch. 2); cf. the skeptical response of his gymnosophist interlocutor (6.20). Cf. also Dio Chrys. Or. 32.67, 69, 93 for positive judgments on Sparta. For cities seeking out Apollonius’ advice, see esp. 4.1. For Apollonius’ interactions with emperors and kings, see ch. 3.

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132 On the importance of festive speech to the construction of Panhellenic identity in the Roman empire, see König 2014, 258–68. 133 He also avoids the visits of the governors (he-gemones) (8.22). However, he does write Nerva a letter containing advice on “ruling” (τῶν ἀρχικῶν) (8.28). 134 Cf. Elsner 1997, 34, taking the refusal of Nerva’s request as a demonstration of the sage’s “superiority over imperial power”; Kemezis 2014a, 218–19, suggesting that resistance to tyranny is the sole reason for Apollonius’ involvement in imperial politics, which ends with the death of Domitian. It may be objected that the reason Philostratus gives is sufficient, seeing that Apollonius sends Damis off to Rome with a letter for the emperor so that he can die in a way that is “suitably mysterious,” in the words of Kemezis (2014a, 194), but the multiplicity of stories about the location and circumstances of his death gives the impression that he continued traveling around the Greek cities after Damis’ departure. On these various accounts, with an emphasis on Apollonius’ reputed ascension to heaven, see Flinterman 2009b. 135 See further J. Hahn 1989, 165–71, and also ch. 1 n96. 136 Socrates frequently serves as a model for Dio in addressing the Prusans (Orr. 43.8–9, 12, 44.10, 47.7, 51.7–8) but he is rarely mentioned in other civic orations (appearing by name only at Or. 33.8–10, with oblique references to the Socratic daimonion at Orr. 32.12 and 34.4). Elsewhere references to Aristophanes communicate the value of internal critique, as when Dio points to the absence of such advisors among the Alexandrians (Or. 32.6–7). On Aristophanes and Socrates as icons of parrhe-sia, see ch. 1. 137 E.g. 41.2 at Apameia. 138 Dio compares himself to Odysseus at various points in the civic orations (33.15, 45.10–11, 47.6), and the wandering hero is also an important figure for Dio throughout the rest of the corpus, including Or. 13 on the theme of exile (on which, see Whitmarsh 2001a, 162). 139 See further Swain 1996, 232, and also the scholarship cited at n18 above. 140 Orr. 41.6 and 46.1 also acknowledge his honorary citizenships; see further Swain 1996, 187 n2; Salmeri 2000, 79 n128; C. P. Jones 2012, addressing tensions between outsider and insider roles. 141 Dio calls attention to his Cynic appearance at Or. 34.2, though his status as a “long-haired philosopher” is also on display in other speeches, such as Or. 35; see further Zanker 1996, 256–66. 142 Discussed further at 169–70. 143 Orr. 32.12, 34.4–5; see also 38.51. For a summary of debates over the significance of these claims, see Swain 1996, 217 with n115.

5

Elites Hierarchy, oligarchy, and friendship

To illustrate the place of frankness in interactions between Greek elites, this chapter will focus largely on a single work, Plutarch’s How to Tell a Flatterer from a Friend. This text’s treatment of parrhe-sia has often been considered apolitical, a view I will challenge by reframing Plutarch’s essay against the oligarchic governance and increasingly hierarchical social relations of the imperial-era Greek city. While Plutarch draws on a dichotomy between friendship and flattery that originates in the discourse around relationships between kings and courtiers, he redeploys these tropes to fit his own social and political milieu, where differentials of status and honor are apparent even among elites. Flatterer is most obviously addressed to the extremely rich and powerful in the person of its dedicatee and the tenor of its advice: it is directed in the main toward helping the powerful weed out the self-serving among their less exalted “friends.” And yet the text also reveals a second aim: assisting the socially inferior party in such a relationship in navigating the treacherous middle path between flattering and giving offense. The text’s final section therefore presents frankness as a specialized skill, a techne-, that requires timing, tact, and moderation in order to be beneficial to both the individual and the society at large. At the same time, though this work focalizes its discussion of frankness in elite friendships in two distinct ways (from above and below), it is not truly addressed to two audiences so much as to an audience of elites who must constantly renegotiate their relative social positioning within the hierarchical environment of the Roman empire.

Power and flattery The binary opposition between friendship and flattery develops in the fourth century BCE, driven by the growth of hierarchy and the increased salience of philia relationships across broadening status divides, and in particular the relationships between kings and courtiers.1 In this discourse, the great power wielded by kings attracts those wishing to promote themselves rather than give good advice and at the same time discourages the well-meaning from speaking out in correction of the ruler’s mistakes. As we can see from works like Dio Chrysostom’s Oration 3, such tropes are prominent during the early

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Roman empire in discussions of ideal kingship and representations of the emperor.2 Here the true king is defined by his belief that philia (“friendship”) is “the most beautiful and holiest of all his possessions” (86), a stance that sets him apart from the majority of rulers, who surround themselves with flatterers (129), and especially distinguishes him from the tyrant, who “is of all men most lacking in friendship” (πάντων γὰρ ἀπορώτατός ἐστι φιλίας) (116).3 In keeping with the Hellenistic-era practice by which monarchs’ advisors and close associates are known as “philoi of the king,” Dio notes that a king must be especially careful in choosing his friends because they will share in his power (89).4 In fact he refers to them as the ruler’s “assistants” or “cooperators” (τῶν συνεργούντων) (87). A king therefore faces special danger from the deleterious influence of flattery on his judgment, which is articulated most clearly when Dio announces that “the man flattering corrupts at the same time as he praises” (ὁ δὲ κολακεύων ἅμα δεκάζει τῷ ἐπαίνῳ) (24).5 A variation on these themes likewise appears in Oration 1, another speech on kingship, where Dio declares friendship to be “the most beautiful and useful (ὠφελιμωτάτου) possession,” in part because of the friend’s ability to give the least pain in telling the truth.6 In this passage the good king distinguishes himself by wanting the praise only of the free (eleutheroi) and the noble (gennaioi), not that of lowly types who cannot be trusted to tell the truth (in other words, flatterers, though Dio does not use that label) (30–33). The trope of the king’s flatterer is so far-reaching that it even turns up in the second century CE in the writings of the emperor Marcus Aurelius, who demonstrates throughout the Meditations that he has internalized Greek pedagogy and especially philosophical conceptions of the good king.7 The theme appears not only in that work, for example in the emperor’s praise of his predecessor and adoptive father Antoninus Pius for being “immune to flattery” (ἀκολάκευτος) (1.16.4),8 but also in a letter to Fronto, where the young Marcus voices his concern about the adulation directed toward kings and their sons (Ep. 2.10.1 [p33 Naber]). The pervasiveness of the friend–flatterer dichotomy is likewise demonstrated in Cassius Dio’s Agrippa–Maecenas debate, which was composed in the early third century CE but depicts the events of 29 BCE. When Agrippa urges Octavian to give up power and establish isonomia and de-mokratia,9 he appeals to their friendship in order to present his advice as friendly and well-meaning parrhe-sia, while disavowing flattery.10 While Agrippa makes reference to the authority shared by a ruler’s friends, in an echo of Dio Chrysostom Oration 3, he also rejects those benefits when he rejects monarchy, advertising the selflessness of his frank advice by illustrating what he would stand to gain from flattery (52.2.1–3.3). These examples are by no means exhaustive, but they illustrate the persistence of tropes concerning the dichotomy between friends and flatterers and the dangers that the latter pose for kings.11 Yet when Plutarch draws upon the same themes in Flatterer, he applies them to the hierarchical elite relationships of his own times, as I will discuss in the next section. For the moment, I wish simply to point out that recognizing Plutarch’s application of these ideas

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to the arena of elite interactions helps make sense of the disjuncture between his larger aims (that is, helping elites recognize flatterers when dealing with their inferiors and avoid offending or debasing themselves before their superiors) and the exempla from the lives of kings that often illustrate his points. Troels Engberg-Pedersen has pointed to the prominence of anecdotes about Alexander the Great in the essay, drawing connections with the status of Plutarch’s addressee Philopappus, who was the scion of the royal family of Commagene and retained a royal title (Engberg-Pedersen 1996, 64–68).12 Likewise David Konstan has called attention to the prevalence of kings and courtiers more generally in exempla from the last third of the essay, which focuses on the use of parrhe-sia toward one’s superiors (Konstan 1998, 291). Without denying the relevance of monarchic imagery to the family background of the work’s addressee, I suggest that references to kings also help to characterize the experiences of inequality among the broader elite readership. It may be helpful here to draw upon Christopher Pelling’s distinction between protreptic moralizing, which seeks to guide behavior, and descriptive moralizing, which prompts reflection about moral issues (Pelling 2002, 237–39, 248–49).13 While the royal exempla in Flatterer are not descriptive in a sense that would exclude mimetic instruction (and it is worth noting that Pelling himself emphatically rejects any neat binary division between the two kinds of moralizing), it is clear that the practical lessons contained therein are not meant to be extracted from the text in a literal-minded manner. Instead, Plutarch’s appeal to exempla from the lives of monarchs in discussing interelite relations is part of a larger elaboration on the friendship–flattery tradition within his own social milieu.

Inequality among elites As Maximus of Tyre notes in his discussion of friends and flatterers, “flattery cannot bear equality in speech” (οὐ γὰρ ἀνέχεται κολακεία ἰσηγορία) (14.7). That is, the kind of speech belonging to equal relationships cannot be used between unequal parties.14 Accordingly, attention to flattery correlates not just to the emergence of monarchy in the Hellenistic period but also to the growth of economic, social, and political inequality, relative to the conditions of classical Athens.15 The Roman imperial era saw an intensification of these trends of increasing hierarchy and oligarchy, and accordingly produced many works devoted to flattery and related topics,16 a development which should not be attributed solely to the importance of the emperor or even those participating directly in the imperial administration.17 Arjan Zuiderhoek, in discussing the growth of social and political hierarchy in Greek cities of the empire, points to the development of “internal oligarchization” and stark discrepancies in wealth within the bouleutic class that had come largely to control civic politics (Zuiderhoek 2008; 2009, 60–66, 134–37). As a result, hierarchical distinctions became more pronounced not only across longstanding social divides but also among elites, aided by the

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influence of particularly Roman ways of structuring relationships between unequal individuals or groups.18 At the same time, because cities were increasingly under the political control of a prominent minority, the ethics of this ruling class became a matter of political importance (mirroring the importance of the emperor’s ethics for the well-being of the oikoumene-). In this sort of political environment, where governance and personal character are so closely intertwined, flattery poses a danger in that it simultaneously corrupts the judgment of those in power and allows the unscrupulous to advance themselves. Viewed in this context, the highly stratified elite environment presented by Plutarch’s Flatterer has a marked political dimension, as does the place of frank speaking within this world, contrary to the tradition of interpretation that sees this work as devoid of any connection to contemporary politics.19 Such depoliticizing readings of Flatterer base their understanding of politics on the institutions of classical Athens, which are a poor fit for the postclassical city. While councils (boulai), whose members were drawn from the upper echelons of local society, had gradually gained in power, and even public assemblies (ekkle-siai) continued to be active if questionably effective in the cities of the Roman empire,20 the political environment depicted in Flatterer is not centered around institutions. Instead the work of politics is carried out to a large degree in the interactions of a limited number of individuals and families, who formed an oligarchy in practice if not in name, and for whom the boule- provided only one means of exercising power, albeit an important one.21 At the same time, I do not wish to flatten out the distinction between practical politics and the dynamics of power relations, which are broader and also more abstract. While oligarchies inevitably promote a greater degree of blurring between friendship and politics than is found in democracies, these personal relationships had public consequences for both the internal functioning of the Greek cities and their relations with the imperial authorities.22 The significance of the fraught inter-elite relationships depicted in Flatterer can be reinforced by turning for a moment to Plutarch’s Political Precepts, a work that, unlike Flatterer, has long been recognized for its frank discussion of the place of parrhe-sia in Greek cities of the Roman empire, in connection with internal politics and the cities’ dealings with Rome.23 When Plutarch warns in that work against infighting between powerful individuals because it can result in broader political instability and even Roman military intervention, we see clearly what is at stake for the civic elites who are the audience of Flatterer. A particularly blunt example of his observations about local politics can be found at Political Precepts 815a: The cause of this [i.e. Roman intervention] is mainly the greed and contentiousness of the foremost men (πλεονεξία καὶ φιλονεικία τῶν πρώτων); for either, in cases where they are harming their inferiors, they force them into exile from the city, or concerning matters in which they differ among

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In addition to treating the common people as equal, the preventive regime that Plutarch recommends for the statesman involves “soothing the powerful with mutual yielding” (τοὺς δὲ δυνατοὺς ἀνθυπείξει πραΰνοντα), a tactic he often highlights in the Parallel Lives (using terms that appear almost nowhere outside of his corpus).24 Local elites’ ability to get along with one another therefore had real effects on the fortunes of any particular Greek city. Taking all this into account, the political relevance of Plutarch’s advice in Flatterer becomes clear, in that it primarily concerns interactions among members of the ruling classes in the Greek east when they are not in equal positions of power.

The dangers of flattery Because flattery is predicated on inequality, many of the statements in Flatterer about friendship and flattery focus, implicitly or explicitly, on disparities of status, power, and wealth. This is true even in the first section of the text, in which flattery is mainly presented from the point of the view of the more exalted party in an unequal friendship. At the work’s opening, the author’s stated purpose is to teach such a figure what the title advertises: how to tell a flatterer from a friend. A central tenet of this science of flattery detection is that the flatterer will act pleased with anything one does, while a true friend can be expected to criticize with parrhe-sia when necessary (50b). This precept is given an added complication, however, when Plutarch considers the more sophisticated type of flatterer, who disguises his self-interest, in part by making his target think he is using friendly frankness toward him – frankness that is nevertheless “counterfeit” (κίβδηλος) (59d). A key point is immediately apparent in this introduction, namely that flatterers take aim at “ambitious, worthy, and promising characters” (τὰ φιλότιμα τῶν ἠθῶν καὶ χρηστὰ καὶ ἐπιεικῆ) (49b).25 Given Plutarch’s famous ambivalence about aristocratic ambition and the danger that it poses to the stability of the Greek-speaking world,26 we should read this reference to philotimia as a signal of high status and power rather than purely ethical goodness, a distinction Plutarch draws repeatedly in this text (contrary to the frequent conflation of these attributes in Greek aristocratic ideology as illustrated starkly, for example, in the Theognidea).27 Continuing in the same vein, he calls attention to flattery’s role as the special affliction of “great houses and great affairs” (49c). Moreover, flatterers are a danger most of all for “the greatest men” (65e), to the point that their wiles often overturn “kingdoms and authorities” (βασιλείας καὶ ἡγεμονίας). This is because they attach themselves to “fame and power” (δόξαις καὶ ταῖς δυνάμεσιν), attributes that belong to monarchs but are not their

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exclusive preserve. By contrast, they have no interest in “the poor, the unimportant, or the powerless” (πένησιν οὐδ’ ἀδόξοις οὐδ’ ἀδυνάτοις) (49c–d). Because Philopappus is a grandee (with a pedigree and status announced by his full name, Gaius Julius Antiochus Epiphanes Philopappus), Plutarch implies that he is at particular risk from flatterers and will therefore benefit from instruction in the difficult art of flattery detection (49e), while simultaneously sneaking in some subtle flattery of his addressee.28 In fact, Plutarch spends a significant portion of his essay discussing the flatterer’s attraction to the “wealthy, powerful, and famous” (δυνατὸς ἢ πλούσιος ἢ ἔνδοξος), a phenomenon he contrasts with the respect that ought rightfully to be paid to “experience, virtue, and age” (ἐμπειρίαις … ἀρεταῖς … ἡλικίαις). One form this flattery takes is the pretense that “kings, wealthy people, and magistrates are not only prosperous and fortunate, but also preeminent in intelligence, skill, and any kind of virtue.” In reality, he suggests, those in the loftiest positions in society do not actually learn to do anything well because they are coddled and flattered by everyone who should be making them better, including their teachers and their wrestling partners. He even cites the claim of the philosopher Carneades that the only exception to this rule of general incompetence is horseback riding, for the reason that horses are unconcerned with human categories of status and wealth (58b–f).29 This comparison illustrates how tempting it is to flatter the rich and famous, since animals alone are not susceptible. To be a part of human society is to be aware of inequality in resources and power, at least when one is at a disadvantage. Yet the prevalence of flattery is not merely due to flatterers themselves. Not only do sycophants prefer the wealthiest and most powerful targets, but rich men and kings alike also prefer flattery to frank criticism (62f–63b). It is the place of the friend, as Plutarch insists throughout this work, to use gentle parrhe-sia to correct another man’s behavior. However, when there is a status discrepancy between the two, this task becomes all the more difficult because of the great care the man in the inferior position must take to avoid alienating his more prominent friend (68e): Many people do not think themselves worthy nor do they dare to instruct (ῥυθμίζειν) their friends when they are succeeding in their endeavors, but believe that good fortune is entirely inaccessible and beyond the reach of admonition (νουθεσίᾳ). However, when these friends are tripped up and fall, they attack and trample upon those who have been brought low and are under their power. Just like a stream that has been unnaturally restrained, they let loose on them a flood of frankness (τὴν παρρησίαν ἀθρόως ἐφιέντες αὐτοῖς) and they happily enjoy the change because of their friends’ former contempt and their own weakness. As we see from this discussion of a change in fortunes, the problem is not simply the powerful man’s intimidation of those around him, but the secret

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resentment that his advantages induce in them. This bitterness comes to the surface only when the more prominent man suffers some hardship, and on such occasions it is to be expected that his misfortune will be relished – although not by a “noble” friend (γενναῖος, using the term in its ethical sense), but by “the ignoble and degraded flatterers of the fortunate” (ἀγεννεῖς καὶ ταπεινοὶ τῶν εὐτυχούντων κόλακες) (69d–e). While this passage emphatically depicts Schadenfreude as the characteristic of a flatterer rather than a true friend, Plutarch’s discussions of these resentments show that a situation of social inequality allows no clear distinction between the two – despite the author’s own protestations to the contrary when he claims that envy (phthonos) and rivalry (ze-los) do not exist between friends, “whether they have an equal or lesser share in success” (κἂν ἴσον ἔχωσιν ἐν τῷ κατορθοῦν κἂν ἔλαττον) (54c).

Parasitism and patronage Flatterers come from a range of social backgrounds, as Plutarch makes clear when he specifies the type that is not his concern in this work, namely the stereotypical parasite (parasitos), whose character he describes as follows (50c–d): … those who carry their own oil bottle to the baths, those denizens of the table, those who can be heard as soon as the water has been brought for a pre-dinner hand-washing … those for whom one dish and one cup of wine is enough to reveal their servility with its vulgar buffoonery and debasement. The main aim of this passage is to distinguish these obvious hangers-on from what Plutarch calls the “true flatterer” (ἀληθινὸς κόλαξ).30 When he describes the qualities that separate them, namely “finesse and skill” (δεινότητος καὶ τέχνης) versus “vulgar buffoonery and debasement” (βωμολοχίας καὶ βδελυρίας), his focus on comportment signals the high social status of the “true flatterer,” while the contrast between the types is reinforced by images of the parasite’s relative poverty.31 This essay therefore concerns people who are already well established among the elite and seek to raise themselves into greater positions of power, not humbler upstarts, whose dependence is more blatant and more a matter of livelihood. At the same time, the fact that the distinction needs to be specified implies that all forms of inequality, even those among elites, are potentially tainted by parasitism.32 We should also consider the influence of the Roman institution of interpersonal patronage on Greek elites’ understanding of their own inequalities. While Roman social and economic stratification intensifies during the principate and the importance of patronage increases accordingly, the vertical orientation of Roman society predates Augustus and would have become increasingly familiar to Greek elites with the rise of Rome as a major force in

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the Mediterranean. For mainland Greece, which was home to both Plutarch and Philopappus, it is likely that the institution of patronage in its Roman form had already been influential for several generations, developing along with the expansion of Roman influence in the future province of Achaea. Although most scholarship on contact between Romans and Greeks in the late republic emphasizes Greek cultural influence on Rome, Antony Spawforth points out that “the Late Republic was … a time in which Rome’s subject-communities in the east became increasingly enmeshed in ties of patronage with the great families of the Roman aristocracy.”34 Patronage relations in the Greek-speaking world are an understudied topic, and this is true even for the Hellenistic and Roman periods. In fact, apart from artistic patronage, the very existence of patronage within the Greek world is commonly ignored if not denied outright.35 However, in the Political Precepts we find evidence from Plutarch himself that personal patronage was a feature of life in Greek cities of the first century CE. When he discusses the value of having powerful Roman “friends,” he is acknowledging the importance of cultivating patrons among the Greeks’ imperial rulers (814c–d). Of course not all those in a position of power were Roman, as indicated by the variety of Plutarch’s own vertical ties in his dedication of several works to extremely powerful men, who, like Philopappus, did not fit neatly into the categories of Roman or Greek.36 Furthermore, Plutarch advises the would-be local statesman to foster clients within the city, showing that the practice of patronage is also an important part of internal Greek affairs at this time (808b–9a).37 When he uses the term “friend” (philos) to refer to these clients, for whom the statesman does favors and from whom he expects loyalty in return, we can see a parallel to the unequal friendships discussed in Flatterer.38 These tendencies in Plutarch’s works also reveal close parallels with a practice Richard Saller has identified in Latin writers of the early-imperial era, in which the terminology applied to young elite protégés was markedly different from that used in connection with freedmen and other clients from lower social stations. Rather than taint inter-elite associations with terms like patronus and cliens, the language of friendship (amicitia) instead took their place, occluding dependencies with references to favors (gratia) and services (officia, beneficia) (Saller 1982, 7–39; 1989). The discussion of unequal friendship in Flatterer, with its frequent mention of favors (charites) and services (hupourgiai, chreiai), can therefore be understood (at least in part) as a portrayal of inter-elite patronage relations very similar to those Saller identifies among Latin-speaking Roman elites.39 For Greeks, as among Latin-speakers, one of the greatest impediments to acknowledging patronage seems to be its association with the figure of the parasite, who, along with the slave, was known for flattery.40 Because classical Greek societies lacked Rome’s traditional practices of manumission and formalized patronage ties between freedmen and their former masters, they did not develop such strong associations between patronage and slavery.

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Therefore, while connections between slaves, dependency, and flattery can certainly be found in Greek writings (such as Lucian’s On Salaried Posts and Apology as well as the passages from Clearchus of Soli discussed at Athenaeus 6.256f–57c),41 and Plutarch himself remarks on the flatterer’s servility (50d–e), the parasite seems to have provided the more salient image of debased flattery. Phrynichus Arabius, in his second-century CE lexicon of Attic usage, even states that “flatterer” (kolax) is the Attic equivalent of the contemporary insult “parasite” (109).42 Furthermore, while the Greek word pelate-s appears in imperial sources as an equivalent for the Latin cliens (usually in discussions of Roman republican politics),43 in Plutarch’s Sympotic Questions, we find it used as a synonym of “parasite” (3.649e).44 Like the slave, the parasite is the subject of such intense interest (and usually scorn) because his dependency is analogous to other, less obvious dependencies and thus threatens to reveal the impossibility of perfect self-sufficiency (autarkeia), an ideal connected not just with elite independence of livelihood but also with philosophical independence of mind.45 The person understood to be dependent and therefore unfree is not able to use parrhe-sia in the unfettered way idealized by depictions of frank-speaking philosophers. As a result, the frankness Plutarch promotes for the less powerful friend is far more restricted and careful, not due to the term’s depoliticization but because of the author’s sensitivity to the relative social position of his addressee at the end of the work, a topic that the next section will explore in more detail.

