Gendered Politics in Sophocles’ Trachiniae 9781350260313, 9781350260344, 9781350260320

Table of contents :
Cover
Halftitle page
Series page
Title page
Copyright page
Contents
Preface
Acknowledgements
Notes on Texts
Introduction
Female citizenship and agency
The female tragic subject
Deianeira’s claim
1 An Amazon in Athens: Monsters, Gender and the Polis
The Amazon in the polis
Deianeira against the monsters
2 Three Weddings and a Funeral: Marriage and Sexual Violence
Violated marriages and the polis
Rape to death
Mirrored weddings among illicit sexualities
Death after a death
3 Beware of Monsters Bearing Gifts: Exchange and Reciprocity
Corroded reciprocal transactions
Nessos: A gift for a fee
Herakles: Reciprocity in crisis
Marital reciprocity on sale
4 Crime and Punishment: Guilt, Justice and Silence
Is Deianeira guilty?
Despair and hope
Reciprocity and justice
Right to silence
5 Absent in the Exodos: Authority and Masculinity
The authority of Herakles’ νόμος
Hegemonic masculinity and Hyllos’ maturation
Epilogue: A precarious journey
Notes
References
Index Locorum
General Index

Citation preview

Gendered Politics in Sophocles’ Trachiniae

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Also available from Bloomsbury Becoming Female, Katrina Cawthorn Female Mobility and Gendered Space in Ancient Greek Myth, Ariadne Konstantinou Women in Ancient Rome, Bonnie MacLachlan Women’s Life in Greece and Rome, Mary R. Lefkowitz and Maureen B. Fant

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Gendered Politics in Sophocles’ Trachiniae Gesthimani Seferiadi

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BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA 29 Earlsfort Terrace, Dublin 2, Ireland BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2022 Copyright © Gesthimani Seferiadi, 2022 Gesthimani Seferiadi has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work. For legal purposes the Acknowledgements on p. ix constitute an extension of this copyright page. Cover design: Terry Woodley Cover image © Detail from a Terracotta neck-amphora c. 510 BC, Greek. Fletcher Fund, 1956/metmuseum.org. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN:

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978-1-3502-6031-3 978-1-3502-6032-0 978-1-3502-6033-7

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Contents Preface Acknowledgements Notes on Texts Introduction Female citizenship and agency The female tragic subject Deianeira’s claim 1

2

3

4

5

vii ix xi

1 1 3 7

An Amazon in Athens: Monsters, Gender and the Polis The Amazon in the polis Deianeira against the monsters

11

Three Weddings and a Funeral: Marriage and Sexual Violence Violated marriages and the polis Rape to death Mirrored weddings among illicit sexualities Death after a death

43

Beware of Monsters Bearing Gifts: Exchange and Reciprocity Corroded reciprocal transactions Nessos: A gift for a fee Herakles: Reciprocity in crisis Marital reciprocity on sale

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Crime and Punishment: Guilt, Justice and Silence Is Deianeira guilty? Despair and hope Reciprocity and justice Right to silence

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Absent in the Exodos: Authority and Masculinity The authority of Herakles’ νόμος

11 22

44 46 51 59

74 76 83 87

94 96 105 112 117 117

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Contents

Hegemonic masculinity and Hyllos’ maturation Epilogue: A precarious journey Notes References Index Locorum General Index

127 134 137 169 189 193

Preface This book seeks to explore the gendered politics in Sophocles’ Trachiniae. The steady intent throughout all chapters is to attempt to provide a renegotiation of the question ‘Where is the feminine located in the play?’ and a redefinition of the dynamics of the female locus. What has been put forward as a premise to be maintained and proved is that rather than fostering systemic sexism, the play invests in a complete reversal of the fundamental principles of sociality and kinship by presenting an unstable ground of blurred and dislocated gender symbols, and calling attention to the deregulation of hegemonic masculinities as embodied in its non-political hyper-males. The common expectation concerning the female in the ancient world is that in general, ancient texts reproduce the stereotypical Greek male view of women as belonging to the untamed, animal, non-political world, as being morally weak, susceptible to strong desires, and consequently, subjected to male domination. So, whenever Deianeira is interpreted in terms of a gendered dualism, it is often in the context of fostering a trend towards assuming systemic sexism, which renders her guilty in terms of a presumed male-dominated audience and aligns her with other well-known female figures, harbingers of misery (Clytemnestra, Pandora, Medea, etc.). Or, on the other hand, she is interpreted in the context of classifying her as an insufficient or foreclosed subject, or an innocent and victimized object excluded by any activity that involves deliberation. Starting from a different standpoint, this interpretation follows Deianeira, originally an Amazon, being placed at the center of the polis but gradually abandoning the world of reason and moving closer to a non-political territory that lies beyond human cognition; this area has qualities in common with the liminal realm of both the monsters and the Amazons, as the extreme ends of masculinity and femininity respectively. The first chapter, dealing with Deianeira as an Amazon and her monstrous opponents, aims to define the background of the dislocation of gender symbols in which the play invests (‘An Amazon in Athens: Monsters, Gender and the Polis’). Then, one by one, the next four chapters deal with different aspects of this dislocation: the second chapter offers a discussion of the nuptial narratives of the drama and follows the way the irregular material of Trachiniae is included within vii