Multiple addressees Even though Plutarch’s Flatterer is explicitly addressed to the prominent Philopappus, Plutarch clearly aims also to instruct a broader elite readership, as in his other didactic writings with personal addressees.46 The gap between his advice to Philopappus and the advice that pertains to a reader envisioned as less powerful points to the many informal restrictions on the practice of parrhe-sia among elites, by contrast with the ethical ideal of frankness. What is more, a definitive break exists in the text between advice aimed at helping the potential flatteree avoid the snares of the flatterer and advice that seems directed instead toward those who might need help managing their friends in high places. This seeming switch in addressee has even led some scholars to posit that Flatterer actually originated as two separate works, in spite (or even because) of the second explicit address to Philopappus near the end of the work (66c).47 Yet as others have argued, there is a strong case to be made for the thematic unity of the text,48 a view that gains further support from the work’s treatment of parrhe-sia. The shift, which occurs two-thirds of the way through the text, is encapsulated in this suggestion (66a): If we pay attention to our own manifold sources of shame and grief, our failings, and our errors, we will always discover ourselves to be in need,

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not of a friend to praise and glorify us, but a friend to censure (ἐλέγχοντος), to speak frankly (παρρησιαζομένου), and to blame us (ψέγοντος) when we do wrong. For there are only a few out of many who are daring enough (τολμῶντες) to speak frankly to their friends rather than indulge them (χαρίζεσθαι). And again, among those few you cannot easily find the ones who know how to do this, but rather you find those who think that if they abuse (λοιδορῶσι) and blame (ψέγωσι) they use frankness.49 The passage begins by identifying the didactic “we” with those who might be the targets of flatterers, but its focalization subsequently shifts back and forth between such a figure and the person who might be suspected of flattery. This is particularly noticeable in the reference to the rare daring of those who use parrhe-sia to improve their friends. Even the last sentence quoted here, which returns (at least on initial examination) to the viewpoint of the more powerful party, emphasizes the highly refined skill of the man who knows how to use frankness without merely abusing the object of his criticism. The advice that appears after this point applies to those who find themselves in the precarious position of trying to guide their more prominent friends without causing offense, while also avoiding the impression of obsequiousness. This is clearly fraught with peril, judging from the delicacy with which Plutarch suggests one should approach speaking critically of close acquaintances. Such a tightrope walk is necessary because, as Plutarch makes clear, the self-regard of the preeminent poses dangers not only to these men themselves, but also to others who would criticize them too frankly, a problem exacerbated by the insidious influence of flatterers.50 Such an emphasis on caution contrasts markedly with other imperial-era discussions of the close connection between frankness and friendship (along with other forms of intimacy), indicating that Plutarch’s interest in friendship concerns more than simply preserving the pleasures elites could take in one another’s company.51 In spite of this distinct break between the initial discussion of flattery detection and the final section of the essay, if we examine the first two-thirds of the text in light of the ending, it becomes apparent that here too Plutarch often includes advice that seems designed for a reader interacting with his social superiors. For example, during a discussion of the flatterer’s practice of pandering to pleasure, he counsels, “one ought to hurt a friend [only] for the sake of benefitting him” (δεῖ γὰρ ὠφελοῦντα λυπεῖν τὸν φίλον) (55c). Even though it occurs in a part of the text ostensibly offering advice to Philopappus about how to avoid flatterers, this maxim is focalized through the viewpoint of the man who might need to use frank criticism toward his friend, as set in opposition to (but implicitly in the same social position as) the villainous flatterer. We see the same ethical and hierarchical assumptions at work when Plutarch contrasts the “services” (hupourgiai) of the flatterer with those of the friend (64c):

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Elites: hierarchy, oligarchy, friendship One ought to cooperate with a friend, not be his partner in crime, and one should advise him, not be his co-conspirator, and one should bear witness in his support, not aid in his deceptions, and by Jove one should share in his misfortunes, not his misdeeds. συνεργεῖν γὰρ δεῖ τῷ φίλῳ μὴ συμπανουργεῖν, καὶ συμβουλεύειν μὴ συνεπιβουλεύειν, καὶ συμμαρτυρεῖν μὴ συνεξαπατᾶν, καὶ συνατυχεῖν νὴ Δία μὴ συναδικεῖν.

The prefix sun-, which begins all these verbs, emphasizes the sharing that belongs to ideal friendship but is corrupted by the flatterer. Because the true friend plays the role of the more powerful man’s benevolent assistant, what differentiates him from the bad hanger-on is not any distinction of status but rather his desire to promote his associate’s best interest.52 The prevalence of such themes throughout the text illustrates that instructing (implicitly wellmeaning) men of relatively lower status in the care and handling of their upper-echelon friends is not simply something tacked on at the end of a work devoted to helping princes detect the slippery and self-serving among their (implicitly lower-rung) companions, but rather a central focus in its own right.53 And yet, in isolating individual strands among the text’s interwoven range of voices, we should not be too quick to assume that the targets of flattery and the potential flatterers among the elite belong to discrete and fixed groups. A more helpful way to approach the more and less powerful addressees of Plutarch’s Flatterer is to see them not as different sets of people but as the same individuals, who might find themselves in different relative social positions depending on the situation, comparable to the “greater and lesser friendships” (amicitiae tam superiores quam minores) that Plutarch’s contemporary, Pliny the Younger, mentions in his Epistle 7.3, referring to relationships in which his addressee takes the role of client and those in which he is patron.54 After all, the emperor himself is the only person in the Roman empire who has no social superior and is under the power of no human authority, and therefore even someone like Philopappus would find himself in a subordinate role on occasion. Furthermore, not only do the same people perform different roles at different times, but, in reading this text, a single individual is prompted to imagine himself in multiple relative social positions at any given moment, as informed by his various experiences (hence Plutarch’s use of the didactic first-person plural throughout the work, no matter who seems to be the proper recipient of each piece of advice). As elsewhere in Plutarch’s corpus, the ability to view oneself from outside is fundamental to self-knowledge,55 and in Flatterer it is especially valuable as a check on the distorting effect of self-love about which Plutarch cautions in the opening of the text (48e–49b). In order to determine the correct course of behavior, each of Plutarch’s addressees must imagine how others in different positions of power would view him.

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Parrhe-sia as the art of maintaining friendships and influencing people Throughout Flatterer Plutarch insists that “true and friendly frankness” (ἀληθὴς καὶ φιλικὴ παρρησία) (59d) must be carried out in the correct way, because it is not simply speaking one’s mind but rather criticizing to a noble end. However, it is only in the last section of the text, where the advice is most clearly focused on interactions with those more powerful than oneself, that he fully elaborates the theme of parrhe-sia as a skill (techne-) and provides extensive guidance in its use. Here the metaphor of medicine articulates the careful study required to make frankness effective and beneficial to all parties (74c–d): It is better to guard against errors by being persuaded by men who advise (τοῖς συμβουλεύουσι) rather than, having already erred, to repent because of those who abuse (τοὺς κακῶς λέγοντας). This is why it is necessary to practice frankness as an art (περὶ τὴν παρρησίαν φιλοτεχνεῖν), insofar as it is the greatest and most powerful medicine in friendship (μέγιστόν ἐστι καὶ κράτιστον ἐν φιλίᾳ φάρμακον), albeit always needing most of all good aim for the right occasion (καιροῦ) and tempering with moderation (μέτρον). Not only does this passage reinforce the double perspective presented over the course of the text, by focalizing first through the recipient of advice and then through the giver, but it also presents parrhe-sia, with its potential ambiguities, in the highly ambivalent terms of the pharmakon. Just as a pharmakon is both medicine and poison, frankness can harm or help, depending on how it is used.56 If performed correctly (that is, in accordance with Plutarch’s advice) its effects on friendship are hugely beneficial, but the reference to its consummate power also hints at the great danger of using it badly. As seen in the passage above, correct timing (kairos) is a key element in the skillful use of parrhe-sia. Plutarch emphasizes the importance of kairos in all aspects of life but notes that it is especially crucial to the proper employment of frank speech (68c). The context in which one uses parrhe-sia is a vital component of getting the timing right, hence the many exempla aimed at discouraging the criticism of one’s friends in public (70f–71d). Plutarch is adamant, in particular, that aggressive frankness should be avoided at drinking parties because wine tends to quicken anger (68c–d).57 The circumstances in which the other man finds himself also help determine the kairos for frank censure, as we see when Plutarch warns against criticizing a friend when he is suffering from some misfortune, advising instead that this is the time for consolation. The right situation in which to use parrhe-sia, he insists, is when one’s friend is enjoying good fortune, in order to correct the self-delusion caused by great success (68f–69a). We can understand Plutarch’s emphasis on kairos even better when we remember that his lesson on the topic began with a parallel between its importance in critical speech and in approbation:

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“harm is done not only to those praised in an untimely matter (akairo-s), but also to those subjected to untimely blame” (66b). Just as criticism is not simply a good thing, praise is not bad in itself; instead, it is with timely use that both acquire value. Tact is another important attribute belonging to Plutarch’s true frank speaker, who must perform the balancing act of maintaining his dignity while also staying in his more prominent friends’ good graces. Under these circumstances, the worst way to prove one is not a flatterer is to cause pain “without conferring any benefit” (ἀνωφελῶς). Plutarch characterizes this action as showing “lack of grace and skill in relation to kindness” (ἀμούσου καὶ ἀτέχνου πρὸς εὔνοιαν). With this odd expression, he seems to suggest that having “good intentions” (eunoia) is not enough, and that acting upon them in the right way is a skill that can be developed, as part of the larger techne- of parrhe-sia. Moreover, the incorrect, untrained type of parrhe-sia bears the taint of both slavery and buffoonery: the man who uses it resembles “a freedman in a comic play” (ἀπελεύθερον ἐν κωμῳδίᾳ), that is, a character expected to mistake abuse for “equality in speech” (ἰσηγορίας). By likening to a freedman the man who speaks excessively harshly to avoid the appearance of “baseness and subservience” (τὸ ἀγεννές … καὶ ταπεινόν), Plutarch manages to make too-frank speech seem like another form of servility (66d). A similarly delicate negotiation of status is at work when he suggests strategies by which the subordinate friend can soften the blow of criticism, including providing positive reinforcement for approved behavior (73c–d) and, crucially, helping his superiors to save face when they find themselves in embarrassing predicaments (73e–f). These techniques are especially notable for giving men of lower standing the authority of teachers and benefactors in relation to their superiors while still allowing them to maintain good relations with them, as conveyed by the image of “nursemaids” (τίτθαι), who first help children when they have fallen down, saving their rebukes until the crisis has passed. At such moments, “gentleness and help” (ἐπιεικείας … καὶ βοηθείας), rather than the more conventional trope of “frankness and advice” (παρρησίαν … καὶ γνωμολογίαν), enable the man of lower status to exercise ethical superiority over his ultra-elite friends (69b–c). One further principle that guides the use of parrhe-sia is moderation. Those wishing to guide and correct a prominent friend are instructed to reduce the intensity of their frankness. Otherwise, the unpleasantness of harsh criticism may cause the other man to prefer the company of flatterers, just as he would prefer shadows to a light that is too bright (66b). With this image, drawn from Plato’s allegory of the cave, Plutarch compares the man accustomed to flattery to Plato’s troglodyte, in that he cannot bear the exposure of truth by the metaphorical glare of excessive frankness.58 In place of such harshness, Plutarch promotes two techniques for achieving moderate parrhe-sia. First he recommends that his reader “seize the good from the mean” (τὸ καλὸν ἐκ τοῦ μετρίου λαβεῖν), and avoid both “immoderation of frankness” (παρρησίας ἀμετρίᾳ) and flattery, that is, “seeking to please” (διώκοντα τὸ πρὸς χάριν)

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(66d). While he never says so explicitly, this passage seems to advise eschewing both commendation and condemnation, at least in their most extreme forms. However, a second technique, which he identifies as “among the most useful” (ἐν τοῖς χρησιμωτάτοις), involves mixing praise and blame together to make the criticism more palatable and therefore more effective (72b–c). Above all else, this passage demonstrates the fundamentally pragmatic aims of Plutarch’s advice, in that he does not balk at adopting some of the techniques of the flatterer if they are put toward a worthwhile end.59 In keeping with this account of parrhe-sia as a skill and the frank-speaker as a trained practitioner, there appear in Flatterer numerous depictions of fraught parrhe-sia between teacher and student. This relationship is analogous in many ways to that of the doctor and patient, which has provided such a fruitful metaphor throughout this study for the sources of authority that enable – and are reinforced by – frank speech. In the hierarchical environment of the late republican and early imperial Roman world, the problem of teaching students of high status was no small concern, since it required negotiating between an authority founded on the teacher’s specialized knowledge and his students’ self-importance.60 Philodemus, an Epicurean philosopher of the first century BCE, provides some of the most apposite points of comparison in his On Flattery and especially his On Parrhe-sia. The latter provides a handbook for frank criticism among the philoi of an Epicurean community and has been identified as a precursor to Plutarch’s seemingly paradoxical ideal of gentle frankness, if not an outright model.61 Yet On Parrhe-sia also resembles Plutarch’s essay in the attention given to special tactics for handling upper-echelon students, even going so far as to devote an entire section to the matter.62 A similar issue underlies the type of pedagogical parrhe-sia that Plutarch’s text promotes, as becomes especially salient in anecdotes like the cautionary tale about Ptolemy V’s teacher, who is murdered after embarrassing his royal student publicly (71c–d). This miscalculation is thrown into relief by the positive example of Plutarch’s own teacher Ammonius. This man corrected his students indirectly by having a slave beaten for allegedly committing a similar offense, while he cast significant yet subtle glances in their direction (70e).63 Plutarch’s characterization of parrhe-sia as a skill is made more pointed by being set in opposition to flattery, which has a much longer-standing association with techne-.64 In Plutarch’s work, we find explicit references to the flatterer’s skill (50c), as well as to the person of “the skilled flatterer” (ὁ τεχνίτης κόλαξ) (57f). When Plutarch lays out the art of parrhe-sia in the last third of the text, he sets it up as a contender against flattery, recommending that the wouldbe frank speaker adopt some of the flatterer’s tactics in order to overcome his insidious influence. And yet, if frankness is a skill to be learned, then flatterers too can take on some of its superficial attributes. It is in response to this threat that Plutarch devotes a notable portion of the first part of the text to discussing “counterfeit candor” (ἡ κίβδηλος … παρρησία) (59b–61d). Here the flatterer’s imitative qualities, which have been prominent throughout Plutarch’s text,

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become particularly threatening because they undermine Plutarch’s own flattery-spotting techniques and thereby endanger his didactic authority. The counter-attack to such a figure is not just more skillful deduction on the part of the rich and powerful, but also more skilled use of parrhe-sia by those for whom “flatterer” could be another name for “competitor.”

Conclusion: politics and politesse In this chapter we have seen the particular perils of frank speech among elites, stemming from the fundamental indivisibility of the personal from the political for members of the bouleutic classes in the empire’s eastern cities. As a result, someone like Plutarch who is invested in promoting both philosophical self-mastery and political independence may at times find these two objectives at odds with one another. After all, confronting one’s fellow oligarch with unadulterated criticism is unlikely to bolster a good working relationship, even if such words might be just what he needs to hear to become more virtuous, or at least avoid some error. And yet, if the goal is to make one’s companions better, it is not clear that aggressive parrhe-sia will even do the trick. As we saw in previous chapters, idealized philosophical frankness is frequently motivated more by the need to articulate the speaker’s courage than by a desire for its target to change. Contrary to this model, Plutarch focuses primarily on the results of speech, giving less importance to the ethical status of the speaker, and therefore develops strategies for using frank speech that minimize disruption to the political stability of the Greek cities and may even provide more effective correction. To these ends, Plutarch suggests that the would-be parrhesiast urge the person he is criticizing to “imitate himself” (ζῆλον … πρὸς ἑαυτόν), that is, to live up to his own good reputation or high opinion of himself, which serves as his most effective example (paradeigma) for emulation. This appeal to selfconsciousness is a lesson in line with Plutarch’s larger themes of self-awareness, and more specifically seeing one’s actions as someone else might, as an aid to ethical advancement. For the man who is far from attaining this philosophical ideal, the method of criticism that creates competition within himself is the next best thing. Otherwise, comparison with others, in particular those who are especially proximate (such as age-mates, fellow citizens, or kinsmen – but not parents), provokes “the contentiousness that belongs to dishonor” (τὸ φιλόνεικον τῆς κακίας) (72d). All of these recommendations, tailored as they are to the temperaments of the volatile, self-regarding, and privileged, underline the intense elite competition that forms the background to Plutarch’s advice in Flatterer. It is because of this environment that Plutarch also suggests using some of the techniques of flattery, such as mixing praise and blame or softening one’s parrhe-sia, albeit justified by what he characterizes as nobler motivations. His pragmatic aims set him in stark contrast to the uncompromising ideal of parrhe-sia cherished by several schools of philosophy. The difference between

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these rhetorical stances is encapsulated in Plutarch’s preference for speech that is the equivalent of gentle medicine (73d–e, 74d–e), as thrown into relief by the more common picture of parrhe-sia as a painful yet salutary remedy (illustrated, for example, by Dio Chrysostom’s civic orations in chapter 4). By attempting to smooth over the tensions in inter-elite personal relationships, Plutarch aims to facilitate their political relations as well and thereby to help the eastern cities maintain the limited independence they currently enjoy. He does this by reformulating elements from the political and philosophical traditions of frank speech into a new synthesis that is best suited for the precarious liberty and de facto oligarchic internal politics of the imperial Greek city.

Notes 1 Konstan 1997a, 93–95, 108–13; 1998, esp. 289–91. On the broad semantic range of the term philia even prior to this, see e.g. Aristot. Nic. Eth. 8–9; Eud. Eth. 7; and see further Konstan 1997a, 53–92. 2 The Kingship Orations are discussed at greater length in ch. 3. 3 Cf. also Dio Chrys. Or. 1.82, which asserts that flattery takes the place of friendship in the court of a personified Tyranny. This commonplace is found also at Max. Tyr. 14.7: “a tyrant has no friend and a king has no flatterer” (τυράννῳ οὐδεὶς φίλος, βασιλεῖ δὲ οὐδεὶς κόλαξ); for classical examples, see Konstan 1997b, 130. 4 On the king’s philoi, see Herman 1980; Konstan 1997a, 97–98, 107; Strootman 2011, 147–50; 2017. On the extension of this idea into the Roman empire, see Millar 1977, 110–22; and also Salmeri 2000, 89–90, setting up a contrast between Dio Chrysostom and the Roman republican tradition exemplified by his contemporary Tacitus. 5 See also 18, identifying flattery as more harmful than the debasement of coinage. 6 In both orations, Dio works in a long tradition of writing about friendship in terms that include utility, stretching at least as far back as Aristot. Nic. Eth. 8.1155b; friends are inherently “helpful” (ὠφέλιμοι) (3.94), “more useful” (μᾶλλον … χρήσιμοι) than one’s own eyes, ears, tongue, or hands (3.104–7; cf. 1.32), and even more valuable than family connections due to their usefulness (3.113), hence Swain’s reading of the references to friendship in Or. 3 as a matter of having a good pool of candidates for imperial administration (Swain 1996, 208–9). 7 Discussed at Whitmarsh 2001a, 216–25. 8 See also 11.18.5, as well as 1.9.2 for friendship versus flattery. On Marcus’ relationship to Antoninus Pius in this work, see Gill 2013, 71–78. 9 Generally read as a return to the traditional governance of the republic. On Cassius Dio’s use of the term de-mokratia, see ch. 3 nn168–69. 10 “I will speak with frankness (μετὰ παρρησίας); for I myself could not speak otherwise, and I am aware that you do not enjoy hearing flattering lies (τὰ ψευδῆ μετὰ κολακείας).” On parrhe-sia in the Agrippa–Maecenas debate, see also Mallan 2016, 270. 11 On the flattery of kings, see also Dio Chrys. Orr. 3.2–3, 12–13, 25, 4.14–15, 124; Longin. 44; Cass. Dio 56.41.8. 12 On Plutarch’s relationship to Philopappus as a point of entry for analysis of this text, see also Whitmarsh 2006, situating both the relationship and the text against the background of sympotic ethics. For biographical information on Philopappus, see Kirchner 1941; Puech 1992, 4870–73; van Meirvenne 2002, 141; Whitmarsh 2006, 93–94.

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13 Pelling’s immediate subject is the Lives; see also Duff 1999, 68–69. 14 Maximus is most concerned here with equality of character among friends, but his discussion derives from longstanding ideas about friendship and equality of status (cf. Aristot. Nic. Eth. 8.1158b1–59a5, pertaining to external status as well as other types of distinction). 15 The Hellenistic interest in flattery is illustrated by Menander Kolax; Theophrastus Characters (as well as his lost works On Friendship and On Flattery, referenced at Diog. Laert. 5.45, 47; see also Ath. 6.254d); Clearchus of Soli Gergithios (quoted at Ath. 6.255c–57c); Philodemus On Parrhe-sia (PHerc. 1471, an epitome of a lecture by the Epicurean Zeno of Sidon, as noted by Konstan et al. 1998, 8); and various fragments from On Vices and Virtues, which seems to have included three books On Flattery (PHerc. 222, 223, 1082, 1089, 1457, 1675, discussed in Glad 1996; Kemp 2010, with further references). However, these are preceded by the now lost Kolakes of Eupolis and Kolakos of Aristophanes (on which see Storey 2003, 55 n7, 179–97). On social inequality and this “socio-political flattery,” see also Foucault 2005, 379–80. 16 Besides Adulator, see esp. Dio Chrys. Or. 3.14–24; Max. Tyr. 3.7, 14 passim; Luc. Merc. Cond.; Apol.; Par.; Hist. Conscr. See further Glad 1996, 25–26; Trapp 2007c, 153–54. 17 For explicit discussions of toadying to the rich, see Plut. De Amic. 94a–b; [De Lib. Educ.] esp. 13a–c; Luc. Merc. Cond. passim; Timon passim; Pisc. 34; Apol. 9; Ael. Ar. Or. 3.667–71. 18 For the influence of Roman forms of hierarchy in the Greek east, see van Nijf 1997, 134–37, 163–64, 187, 216–18, 243–47. 19 See e.g. Gallo and Pettine 1988, 21–22: “Esso riguarda, come del resto c’era da aspettarsi, la valenza morale e non quella politica del concetto e del termine”; Konstan 1997a, 105: “Plutarch’s essay is about friendship, not statecraft or the courtier’s art. He assumes that a disinterested relationship may obtain between king and subordinate just as it may between social equals”; Connolly 2001a, 362– 63: “he whittles down the crucial democratic right of free speech into bad manners, shifting the site of parrhe-sia into the exclusively non-civic and non-political space of aristocratic relations.” For discussions of political elements in Flatterer, cf. Engberg-Pedersen 1996, esp. 77–78; van Meirvenne 2002; Whitmarsh 2006. 20 See further ch. 1 n36. 21 A famous passage from Plut. Praecepta presents backroom dealings as the locus of even seemingly institutional decision-making (813a–b), though this should probably not be taken as representative. In addition to Praecepta, see also Dio Chrys. Orr. 31–51 for other arenas in which local elites could exercise influence, including serving on formal embassies to the emperor and other cities, acting as brokers for favors from the emperor, and wielding economic power, particularly through their involvement in food supplies (“as either speculators or euergetists,” in the words of Garnsey 1988, 257); on this last role, see further Garnsey 1988, 254, 257–68; Erdkamp 2005, 267–68, 279–80. 22 While Hutter argues for a fundamental conceptual linkage between friendship and politics in classical Athens (Hutter 1978, esp. 25–55), it is important to distinguish concept from practice. 23 See e.g. Bowie 1970, 18 n49; C. P. Jones 1971, 133; 1978, 81. 24 ἀνθυπείκειν and ἀνθύπειξις. See esp. Praecepta 815b, on contemporary Greek elites’ failure to make such compromises with honor and graciousness; Cor. 18.1 and TG 20.1, on concessions between the people and the senate; Phoc. 2.8, on the statesman’s ideal moderate course of action, in which he yields to the common people in return for their obedience; Ages. 5.3, where Plutarch expresses reservations about institutionalized competitiveness in Sparta. See also Sol. 4.3; De Frat. 485b, 487c, 488a. Cf. Cass. Dio 7.29.6 (on patricians and plebeians), 45.8.2 (on Caesar and Antony).

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25 For this construction, see Smyth §1312. 26 Discussions of the topic can be found in Praecepta; De Se Ipsum; De Alex.; De Cohib.; An Seni.; De Tuenda; De Virt. Mor.; De Frat.; Quaes. Conv.; numerous Lives. See further Nikolaidis 2012; Schmitz 2012; Stadter 2015, 169–70, 270–85. 27 See esp. 31–38, 183–92. 28 On this work’s flattery of Philopappus, see Engberg-Pedersen 1996, 65–67. 29 Cf. Philostr. VS 540–41 for the story of Varus, a rich young man whose flatterers had convinced him he was the best at everything (including declamation). 30 Ziegler 1951, 801; Klaerr, Philippon, and Sirinelli 1989, 66; Konstan 1997a, 99. 31 Cf. Alexis Steersman (fr. 121 PCG) distinguishing the “high-class parasite” (σεμνοπαράσιτον) from the common type (quoted at Ath. 6.237b–d). 32 On the Greek privileging of egalitarianism, see e.g. Morris 1996; Raaflaub 2004b, 91–101; L. G. Mitchell 2009, 4–5. On the tension between the ideal of equality in the Greek symposium and imperial-era hierarchical realities, see Whitmarsh 2000; 2006. 33 For Roman social and economic stratification, see Scheidel 2006, with further references. More recently, Scheidel (2017, 62–85) has argued that large and longstanding agrarian empires, such as that of ancient Rome, tend to intensify inequality due, in part, to their stabilizing influence. On developments in the eastern Mediterranean as broadly consistent with those across the empire, see Alcock 2007; Zuiderhoek 2009, 53–56. On patronage, see de Ste. Croix 1954; Saller 1982. 34 Cartledge and Spawforth 2002, 94. See also Badian 1958; D. Braund 1989; Ferrary 1997; Eilers 2002. 35 Cf. e.g. Xen. Mem. 2.9–10. See further Finley 1983, 39–49; Millett 1989; Arnaoutoglou 1994; L. G. Mitchell 2009, esp. 1–15; Alwine 2016 (noting that classical Athens and other democratic poleis used strategies to limit patronage that were absent from contemporary oligarchies). 36 On Plutarch’s influential connections, see C. P. Jones 1971, 39–64; Puech 1992; Stadter 2015, 21–44. Philopappus was both a Roman consular and a descendant of Hellenistic kings; on the negotiations of Greek and Roman identity on his monumental tomb, see R. R. R. Smith 1998, 70–73. 37 I owe the connection between this passage and patronage to Saller 1982, 30–31. On patronage and friendship in Praecepta, see also Van der Stockt 2002. 38 See also the networks of personal patronage depicted at De Amic. 94a–96b. In addition, when Plutarch states in Praecepta that “friends are the living and thinking tools of a statesman” (ὄργανα γὰρ οἱ φίλοι ζῶντα καὶ φρονοῦντα τῶν πολιτικῶν ἀνδρῶν εἰσί, 807d), evoking the use of organon as a term for a slave, it should warn against idealizing his presentation of philia too much. 39 Adulator 50c, 51b, 62b–65a; see also De Amic. 94b, 95b–d. For a reading of Adulator through the lens of patronage relations in parallel to Plin. Ep., see Fields forthcoming a. On Plutarch’s depiction of friendship, see further O’Neill 1997; Giannattasio Andria 2008. On De Amic. specifically, see Van der Stockt 2011, with further references. Cf. Sen. Ben. 6.33.1–34.3, distinguishing unequal friendships from patron–client relationships, while arguing that frank advice is one of the few benefits that one can bestow on a social superior (and see also 6.30.3). 40 Discussed at length in Damon 1995; see further Damon 1997; Tylawsky 2002; König 2012, 242–47. 41 See esp. Apol. 9: “flattery is considered the most servile (δουλοπρεπέστατον) of all the vices (κακῶν).” On slavery, patronage, and flattery in Luc. De Merc., see Whitmarsh 2001a, 279–93. 42 See also Pollux Onom. 4.148–9; Luc. Sat. 39; Alciph. Book 3 (esp. 5, 11, 27); Ath. 6.234c–62a (esp. 236e–37f, 239a–40b, 248c–f). And for a review of scholarly attempts to parse out differences between kolax and parasitos, see Storey 2003, 189–90 with n20.

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43 E.g. Plut. Rom. 13; DH Ant. Rom. 2.9–10. See further I. Hahn 1983; Millett 1989, 21. Bowersock notes that πάτρων (the transliteration of the Latin term patronus) appears regularly in Greek inscriptions from the early first century BCE (Bowersock 1965, 12 with n4), in keeping with Saller’s observation that inscriptions set up by clients are more likely to acknowledge patronage relationships than are elite literary texts, since it is the job of the recipient to broadcast the patron’s favor (Saller 1982, 10). 44 However, the senses of the terms are obscure here, since they appear in a discussion of the plant ivy, which refuses to adapt itself to live among barbarians in the Babylonian climate because (it is joked) the plant is a “client and parasite” of the god Dionysus. Cf. a scholiast on Lucian, who writes that Patroclus was Achilles’ client (pelate-s) but not his parasite (33.46.1 Rabe). 45 Autarkeia and related words appear at least 40 times in Plutarch’s corpus and are closely connected with happiness and ascetic virtue, for individuals and for cities (see esp. Adulator 57d; VV 101b, d; Quaes. Rom. 267f; De Cohib. 461c; De Cup. 523d; Quaes. Conv. 632e; De Vitando 828c–d; Lyc. 31.1; Comp. Lyc. Num. 2.1, 4.7; Comp. Aristid. Cat. 4; Alex. 53.4). On autarky in classical Greece, see Raaflaub 2004b, 184–87. It is also worth noting that any kind of dependency (including work for pay) could also be conceived as a form of slavery in Greek culture, going back at least as far as classical Athens (Dover 1974, 40; Millett 1989, 28–29). 46 Van Hoof 2010, esp. 19–26; cf. Yaginuma 1992, 4741, taking at face value the intimate and informal tone. 47 Brokate 1913, 2–11; Ziegler 1951, 802; Gallo and Pettine 1988, 17–26; Klaerr, Philippon, and Sirinelli 1989, 68–71. 48 See e.g. Engberg-Pedersen 1996, 63; Konstan 1997a, 103 with n15; Whitmarsh 2006, 103. 49 Despite the textual problems posed by this passage, I have tried to capture the sense at least; see further Lausdei 1992, 37–42 (and, while I am skeptical about his emendations, which make the passage refer to becoming aware of one’s intolerance of frankness rather than perceiving a need for it, these suggestions in no way undermine my argument). 50 See e.g. 49a–b, 53e, 59a. 51 Frankness is not necessarily so fraught among friends and other intimates; cf. the passages quoted at ch. 1 n54, as well as Plut. Rom. 19.1–5; Dion 21.7–9; Alciph. 4.16.1 (though this letter from the courtesan Lamia to her lover Demetrius Poliorcetes certainly includes flattery). 52 Among his services are also “advocating on [his friend’s] behalf” (συνειπεῖν), “giving financial help” (συνεισενεγκεῖν), and “taking his side in a quarrel” (συναγωνίσασθαι) (64e). 53 From the first part of this work see also e.g. 54d–55d (from which 55c is quoted above), 59a, 63f–64b. 54 See Whitton 2013, 123, comparing Plin. Ep. 2.6 and rejecting the alternate reading that takes this phrase to refer to different classes of clients. 55 As encapsulated in use of a mirror to see oneself as others do at De Cohib. 456a–b. See also Plutarch’s repeated quotation of the Delphic maxim “know thyself” in Adulator (49b, 65f). 56 The ambivalence of the pharmakon is central to Derrida’s famous essay “Plato’s Pharmacy” (Derrida 1981, 63–171). For frankness as an explicitly ambiguous pharmakon, see also Adulator 61c, 66b (and cf. Dio Chrys. Or. 77/78, where language as a whole is a pharmakon: used for flattery it can cause illness, used for parrhesia it can cure). For other instances of the medical metaphor in Adulator, see 59d, 60b, 63d, 67e–f, 69a, 70f–71a, 73a–b, 73d–e, 74d–e. On the prevalence of medical imagery in this work, see further Klaerr, Philippon, and Sirinelli 1989, 70; van Meirvenne 2002, 144–53.

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57 As discussed in ch. 3 with reference to Alexander. On wine and frankness, see also ch. 1. 58 Cf. Rep. 514a–20a. 59 Cf. Plutarch’s own use of compliment mixed with gentle critique (such as discussing how self-love makes one particularly susceptible to flattery, 48e–49a, 65e; a claim repeated at De Se Ipsum 546b; De Tranq. 471d–e), by which he enacts his own advice to the friend in an inferior position (found at 66d–e, 74d), reminding us of the status differential between the author and Philopappus. 60 For a discussion of this dynamic in Plut. Arat. see Monaco Caterine 2018. 61 Gallo, arguing against taking Philodemus as a model for Plutarch, calls attention to the works’ differences in setting, structure, and content (Gallo 1988, 124). For other such comparisons, see Konstan 1996b, 12–13 (about On Parrhe-sia); Glad 1996, 26 (about On Flattery). It is important to note, as Glad (1996, 36) points out, that Philodemus advocates for harsh criticism as well as the gentle sort, so long as it is effective within a particular type of relationship. 62 Cols. XXIIb–XXIVa. See also On Parrhe-sia frs. 6–7, 22, 26, 36–38, 50, 68, 73, 79; cols. Ia–b; and further Glad 1996, esp. 57–59; Tsouna 2007, 108–9; Konstan 2012, 2–3 (and for a recent reordering of some of these fragments, see Delattre 2015). Other similarities include the medical metaphor for friendly guidance and an openness to adopting the techniques of the flatterer for the benefit of a friend (discussed most succinctly in a fragment from On Flattery at PHerc. 222 col. 2, on which see Glad 1996, 27). On the medical metaphor for ethical education in Philodemus, see further Tsouna 2007, 74–79, 93–103. 63 We are not told how the slave felt about this method of instruction. See also the frankness between teacher and student in the interactions between Socrates and Alcibiades, Plato and Dion (69f), Socrates and Plato, and Pythagoras and a pupil who commits suicide (70e–f). 64 See e.g. Plat. Soph. 222e–23a (although cf. Gorg. esp. 463a–65c, which differentiates flattery from real technai, followed by Max. Tyr. 14.8); Isoc. De Pac. 4; Ad Nic. 28. Cf. also Luc. Par., arguing for parasitism as an art, on which see Nesselrath 1985.

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Authorizing frankness Lucian’s satire

An admiring critic once compared reading Samuel Beckett to “watching the Western canon stick its fingers down its throat.”1 Given slight adjustments, this disquieting image also captures something important about Lucian of Samosata’s relationship to the Greek literary and cultural past. Rather than simply playing spot-the-reference games (as so often goes the derisive judgment on self-consciously belated authors),2 he creates worlds populated by incongruous and destabilizing mash-ups of tropes, genres, and famous names. In so doing he also enacts a kind of revisionist violence (hubris) on these traditions, even as he uses their prestige to lend authority to his own voice (or rather his various voices).3 It should therefore provoke little surprise that many of the themes connected with parrhe-sia in this book also find their way into Lucian’s oeuvre, where they receive his distinctive satirical treatment.4 In this chapter we will witness the dramatization of a disjuncture between the Athenian model of citizens’ equal frankness and a world in which monarchs rule and stark hierarchies underpin social interaction. We will also see the ideal of uncompromising philosophical courage upheld at the same time as many of its proponents are exposed as shams. Finally, we will be audience to a contest in which Lucian pits versions of himself against his rivals (real or imaginary) to determine who is the legitimate heir to the classical legacy of frank speech. But first a word about my choice to reserve extended discussion of Lucian’s works for their own chapter. As a self-described Syrian who allegedly climbed to the heights of contemporary educated culture by his own efforts, he both wields his paideia as a weapon and defends it fiercely against others’ attacks,5 participating in an agonistic culture of rhetorical display that had come to dominate Greek intellectual life by his floruit in the middle of the second century CE. Yet in keeping with his self-presentation as a quasi-barbarian outsider, he frequently observes the culture and society around him from a distance (though of course we should be extremely cautious about taking these details at face value, as with practically everything in Lucian’s writings).6 Whether they stem from his ethnic identity or not, his idiosyncratic takes on culturally pervasive themes provide a unique perspective on imperial Greek culture, in a paradox of simultaneous marginality and centrality. As Karen Ní Mheallaigh

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puts it, he is “both paradigmatic of his contemporary context and exceptional to it” (Ní Mheallaigh 2014, 35). Furthermore, though the magpie tendencies of satire bring it into contact with the topics of other chapters, the particular difficulties (and pleasures) of interpreting such narratives mean that the greatest payoff comes from considering their perspectives together, rather than allowing their satirical pungency to be diluted within broader thematic discussions. Yet another reason to prefer this approach is the high level of interplay between Lucian’s texts, if not necessarily scrupulous consistency, as is to be expected for a type of writing in which ideas are not systematically worked out so much as explored in manifold permutations.7 One such distinctive feature of Lucian’s writings, which is consistent even in its inconsistency, is the evasiveness of his narrative voice. He often uses protagonists whose names or identifying characteristics link them unavoidably to the author, while also maintaining a certain deliberate distance and even plausible deniability. What is more, he is even evasive when he inserts himself into the narrative using his own name.8 With these techniques, Lucian’s texts thematize problems of separating the writer from his literary product9 (which are often conflated in the ancient world, as is evident from the biographical traditions around early poets). At the same time, his writings call attention to the difficulty of pinning down his intentions. If for no other reason than this, we should be wary of jettisoning discussion of intention in his works, even though our conclusions will inevitably be provisional (at least beyond the reasonably confident assertion that the author is being deliberately evasive). I would like to emphasize, however, that this chapter is not invested in discovering Lucian’s real views so much as analyzing the way his satire holds up a mirror (albeit a distorting one) to the world around him as well as the traditions of paideia with which imperial Greek culture was imbued. In this way, my discussion synthesizes elements from the two most important traditions of scholarship associated with Lucian, one of which focuses on literary mimesis, as in the foundational study of Jacques Bompaire (1958), while the other emphasizes the author’s engagement with the contemporary world, as exemplified by Louis Robert (1980).

Athens vs. Rome, egalitarianism vs. hierarchy More explicitly than any other author in this book, Lucian treats frank speech as a Greek ideal that exists in tension with Roman realities. Material from other chapters has touched upon issues of Greek identity in connection with parrhe-sia, but these texts have tended to approach the dichotomy between Greece and Rome in ways that are more intricately coded. For example, the role of the philosophical advisor to kings (so central to chapter 3) is Greek by implication and cultural association rather than definition. Likewise, Dio’s seemingly self-appointed position as a public critic of the eastern Mediterranean cities is founded in the history of the Greek polis but allegedly backed up by the emperor’s authority (chapter 4), and the unequal friendships

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discussed in Plutarch do not exist only between powerful Romans and lesspowerful Greeks, though the context for such relationships is provided by Roman-influenced hierarchies (chapter 5). Lucian’s satire, however, frequently sets up diametrically opposed images of Greek philosophical freedom and Roman decadence, such as this example from Nigrinus (14–15): So then, he praised all these things and also the freedom there [in Athens], and their ungrudging way of living, and their tranquility and quietness of life, which they have in plenty. He declared, for instance, that the lifestyle among those men is in harmony with philosophy (φιλοσοφίᾳ συνῳδόν) and is able to keep the character pure (καθαρὸν ἦθος φυλάξαι), and that, for a serious man who has been taught to despise wealth and chooses to live for what is naturally good, the life there is a perfect fit. But whoever lusts after wealth and is bewitched by gold and measures happiness by purple and power, and has not tasted freedom (ἐλευθερίας) nor experienced frankness (παρρησίας) nor caught sight of truth (ἀληθείας), who is a companion always of flattery (κολακείᾳ) and slavery (δουλείᾳ); or whoever has given over his soul entirely to pleasure and has decided to serve her alone, and is fond of elaborate feasts, and fond of drinking and the pleasures of Aphrodite, and is full of trickery (γοητείας), deception (ἀπάτης), and falsehood (ψευδολογίας); or whoever takes delight in listening to twangings and twitterings and corrupting songs, for those sorts of people the lifestyle here [in Rome] is suitable. The slavish and dishonest life at Rome throws into relief Nigrinus’ image of contemporary Athens as a paragon of freedom, frankness, and philosophical integrity, creating a continuity with the commonly idealized image of the city’s classical past while also drawing on more recent conceptual developments that emphasize internally determined freedom. The work is filled with similar clichés about the philosophical life intrinsic to the Greek city and the unavoidably degraded milieu of Rome. But before we conclude that Lucian identifies frank speech as an un-Roman or even anti-Roman act, it is important to note that the text’s wide range of evasive techniques makes it perilous to take either its encomium or its polemic at face value, and it is likewise tricky to pin down who or what is the target of its satire.10 Besides the standard Lucianic trick of identifying the narrative voice with the author and then destabilizing that identification, the work also establishes an elaborate set of framing narratives, on the model of Plato’s Symposium, further complicating interpretation.11 The outermost frame takes the form of a letter from Lucian to the philosopher Nigrinus, within which he relates a dialogue between two anonymous characters. One of these interlocutors, presented as a new philosophical convert, tells of his visit to the philosopher at the man’s house in Rome, and it is from the report of Nigrinus’ antiRoman rant during this meeting that the quote above is drawn. While many scholars, prompted by the absence of external attestation for Nigrinus, have

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taken him to be Lucian’s invention and even his mouthpiece, both the dialogue format and the nesting structure of narration within narration discourage the attribution of Nigrinus’ views to the author. In addition, even the use of Lucian’s own name in the epistolary frame seems designed to keep him outside the narrative, at least to first appearances.13 These distancing techniques in the Nigrinus should make us question any straight reading of the contrasting depictions of Athens and Rome and therefore the stereotypes of Greek and Roman culture the text presents.14 After all, despite his criticisms of Rome, Nigrinus has chosen to make his home there, lending the text an additional layer of irony.15 Other works from Lucian’s corpus explore similar problems with using Greek philosophical frankness in a world dominated by Rome. There is a particularly striking variation on this theme in On Salaried Posts, which dramatizes the humiliations that Greek philosophers face when their vaunted independence of mind collides with their economic dependence on wealthy Romans.16 This work focuses on the practice among educated Greeks (pepaideumenoi) of courting patrons among Roman elites, presenting such men as reduced to the role of pet intellectuals and sometimes even caregivers for their patrons’ pets (as in the story of the incontinent lapdog foisted upon an austere Stoic philosopher by his patroness) (34). At best, their mantles and long beards, as signifiers of learning, cloak their patrons’ boorishness (25). Setting aside the many obvious indignities of such service (which provide plenty of fodder for Roman satirists too), the most significant problem for Lucian’s narrator is the disjuncture between the high-minded ideals of these learned men, especially the philosophers among them, and their endurance of insults that are suitable only for other members of the household retinue, “such as athletics trainers or flatterers.” After all, he says, putting up with degradation (hubris) is a flatterer’s particular skill (techne-).17 This contrast between philosopher and flatterer seems designed to evoke the common dichotomy of frankness and flattery discussed at length in chapter 5, leading to the conclusion that the domestic philosopher’s loss of freedom (eleutheria) is inextricable from his inability to use the frank speech that Lucian expressly claims for himself in writing this screed (4).18 Philosophers are also singled out as those who not only should be treated “more respectfully” (σεμνότερον) than other members of the household (4), but ought to hold themselves to a higher standard as well; the addressee Timocles (identified as a philosopher)19 is imagined selling himself into slavery and forgetting his “freedom and nobility” (ἡ δὲ ἐλευθερία καὶ τὸ εὐγενές) (23–24). These terms, when applied to a philosopher, do not serve simply as conventional indicators of status but rather point to the independent and noble spirit that such men should display.20 The gap between the Greek ideal of friendly equality and the hierarchical reality of a wealthy Roman household underlies the discussion of flattery in Salaried Posts.21 Peeling back the polite veneer of friendship language that conventionally masks positions of dependency in such households, Lucian scoffs at the idea that this form of slavery (douleia) should be given the name

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of friendship (philia) (1).22 Flattery too inevitably pervades such unequal relationships (demonstrated at 20, 24, 28, 35, 38), even as the philosopher’s patron and employer claims that everything in his household is “democratic” (δημοτικά) and based on “sharing in common” (κοινῶν), suggesting that it should be understood as an egalitarian environment. Moreover, the self-sufficient spirit associated with a philosopher, his autarkeia, is used by the Roman patron to manipulate him into accepting low pay, adding insult to the injury of a life that is far from independent (19). In some sense, such a patron challenges the philosopher to live up to his ideals, but only out of stingy selfinterest, not out of concern for the other man’s well-being. The result is a cheapening not only of the philosopher’s wages, but of his principles too. In the end, such a life of service means giving up his freedom (eleutheria) and his agency (exousia), for rewards that are hardly worth it (30). For this reason, when Lucian follows Salaried Posts with a work titled Apology, in which he defends himself for accepting a position as a functionary in the provincial administration of Egypt,23 the author’s assertion of his frankness is an integral part of the work’s self-justifying rhetoric. Here the (possibly imaginary) addressee, a philosopher named Sabinus, plays the satirist’s part, recapitulating the frankness of Salaried Posts by criticizing the narrator’s hypocrisy for accepting such an appointment after writing the prior work. When the narrator characterizes this vituperation using the well-established parrhesiastic metaphors of cutting and cauterizing (2), he signals the philosophical qualities not only of the frank speech he imagines for his addressee but also of his own frankness in Salaried Posts. In addition, the name Sabinus is markedly Roman,24 pointing toward an adjustment in the conception of frankness in Apology, as part of a larger reorientation that complicates the highly schematic conflict of interests between educated Greeks and the wielders of Roman power established in Salaried Posts. The narrator’s claim to parrhe-sia in the very writing of Apology (13) purports to prove that he retains his freedom in spite of becoming closely enmeshed in Roman power structures. Taken together, the references to frankness on the part of both Sabinus and the narrator make the case that parrhe-sia need not be exclusively Greek nor determinedly anti-Roman.

Democracy vs. monarchy Perceived differences between the Greek past and the Roman present are also reflected in texts like Zeus the Tragedian and Assembly (Ekkle-sia) of the Gods. Here the conventions of the Athenian Assembly (as the iconic site of egalitarian, democratic parrhe-sia) clash with elements of monarchy and hierarchy from the contemporary world, seen through the lens of Zeus’ quasiHomeric court on Olympus.25 At the same time, these texts and related works satirize Zeus’ monarchic power, in effect sending up the hollowness of autocracy itself even if they do not target any particular emperor.

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The works examined most closely in this section share a similar premise. In Zeus the Tragedian the divinities hold an assembly to decide how best to respond to an Epicurean philosopher on earth (more precisely in the Painted Stoa at Athens), who makes the all-too-persuasive case that the gods either do not exist or are not concerned with human life. In Assembly of the Gods Zeus calls a comparable meeting so that the gods can debate the problems caused by the inclusion of too many new and foreign deities on Olympus, which has put pressure on the available resources of nectar and ambrosia (13).26 As R. B. Branham has demonstrated, Lucian’s humor in these and other texts is built to a significant degree on the incursion of contemporary realities into the timeless mythical world of the gods (Branham 1989, 127–77). However, as I will show, these scenarios also involve a third element by drawing on an idealized image of the classical era. Furthermore, their payoff is not just a matter of literary parody or travesty; as in fifth-century Athenian drama, the distancing effect of a mythical setting allows the author to explore tensions within contemporary society.27 Contemporary concerns assert themselves strikingly in Zeus the Tragedian with a prolonged discussion of correct seating order among the gods (7–12), by contrast with the classical Athenian Ekkle-sia, which had no formalized hierarchical seating.28 The question is handled in Lucian’s dialogue with comedic category blurring, in that the gods are represented by their statues, with the place of each in the hierarchy mainly determined by the physical properties of his or her icon. However, there is a satirical sting in this premise too: at first the statues made of gold are given the most prestigious positions, in a nod to the moralizing cliché that wealth unjustly takes precedence over other modes of valuation.29 In the end, however, conflicts between various deities’ claims to preeminence become so fraught that the decision about seating order must be postponed to a future meeting. The gods are left to sit wherever they like, not out of any egalitarian impulse on Zeus’ part but simply due to his exasperation at their quarreling. These works manipulate the conventions of the Athenian Assembly in other ways as well. In both dialogues Hermes announces the formulaic invitation for citizens to address the gathering: “Who wishes to speak?” (τίς ἀγορεύειν βούλεται;),30 and Assembly of the Gods even ends with the passage of a decree that parodies those from the classical era (14–18),31 but there are also signs that a less democratic system is operating on Olympus than such superficial indicators would suggest. For one thing, Zeus passes the decree himself, expressly avoiding a vote because he expects the majority to go against his preference (19). This decision is difficult to interpret. Zeus’ sense that such an act was necessary suggests that the rest of the gods would be willing to contradict him, but at the same time his action reveals a readiness to flout the procedures of democracy and force his will on others when it suits him. In keeping with the tenuousness of this democratic veneer, both dialogues depict other deities asking Zeus’ permission to speak frankly, a subservient

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gesture that is out of place in the purportedly egalitarian context of the ekkle-sia. It is particularly notable that these requests are most frequently voiced by Momus, the personification of fault-finding whose natural alignment with frank criticism makes him a prominent figure in Lucian’s satires.32 Despite these famous traits, in Assembly of the Gods Momus first seeks permission from the king of Olympus to speak (which is patently unnecessary given the proclamation that called the assembly to order, as Zeus himself points out) and then makes the further request to be granted parrhe-sia (1–2).33 In effect, the second appeal makes as little sense as the first, because the license to say what one wishes is already implied in the invitation to contribute to the assembly. Then, as Momus continues, his self-characterization suggests that the confrontational manner of his speech is at least as much a source of concern as its content,34 yet he insists that he could not speak in any other way than “frankly” (μετὰ παρρησίας) (2): For everyone knows that I am free with my tongue (ἐλεύθερος … τὴν γλῶτταν) and cannot stay silent when things are being done wrong; I expose (διελέγχω) everyone and I say what I think openly (λέγω τὰ δοκοῦντά μοι ἐς τὸ φανερόν), neither fearing anyone nor hiding my opinion out of respect (ὑπ’ αἰδοῦς).35 Yet this veritable manifesto of parrhe-sia only introduces further complications. After all, Momus’ assertion that frankness is part of his nature (phusis) appears inconsistent with his appeal to the external authorities that sanction his speech: “since it is indeed permissible, and has been proclaimed, and you, Zeus, grant me to speak with license, I will speak without any reservations” (ἐπείπερ ἔξεστιν καὶ κεκήρυκται καὶ σύ, ὦ Ζεῦ, δίδως μετ’ ἐξουσίας εἰπεῖν, οὐδὲν ὑποστειλάμενος ἐρῶ) (2). In this passage we witness the collision of three different traditions of parrhe-sia, which are related to one another but nevertheless irreconcilable in important ways: frankness as a citizen prerogative, frankness as a privilege granted by a monarch, and frankness as a mode of ethical self-definition, the last type implied by Momus’ description of his character (and perhaps also by that final assertion, “I will speak”).36 The third variety is also a matter of the speaker’s choice, setting it apart from democratic and monarchic parrhe-sia, which are contingent upon their political contexts. Only in a democratic city (or, on a narrower reading of classical parrhe-sia, in the Athenian Assembly itself) can frankness approach anything like a right of citizenship.37 In such a setting seeking permission to speak is antithetical to the conventions of the institution, while it is perfectly fitting for those operating in a royal court. Therefore, when Momus departs from his iconic fault-finding to praise Zeus for encouraging frankness, we should recognize the hallmarks of the good king and wise advisor tropes: “It is well done, Zeus, that you actually urge me toward frankness; it is truly a kingly (βασιλικόν) and high-minded (μεγαλόφρον) thing you are doing” (4). And when Momus seeks explicit permission

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to criticize Zeus personally, the king of the gods demonstrates the justness of his petitioner’s words of praise by allowing such frankness, even as he warns Momus not to disparage favorites like Heracles (6) and Ganymede (8). In this exchange, we can see how a monarch’s tolerance of parrhe-sia sends a message about both his power and his benevolence. The same trope of the good king is closely connected with Zeus’ motivation for convening the assembly in Zeus the Tragedian. As Hermes advises him, “you’ll seem tyrannical if you don’t consult (κοινούμενος) [with the other gods] on matters that are of such great importance and common concern (κοινῶν) to all.” This emphasis on sharing in common draws upon images of the good king, who not only includes his advisors in his rule but also concerns himself with the welfare of the public (also called τὸ κοινόν) (5). Similarly, when the assembly is called to order and Momus asks permission to speak frankly, Zeus grants him the privilege because, as he says, “it is clear that you intend to use parrhe-sia for the common benefit” (δῆλος γὰρ εἶ ἐπὶ τῷ συμφέροντι παρρησιασόμενος) (19).38 Yet in this dialogue, as in Assembly of the Gods, the institution of the assembly merely provides a façade for Zeus’ autocratic power. It is ultimately up to the king of the gods how many of the trappings of democracy he will maintain, including whether or not he will allow frank criticism. Likewise the emphasis on the common interest seems to indicate a conflation of democratic governance with rule that is (at least allegedly) in the interest of the de-mos, a slippage that G. E. M. de Ste. Croix (1981, 323) identifies as characteristic of Greek political discourse starting in the second century CE.39 When these works evoke tropes about the good king and his wise advisors, which play such an important part in Greek intellectuals’ engagement with and representation of Roman emperors, we are left to ask how much (if at all) Lucian’s humorous manipulations of the Homeric Zeus should be taken as comments on autocratic power in general and the role of the emperor more specifically.40 Behind this lies another issue, namely the much-debated question of whether or not Lucian’s depictions of the Olympian gods are iconoclastic,41 which will in turn inevitably influence our interpretation of the work’s approach to monarchy.42 The task of unpicking this knotty issue is made even more difficult by the fact that Lucian’s treatment of Zeus varies enormously, sometimes highlighting his power, sometimes undercutting it to comic effect. Consider Zeus Refuted (Elenchomenos), which starts with a generic Cynic named Cyniscus taking up a role already familiar to us from the depictions of Momus; that is, he plays against type by asking permission to question Zeus frankly (5). Up to this point, Zeus’ authority remains intact. However, Cyniscus ends up revealing the Olympian’s inability to change fate, by following to their logical conclusion inconsistencies that are already present in Homer, leaving the king of the gods effectively powerless and incapable of inspiring fear (9, 15, 19). Likewise, in Zeus the Tragedian, the title character appears far from intimidating, making it all the stranger when someone as

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famously outspoken as Momus addresses him with such caution.43 We can compare also the mythological yet mundane court intrigue of Dialogues of the Gods,44 as well as the overworked, managerial Zeus of Twice Accused and Icaromenippus, who is occupied in the latter work with responding to mortals’ prayers and oaths, much like the emperor answers subjects’ petitions (25–26).45 At the same time, it is worth noting that Icaromenippus ends with Zeus asserting his power to destroy all philosophers (33–34). In another context this might be presented as a tyrannical act, evoking the famous persecutions of such men in the reigns of Nero, Vespasian, and Domitian.46 Here, however, Zeus’ decision is presented as a victory of piety and common sense over hypocrisy and arrogance,47 an ending akin to Strepsiades’ ambiguous destruction of Socrates and his Thinkery at the close of Aristophanes’ Clouds, which is carried out in the name of the traditional worship of Zeus (along with other, more self-serving motives). The joke in Icaromenippus (again, already anticipated by Clouds) lies in the incongruity of such a literal-minded realization of Zeus’ justice; it works because Lucian’s audience, like that of Aristophanes, does not actually expect Zeus to strike down those who offend against him.48 Taken together, these satires of Zeus reveal traditional accounts of his omnipotence to be a matter of superficial performance, doing so either within the narratives themselves or in the responses they elicit from the audience (through Lucian’s engagement with that touchstone of paideia, the Homeric poems).49 Thus, the dialogues take part in the puncturing of authority that is so central to Lucian’s satirical project. Furthermore, the undermining of Zeus’ power could have suggested to Lucian’s audience the contingency of other kinds of autocratic rule.50 While Lucian’s satire tends to be engaged mainly with skewering the cultural authority of those who could be considered his rivals (as later sections of this chapter will address), a distant monarch with a fawning court supplies the context for other kinds of hierarchy and competition. If his authority rings hollow, everything that follows from his existence is that much more a sham.

Parrhe-sia as way of life (and death) The initial timidity of the Cynic in Zeus Refuted contradicts the bold ethos of his philosophic sect.51 This is especially surprising because, as established in chapter 2, uncompromising frankness is a valuable tool for philosophical self-fashioning; it articulates the speaker’s freedom, and can even be understood to produce it, in a kind of speech-act. However, as we have also seen in preceding chapters, the vital role of frankness in determining freedom is by no means a niche matter for the philosophical schools. Lucian’s writings too illustrate the broad interest in and applicability of this conception of parrhe-sia, with works that vary widely in tone and subject. A rhetorical showpiece titled Slander (Diabole-), for example, makes flattery (kolakeia) a counterpart to the malicious falsehood named in the title – so much so that

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the narrator identifies these grammatically feminine abstractions as sisters (20). It follows that slander, like flattery, is a particular hazard in royal courts and other seats of power (10). Frankness stands in opposition to both these strategies for ingratiation and accordingly is associated with being “noble and free” (γενναῖον καὶ ἐλεύθερον) (23). A slanderer is by contrast “lacking in frankness” (ἀπαρρησίαστος), a trait that naturally accompanies being “cowardly” (δειλός). The point is illustrated by a comparison with the unfair tactic of an ambush in war (part of a larger motif of military imagery that runs throughout the work): unwillingness to expose oneself to danger is a sign of cowardice and weakness. Otherwise, like a more admirable handto-hand fighter, the attacker would “make his accusations in the open” (εἰς τὸ φανερὸν ἐλέγχει) and not resort to “trickery” (ἀπάτῃ) (9). Similar associations between frankness, bravery, and a freedom that is at once ethical and political can be found in How to Write History, a seemingly serious work, which envisions the ideal historiographer as a “philos of truth” rather than of any monarch.52 He has an outlook so fearless and independent that it effectively renders him “cityless, autonomous, and kingless,” with allegiance only to “what happened” (τί πέπρακται) (41).53 His writings accordingly prove that he is “a free man” (ἐλεύθερος ἀνήρ) because they show him to be “full of frankness, and not at all toadying (κολακευτικόν) or servile (δουλοπρεπές)” (61).54 All the same, it would be foolish to ignore the numerous works in Lucian’s corpus that touch on the centrality of frankness to specifically philosophical identities, and among these I will focus for the moment on Sale of Lives, Demonax, and Dialogues of the Dead. To start with Sale of Lives, this work depicts philosophical sects embodied by their most famous practitioners and auctioned in the manner of slaves. Besides the work’s own variation on the theme of Cynic parrhe-sia (7–11),55 one of its most important characteristics for the purposes of this chapter is its emphasis on philosophy as a matter of bios, that is, one’s mode of life. This understanding of philosophy can be traced back to Socrates and had become conventional by the second century CE.56 Yet in adopting this viewpoint, Lucian complicates it in intriguing ways. Across his corpus, philosophical teachings (logoi) mostly provide fodder for satire. They do so by illustrating either the distance between the ideas philosophers promote and their own lifestyles (bioi),57 or the utter obscurity and uselessness of the teachings themselves.58 When the logoi of philosophers are treated as valuable, it is primarily insofar as they grant a distanced and even detached perspective on existence, thereby giving access to a higher truth about the insignificance of human life. But one form of logos, parrhe-sia, is an integral part of the correct philosophical modus vivendi, because it structures a philosopher’s interactions with others and allows him to disabuse them of their false notions with ruthless honesty.59 Therefore, despite Lucian’s privileging of bios, it is fundamentally inextricable from logos in his works, and parrhe-sia (as a mode of speaking that both signals and guarantees freedom in one’s life) lies at their nexus.

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We witness this frank way of living in Demonax, an admiring portrait of a contemporary philosopher, whom the satirist identifies as his own teacher and a model (paradeigma) for many other young men (2–3).60 While Demonax is characterized as an eclectic, much of his outlook and way of interacting with the world resembles Socrates or the Cynics (in keeping with his intellectual lineage, which includes the Cynics Agathobulus and Demetrius as well as the Stoic-Cynic Epictetus).61 For example, from a young age he senses that the things most men care about are worthless, evoking both Plato’s Apology and the Cynic rejection of convention.62 The life he chooses as a result of this realization also reflects a melding of Socratic philosophy with the Cynic developments that followed from it: Demonax devotes himself to a life of freedom (eleutheria), frankness (parrhe-sia), commitment to truth (ale-theia), and general uprightness (3). The resemblance to Socrates also extends to an important episode from Demonax’s life, making the Apology a key intertext for this work, in that his Socratic frankness gains him a Socrates-like enmity. Despite being universally admired in Athens (so the narrator alleges), the philosopher’s comportment while holding some magistracy turns many against him, and he is prosecuted because “he brought on himself no less hatred among the masses than did his forerunner (τοῦ πρὸ αὑτοῦ) for his frankness and freedom (παρρησίᾳ καὶ ἐλευθερίᾳ).” When the philosopher gives a suitably courageous (andreios) defense speech in the assembly, he does not placate the people but instead mixes his typical harmonious style with one that was “harsher than fit his usual disposition” (τραχύτερον ἢ κατὰ τὴν ἑαυτοῦ προαίρεσιν) (11). This last phrase is telling, with its play on prohairesis, which can indicate not just a personal disposition but also a sect of philosophy. Unlike his more direct style in the defense speech, Demonax normally tempers the iconic roughness of the Cynic school with a smoother and more urbane manner.63 We see evidence of this in the way his frankness characteristically takes the form of witty and sophisticated put-downs, which make up the bulk of the work (12–59) and resemble the quips that were immortalized by Philostratus in Lives of the Sophists.64 Taken as a whole, the trial scene further establishes Demonax’s legitimacy as a latter-day Socrates and sets him apart from rival claimants to the role.65 His prosecutors are compared to Anytus and Meletus, and they bring “the same charges” (τὰ αὐτά) that were brought against Socrates, seemingly establishing an unbroken (and unproblematic) philosophical lineage from late-fifthcentury Athens to Lucian’s own day. At the same time as this portrait is so clearly modeled after Socrates (whom Demonax himself says he reveres, 62), it also seeks to show that the later philosopher surpassed his antecedent. After all, Demonax produces an apologia that secures him an acquittal, even though (like Socrates) he refuses to pander to his audience (11).66 The balance between competition and admiration toward Socrates in this text perfectly encapsulates the ambivalence of ze-los (“rivalry/emulation”) that so often characterizes the self-positioning of the consciously belated in relation to

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models from the past. This is the lens through which we should view Demonax’s clever and sophisticated version of frankness: as no mere slavish imitation of the past but rather an updating of the irony with which Socrates approached others in his parrhesiastic questioning of them. Like Demonax’s reenactment of and improvement upon the story of Socrates’ trial, Dialogues of the Dead presents us with another means to engage with the frankness of past philosophers. In this set of short texts, we are privy to the conversations of a number of famous figures in the underworld, but Cynic philosophers play a particularly prominent role because, as Mikhail Bakhtin has noted, their ascetic habits and frank acknowledgement of the many ridiculous elements of human life already bring them into harmony with the perspective of death (Bakhtin 1984, 69–70). This alignment is illustrated in Charon, where the eponymous ferryman of the dead undertakes a reverse-katabasis to learn about the world of the living and ends up sounding very much like one of Lucian’s Cynics.68 Dialogues of the Dead 20 likewise exemplifies this convergence by depicting Charon instructing the newly deceased to strip themselves of all the baggage of their previous lives before they board his ferry (1). So, for instance, a tyrant must throw away not just his purple and his diadem but also the vanity, arrogance, and cruelty that go along with these material trappings of power, while an athlete must strip the brawn that made him who he was in life (4–5).69 When it is the turn of a generic philosopher (whom the Cynic Menippus, also newly dead, dismisses immediately as a “fraud,” γόης), it is his beard and clothes that must go, under which he has been hiding many hypocritical traits, including fakery (alazoneia),70 ignorance, contentiousness, anger, luxury, lies, and finally flattery. The Cynic identifies this last item as both the heaviest of the other philosopher’s encumbrances and the most useful thing to him during his time on earth. Menippus on the other hand is happy to jettison his few possessions, namely the iconic Cynic pouch and staff, having already left his cloak behind. However, unlike the false philosopher (and pretty much everyone else in the underworld when stripped down to a bare skeleton), he does not lose his identity along with these accouterments.71 Hermes informs the Cynic that there is no need for him to give up his distinctive traits since they are so far from being burdensome during the journey across the Acheron that they are actually “useful” (χρήσιμα). In an implied contrast with the false philosopher, these are enumerated as eleutheria, parrhe-sia, freedom from care, (ethical) nobility, and, last for emphasis, his laughter (8–9).72

Wisdom and satire The Cynic’s laughter in Dialogues of the Dead highlights resemblances between Lucian’s satirical project and his depictions of philosophical parrhe-sia. This is part of a larger realignment by which Lucian “construes satire metaphilosophically,” to borrow a phrase from Jason König and Tim Whitmarsh (König and Whitmarsh 2007, 14).73 In fact, if Hermotimus is to be

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read at all in earnest, not only is satire a form of philosophy but it may be its only true manifestation. That work stages a vicious attack on contemporary schools of philosophy, using a Lucianic alter ego named Lycinus, who rails against the protracted philosophical studies of his interlocutor, the Stoic Hermotimus. Lycinus argues that the only real philosopher is the one who admits that philosophy is a sham (75) and ultimately succeeds in persuading Hermotimus, who then undergoes a conversion away from philosophy, reversing the typical conversion trajectory (83–86).74 To carry out his attack on philosophy in Hermotimus, the protagonist uses a number of philosophical tools, including the dialogue format itself. He also models his argumentative persona after Socrates, adopting, among other attributes, the philosopher’s famous style of verbal examination and his declarations of his own ignorance.75 The self-confessed agnosticism of this Socratic persona enables Lycinus to distinguish his views from the contradictory teachings of many philosophies, all of which lay claim to truth.76 However, he asserts that he does know one thing, namely that truth is not pleasant because, unlike falsehood, it knows no dishonesty (literally, “nothing counterfeit,” μηδὲν κίβδηλον) and speaks with parrhe-sia. Furthermore, as evidence of truth’s unpleasantness, Lycinus appeals to the fact that he is currently causing offense in saying so (49–51). The logical acrobatics required by this argument (“I offended you in telling you that the truth is offensive – therefore I must have been telling the truth”) are worthy of the most tendentious philosophical argument or, for that matter, the wiliest sophistic declamation.77 As we have witnessed, Lucian’s manipulation of wisdom to resemble satire is closely connected with his privileging of the Cynics, who have little interest in doctrine and whose mode of interacting with the world is fundamentally satirical, as illustrated especially in their rejection of the hypocrisy displayed by conventional intellectual and ethical authorities.78 The subsuming of all moral authority into satire can likewise be seen in Lucian’s treatment of icons of wisdom besides philosophers, such as Solon, whose confrontation with Croesus is the centerpiece of the dialogue Charon.79 On the one hand, distinctly imperial-era models of the monarch’s wise advisor inform this reframing of Solon’s words as frank speech.80 However, by inserting parrhe-sia and the idea of “speaking freely” (eleuthero-s legein) into this tradition, Lucian also refashions Solon in his own image, even going so far as to have the sage exhibit the contemptuous laughter characteristic of Lucian’s favored protagonists, a class that includes fictionalized versions of the author himself (Charon 10–13).81

Lucian and his rivals This brings us to works in which Lucian stages some version of himself as a frank speaker. As we can see from the way he repeatedly calls attention to his frank criticism of contemporaries “who claim empowering forms of

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knowledge,” parrhe-sia plays a key role in his competition with other figures of cultural authority. In Pseudologistes, for instance, Lucian presents himself as responding to the “would-be critic” of the title, who has called him out for a supposed barbarism of speech. But instead of asserting his superior grasp of the Greek language, this man has actually opened himself up to an attack on his ignorance. With the help of a number of parrhesiastic voices from the history of Greek literature, the narrator turns the tables on his critic (1–4).83 To provide authority for his retaliation he first appeals to Archilochus as an iconic iambic poet, characterizing him as “free and accustomed to frankness” (ἐλεύθερον καὶ παρρησίᾳ συνόντα) as well as unrestrained in the pain he inflicts when “reproaching” (ὀνειδίζειν) those who have made themselves his enemies.84 He also calls upon the Aesopic fable of the dung beetle to insult his critic,85 before finally summoning the Menandrian personification of “Scrutiny” or “Refutation” (Elenchos), as the “god allied with Truth and Frankness” (φίλος Ἀληθείᾳ καὶ Παρρησίᾳ θεός). Frank speech is central to Lucian’s textual self-presentation, but the legitimate use of parrhe-sia, as an ideal freighted with cultural significance, is also a major site of contestation in his works. This agonistic approach to frank criticism is signaled already in Pseudologistes, which is presented as a counter-scrutiny of someone who has previously criticized the author86 (an attack originally prompted, we discover, by the satirist’s laughter at the other man’s sophistic performance) (7–9). In such rivalries, what is at stake is the legacy of free and frank speech. It is worth emphasizing that “legacy” is no dead metaphor here; many of Lucian’s works engage with questions about his own place in literary and philosophical traditions, as well as the contributions of other prominent figures, sometimes explicitly in the terms of inheritance. For example, in Dialogues of the Dead 21, Diogenes and Crates contrast the objects of legacy hunters with the more valuable though underappreciated Cynic inheritance of wisdom, self-sufficiency (autarkeia), truth, frankness, and freedom (3–4).87 Likewise, in Fisherman (to be discussed shortly) the Lucianic protagonist refers to his intimate knowledge of the legacy left by the great philosophers of the past (6).88 While the canonical icons of parrhe-sia have become well-established by this point (including heavy hitters such as Archilochus, Aristophanes, Socrates, Diogenes of Sinope, and Demosthenes, followed by latter-day additions like Dio, Musonius, and other philosophers persecuted by “bad emperors”), there is plenty of room for dispute concerning contemporary figures’ success in emulating this frank-speaking tradition. Likewise, as we have already seen, Lucian frequently shapes his portraits of ancient wise men in the image of his own satire. By a sleight of hand, this in turn bolsters his claim to be the legitimate heir to their traditions. While he uses this tactic throughout his corpus, in few works is it developed so elaborately or in a way so essential to his self-presentation as in The Reanimated or the Fisherman (henceforth Fisherman), which will be my primary focus for the remainder of this chapter.89 82

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This work stages the return of great ancient philosophers to the world of the living so that they can avenge themselves on a textual persona of Lucian named Parrhesiades (whom they also identify as the author of Sale of Lives) because he portrayed them as slaves in the prior dialogue.90 In fact Fisherman as a whole gives the impression that it is a reply to extra-textual criticism for Sale of Lives (though, as Branham points out about Lucian’s apologetic works in general, it smacks of “self-advertisement posing as selfdefense”).91 Whether or not there truly was any backlash to Sale of Lives, it is clear that Fisherman is designed to bolster the image of the author as a courageous frank speaker due to his composition of Sale of Lives as well as Fisherman itself, where he deliberately links himself to the frank-speaking protagonist in a convoluted game of identification, association, and evasion.92 Despite Parrhesiades’ claims (obviously specious) that he only directed his mockery in Sale of Lives against fraudulent contemporary philosophers, the ridicule of the ancient philosophical schools’ founders actually intensifies in Fisherman because they are exposed as hypocrites. In the process, the work sets up a competition in which both Lucian and the philosophers claim to be the true representatives of the philosophical tradition of critical speech. Throughout Fisherman, the protagonist presents his satire as a true, valuable mimesis of philosophy, distinct from the superficial imitations carried out by “those who say they are philosophers” (41).93 This is illustrated when he compares his reuse of the ancients’ teachings (logoi) to the work of a bee gathering flowers (anthea) from a meadow and creating a bouquet (anthologia) out of them (6).94 It is also apparent in his account of conversion from rhetoric to philosophy at age 40 (29–30).95 But of course Parrhesiades’ insistence on his earnestness is a reason for suspicion in itself. His alleged transformation fits too neatly into well-worn tropes, which are themselves notoriously self-serving and slippery performances.96 What is more, as scholars have noted, when philosophy threatens to collapse into mere performance in Fisherman, through the hypocrisy not just of the modern philosophers but of the ancients as well, this superficiality and deceptiveness is mirrored by the staging of Lucian’s own textual persona.97 All the same, recognizing this does not mean we should disregard the methods by which he distinguishes Parrhesiades (and therefore, it seems, himself) from contemporary false philosophers; on the contrary, these are enormously helpful in making sense of Lucian’s account of frank speech.

Frankness, abuse, and speaking the truth The question at the heart of the philosophers’ dispute with Parrhesiades is whether or not Sale of Lives constitutes parrhe-sia. In keeping with the agonistic tenor of Fisherman as a whole, which begins with a contest of quotes and centos from the great poetry of the past,98 the protagonist’s trial (ago-n) in the middle section of the work can be understood as a contest to

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determine whether or not Parrhesiades (and thereby Lucian) is truly a frank speaker. And as is typical of the contests Lucian stages, there is no definitive resolution.99 At times Parrhesiades and his defenders seem preoccupied with establishing a connection between his speech and truth, while at other moments they suggest that the value of his criticism is not entirely dependent on its accuracy, claiming that abuse only harms those who deserve it, no matter how indiscriminate the satirist’s scattershot approach. We first hear about Parrhesiades’ use of language when Socrates labels him “slanderous” (blasphe-mos)100 and claims that he spoke abusively of philosophers (employing the verb kake-gorein) (1–2), a charge echoed repeatedly by Plato and Diogenes in their complaints.101 The philosophers likewise characterize his speech as loidoria (“abuse” or “reproach”) (2, 25). Such castigation of Parrhesiades’ words as mere abuse undercuts his claim to frank criticism. In addition, all three philosophers call attention to Parrhesiades’ hubristic treatment of them, referring again to his verbal insults, which in turn justify their physical assault on him (also known as hubris under classical Athenian law).102 This assimilation of words and deeds is illustrated likewise in the verb diasurein, which multiple philosophers use to describe Parrhesiades’ transgressions against them, and which draws its metaphorical meaning, “disparage” or “ridicule,” from the act of tearing something to pieces (4, 25, 27). Despite this critical presentation of Sale of Lives, such blurring of the categories of speech and action actually works to Lucian’s advantage, subtly amplifying the power of his speech by demonstrating the intensity of its effects.103 Furthermore, and in contrast to the philosophers’ characterization of Parrhesiades/Lucian’s words as mere abuse without any redeeming qualities, Fisherman as a whole makes the case that his speech qualifies as philosophical parrhe-sia, both within and via this text. The protagonist’s name of course identifies him as a frank speaker; given in full it translates to “Born-ofFrankness, son of Truthful, grandson of Renowned-Investigator” (Παρρησιάδης Ἀληθίωνος τοῦ Ἐλεγξικλέους) (19). In addition, this name clearly associates him with the companions of Philosophy whose introduction directly precedes this. Of special importance are Truth (Ale-theia) and her female attendants, Freedom (Eleutheria) and Frankness (Parrhe-sia). The protagonist’s attachment to them is made even more pointed by his description as their devoted lover (eraste-s). They are also accompanied by a third, male attendant, Scrutiny (Elenchos), who will watch the trial as well (16–17). His inclusion in the party points to Parrhesiades’ alignment with the techniques of philosophy (especially the type associated with Socrates).104 Additional support for the protagonist’s connection to philosophy actually comes from Diogenes, who observes that he appropriated the distinctly philosophical genre of dialogue in order to mock philosophers. In making this complaint Diogenes rues the support Parrhesiades received from personified Dialogue as well as from the Cynic Menippus (who avoided joining the others in attacking the satirist) (26).105 Overall, however, the most important alignment

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established here is that between Parrhesiades and Truth, emphasized also in the protagonist’s self-proclaimed profession: he hates deceivers and deception of all kinds (braggarts, cheats, liars, pretension, etc.) and, as the flip side of the coin, loves truth (20).106 At the same time, Parrhesiades and his defenders do not reject his characterization as a speaker of abuse so much as reevaluate it, upsetting the dichotomy between abuse and frankness. They do so by arguing both that his abuse was directed at deserving targets and that it does not have the power to harm the innocent, echoing the Platonic Socrates’ famous assertion that a good man cannot be harmed in life or death (Apology 41c–d). Adopting the very terminology that Socrates, Plato, and Diogenes used in their accusations, Parrhesiades acknowledges that he spoke abusively (kako-s agoreuein) but justifies these statements by saying that they were directed toward “charlatans and frauds” (ἀλαζόνας καὶ γόητας) and should be judged not on the offensiveness of their content but on their truth value alone (29).107 Ultimately, this line of defense can be traced back to Philosophia herself, who tries to calm the mob of philosophers early in the dialogue by suggesting that the protagonist was not really attacking them, but instead was abusing (again, agoreuein kako-s) fakers who give philosophers a bad name (15). Philosophia makes a similarly robust defense of Parrhesiades by embracing his role as a producer of loidoria, comparing the jests that were made at her expense in comic plays at the festival of Dionysus to Parrhesiades “reproaching” (λοιδορησαμένου) the philosophers in his satires. In the same speech she alleges that such criticism only poses a danger to what is debased in the first place, explaining her tolerance of personified Comedy’s ridicule by saying, “I know that nothing can be made worse by a joke (σκώμματος), but on the contrary, whatever is good shines more brilliantly and becomes more conspicuous, just like gold [coinage] wiped clean by the blow of the die” (14).108 It becomes even clearer near the end of the work that loidoria can be understood not simply as harmless but even as a philosophical tool (like elenchos), when a false Cynic is revealed to have secretly embraced luxuries while “reproaching” (λοιδορεῖσθαι) and “supervising” (παιδαγωγεῖν) other people (45).109 Here loidoria is a technique in the Cynic correction of his fellow man, making it practically synonymous with parrhe-sia.110 While this two-faced Cynic belongs to the present day, the ancient philosophers too are guilty of comparable hypocrisies. In defending his relationship to philosophical teachings, Parrhesiades states explicitly what has been implicit since the dialogue’s opening, in which rampaging philosophers behave like a choral mob from Old Comedy:111 it is hypocritical for them of all people to show so little commitment to justice or self-restraint (8), as Socrates himself acknowledges (10). Philosophia too calls attention to the philosophers’ failure to control their passions when she repeatedly comments on their anger and violence, noting at one point, “you have, I know not how, become quick-tempered and irritable” (14). What is more, the philosophers who play an especially prominent role in the text are revealed as hypocrites in

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matters that are specific to their practices and teachings, as in the case of Socrates’ and Diogenes’ unwillingness to accept frankness (parrhe-sia) and scrutiny (elenchos), in contrast to the probing and unfettered speech they employed in their previous lives.112 It is also notable that Diogenes cannot accept even the premise of being sold into slavery (27), by contrast with the more traditional portrait of him in Sale of Lives (7–11), where he rejects the conventional understanding of slavery to the point that he considered himself not just free but master of the man who would buy him.113 When Philosophia asserts that mockery cannot do harm, she implies that it merely shows up both the good and the bad for what each truly is. In other words, even if the content of criticism is not true, its effect is the revelation of truth. It follows that the philosophers’ complaints about Parrhesiades’ abusive speech are tantamount to an admission that their teachings are exactly as nonsensical as they allege the satire has depicted them to be (25). Otherwise, the philosophers should respond to Sale of Lives by treating the author as their benefactor, in that, as he claims, the work was only (and according to the argument of Philosophia, could only be) an attack on false philosophers (31–33).114 Even though Sale of Lives clearly caricatures the founder or avatar of each philosophical sect as an individual, the point is that no real harm could possibly come to genuine philosophers due to such mockery (including, of course, the satire found in Fisherman).115 This argument supports not just Parrhesiades’ insistence that he be counted as a benefactor (5–6), but also the philosophers’ eventual capitulation on this point (38, cf. 7).

Melding philosophy and comedy To sum up the preceding argument about Fisherman, despite (or perhaps because of) Diogenes’ role as speaker for the prosecution, Parrhesiades is validated in his use of the Cynic’s famed parrhe-sia and thereby presents himself, or rather Lucian, as the true heir to the philosophers’ legacy and a defender of their reputations to boot.116 When Diogenes concedes that Parrhesiades is in the right, he does so in language that suggests his former antagonist is a fellow Cynic, declaring he will count Parrhesiades as a “friend” (philos) and calling him “noble” (gennaios) (using these terms in their ethical, Cynic senses) (38).117 Besides drawing his authority from philosophical teachings, Lucian also models himself after the poets of Old Comedy, whose humor was known for its aggressive frankness. Elsewhere in his corpus he presents his combination of philosophy and comedy as a daring and transgressive act, dramatizing this in one of the trials of Twice Accused. Here the protagonist known only as “The Syrian” is taken to court by Dialogue for dragging him down from his lofty heights to the earthier realm of comedy, iambic, and Cynic satire (33).118 In Fisherman too, Old Comedy is an important point of reference, along with the works of Plato (and the Apology of Socrates in particular). While we should be careful not to overplay the importance of Aristophanes’

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Clouds simply because it is the only comedy on Socrates to survive intact, such mockery of Socrates provides canonical precedent for Lucian’s depiction of philosophers in Fisherman,119 while Aristophanes’ Acharnians provides a model for the work’s structure, with its confrontation between the protagonist and an angry mob, as well as its subsequent trial scene.120 And as Anna Peterson has recently argued, Eupolis’ Demoi provides a precedent for the work’s resurrection conceit (Peterson 2019, 85–89).121 The Apology, likewise, offers a rhetorical model both for the positioning of Fisherman as an apologia and for Parrhesiades’ speech of self-defense,122 though, in an ironic twist, the philosophers are the intolerant aggressors in Lucian’s scenario.123 In addition, though Apology singles out Clouds among the original causes of distrust toward the philosopher that led to his eventual execution (18a–19e), Plato’s text also emphasizes the value of frankness and the unimportance of conventional standards of decorum, in keeping with Socrates’ way of life. At the end of Apology, when the philosopher has already been condemned to death, he requests that the Athenians “reproach” (ὀνειδίζετε) his sons if they see them neglecting virtue, just as he previously reproached his fellow citizens, calling this treatment dikaios (“right” or “just,” in implicit contrast to his unjust conviction) and implying that such criticism is beneficial (41e–f).124 Lucian’s synthesis of comic and philosophical models of parrhe-sia is encapsulated in Parrhesiades’ declaration regarding the false philosophers in the peroration of his own apologia: “I for my part abused such men and I will never stop exposing and ridiculing them” (ἔγωγε τοὺς τοιούτους κακῶς ἠγόρευον καὶ οὔποτε παύσομαι διελέγχων καὶ κωμῳδῶν) (37).125 This mission statement also elucidates the anecdote that precedes it, in which a man throws some nuts onstage during a performance of dancing apes costumed to resemble humans. By doing something as seemingly playful as tossing morsels of food, this meddling spectator causes the apes to reveal their true natures as lower beings without adequate self-control, thereby reducing the carefully choreographed scene to chaos.126 As Parrhesiades himself notes, this accomplishment is comparable to his own unmasking of false philosophers,127 which is in turn a way of understanding the task of the satirist more broadly, a connection that had previously been implied by his description of the nuttosser as witty (asteios). Like the act of that audience member, Lucian presents his satire as playful and laughter inducing, but at the same time also serious in its aims (and alleged effects), namely the stripping away of pretension (36).128

The philosopher dismantled Like so many of Lucian’s works, Fisherman strives at least on one level to establish Lucian’s bona fides as a parrhesiast and, as we have seen, the traditions of comedy and philosophy are at the heart of this self-positioning. Yet his “conveniently unassailable poses,” as Branham has called them, also

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insulate him from the risk that is intrinsic to the role of frank speaker. The paradoxical nature of this arrangement mirrors a larger set of tensions in Lucian’s oeuvre: he is the satirist who wears elaborately layered masks and wants to expose everyone else, the master of self-staging who presents himself as the enemy of all fakers, and the relentless self-promoter who rails against the love of fame, and even, in For the Images, the courtly flatterer who prides himself on his frankness.130 Furthermore, as illustrated by the case of Hermotimus, borrowing authority from philosophers while mocking and undercutting them comes at the cost of undermining one’s own position. For an author so demanding of consistency from others, the ironic distance set up between Lucian and his various personae makes it impossible to pin him down to any consistent position, leaving him open to the very charge of hypocrisy that he levels at would-be philosophers in Fisherman and elsewhere in his corpus. Yet it is not necessary to take Fisherman or its depiction of Parrhesiades completely in earnest in order to see something serious behind its contest over the legitimate use of parrhe-sia. On the surface, this work presents frank speech as a badge of honor and even proof of philosophical identity – but like other texts from Lucian’s corpus, it also shows that frankness is just as unreliable a sign as visual signifiers of philosophical status like mantles and beards.131 Consider, for example, Death of Peregrinus, in which the sometime Cynic philosopher and all-around charismatic holy man Peregrinus Proteus contrives his own exile from Rome for abusing (loidorein) everyone, especially the emperor, thus gaining an unearned reputation for parrhe-sia and eleutheria. In keeping with his depiction of Peregrinus as a charlatan, Lucian notes that banishment actually helped fulfill the man’s plan to be counted among the famous philosophical exiles such as “Dio, Musonius, and Epictetus” (18).132 Likewise, in Runaways (seemingly a sequel to Peregrinus) false philosophers try to imitate philosophical parrhe-sia, but only succeed in coming up with novel forms of loidoria (12–13). Similarly to Fisherman, this work revolves around charlatans, whose masquerade as acolytes of philosophy threatens to harm the reputation of a personified Philosophia as well as any real philosophers (3–4).133 These and other resemblances between the two works call attention to the fact that the contemporary philosophers in Fisherman are, like comparable figures elsewhere in Lucian’s corpus, the satirist’s rivals for cultural authority, who lay claim to the philosophical legacy of frank speech.134 Exposing them with the help of personified Elenchos in the latter part of Fisherman is integral to Parrhesiades’ (and thereby Lucian’s) counterclaim to be the legitimate heir to this tradition.135 Once caught, these charlatans are to be branded with identifying marks so that they can no longer give philosophy as a whole a bad name due to their hypocritical antics (32, 39–52). Needless to say, however, the distinctions drawn here are not given the final authority that such a decisive ending might at first suggest. After all, Parrhesiades’ embrace of loidoria aligns him with the false Cynic (at 45) and contrasts sharply with the more conventionally negative account of this sort

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of abuse in Peregrinus and Runaways, where it is distinguished from real, valuable frankness. As a result, ambivalence clings stubbornly to the version of parrhe-sia that the text promotes, despite the vociferous protests of Parrhesiades and his supporters.

Conclusion Lucian’s works illustrate the pervasiveness of frank speech in Greek culture during the imperial period, in that the idea is central to the author’s engagement with practically every genre on which he draws, and most prominently rhetoric, historiography, philosophy, comedy, and iambic. But while Lucian’s satire responds to these intellectual currents, his approach to parrhe-sia is often idiosyncratic, playfully destabilizing the kind of authority that frankness aims to establish in more conventionally philosophical contexts. In chapter 2 we saw older models that grounded frank speech in status manipulated in the Hellenistic and imperial eras to reconceptualize frankness as a source rather than an outcome of freedom, masculinity, and citizenship. Lucian’s work, by contrast, is primarily concerned not with who is able to speak frankly, but rather with who can rightly lay claim to parrhe-sia. We have moved from the philosopher as the only real free man to questions about who is the real philosopher, a concern that reflects the larger early imperial intellectual culture of performance and scrutiny.136 This development is also connected with Lucian’s sense of his own belatedness. Frankness is integral to long and venerable philosophical and literary traditions that are now imitated only in superficial ways, like wearing a beard instead of devoting oneself to philosophical aske-sis, or learning a few rhetorical tricks rather than training seriously as an orator. Moreover, when Lucian claims a place for himself in these traditions, his own personae are not exempt from the same charges of hypocrisy he hurls at others, suggesting that he too is a product of his times. But while this false imitation suggests the degeneracy of the contemporary world vis-à-vis an idealized past, Lucian actually undermines this very schema in Fisherman by depicting even the ancient philosophers as hypocrites. And while he presents us with a much more critical account of Roman influence on Greek cultural and social life than we find in his contemporaries, he also throws into question time-honored Greek values, including parrhe-sia. In the end we are led to suspect not only that ideal frankness does not exist in the world of the Roman empire, but that it never existed at all.

Notes 1 Benjamin Kunkel, “Sam I Am,” New Yorker, Aug 7, 2006. 2 On belatedness as a mode of self-positioning in imperial Greek literature, see Whitmarsh 2001a, 41–89 (esp. 44–45, with further references), and on Lucian’s sense of belatedness, see Ní Mheallaigh 2014, 36–37, 206–7.

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3 For hubris, see Prom. 5; Bis Acc. 14. Along with Zeux., these works prominently foreground Lucian’s novel use of tradition (which is both a paradox in itself and a much longer-standing literary strategy than he lets on, as discussed by Ní Mheallaigh 2014, 8–10). Cf. also Lex. 17–21, with its comparison of frankness to an emetic that purifies the recipient of pretentiousness. 4 A similar view of Lucian’s all-encompassing approach to parrhe-sia is taken by Camerotto 2014, 232–45. 5 See e.g. Ind.; Pseudol. (discussed below), though it is not clear how earnest these works are. 6 On the theme of the outsider’s perspective in Lucian’s oeuvre, which often equates cultural or physical distance with critical distance, see Halliwell 2008, 429–62; Camerotto 2012; 2014, esp. 105–70. Swain (1996, 312) posits that Lucian may have been as much of an outsider as his writings suggest, judging from the silence of his contemporaries (with the single exception of Galen, on which see Strohmaier 1976) as well as the absence of evidence for ties to the powerful. And on the puzzle of Lucian’s ethnic identity see Whitmarsh 2001a, 126–28; Richter 2005. See also Richter 2011, 146–47; despite trenchant points about the perils of biographical reading, the argument has not persuaded me to rule out authorial self-fashioning and self-ironization in Lucian’s Syrian characters. 7 For overviews of Lucian’s output and its cultural context, see Bompaire 1958; Robert 1980, 393–436; J. Hall 1981; C. P. Jones 1986; Branham 1989; Swain 1996, 298–329; Camerotto 1998; Whitmarsh 2001a, 247–94; Goldhill 2002, 60– 93; Camerotto 2014; Andrade and Rush 2016; Baumbach and Möllendorff 2017. 8 On Lucian’s name games and use of personae, see Branham 1989, 5–6; Saïd 1993; Dubel 1994; Whitmarsh 2001a, 252–53; Goldhill 2002, 60–67; Whitmarsh 2004c; Humble and Sidwell 2006; Camerotto 2014, 17–83; Ní Mheallaigh 2014, 171–81; Andrade and Rush 2016, 170–72; Baumbach and Möllendorff 2017, 26–57. 9 See e.g. the double existence of Parrhesiades in Fisherman as both literary creation and the author of Sale of Lives (discussed below), and cf. similar games with fiction and reality in True Histories, on which see Kim 2010, 140–56; Ní Mheallaigh 2014, 216–60. 10 Problems of interpretation are discussed at length in J. Hall 1981, 157–60; Clay 1992, 3420–25; Whitmarsh 2001a, 265–79; Halliwell 2008, 436–41. However, as Lefebvre 2016 has noted, its techniques of satire are closely connected with those in Lucian’s character assassinations of Peregrinus and Alexander. 11 On this text’s engagement with Plato, see most recently Hunter 2012, 14–18. 12 Baldwin 1961, 207. More sophisticated variations on this reading can be found in C. P. Jones 1986, 84–87, 89; Swain 1996, 315–17; Schröder 2000. For attempts to identify the real Nigrinus, cf. Anderson 1978; Tarrant 1985; C. P. Jones 1986, 25 n7. 13 There is, however, a history of interpreting the enthusiastic convert as a Lucianic stand-in (discussed at Clay 1992, 3422–23, with further references); cf. the similarly epistolary Peregr., which contains both an unnamed character that resembles Lucian and an account of Lucian’s own involvement in the story in propria persona. 14 Cf. Lamberton 1997, arguing that the organization of the empire around Rome caused Athens to be reconceptualized as the center of the Greek world. 15 Cf. the similar depiction of Rome in Juv. 3; for more on that satire’s approach to cultural and ethnic identity in the context of contemporary Hellenic intellectual culture, see Uden 2015, 104–16. 16 On the depiction of Rome in this work and its sequel, Apol., see further Swain 1996, 317–23; Whitmarsh 2001a, 279–93. 17 Cf. On the Parasite, with its argument that parasitism is a skill, on which see Nesselrath 1985.

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18 On the slavish nature of this lifestyle, see also 1, 5, 7, 8, 23–25. 19 See De Merc. 4 and also Apol. 2, which identifies the addressee of that work, Sabinus, as a philosopher too. 20 For another example of this work’s special focus on philosophers, see 27. 21 Discussed at Whitmarsh 2001a, 286–88. 22 For the conflation of friendship with slavery or employment, see also 3, 17. Cf. Apol. 14, reframing the issue as a matter of “cooperating with one’s friends for the highest good” (φίλοις συμπονῶν πρὸς τὰ βέλτιστα) to give his position in the imperial bureaucracy a more egalitarian spin [emphasis mine]. Cf. Hunter 1985, 483–84, identifying similarities in the ways Lucian and Horace exploited the satirical potential of tensions between the ethical and social significance of friendship terms. 23 See C. P. Jones 1986, 20–21. 24 See Whitmarsh 2001a, 293, calling attention to the contrast with “Timocles” of Merc. Cond. (which is nevertheless Greek even if it is a pseudonym or the addressee is Lucian’s invention altogether). Cf. C. P. Jones 1986, 20 with n79, for attempts to identify the historical Sabinus. 25 For the comparable conceit of an assembly among the dead, cf. Nec. 19–20. The usual English title of the second work, Council of the Gods (a literal translation of its title in Latin, Deorum Concilium), smooths over some of the tensions between its democratic and monarchic elements. See, however, Romano Martín 2009, esp. 376–416, situating Lucian’s works in relation to the pedigreed trope of a “council of the gods.” 26 On competition with new and foreign gods, see also Icar. 24; and see Richter 2011, 231–35 for Greek chauvinism as the satire’s object. The theme of a society overtaken by foreigners is also prominent in Roman satire and Juv. 3 in particular. On the works discussed in this section, see also C. P. Jones 1986, 34–41. 27 For Lucian’s engagement with a different element of the contemporary context (namely its religious upheavals) in his depictions of the Olympians, see Bozia 2014, 98–151. 28 Seating was at most based on tribe and trittys, i.e. geography (Stanton and Bicknell 1987), and it may even have had no formal order at all (Hansen 1988). Cf. also Luc. Symp. 8–9 with its equally jarring depiction of philosophers fighting over seating precedence at a symposium, illustrating the incursion of hierarchy into another iconic locus of egalitarianism; cf. Plut. Quaes. Conv. 1.2 (and esp. the “frank” judgment of Lamprias that a philosopher should not pay heed to hierarchy in arranging seating at a symposium, as distinct from other contemporary institutions, 1.2.5); see further König 2012, 17–19. 29 Explicit at J Tr. 7. See also Bozia 2014, 119, pointing out the connection drawn between expensive statues and barbarian deities (in keeping with the larger theme of the debate). On the multiple layers of parody at work in this scene, see Branham 1989, 169–70. 30 J Tr. 18; Deor. Conc. 1. He also specifies that they must be “gods in full standing” (τῶν τελείων θεῶν); cf. Heracles’ reference to speaking his mind despite being a metic (J Tr. 32), as well as Apollo’s deference and concern about order of seniority (J Tr. 26). 31 See Householder 1940, 201–5, comparing fourth-century formulas from Magnesia (contra Harmon 1936, 436–37 n1, which identifies Lucian’s decree as Attic in format); and cf. Bompaire 1958, 637–38, pointing to literary influences. On decrees throughout Lucian’s corpus, see more recently Tomassi 2011, attributing Lucian’s manipulation of the procedures of the ekkle-sia to creative license, along with the influence of the imperial context. 32 Besides playing a major role in J Tr. and Deor. Conc, Momus is also mentioned in Bacch.; Dearum; Herm.; Hist. Conscr.; Icar.; Nigr.; VH.

Authorizing frankness: Lucian’s satire 33 34 35 36 37 38

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Cf. Momus’ request that Zeus allow him parrhe-sia at J Tr. 19; other terminology closely associated with frankness such as “speaking the truth” (τἀληθῆ λέγειν) appears in connection with Momus at J Tr. 22, 23, 26. Cf. his awareness of potential offense to Zeus (6) and other gods (14). On aido-s and parrhe-sia, see Saxonhouse 2006. Though this self-characterization seems to be belied when Zeus calls him to task for speaking in riddles not much later (3). See ch. 1 n49 for scholarship. The lack of specification here seems to suggest a shared advantage (cf. Cal. 24: ἐπὶ τῷ ἐκείνων συμφέροντι, “for the benefit of those particular men”); a similar reading of this line can be found at Camerotto 2014, 235. Cf. Zeus’ later dismissal of Momus’ comments as mere “accusation, fault-finding, and censure” (ἐγκαλέσαι καὶ μέμψασθαι καὶ ἐπιτιμῆσαι), rather than advice (that is, well-meaning parrhe-sia), which yokes together both the image of the king’s wise advisor and the superficially democratic gesture of channeling Demosthenes (23). For the view that de-mokratia could only be achieved via benevolent monarchy he cites Ael. Ar. Or. 26 (To Rome, esp. 60, 90), Philostr. VA 5.35 (Apollonius to Vespasian), and the Agrippa–Maecenas debate before Octavian in Cass. Dio 52 (esp. Maecenas’ part at 14.4–5); however, it should be noted that all of these examples could also be construed as walking the line between flattery and attempted instruction of a monarch. For Lucian’s depiction of his relationship to the imperial court of Lucius Verus, see C. P. Jones 1986, 68–77; Swain 1996, 312–15. And for a reading of Assembly of the Gods as satirizing the involvement of Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus in a political purge at Athens, see Oliver 1980. See Branham 1989, 128–29 with n4, collecting previous scholarship. It is worth noting that Lucian uses basileus as a title for both Zeus (e.g. Deor. Conc. 4.2; J Conf. 8.6) and the emperor (Apol. 10, 12–13; Im. 10, 22; Laps. 13). For the emperor as autokrato-r, cf. Hist. Conscr. 19; Alex. 58; Laps. 18. For kaisar, see Alex. 39. Distraught over the arguments of an atheistic philosopher, he responds with Euripidean emotionalism (1–4), then is struck by stage fright when presenting the matter to the assembled gods, before finally assuming the persona of Demosthenes as a shortcut to eloquence, in the mode of contemporary declaimers (14–15), recalling Polemo’s witticism about the terrors inherent in extemporaneous sophistic performance (Philostr. VS 541). For an extended discussion of these short works, see Branham 1989, 135–63, distinguishing their parody, with its “anachronism of tone rather than content,” from works like Zeus the Tragedian, which “juxtapose the mythic and the modern” (at 135); the first resembles satyr play while the second resembles Old Comedy. On Lucian’s use of parody more generally, see Camerotto 1998. Cf. Cass. Dio’s famous anecdote about Hadrian and a petitioner, discussed at Millar 1967, 9; 1977, 3–4, 537–49. On the Lucianic scene, see also Anderson 1980, suggesting literary influences. As mentioned explicitly at Peregr. 18 (discussed below). The treatment of Zeus’ violence cannot of course be taken to indicate Lucian’s own viewpoint, especially given the inconsistent representations of e.g. Epicureans and traditional religious systems across his corpus. Cf. Aristoph. Cl. 398–402, where Socrates notes that thunderbolts strike temples and oak trees more often than perjurers. While audience members may not accept the character’s wholesale rejection of Zeus’ divinity, they can observe for themselves the truthfulness of this comment. For instance, the domineering epic version of Zeus is undercut at J Tr. 14, 45; DDeor 1.1; J Conf. 4, with dismissals of his threat from Iliad 8.23–26 (where he

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58 59

60 61 62 63 64

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Authorizing frankness: Lucian’s satire claims he could defeat the rest of the gods collectively in a cosmic game of tugof-war); on the reception of this image, see further Edwards 1993, 195–96. And cf. the threats Hermes takes to be genuine at Charon 1–2. As suggested by Branham 1989, 173–74. For debates over Lucian’s relationship to Cynic philosophy, see Bernays 1879; Caster 1937, 68–84; Nesselrath 1998; Bosman 2012. On the work’s intellectual background and role in authorial self-fashioning, see Georgiadou and Larmour 1994, 1449–78; Porod 2013; Free 2015; Tamiolaki 2015. Cf. Thuc. 1.22: τὰ ἔργα τῶν πραχθέντων (“the facts of what took place”) (LSJ s.v. πράσσω III.1). On the frequent engagement of How to Write History with this passage from Thucydides, see Macleod 1991, 292. See also Hist. Conscr. 7–8, 40, 44, 63. On the Cynic overtones of such statements, see Porod 2009. Discussed in ch. 2. Schlapbach 2016, 128. See further Hadot 1993; 1995, esp. 82–89, 264–76; 2002, esp. 275–76; J. M. Cooper 2012. For philosophers’ hypocrisy, see e.g. Pisc. passim but esp. 34–36; Hermot. 9–12; Symp. passim but esp. 34; Nec. 5; Nigr. 24–25; Tim. 54–57; and cf. Nigr. 26 for consistency between the title character’s teachings and actions. See further Clay 1992, 3412; Männlein 2000, esp. 254–55; Nesselrath 2001, 151–52; Bonazzi 2010, 45; Mestre 2012, 70–77. See also Schlapbach 2016, 128–29, complicating the bios– logos dichotomy with the third variable of gnomai (“thoughts” or “intentions”). E.g. the hilarious parodies of Stoic syllogisms and the esoteric knowledge of the Peripatetic at Vit. Auct. 22–26. See also Icar. 5–9; Hermot. passim, where inconsistency between schools provides evidence for their uselessness. Cf. Schlapbach 2016, on the influence of philosophers’ words in Lucian’s philosophical lives, a subject pertinent to the presentation of parrhe-sia in his corpus, though Schlapbach does not address this directly. On philosophers’ logoi in Lucian, see also Schlapbach 2010. For the seriousness of this work, cf. Eunap. 454. See esp. 3–5, 62. On the historicity of Lucian’s protagonist, see Clay 1992, 3425– 29; Billerbeck 1996, 215–16; Searby 2008; Hägg 2012, 299–300; Beck 2016. Cf. Plat. Apol. 36b–c, 41e–f. On Demonax’s Cynic and Socratic forbears, see Overwien 2003; Fuentes González 2009. And on the place of Cynic philosophy in the Socratic tradition, see Long 1996a. For Demonax’s recognition of aggressive parrhe-sia as the Cynic patrimony, see 50. Like Lucian, Demonax engages with the culture of epideictic rhetoric identified with Philostratus’ sophists even if he holds himself apart from it, as indicated by the philosopher’s rivalry with Favorinus, on which see Gleason 1995, 135–37; Eshleman 2012, 75–76. However, scholars have also noted similarities between his use of insults and the Cynic biographical tradition (Hägg 2012, 298, with further references). Cf. Peregr. 12, for a charlatan whose acolytes call him “the new Socrates.” We may also see emulation of Socrates in Demonax’s cheerful suicide, chosen when he was too old to take care of himself, as well as his disinterest in what is done with his body after death (65–66); cf. Plat. Phaedo 115c–18a. Demonax’s willingness to be eaten by dogs and birds is of course more reminiscent of Diogenes; cf. Diog. Laert. 6.79. Cf. also DMort. 4 for Lucian’s revisionist version of Socrates’ death, which punctures the canonical account from Plato, as discussed by Andrade and Rush 2016, 156–57. For the ambivalent view of rivalry as conventional in ancient Greece, see Gill 2003.

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68 See esp. 17–20 on the follies of ambition and attachment to good fortune. On Charon’s increasingly Cynic-tinged perspective, see Halliwell 2008, 448–52. And on this dialogue, see further Favreau-Linder 2015. 69 Cf. the similar image of a tyrant in The Downward Journey. 70 On the figure of the alazo-n (“charlatan”) in the classical period, see MacDowell 1990. 71 For the theme of equality via sameness among the dead, see DMort. 1.3–4, 5 passim, 26.2 (which also imagines Achilles complaining about ise-goria in the underworld), 29.2–3 (giving the trope a twist, in which the wise man shows himself not equal but superior to a rich man in the ways that really matter), 30 passim. See also Nec. 15–17; Cat. 22. 72 The theme is repeated at DMort. 21.3–4. 73 Now the subject of Kuin 2019. 74 Unsurprisingly, Hermot. plays a key role in gaining Lucian a reputation for nihilism, going back to Photius (Bibl. 128, II 102 Henry). On this work, see Nesselrath 1992; Edwards 1993; Möllendorff 2000a; Pomelli 2011; Peterson 2016. And on Lucian’s evasiveness in his relationship to philosophy, see Alexiou 1990. 75 Verbal examination: passim; cf. 12, where the philosophers’ own elenchos devolves into violence. Ignorance: 30, 53. Lycinus also succeeds in inducing his interlocutor to accept his aporia (as noted by Peterson 2016, 197). 76 Cf. Xen. Mem. 1.1.11–13. 77 For Lucian’s borrowings from the rhetorical weaponry of philosophers in his critiques of philosophy, see Edwards 1993. 78 Cf. the Cynic reputation for being uneducated (Gleason 1995, 136–37), which is seemingly valorized in Lucian’s writings; as Halliwell has pointed out, however, his use of Cynic protagonists to critique others’ excessive displays of paideia is also potentially self-undermining (Halliwell 2008, 452). On Cynics’ communicative strategies, see further Sluiter 2005; and for the distinction between the Cynic privileging of nature over culture and the superficially similar rejection of convention among early sophists, see Long 1996a, 34–35. 79 Charon and Hermes are the only other speakers, and their eavesdropping on this exchange occupies the middle fifth of the work. 80 Cf. Plut. Adulator 69f, which likewise labels Solon’s speech parrhesiastic. On the reception of the Herodotean story by Plutarch and his contemporaries, see Muñoz Gallarte 2010. 81 Cf. the laughter of Charon and other wise men in this work (e.g. at 6, 8, 14, 16, 21); and cf. also the absence of laughter from the canonical account of this encounter (Hdt. 1.29–33). For a recent discussion of the role of laughter in Lucian’s satire, see Camerotto 2014, 285–323. 82 To borrow the phrase of Andrade and Rush (2016, 165), which neatly encompasses rivalries with sophists, philosophers, and prophets (like Alexander of Abonoteichos, who is not discussed in this chapter; see, however, Fields forthcoming b). 83 See further Branham 1989, 29–31; Billault 1994; Camerotto 2014, 238–39. Cf. also Ind. 30; Lex. 17; Hermot. 51; Bis. Acc. 33. 84 Archilochus too “had bad things said of him” (ἀκούσας κακῶς) (1); and though the narrator denies that he compares himself to the iambic poet, this demurral certainly need not be taken at face value, especially since Lucian goes on to say that the addressee’s follies are so numerous and grave that Archilochus would not be up to the task of addressing a single one of them even if he recruited Semonides and Hipponax to assist him, in implicit contrast to the author himself and his present work (2). On the image of Archilochus in the imperial world, see Nesselrath 2007; and on Lucian’s engagement with the iambic tradition, see Hawkins 2014, 220–56.

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85 On this fable, see Steiner 2008, esp. 84–86; Kurke 2011, 53–94 (esp. 87–90); Steiner 2012, esp. 30–35. The Aesopic mode in Lucian is brought out even more clearly in the reference to the fable of the ass wearing a lion skin that follows (3; cf. Pisc. 32; Fug. 13) as well as that of the jackdaw in borrowed plumage (5). On the connection between fable and iambic, see Hawkins 2014, 255; and on fable in Lucian more broadly, see Holzberg 2002, 27–29. 86 The second element of the title’s compound may refer to the role of inspector in some official capacity (LSJ s.v. λογιστής II). 87 Echoing Philo Quis Her. 27 with its discussion of parrhe-sia as a form of wealth. 88 LSJ s.v. καταλείπω I 2: “bequeath.” 89 Fisherman has naturally played a central role in scholarship on parrhe-sia in Lucian. Important studies like Visa-Ondarçuhu 2006 and Camerotto 2014, 246– 81 analyze post-classical parrhe-sia astutely, but tend to gloss over problems opened up by Lucian’s relationship to Parrhesiades (whom Camerotto calls simply an “alias” of the author, 246; cf. Visa-Ondarçuhu, noting the irony inherent when parrhesiastic self-description is coupled with the use of masks but still engaging with questions of Lucian’s “sincérité,” 274–76). On the other hand, Whitmarsh 2001a, 259–65 emphasizes the self-undermining aspects of the text, viewing its series of contests as fundamentally unresolvable, with this avoidance of authoritative resolution becoming the focus in itself. While acknowledging Lucian’s irony and self-staging, my own reading approaches Fisherman as documenting the place of frank speech not only in Lucian’s corpus but also in imperial Greek culture. 90 For an extended analysis, see Bretzigheimer 2014. 91 Branham 1989, 32; see also Futre Pinheiro 2012. On classing Fisherman with the author’s other apologetic texts, see Whitmarsh 2001a, 259–60, 291–92. On the rhetorical advantages to be gained from self-defense, a tactic acknowledged since Isoc. Antid. 8–14, see Rutherford 1995; Whitmarsh 2005, 79–83. 92 Including a reference to the protagonist’s Syrian identity (19); cf. “The Syrian” as the Lucianic protagonist of Twice Accused. 93 On ambivalence around mimesis in the Roman imperial period, see Whitmarsh 2001a, 46–89, discussing both its centrality to the transmission of paideia and the threat it poses to the reliability of appearances. On the problematics of mimesis in Lucian’s oeuvre specifically, where it highlights the “fundamental instability of a created image of the past or likenesses of past figures,” see further Andrade 2013, 261–87; Andrade and Rush 2016 (quote at 164); and see also Ní Mheallaigh 2014, 23–25, viewing these features of Lucian’s oeuvre through the lens of postmodernism. 94 The pun is formed in a manner analogous to the action described. For Lucian’s compositional techniques of appropriation and combination, see also Bis Acc. and Prom. For bee metaphors of literary borrowing, cf. Callim. Ap. 110; Jov. 50; and on Lucian’s distinctive manipulation of this traditional image, see Ní Mheallaigh 2014, 11–13. 95 Cf. Bis Acc. 32. 96 On the trope of intellectual conversion, see ch. 1 n65. 97 See esp. Whitmarsh 2001a, 259–65; Andrade and Rush 2016, 161–62, 166. 98 Also introducing a further layer of literary mimesis by recalling Aristophanes’ Frogs; the anonymous Contest of Homer and Hesiod. 99 See Goldhill 2001a, 193; Whitmarsh 2001a, 292. 100 Cf. Suda for Lucian as blasphe-mos in his mocking of Christianity. 101 Mostly as agoreuein kako-s (or in reverse order) (3–5, 7, 14, 25–26); cf. Socrates’ comment that the philosophers’ actions give legitimacy to any abuse they might receive (10). See also the blasphe-miai (“slanders”) mentioned in Diogenes’ prosecution (26).

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102 A sense of the word that Lucian would know well from his study of classical orators. Hubrizein: 1, 4, 23, 25, 27. 103 Cf. other complaints that could ultimately glorify Parrhesiades (and therefore Lucian); e.g. Plato calls him a cunning (panourgos) speaker (9) and Diogenes paints a picture of his popularity with audiences (25). 104 Elenchos also helps the protagonist catch and brand false philosophers at the end of the work. For elenchos (“smascheramento”) as the purpose of frankness in Lucian, see Camerotto 2014, 269–74. 105 On Lucian’s relationship to personified Platonic Dialogue via another fictionalized version of himself, cf. Twice Accused. And for a summary of debates around Menippus’ influence on Lucian, see Storey 2015, 167, with further references. 106 Philosophia herself points out that this motivation by love and hate are merely two aspects of the same profession. 107 Cf. Parrhesiades’ appeal to personified Truth to corroborate his account (37–38). 108 Cf. Socrates on the mockery of the comic poets: “if they should give expression to any of our faults, they will correct us; and if not, they will do us no harm” (Diog. Laert. 2.36). 109 Cf. the complaint that contemporary philosophers read the teachings of their schools seemingly only “in order to practice the opposite in their lives (βιοῦσιν)” (34). 110 Cf. Vit. Auct. 10–11 for Cynic loidoria. For Cynic education and correction, see Moles 1983b, esp. 112–14. 111 Seemingly a direct allusion to Aristoph. Ach. 280–83. 112 Cf. also Plato’s inability to distinguish representation from reality when he conflates writing about selling someone as a slave with actually doing so (4). 113 On Diogenes’ enslavement, see further ch. 2. 114 Implying that parrhe-sia has two complementary functions: tearing down the fake and bolstering the real, analogous to the hating and loving sides of Parrhesiades’ profession (20). For parallels elsewhere in Lucian’s corpus, see Camerotto 2014, 278–83. 115 Cf. Arr. Epict. Diss. 3.22.100: it is impossible to inflict loidoria or hubris on a true Cynic. 116 Parrhesiades even manages to attack his accuser’s lack of candor in indicting him by saying that he failed to report the harshest insults, thus outstripping even Diogenes in frankness by including these very critiques in his self-defense (29). For Diogenes’ reputation for parrhe-sia as the reason he is prosecutor, see Branham 1989, 34. 117 See Diog. Laert. 6.1, 74, 88 for gennaios (and see further ch. 2 on the manipulation of such status categories). Cynic philia was understood to exist between those who were alike (on which see Diog. Laert. 6.105, and Moles 1983b, 110– 11). For the helpful frankness of a friend, cf. Hermot. 51; Lex. 17. See also Holland 2004, drawing comparisons with Philodemus On Parrhe-sia. 118 As Peterson (2016, 195 n31) notes, the charge here is once again hubris. See further Branham 1989, 33–37; Saïd 2015; Peterson 2019, 99–115. And cf. Prometh. 5–6. For Lucian’s self-mockery as anchored in Old Comic practice, thus linking him to the reception of this tradition by Roman satirists, see Sidwell 2014. 119 We could also identify Clouds as an interlocutor for the tensions between persuasion and force (as at e.g. Pisc. 24). For other allusions to Clouds in Lucian’s corpus, see Storey 2015, 164–68. On lost comedies about Socrates see P. G. M. Brown 2007. 120 See J. Hall 1981, 156; Branham 1989, 33; Peterson 2019, 89–99; though, as Storey (2015, 172–73) observes, Wasps and Birds present similar confrontations. 121 For Lucian’s use of Old Comic poets besides Aristophanes, see also the speculative but intriguing discussion at Storey 2015, 168, 170–78.

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122 Though see Rosen 2015, 147 for the apologetics of the comic parabasis as another model. 123 For more specific allusions see esp. 11–12, echoing Socrates’ quest to find a wise man at Plat. Apol. 21a–23b (and perhaps also parodying the erotic presentation of philosophy in Plat. Sym. by the depiction of a whorish false philosophy). In addition, Socrates himself compares Parrhesiades’ trial to his own (10). As many have observed, Lucian’s self-presentation when using his own name in VH is also markedly Socratic (esp. 1.4, which echoes Plat. Apol. 21d); on Platonic themes in this work see further Rütten 1997, 30–31; Georgiadou and Larmour 1998, 57–58; Möllendorff 2000b, 553–62; Laird 2003; Ní Mheallaigh 2005, 96–98. 124 See also Socrates’ characterization of himself as a benefactor to those who have condemned him (36b–d), and his emphasis on speaking the truth (e.g. 17a–b, 20d, 24a). For attempts in Fisherman to resolve tensions between comic and philosophical models, see further Peterson 2016, 195–97. 125 Perhaps echoing Socrates’ famous description of himself as a gadfly at Plat. Apol. 30e–31a, with its picture of persistent “reproaching” (ὀνειδίζων). 126 Apes were famed in the ancient world for their imitative abilities and their “grotesque approximation” of humanity, hence their suitability as figures for superficial imitation (McDermott 1935, 166; see also McDermott 1936, esp. 164–67). Cf. the ape brand applied to false philosophers (Pisc. 46). 127 Extra-textually, through his writing of satire, and in the text, through the gold and figs he casts at false philosophers later in this dialogue, comparable to the food the troublemaker throws at the dancing apes. The mention of gold just before the ape anecdote (at 36) emphasizes this connection, illustrating the thematic unity of the work despite its two parts. 128 For the serious aims of comic mockery, see also Anach. 22, where oneidizein and elenchos have Platonic overtones (and cf. Apology above). On the serio-comic style in Lucian and its connections to his use of comedy and philosophy, see further Branham 1989, 26–28, 46–57. In addition, Branham argues that Lucian plays off the comic value of Socrates and Plato’s writings more generally (Branham 1989, 50–52, 69–80; on comedy as a model for Platonic writing, see further Nightingale 1995, 172–92), while Rosen 2015 sees the satirist’s reception of Old Comedy as serio-comic in itself. 129 Branham 1989, 29. On the risks of parrhe-sia in Lucian, see also Camerotto 2014, 246–52; and for insightful discussions of Lucian’s evasiveness around frank speech, see Whitmarsh 2001a, 293; Andrade and Rush 2016, 165; and esp. VisaOndarçuhu 2006. 130 See esp. 14, 17–20, with Goldhill 2001a, 190–93 on the work’s unresolved contest over the definition of flattery. 131 On the superficial resemblance of false philosophers to the genuine article, see Pisc. 31; cf. DMort 20.8, discussed above. 132 On competition over the legacy of philosophical frankness in that work, see Fields 2013, 227–30; on the self-promotional opportunities afforded by exile, see ch. 2. 133 On this work’s place in the tradition of Kynikerkritik, see Wyss 2016, 56–59. 134 See also Fug. 13–15, 18–29. It is especially notable that these so-called philosophers do not tolerate scrutiny (elenchos) and are evasive about both logos and bios (15). 135 Cf. Hermot. 68–69, for the importance of elenchos in distinguishing real from fake. 136 See further Gleason 1995; Whitmarsh 2005, 23–40.

Conclusion

Because frankness is a value, it is available as a rhetorical strategy for selfpositioning in relation to structures of power. Taking up the role of the frank speaker entails staking a claim to an authoritative identity that is also open to challenge and contestation from other players in this rhetorical game. But the contexts for the game are ever-changing; strategies must adapt to fit the contemporary world writ large and shift to suit each player’s more immediate circumstances or aims. As the social and political environment of the postclassical Greek world becomes more hierarchical and stratified, the term parrhe-sia develops from its egalitarian origins amid the radical democracy of classical Athens to become increasingly identified with criticism directed from below at those more powerful. Over the course of this book, we have seen the effects of this stratification on the enactment of frankness in a number of politically salient arenas. Within the context of a royal or imperial court (in chapter 3), frank speakers self-consciously draw on the egalitarian tradition of parrhe-sia to position themselves as advisors who are both wise and candid. In effect, an advisor’s wisdom, grounded in Greek learning (paideia), grants him an alternate type of authority to that of the monarch, thus posing an implicit challenge to worldly power. At the same time, the advisor’s stance of benevolence aims to coerce the ruler into accepting criticism or else reveal his own rule as tyrannical and therefore illegitimate. Similarly, in speeches addressed to large civic gatherings in the Greek cities of the Roman east (in chapter 4), orators claim to offer frank correction for the recipients’ own good and draw on the classical oligarchic trope of a “tyranny of the mob” to make the case that an audience proves its own ethical mettle not only by heeding criticism but even simply by enduring it patiently. The metaphor of sovereignty likewise reveals its dominance in the conceptualization of unequal relationships among elites (in chapter 5). Despite the persistence of an inter-elite egalitarian ideal (traceable at least as far back as the archaic symposium), by the late first century CE the vertical orientation of Roman society had already exerted substantial influence on elite Greek social relations, leading to inequalities of status and honor even among the higher echelons of provincial Greek society. In this environment,

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with its tensions between an ideal of equality and an unequal reality, the provider of friendly and well-meaning guidance interacts with more powerful members of the elite in a manner comparable to the advisor’s careful approach to a monarch. Though both these types of interaction tend to be couched in the language of friendship, it is notable that the category of “friendship” (philia) has expanded by this time to include unequal relationships (in reality, if not in ideology). We can draw a subtle contrast between this understanding of friendship and the assumptions that underpin Isocrates’ words to Nicocles of Salamis, when he informs the tyrant that he lacks an advantage readily available to common citizens: hearing frank criticism from both friends and enemies.1 But while Isocrates suggests that the power differential between a ruler and his subjects is an insurmountable obstacle to frankness, in the very act of conveying this lesson he offers himself as the advisor who can fill that impossible position, prefiguring the paradoxes of frankness in the imperial era. Frank speaking is closely identified in later Greece with philosophy, in accordance with a schema that envisions philosophers challenging imperial power from outside, while sophists are understood as insiders to these power structures. However, the centrality of both rhetoric and philosophy to elite education of the imperial era gives the lie to this distinction. Despite a longstanding and much publicized rivalry between these educational models, all of the authors examined at length in this study draw from both traditions, whether or not they present them as hostile to one another. Indeed, the importance of benevolent criticism to the identity of the frank speaker, incorporating both oppositional and advisory roles, allows us to make sense of the way prominent figures such as Dio Chrysostom have used frankness to position themselves as both insiders and outsiders to power on the local, provincial, and imperial levels (as seen in chapters 3 and 4). Successfully playing the role of frank speaker is valuable because in ancient Greece, as in many societies today, there were great reputational advantages to be gained from presenting oneself as a teller of uncomfortable truths, especially when doing so entailed a personal risk.2 Indeed, despite the apparent ingenuousness of frank speaking (the attribute that makes rhetoric parrhe-sia’s “technical adversary,” according to Michel Foucault),3 frankness is also a calculated rhetorical strategy, often aimed at self-promotion. This book has traced a tension between the ideal of frankness and self-serving claims to speak frankly. Even if someone allegedly fulfills the criteria for the performance of frankness, others can still dispute whether he has genuinely done so, or whether it is “mere performance” (in keeping with the self-consciousness and ambivalence in imperial-era society around theatricality).4 While obviously relevant to the openly hierarchical environment of the royal or imperial court in chapter 3, the topic also plays a prominent role in chapter 5 with its discussion of Plutarch’s How to Tell a Flatterer from a Friend, a work that interrogates the reality of the parrhesiast from the viewpoint of a powerful man trying to determine whether his associates are genuine friends or

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ruthless opportunists. The narrator’s main (and self-described) purpose is to help his exalted addressee ferret out the fakers in his midst by determining the absence, presence, or pretense of their parrhe-sia. However, in the last third of the work, when the narrator provides advice appropriate for the less powerful friend in such a relationship, it becomes clear that the stark distinction between friends and flatterers is much more difficult to maintain from this inferior perspective. Ultimately, the work suggests that the contemporary Greco-Roman world inevitably produces such suspicious relationships even among fellow elites, due to marked inequalities of resources and power, along with finely graded social stratification. The theme of false frankness is also important to chapter 6, which situates Lucian’s satires within a different culture of suspicion, that among pepaideumenoi. Here the authorial voice competes with many of the targets of its mockery for recognition as a legitimate heir to earlier traditions of frankness. In uncovering the hypocrisy of his rivals, he undercuts their claims to the role of frank speaker with all its attendant advantages. In the process, he ends up raising questions not just about the validity of these would-be heirs but also about the legacy itself. However, despite Lucian’s attacks on the genuineness of such parrhe-sia and the intellectual authority that both facilitates it and is reinforced by it, we should not automatically dismiss as disingenuous or cynical the self-presentation of imperial-era authors as frank speakers or similar depictions of their favored protagonists. Instead we should recognize that these texts dramatize the impossibility of fully instantiating the ideal of disinterested frankness in the real world because its use is inevitably motivated and rhetorical (in the sense that it is a manipulation of language to a particular end, even in cases where that end is merely the self-presentation of the speaker). Beyond the fundamental contradiction of a non-rhetorical rhetoric (a conceit about which Demosthenes’ uses of the term parrhe-sia are already self-conscious), a related paradox lies at the heart of frankness and its place in post-classical socio-political relations. As we have noted, risk taking is a crucial component of frank speaking, while nevertheless being open to redescription and reinterpretation. As a consequence, a frank speaker’s encounters with other figures or groups necessarily articulate the superiority of his addressee (whether in status, force, or some combination of the two). At the same time, by offering painful yet beneficial correction to his listener, the speaker becomes an educator, a figure whose exercise of power over his pupils is based on his superior knowledge. What is more, the authors’ selfconsciousness about the Socratic pedigree of this role is signaled by their frequent reference to Socrates’ favored metaphor of the doctor for the critical speaker. In keeping with the Socratic model, such claims to higher authority are often accompanied by a denial of worldly powers’ ability to do meaningful harm to a wise man who speaks frankly. This superiority to danger is problematic for the would-be parrhesiast’s self-presentation, however, because it vitiates his claim that he imperils himself by his speech (a

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problem that particularly plagues Philostratus’ superhuman version of Apollonius of Tyana in chapter 3). In effect, many imperial-era writings on frank speech stage a contest over the very definition of power, and in doing so they reveal the political implications of a prominent post-classical intellectual development (laid out in chapter 2) that reconceptualizes true freedom as belonging to the man who behaves – and speaks – freely. Clearly, the efficacy of parrhesiastic self-presentation depends on the acceptance of frankness as a value shared between speaker and audience. However, it is not simply the case that parrhe-sia has been highly valued from classical Athens onward. Changes in the use of the term to fit the socially and politically stratified environment of the Roman empire (and the post-classical Greek world more generally) indicate that its continuing relevance cannot be taken for granted. Rather, as illustrated throughout this study, post-classical speakers and writers have worked to persuade their audiences not just of their correct performance of the role of the frank speaker, but of the ongoing value of frankness itself, whether they addressed the population of an eastern city, nominal social equals among the bouleutic class, an autocratic ruler, or the reading public.

Notes 1 The passage is quoted at the opening of ch. 3. 2 The benefits gained from presenting oneself as a straight-shooting frank speaker in classical Athenian and contemporary American politics are discussed at length by Markovits 2009. 3 As distinct from its “moral adversary,” flattery (Foucault 2005, 373). 4 Important studies include Bartsch 1994; Gunderson 2000; Connolly 2001b; Whitmarsh 2001a.

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Index

abuse (loidoria) 10, 12, 74, 88, 126, 176–179, 181–182 acclamation 121, 137 n79 Achilles 76, 99 n102, 187 n71 Achilles Tatius, Leucippe and Clitophon 41, 54 n75, 54 n84 Acts of the Alexandrians 84, 90 Acts of the Apostles 19, 77, 98 n94 advisors, wise: Apollonius (Philostratus) 68–72, 125–129; to kings 1, 7–8, 9, 20, 60–72, 74–75, 77–92, 99 n103, 100 n110, 103 n157, 141 n133, 143, 163, 168–169, 174, 185 n38, 191–192; Fourth Kingship Oration (Dio Chrysostom) 63–65; Parallel Lives (Plutarch) 77–83; to public 9, 20, 106–131, 138 n103, 191 Aelian 53 n53, 59; On Animals 37–38, 40 Aesop: and Cynics 44; low-culture associations 44; slavery and freedom 42–44; see also Life of Aesop Agrippa–Maecenas debate (Cassius Dio) 88, 143, 157 n10, 185 n39 aido-s (shame) 10, 15, 27 n89, 47, 50 n11 Alciphron 25 n54 Alexander the Great 1, 63–65, 77, 80–83, 99 n102, 101 n38, 104 n177, 132 n14, 144 Alexandria/Alexandrians 13–14, 71, 84, 110–111, 112–113, 115, 116–117, 120–121, 124, 127, 131, 136 n71, 136n73 Alexis, comic poet 45–46 amphidiortho-sis 27 n102; see also prodiortho-sis Anaxarchus 81; On Kingship 101 n127

andreia (manliness, courage) 30, 33, 44–46, 55 n103, 56 n115, 63, 64, 70, 78; see also courage Antipater 17, 27 n106 Antiphon 86, 90, 97 n77, 103 n162 Antisthenes 65, 133, n24, 134 n42 Antoninus Pius 14, 86, 103 n160, 105 n183, 143 Antony 12, 39, 78 Anytus and Meletus 172 apes 180, 190 n126, 190 n131 Apollo 76, 184 n30 Apollonius (Philostratus) 68–77, 81, 84, 89, 91, 95 n53, 97 n70, 106, 125–129, 131, 139 n111, 194; sources 140 n124; supernatural elements 70, 73, 76, 77, 98 n91, 127, 129, 131, 139 n119 Apollonius of Tyana: death of 129, 141 n134; defense speech 74–75, 97 n71, 97 n85; Dio compared with 125–129, 131; as divine 70, 73, 76–77, 98 n90, 98 n92, 131; on Greek degeneration 127, 128–129, 139 n116; and the gymnosophists 139 n117; in Historia Augusta 98 n98; letters 128, 139 n107, 140 n124, 140 n126, 140 n127; rivalry with Euphrates 71–72, 74–75, 97 n70, 139 n111; sources besides Philostratus 96 n54; trial 74–75, 138 n106; see also Philostratus: Apollonius Appian: Civil Wars 11; Samnite Wars 34 Archilochus 136 n67, 175, 187 n84 Aristides, Aelius 16–17, 39, 85–86, 106, 117–118; ill health 128, 135 n60, 140 n128; letters 103 n157, 128; medical metaphors 117–118, 135 n60; praise and blame 118–121, 136 n67; relationship with Marcus Aurelius 85–86, 103 n157; works: To the Cities

228

Index

on Concord (Oration 23) 117; Sacred Tales 16–17, 28 n99; To Plato: In Defense of the Four (Oration 3) 16–17, 25 n67, 28 n98, 53 n57, 138 n94; To Plato: On Rhetoric (Oration 2) 16, 28 n98, 39, 117; To the Rhodians: On Concord (Oration 24) 117, 128; To Rome (Oration 26) 93 n24, 185 n39 aristocratic ideology 31–34 Aristophanes 12–14, 25 n64, 26 n68, 26 n69, 26 n72, 33, 175; works: Acharnians 14, 180, 189 n111; Babylonians 13; Birds 38; Clouds 170, 179–180, 185 n48, 189 n119; Kolakos 158 n15; Thesmophoriazusae 45 Aristotle 17, 25 n54, 32, 45, 48, 51 n14, 80, 95 n46, 101 n131, 101 n138; ethics of rulers 61, 92 n12; theory of natural slavery 137 n91; women 45, 55 n103, 56 n110, 56 n118; works: Nicomachean Ethics 25 n54, 50 n6, 56 n110, 56 n118, 157 n6, 158 n14; Politics 45, 51 n14, 55 n103, 56 n118, 92 n12, 93 n24, 100 n116 Arnim, H. von 134 n34 Arrian 40, 82; works: Anabasis of Alexander 101 n127, 101 n132, 101 n133; Discourses of Epictetus 40; see also Epictetus: Discourses Artemidorus, dream interpretation 32, 46 assembly (ekkle-sia) 7, 9, 34, 136 n72, 145, 146, 166–169, 172, 184 n25; Athenian 8, 9, 24 n39, 45, 55 n96, 127, 166, 167, 168 Asclepius 16, 27 n99 Athenaeus, Deipnosophistae 11, 37 Athens 4, 9–10, 23 n34, 31, 49, 122, 127, 128, 130, 145, 164–165; later image of classical era in 10, 13, 18, 26 n73, 39, 108, 167; disenfranchisement (atimia) in 9, 24 n38; punishment of politicians 55 n96, 113, 134 n40; see also assembly: Athenian Augustus/Octavian 11, 18, 87–88, 91, 143; acceptance of parrhe-sia 88, 104 n176, 104 n177, 104 n178; Res Gestae 27 n80, 88 Aurelian 98 n98 Austin, J. L. 3 autarkeia (self-sufficiency) 40, 53 n68, 150, 160 n45, 166, 175 authorizing frankness: Lucian’s satire: Athens vs. Rome, egalitarianism vs. hierarchy 163–166; conclusion 182;

democracy vs. monarchy 166–170; frankness, abuse, and speaking truth 176–179; Lucian and his rivals 174–176; melding philosophy and comedy 179–180; parrhe-sia as way of life (and death) 170–173; the philosopher dismantled 180–182; wisdom and satire 173–174 Bakhtin, M. 173 Bartsch, S. 2, 60, 67 basileus (king): as opposite of tyrant 61; in Lucian 185 n42; in Philostratus 93 n14 Beckett, S. 162 benefaction 107, 109–111, 127, 130 bios–logos dichotomy 80–81, 171–172, 186 n57 birds, talking 37–38 Bompaire, J. 163 Bost-Pouderon, C. 112, 134 n33 boule- (council) 145 bouleutic class 4, 7, 20, 144–145, 156, 194 Bourdieu, P. 7 Bowie, E. 8, 18 Brahmins 37, 69, 98 n89 Branham, R. B. 167, 176, 180 Brutus 78, 100 n114 Buszard, B. 47 Calenus 12, 25 n61, 25 n62, 39, 53 n58 Caligula 88–89 Callicles 50 n3 Callisthenes of Olynthus 3, 80–83, 100 n125, 101 n130, 101 n131, 101 n132, 101 n138 Camerotto, A. 188 n89 captatio benevolentiae 109, 132 n17 Carnival 37 Cassius Dio 11–12, 25 n60, 39, 84, 87–90, 92, 185 n45; Agrippa–Maecenas debate 88, 143, 157 n10, 185 n39; Attic style 87, 104 n168; excerpts and epitome 89–90, 104 n170; hybrid style of history 87; periodization 104 n169; republican parrhe-sia 87–88; use of de-mokratia 39, 87, 104 n168 Cato the Younger 99 n103, 104 n171 Charon 173 child metaphors 13, 123, 124, 138 n96, 154 Christianity: female martyrs 41–42; writings 4, 18–19, 29 n113, 77, 98 n94

Index Cicero 11–12, 39, 53 n58, 73, 91 cities: independence of 8–9, 23 n34, 135 n59; illness metaphors 114–118; narrative of decline 5–6, 39–40, 122–123; politics within 7–9, 144–145, 157; rivalry between 123–124, 138 n94; stasis within 127–128, 136 n72, 140 n121, 140 n129 citizenship: as basis for frank speech 9, 31–32, 34, 36, 37, 49, 130, 162, 168; female 45, honorary 130; property requirements for 136 n71; Roman 6 civilis princeps 18, 91–92 Cleitus “the Black” 81, 82–83, 84, 100 n122, 101 n137, 101 n138, 104 n177 Cleon 13 comedy and philosophy 12, 25 n64, 179–180; see also Old Comedy Comeroff, J. 7 conversion, intellectual 12, 25, n65, 174, 176 council (boule-) 145 courage 9, 30, 33, 35, 37, 44–46, 47, 48–49, 59, 60, 61, 63–64, 67, 69, 70, 72, 73, 75, 77, 78, 81, 112–113, 117, 129, 156, 162, 171, 172, 176 cowardice 42, 46, 49, 63, 113, 171 Crates 73, 175 Croesus 43, 99 n103, 174 Crosby, H. L. 130 Cynic philosophy 14, 15, 30, 33, 34, 40–41; 51 n25, 72, 110, 131, 133 n25, 169, 172, 173, 174, 175, 178, 179 Damis 69, 76–77, 96 n60, 140 n119, 141 n134 de Ste. Croix, G. E. M. 169, 185 n39 declamation (melete-) 126 [Demetrius], On Style 2, 54 n89, 94 n28, 96 n66 Demetrius the Cynic 70–71, 72, 73–74, 172 Democritus 18, 28 n110, 101 n127 de-mos: rhetoric in the post-classical city: benevolence and benefit 109–111; the civic sumboulos in Philostratus’ Apollonius 125–129; conclusion 130–131; evidence of eunoia 111–114; frankness as medicine 114–118; praise and blame 118–121; praxis 107–109; theory 107; what is at stake 122–125 de-mos tyrannos 106, 119–121; see also masses (de-mos)

229

Demosthenes 4, 12, 16–17, 27 n102, 27 n106, 28 n98, 28 n102, 31, 50 n8, 108–109, 112, 113–114, 119, 175, 185 n43, 193 Desideri, P. 132 n10 Dio Chrysostom 4, 9, 15–16, 17, 29 n113, 46, 61–65, 67–68, 71–72, 84, 85, 87, 89, 92 n6, 107–125, 129, 157, 163, 175, 181, 192; child and slave metaphors 123–124; classical political rhetoric 119–120; compared with Apollonius 125–129, 131; contemporary–past contrast 122–125; as Cynic philosopher 131, 141 n141; emissary of imperial and divine benefaction 110, 133 n27; euergetistic language 109–110; exile 25 n65, 51 n31, 67, 95 n49, 109, 130; good kingship 61–65, 67–68; influence of Plato 108–109, 114–116; influence of Demosthenes 108–109, 112–114, 119–120; medical metaphors 15–16, 114–118, 119, 134 n45, 135 n51; Old Comedy 13–14, 141 n136; as outsider 111, 113, 130–131, 133 n29, 134 n39; relationship with Prusa 127–128, 130, 136 n72, 141 n136; relationship with Roman emperors 65, 85, 94 n37, 120–121; speeches to civic audiences 107–125, 158 n21; terms for Roman authorities 117, 135 n57; works: Alexandrian Oration (Oration 32) 13, 110–111, 112–113, 115, 116–117, 120–121, 124, 131; On Exile (Oration 13) 141 n138; Kingship Orations (Orations 1–4, 62) 58–59, 61–65, 67–68, 89, 93 n18, 97 n6; First Kingship Oration (Oration 1) 62, 67–68, 143, 157 n3; Second Kingship Oration (Oration 2) 93 n20, 102 n141; Third Kingship Oration (Oration 3) 62, 67, 75, 142–143, 157 n6; Fourth Kingship Oration (Oration 4) 1–2, 63–65, 69; On Kingship and Tyranny (Oration 62) 58–59, 92 n10, 94 n41; To the Nicomedians on Concord (Oration 38) 124, 130, 136 n62; Rhodian Oration (Oration 31) 110, 114, 122, 123, 130–131; On Slavery and Freedom (Orations 14, 15) 40; First Tarsian Oration (Oration 33) 13–15, 112, 115, 117–119, 133 n31; Second Tarsian Oration (Oration 34) 111, 113–114, 121, 122–124, 131, 137 n80; On

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Tyranny (Oration 6) 58–59; Oration 43 109; Oration 44 106, 122, 125; Oration 46 127–128; Oration 48 117, 132 n2; Oration 49 66–67; Oration 51 119, 136 n68; Oration 77/78 25 n54, 46, 56 n111, 160 n56 Diodorus Siculus 18 Diogenes Laertius 15, 27 n88, 27 n93 Diogenes of Sinope 1, 12, 14, 15–16, 27 n91, 30, 35, 41, 45, 50 n1, 53 n73, 58–59, 63–65, 65, 73, 94 n31, 175, 177, 178, 179 Dion of Syracuse 77–80, 161 n63 Dionysius I of Syracuse 47, 78, 80, 86, 90, 100 n114, 100 n122, 104 n178 Dionysius II of Syracuse 78, 79–80, 97 n77, 100 n114, 100 n116 Dionysius of Halicarnassus 22 n12 [Dionysius], Art of Rhetoric 21 n5 discourse, lecture (dialexis, diatribe-, logos) 126–127, 139 n107 Domitian 35, 40, 67, 68–69, 72–77, 90, 91, 92 n6, 97 n71, 97 n73, 109, 129, 170 education (paideia) 3, 32, 96 n60, 106, 110, 162, 165, 166, 191, 192, 193; of kings 58, 65–66, 69, 74, 79, 85; as metaphor 135 n56 ekkle-sia (assembly) 7, 9, 34, 136 n72, 145, 146, 166–169, 172, 184 n25; Athenian 8, 9, 24 n39, 45, 55 n96, 127, 166, 167, 168 elenchos (verbal examination, refutation, criticism, scrutiny, exposure) 16, 34, 65, 68, 151, 168, 169, 171, 177, 178, 179, 180, 187 n75, 190 n128 190 n134, 190 n135; personification (Lucian) 175, 177, 181, 189 n104 elites: hierarchy, oligarchy, and friendship: conclusion 156–157; the dangers of flattery 146–148; inequality among elites 144–146; multiple addressees 150–152; parasitism and patronage 148–150; parrhe-sia as the art of maintaining friendships and influencing people 153–156; power and flattery 142–144 Elsner, J. 141 n134 Engberg-Pedersen, T. 144 Epaminondas 133 n20 Epictetus 27 n93, 34, 40, 53 n65, 53 n69, 172, 181; Discourses 15, 40–41, 51 n25, 51 n27, 53 n62

Epicurean philosophy 25 n55, 155, 167 Epistles of Apollonius 139 n107, 140 n124, 140 n126 ethics 5, 6, 8, 9, 10, 19; Foucauldian 6, 8; of a de-mos 9, 106, 108, 114, 122–125, 127, 129, 138 n100; of civic elites 8, 9, 145, 154, 156; of kings 8, 9, 61, 66, 72, 90, 145; and status 2, 31, 33, 41, 45, 50 euergetism see benefaction eugeneia (nobility) 32–33, 46, 49, 50, 179, 189 n117 eunoia (goodwill) 79, 81, 106, 107, 108, 109–112, 154, 132 n17, 192 Euphrates, philosopher 71–72, 75, 97 n70, 139 n111 Eupolis 26 n72; Demoi 180; Kolakes 158 n15 Euripides 5, 9, 32, 45, 49, 52 n36; women’s speech 56 n108; works: Hippolytus 32, 50 n11; Ion 31–32, 50 n10; Phoenissae 31, 35–36 Eusebius, Contra Hieroclem 98 n94 exile 31, 34–36, 40, 46, 51 n27, 51 n31, 53 n65, 67, 70, 79, 95 n49, 145, 181, 190 n132 fable 13, 38, 42, 43, 44, 175 Favorinus 84–85, 86, 132 n9, 186 n64 figured speech 2, 42, 44, 68, 86, 96 n66 flattery (kolakeia) 2, 3–4, 19, 39, 54 n89, 59, 61–65, 66, 67–68, 71, 74, 75, 79, 80, 82, 84, 88, 96 n66, 110, 114–120, 130, 142–152, 154–156, 158 n15, 164–166, 170–171, 181, 185 n39, 193; overlap with therapeia 94 n39, 134 n47 Flinterman, J.-J. 84, 138 n103 Foucault, M. 3, 5–6, 7–8, 23 n24, 23 n30, 23 n31, 40, 192 frankness: and citizenship 9, 31–32, 34–36, 168; counterfeit 19, 59, 91, 146, 155–156; and ethical self-definition 33–34; and freedom 35, 36–44, 62, 171; and gender 44–50; and high status 9, 32–33; as medicine 15–16, 114–118; as performative concept 2–4; personification (Lucian) 177; and self-promotion 11–12, 13, 19, 58, 61–62, 65, 80, 91, 108, 112, 114, 181, 192; terms of expression 2; see also parrhe-sia frankness and post-classical politics: Greek politics in the Roman empire 5–6; icons of frankness 12–17; overview 19–21; parameters 18–19;

Index

231

parrhe-sia and the performance of frankness 2–5; politics, power, and parrhe-sia 7–10; the reception of classical parrhe-sia 10–12 freedom (eleutheria) 31, 51 n27, 60, 182; of Aesop 42–44; self-determined 30, 36–37, 40–42, 44, 45, 68, 73–77, 90–91, 165; and frankness 35, 36–44, 62, 171; granted to cities 8–9, 135 n59; and flattery 62; personification (Lucian) 177; political 38–40; Trajanic 67 freedom of speech: legal restrictions on, in Old Comedy 12–13, 25 n67; Momigliano 4 friendship 10–11, 58, 65, 79, 100 n110, 109, 149, 157 n1, 157 n6, 165–166, 179, 184 n22, 189 n117; and flattery 142–48, 151–152; see also elites: hierarchy, oligarchy, and friendship Fronto 103 n160, 143

148–149, 191–192; see also elites: hierarchy, oligarchy, and friendship Homer 22 n16, 31, 85, 169, 170; Iliad 76, 98 n92, 132 n14, 185 n49 honey and/as medicine 13, 119, 136 n66 Horace 13, 26 n72 How to Tell a Flatterer from a Friend (Plutarch) 46, 59, 65, 82, 83, 192–193; aims 142, 144; dangers of flattery 146–148; elite competition as background 156–157; friendship–flattery dichotomy 143–144; multiple addressees 150–152; parrhe-sia as a skill 153–156; political relevance of 145–146, 158 n19 hubris 62, 162, 165, 177, 183 n3, 189 n102, 189 n115, 189 n118 Hutter, H. 158 n22 hypocrisy 44, 166, 173, 174, 176, 178–179, 181–182, 186 n57, 189 n109

Galen 115, 134 n49, 183 n6; Diagnosis and Cure of the Soul’s Passions 115 Gellius, Aulus 13 gender 41–42, 44–50, 136 n64 Gleason, M. 85 goodwill (eunoia) 79, 81, 106, 107, 108, 109–112, 154, 132 n17, 192 Gordian 84, 102 n150 Grandjean, T. 138 n103 Greek identity 3–4, 163–166 gymnosophists 139 n117

iambic poetry 136 n67, 175, 179, 182, 187 n84 impiety (asebeia) 70, 96 n64 inequality 1, 2, 7, 9, 18, 49, 60, 67, 144–146, 147, 148–149, 163–166, 167–168, 191–193, 194; and high status students 155, 161 n62 informers 66, 74, 80, 94 n42 insiders 31–32, 49, 130–131, 192; sophists as 16, 28 n96, 84 interpersonal politics 7–10, 60, 145–146 intimacy 10–11, 25 n55 ise-goria (equality in speech) 9, 144, 154 Isocrates 10, 16, 59, 65, 93 n12, 99 n102; Areopagiticus 24 n44; To Nicocles 58–59, 94 n39, 192

Hadrian 85, 89, 105 n183, 105 n184 Hahn, J. 60 Halliwell, F. S. 25 n67, 26 n69 happiness, philosophical 30, 40–41, 51 n25, 78, 110, 160 n45 Harmodius and Aristogeiton 73, 86, 101 n132, 100 n114 Heliogabalus 59 Helvidius Priscus 89–90, 91, 105 n190, 105 n193 Heracles 99 n102, 169, 184 n30; choice of, trope 43, 55 n93, 62, 93 n23 Hermes 30, 62, 167, 169, 173, 187 n79 Herodes Atticus 86, 90, 103 n159 Herodotus 55 n104, 96 n68, 187 n81 Hesiod, Works and Days 39, 43 hierarchy 3–4, 142, 165–166, 167, 184 n28; and fable 44, 54 n86; natural 31, 45, 55 n103; Roman 144–145,

Josephus 18; Jewish War 136 n73 Julia Domna 84 Julian 92, 105 n196; Caesares 88, 104 n177 Juvenal 4, 183 n15, 184 n26 kairos (right time) 11, 18, 25 n59, 28 n110, 43, 82–83, 89, 101 n127, 102 n144, 153–154 Kemezis, A. 77, 91, 139 n117, 141 n134 kings/kingship 1, 4, 8, 36, 41, 43, 79, 88, 106, 119–120, 123, 168–169; ethics 60–61, 66; flattery and friendship 142–144; philoi of 100 n110, 143; see also kings: frankness to power

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Index

kings: frankness to power: Apollonius and resistance to tyranny: Domitian impossible 72–77; Apollonius of Tyana and philosophical self-assertion 68–72; beyond Greek philosophers: adversaries and advisors 84–90; cautionary tales from Plutarch’s Parallel Lives 77–83; conclusion 90–92; the tyrant test 61–65; what is at stake in the pedagogical model 65–68 König, J. 126, 173 Konstan, D. 4, 31, 144 Kugler, A. 131 laughter 88, 113, 173, 174, 175, 180, 187 n81 Leucippe 41 Libanius 19, 105 n196 libertas 13, 14, 26 n72, 26 n79, 26 n80, 60 licentia 13, 26 n72, 26 n73, 26 n80 Life of Aesop tradition 42–44; recensions 42, 54 n91 logos (speech, reason, teachings) 75, 80–81, 110; bios–logos dichotomy 81, 171–172, 186 n57; as fable 43; as lecture 126–127 Longinus, On the Sublime 39–40, 122 Lucian 4, 14, 162–163, 187 n74, 188 n100, 193; belatedness 162, 172, 182; ethnic identity 162–163, 183 n6, 188 n92; legitimate use of parrhe-sia 175, 181–182; Lucianic protagonists and narrators 163, 164–165, 174, 175, 183 n13; mockery as beneficial 179, 189 n114; paideia 162, 163, 165, 170; and Old Comedy 170, 178, 179–180; outsider perspective 162–163, 183 n6; on philosophers 165–166, 170, 171–173, 174, 175–182; serio-comic style 180, 190 n128; use of fable 175, 188 n85; works: Apology 150, 159 n41, 166, 184 n19, 184 n22; Assembly of the Gods 166–169, 184 n25; Charon 173, 174, 187 n79, 187 n81; Death of Peregrinus 133 n25, 181–182, 183 n13, 186 n65; Demonax 133 n25, 171, 172–173, 186 n63, 186 n64, 186 n66; Dialogues of the Dead 171, 173, 175; Dialogues of the Gods 170, 185 n44; Downward Journey 187 n69; Encomium of Demosthenes 17, 27 n106; Fisherman 175–82, 183 n9, 188 n89; Hermotimus 173–174, 181, 186

n74, 190 n135; How to Write History 171; Icaromenippus 170, 184 n26; For the Images 94 n27, 181, 190 n130; Nigrinus 164–165; Pseudologistes 175; Runaways 181, 182, 190 n134; Sale of Lives 30, 41, 50 n2, 171, 176–177, 179, 183 n9, 186 n58, 189 n110; On Salaried Posts 40, 150, 165–166; Slander 170–171; Symposium 184 n28; Timon 34, 51 n26; True Histories 183 n9, 190 n123; Twice Accused 170, 179, 189 n105; Zeus Refuted 169, 170; Zeus the Tragedian 166–167, 169–170, 184 n30, 185 n33, 185 n44 Lycurgus 32, 47–48 Maecenas 88, 104 n171 Mallan, C. 12, 21 n8, 25 n62, 87 Marcus Aurelius 85–86, 103 n159, 103 n160, 104 n170, 143; Meditations 14, 86, 143; tolerance of parrhe-sia 14, 103 n160 martyrs: Christian female 41–42; to freedom 28 n106, 84; philosophical 76, 79, 98 n88 masculinity 30–31, 44–46, 48, 49–50, 119, 182; see also andreia (manliness, courage) masses (de-mos) 4, 17, 34, 39, 44, 136 n74, 169; good and bad types 119–121; errors of 138 n96; see also de-mos: rhetoric in the post-classical city Masterson, M. 45 Maximus of Tyre 15, 27 n85, 27 n93, 54 n89, 144, 157 n3, 158 n14 medical metaphors 155, 160 n56; Aristides 117, 135 n60; Demosthenes 134 n43; Dio Chrysostom 15–16, 114–118, 119, 134 n45, 136 n62; Philodemus 161 n62: Plato 16, 114, 115–116, 134 n43, 135 n51; Plutarch 66, 107, 117, 153, 157, 160 n56; surgery (cutting and cauterizing) 115–116, 118, 135 n51, 166 Menander 175; Kolax 158 n15 Menippus of Gadara 50 n1, 173, 177 mob violence 107, 120, 121, 127–128, 178, 180, 191 Moles, J. 64 Momigliano, A. 4 Momus, personification of fault-finding 168–170, 184 n32, 185 n33, 185 n38

Index Musonius Rufus 27 n93, 35–36, 46, 52 n33, 52 n34, 52 n36, 56 n115, 57 n121, 70, 95 n43, 175, 181 Naevius 13 Nero 35, 38, 70, 73, 77, 90, 91, 96 n62, 96 n64, 96 n65 97 n73, 99 n103, 170 Nerva 91, 96 n55, 129, 141 n133 New Historicism 7 Ní Mheallaigh, K. 162–163 Nicostratus, comic poet 33 Nikopolis, Egyptian 117, 124, 135 n59 nobility (eugeneia) 32–33, 46, 49, 50, 179, 189 n117 novels, Greek 27 n89, 41, 54 n75, 54 n77, 54 n84, 95 n53 Numa 47–48, 56 n118, 99 n103 Odysseus 130, 141 n138 Old Comedy 12–15, 54 n64, 25 n67, 26 n69, 26 n72; and Dio Chrysostom 13–14; and Lucian 178, 179–180; personified (Lucian) 178; see also Aristophanes Old Oligarch see [Xenophon], Constitution of the Athenians oligarchy 8–9; and informal power 158 n21; see also elites: hierarchy, oligarchy, and friendship outsiders 130–131, 192; Lucian 162–163, 183 n6; philosophers as 16, 28 n96, 84 paideia (education, culture) 3, 32, 96 n60, 106, 110, 162, 165, 166, 191, 192, 193; of kings 58, 65–66, 69, 74, 79, 85; as metaphor 135 n56 parasites/parasitism 148–150 parrhe-sia: as bold action 15, 27 n89, 37; etymology of term 10; Latin terms 13, 26 n80; pedagogical 14, 20, 58, 61–68, 80, 81 103 n157, 110, 155; 161 n63; permission for 166–170; as “practice of the self” in Foucault 8, 23 n31; as a right 24 n49; and self-promotion 11–12, 13, 14, 19, 58, 65, 68, 80, 91, 108, 174–176, 192; as a skill 153–156; Socratic form 8; and truth 2, 8, 10–12, 13, 19, 25 n54, 30, 34, 41, 54 n89, 59, 62, 63, 72, 111–112, 118, 126, 143, 154, 164, 171, 172, 174, 175, 176–179; use of term 2, 9–10, 18–19; see also frankness parrhe-sia, frankness, and post-classical politics: Greek politics in the Roman

233

empire 5–6; icons of frankness 12–17; overview 19–21; parameters 18–19; parrhe-sia and the performance of frankness 2–5; politics, power, and parrhe-sia 7–10; the reception of classical parrhe-sia 10–12 Parrhesiades (Lucian) 176–182, 188 n89 patronage, personal 148–150, 159 n38, 159 n39, 165–166, 160 n43 Paul 29 n113, 77, 98 n94; Epistles 19, 29 n113, 77 pax romana 39–40, 123, 137 n88 Peisistratus 93 n16 Pelling, C. 144 Peregrinus Proteus 181 Pericles 17, 53 n57; citizenship law 32 Perseus, King of Macedon 83 Peterson, A. 180 Phaedrus, fabulist 42 pharmakon (medicine, poison) 107, 153, 160 n56 philanthro-pia (kindness to fellow man) 11, 66, 107, 110 Philip II of Macedon 1, 17, 93 n20, 95 n46 Philo 18; Every Good Man is Free 40, 53 n63 Philodemus 27 n93, 155, 161 n61; works: On Flattery 155; On Parrhe-sia 155, 158 n15, 161 n62 Philopappus 144, 147, 149, 150, 151, 152, 159 n36 philosophers: as doctors 15–16, 41, 66, 116–117; false 126, 173, 176, 180, 181, 190 n126, 190 n127, 190 n131; Lucian on 165–166, 170, 171–173, 174, 175–182; as outsiders 16, 28 n96, 84; as advisors to kings 66–67, 69, 77, 80; as spies 41 Philosophia, personified (Lucian) 178–179, 181, 189 n106 Philostratus 18, 103 n164, 108; hostility to parrhe-sia 84–85; works: Apollonius 68–77, 81, 84, 89, 91, 95 n53, 97 n70, 106, 125–129, 131, 139 n111, 194; Lives of the Sophists 18, 59, 84–87, 90, 91, 92 n6, 97 n77, 103 n162, 106, 108–109, 126, 132 n15, 138 n103, 159 n29, 172; see also Apollonius (Philostratus) Philostratus of Lemnos 59; De Epistulis 140 n124 Plato 10, 28 n98, 31, 73, 78–80, 99 n103, 108–109, 114, 118, 133 n24, 161 n63,

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Index

177, 178, 189 n112; allegory of the cave 154; critique of rhetoric 16, 117, 129, 135 n61; ethics of rulers 61, 92 n12; works: Apology 15, 25 n64, 114, 134 n41, 172, 178, 179, 180, 190 n123, 190 n125; Crito 74, 130; Epistles 99 n107, 100 n112; Gorgias 15, 16, 39, 50 n3, 94 n26, 114, 134 n46, 135 n51, 161 n64; Parmenides 53 n50; Phaedo 109, 186 n66; Phaedrus 11, 73; Republic 33, 50 n8, 92 n12, 115, 154; Sophist 161 n64; Symposium 53 n56, 164, 190 n123 Pliny the Younger 18; Epistles 94 n28, 152; Panegyricus 67, 94 n28 Plutarch 3, 18, 22 n12, 27 n93, 35, 77–83, 91, 99 n104, 101 n133, 106, 132 n6, 156, 160 n45, 164; counterfeit frankness 155–156; medical metaphors 117, 157; mildness and moderation 146, 154–155, 156–157, 158 n24, 161 n59; parasitism and patronage 148–150, 158 n38; and Philopappus 144; right time (kairos) 153–154; self-awareness 156, 160 n55; statesmen 107, 117; wise advisors 65–66; women 46–49; works: Comparison of Lycurgus and Numa 47–48, 56 n118; Comparison of Theseus and Romulus 99 n103; Consolation to His Wife 46; Dialogue on Love 46; On Exile 35, 36; How to Profit by One’s Enemies 65; How to Tell a Flatterer from a Friend 26 n68, 26 n75, 46, 59, 65, 82, 83, 97 n77, 100, n111, 100 n113, 103 n162, 104 n178, 136 n66, 142–157; 163–164, 187 n80, 192–193; Life of Agesilaus 158 n24; Life of Alexander 3, 52 n46, 77, 80–83, 100 n122, 100 n123, 101 n131, 132 n14; Life of Brutus 78; Life of Cato the Younger 99 n103; Life of Coriolanus 158 n24; Life of Demosthenes 17, 28 n100; Life of Dion 47, 77–80, 99 n107, 99 n108, 100 n114, 100 n115, 100 n116; Life of Galba 99 n103; Life of Lucullus 99 n103; Life of Numa 99 n103; Life of Pelopidas 48–49; Life of Phocion 136 n66, 158 n24; Life of Publicola 99 n103; Life of Romulus 47, 56 n118, 99 n103; Life of Sulla 37; Life of Tiberius Gracchus 158 n24; Life of Timoleon 100 n110; On Exile 35–36, 52 n36; Political Precepts 51 n24, 107, 109, 117, 122, 123, 145–146, 149, 158 n21, 158 n24, 159 n38;

Precepts of Marriage 46, 48, 56 n118; Symposium of the Seven Sages 101 n136; Sympotic Questions 101 n136, 150, 184 n28; That a Philosopher Ought to Converse Especially with Rulers 65, 66, 78, 83; To an Uneducated Ruler 65, 66, 83; Virtues of Women 46, 48; see also How to Tell a Flatterer from a Friend (Plutarch) [Plutarch]: Lives of the Ten Orators 32; On the Education of Children 32, 33 Polemo 85, 86, 90, 103 n161, 138 n103, 185 n43 Polybius 18, 87 Post-Colonial Studies 7 poverty 32, 33–34, 51 n22 power 7–9; dunamis 63, 81, 122, 146; exousia 2, 29 n113, 41, 63, 66, 94 n41; Foucault on 7, 23 n28; and honesty 60, 67 praise and blame 59, 67–68, 81, 86, 106, 113, 118–121, 151, 154, 155, 156, 168 princeps 61, 88, 135 n57 Prodicus 62 prodiortho-sis 17; see also amphidiortho-sis proskyne-sis (prostration) 3, 81, 82 Ptolemy V 155 Pyrrhus 34, 83, 102 n143 Pythagoras 161 n63 Pythagorean philosophy: and magic 96 n54; rejection of death 75–76, 98 n89, 98 n92; silence 127 Quintilian 2 Raaflaub, Kurt 9–10 resistance, theories of 7, 23 n29 rhetoric: classical era 16–17; and philosophy 12, 25 n64, 25 n65, 130–131; and power 39 Rhodes, 110, 114, 117, 123, 130–131, 137 n90; as free city 117, 122–123 risk 3, 13, 14, 17, 28 n110, 44, 59, 60, 61–62, 70–71, 75, 76, 77, 81, 82, 83, 84, 86, 94 n42, 98 n98, 106, 108, 111, 112, 113–114, 119, 181–181, 192, 193–194 rivalry: personal 148, 172–173; civic 123–124, 138 n94 Robert, L. 163 Roman emperor, Greek terms for 61, 93 n14, 185 n42 Roman republic 14, 39, 87–88 Romulus 47, 56 n118, 99 n103

Index Sabine women 47, 56 n118 Saller, R. 149 Saturnalia 37 Scarpat, G. 4 Schlier, H. 50 n6 Scott, J. C. 7 Second Sophistic 18, 108 Secundus the Silent Philosopher 98 n88, 105 n183 self-control 1, 5, 40, 51 n21, 52 n37, 53 n61, 53 n68, 53 n69, 76, 83, 122–124, 156 self-sufficiency (autarkeia) 40, 53 n68, 150, 160 n45, 166, 175 Seneca 18, 27 n93, 57 n121, 99 n103; De Beneficiis 18, 158 n39; De Clementia 94 n28 Septimius Severus 84, 87, 89 Septuagint 19 shame (aido-s) 10, 15, 27 n89, 47, 50 n11 silence 37–38, 47, 48, 90, 105 n189, 127–128, 168 slanderers/slander 26 n70, 66, 94 n42, 101 n130, 170–171, 177 slaves/slavery 30, 31, 32, 35, 36–41, 45, 53 n57, 53 n63, 54 n77, 55 n95, 78, 94 n41, 112, 137 n91, 149–150, 154, 155, 160 n45, 161 n63, 176, 179; in the Life of Aesop 42–44; and friendship 165–166, 184 n22; metaphors 28 n106, 39, 46, 53 n56, 53 n58, 123–124, 134 n46, 138 n95, 164; “slave speech” 36–39, 55 n97; and tyranny 60, 62, 74, 79 Smyrna 86, 103 n157, 128, 138 n103 Socrates 12, 14, 25 n64, 33, 53 n73, 62, 98 n89, 114, 115, 134 n46, 161 n63, 170, 175, 180, 185 n48, 189 n108; in Apology (Plato) 114, 178, 180, 190 n123, 190 n124, 190 n125; accusers of 172; reception of 14–15, 27 n85, 35, 62, 65, 68, 73–74, 94 n26, 109, 110, 114, 132 n5, 130, 136 n68, 141 n136, 171, 172–173, 174, 177, 186 n65, 186 n66, 193; in Fisherman (Lucian) 177, 178–179, 188 n101, 190 n123 Solon 24 n44, 99 n103, 174, 187 n80 sophists: as advisors 85–86; as insiders 16, 28 n96, 84 Sosius Senecio 78, 99 n104 Sparta 14, 45, 55 n105, 122, 128–129, 139 n116, 140 n130, 158 n24; women 47–48, 56 n116

235

Spawforth, A. 149 speaking freely: Aesop’s freedom: between privilege and practice 42–44; elites and insiders 31–34; exile 34–36; gender 44–50; the philosopher’s freedom 40–42; political freedom and frankness 38–40; slave speech 36–38 speech act theory 3 stasis 127–128, 136 n72, 140 n121, 140 n129 Stobaeus 27 n91, 33 Stoic philosophy 27 n93, 33, 34, 35, 40, 57 n121, 70, 89, 104 n177, 110, 133 n25, 138 n101, 165, 174, 186 n58 Suetonius 18, 53 n65 Swain, S. C. R. 23 n27, 72, 78, 94 n35 Tacitus 18, 98 n88; works: Agricola 27 n80, 53 n65, 105 n192; Annals 105 n189; Histories 95 n51, 27 n80, 105 n193 Tarquinius Superbus 99 n103 Themistius 19, 105 n196 Theognis 31, 32, 146 Theophrastus 158 n15 Thersites 22 n16 thorubos (uproar, hubbub) 111, 113, 121, 134 n37, 137 n80, 137 n83 Thrasea Paetus 89, 90, 105 n189 Thucydides 53 n57, 134 n45, 186 n53 Tiberius 88 Titus 71, 72 Trajan 1, 27 n80, 61–62, 64, 67, 68, 85, 90, 93 n18, 95 n51, 102 n139, 105 n184, 108, 109 truth: and parrhe-sia 2, 8, 10–12, 13, 19, 25 n54, 30, 34, 41, 54 n89, 59, 62, 63, 65, 67, 72, 74–75, 88, 103 n160, 111–112, 126, 164, 171, 172, 174, 175, 176–179; personification (Lucian) 175, 177–178, 189 n107; and rhetoric 12, 16; as unpleasant 112, 114, 115, 118, 143, 154, 174, 192; and wine 11, 25 n56 Twelve Tables 26 n70 tyrannicide 100 n114; see also Harmodius and Aristogeiton tyranny 39, 58–59, 60–62, 64, 68–69, 72–77, 80, 81, 83, 86–87, 89, 91, 94 n34, 157 n3, 192; metaphorical 41; of the crowd 119–120; and slavery 60, 62, 74, 79

236

Index

Vespasian 71–72, 89–90, 97 n70, 97 n71, 97 n73, 98 n89, 170 Visa-Ondarçuhu, V. 188 n89

n118; in classical Athens 31, 32; dominant 46, 48, 56 n110, 56 n118; in Euripides 56 n108; in Plutarch 46–49

Wallace-Hadrill, A. 91 wealth 32–34, 46, 146–147, 158 n17, 164–165, 167, 187 n71, 188 n87 Whitmarsh, T. 6, 52 n36, 60, 61, 64, 65, 67, 92 n7, 94 n35, 102 n139, 125, 173, 188 n89 wine and frankness 11, 25 n56, 82–83, 153 wise man cannot be harmed 34, 75–76, 114, 134 n41, 178, 179, 189 n108 women 45–50; in Aristophanes 45; in Aristotle 45, 55 n103, 56 n110, 56

Xenophon 62, 93 n12; works: Apology 27 n85; Memorabilia 62, 93 n23, 159 n35; Oeconomicus 48 [Xenophon], Constitution of the Athenians 50 n3, 50 n8 Zeno of Elea 73 Zenobius 93 n16 Zeus 53 n72, 53 n73; satires of 166–170, 185 n43, 186 n49 Ziegler, K. 99 n108 Zuiderhoek, A. 9, 144