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Preface

a structure that repeatedly refers to marriage but is committed to violating this arrangement (‘Three Weddings and a Funeral: Marriage and Sexual Violence’); the third chapter deals with the corroded reciprocal transactions of the play with a view to explaining Deianeira’s failure as the inevitable consequence of a general crisis in the network of reciprocities (‘Beware of Monsters Bearing Gifts: Exchange and Reciprocity’); the fourth chapter investigates the question of guilt and punishment in terms of Deianeira’s ‘crime’ and the issues of female agency that are raised because of her self-conscious decision to send the poisoned robe to Herakles (‘Crime and Punishment: Guilt, Justice and Silence’); the last chapter talks through the issues of authority that are raised in the exodos, in order to examine the way the dynamics of negotiation of hegemonic masculinity evolve in the closure of Trachiniae (‘Absent in the Exodos: Authority and Masculinity’).

Acknowledgements This book is a revision of my doctoral dissertation, supervised by Efimia D. Karakantza and submitted in partial fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philology (Classical Studies) at the University of Patras (Department of Philology). So, first, I would like to express my sincere gratitude to my supervisor for her continuous support in many respects throughout this process. It was her deep insight that prompted, inspired and influenced my study of the Sophoclean text but, even more significantly, her profound generosity at all levels that guided me continuously while writing this book. I would also like to thank her for kindly sending me early drafts of her article in progress (‘Beauty and the Beast: An Interpretation of Sophocles’ Trachiniae’), on the idea that Deianeira is located in the polis, as opposed to Herakles representing bestiality. To put it in a few words, I could not have imagined having a better mentor. Secondly, I would like to thank the members of my dissertation committee, Barbara Goff and Vayos Liapis, who encouraged me to improve my writing and widen my research from various perspectives. Working as prominent scholars in the field of Greek tragedy, they have both greatly enhanced my work with their perceptive insights. But, more importantly, their keen support was a great honour for me. I am especially grateful to Barbara Goff for tirelessly and meticulously reading early versions of this dissertation, valuably commenting on several issues of content but also highlighting language errors. Moreover, I owe a debt of gratitude to Vayos Liapis, whose criticism anticipated several reasoning mistakes and errors of expression. For all their contributions, I am deeply grateful to both. Of particular importance for conducting my research was the funding of the General Secretariat for Research and Technology (GSRT) and the Hellenic Foundation for Research and Innovation (HFRI), which granted me a scholarship (2017–19) under the Action ‘1st HFRI Announcement for PhD Candidates’. But I also extend gratitude to Gregory Nagy and the people behind the Center of Hellenic Studies Fellowship Program, who invited me for an official visit to the Center in 2017–18, gave me full access to the resources of the library and offered the opportunity to share my ideas with the members of the community on campus. Without their precious support, it would not have been possible to complete this research task. ix

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Acknowledgements

I would also like to express my appreciation to the other generous scholars who have read drafts of this manuscript, and whose advice has been invaluable, including the examiners of my doctoral dissertation, Gregory Nagy, Menelaos Christopoulos, Athena Papachrysostomou and Eleni Gasti. I thank them for being so generous with advice and supportive of this book being published. Also, I would like to take this opportunity to thank two anonymous reviewers for reading my manuscript and proposing its publication, as well as for their thoughtful and supportive suggestions for improving this book. It was really encouraging to read their positive comments, but it was also of great benefit to my work to take into consideration their critical remarks while I was working on my plan for the revision of the manuscript. Special thanks go to Patrick Finglass, who waived anonymity and provided me with meticulous feedback as well as sent me his papers, both of great value. The guidance of all these experts resulted in a great improvement in my writing, but all remaining oversights remain mine. Finally, I could not fail to mention my thanks to my closest philoi for the stimulating discussions and for all the good times we have had in the last years, especially beneficial in relieving stressful moments. This has been of great advantage for me but above all, I am deeply grateful to my dearests constituting my oikos, for supporting me throughout my life. It was their love and devotion that made it possible to bring this task to an end.

Notes on Texts In the main body of the book, ancient authors and works are cited in unabbreviated form. Abbreviations of authors and works, which are used regularly in the footnotes and parenthetical references within the text, follow the guidelines of the Oxford Classical Dictionary, 4th edition, 2012. Journal titles in the Bibliography section are given in full form. The original form of Greek terms is usually preferred, unless commonly appearing in classical scholarship in Latin form (e.g. polis, oikos). These Latinized Greek terms are italicized. Greek sources are cited in the original, followed by their translation in English. Unless serious textual problems have been observed, all Greek sources except Trachiniae are cited from the editions available in the Thesaurus Linguae Graecae digital library. Translations from non-English sources are my own unless otherwise indicated. The text of Trachiniae used is Lloyd-Jones and Wilson 1992 (corrected revision of 1990 impression), the most widely used edition. The translation in English is always cited by Lloyd-Jones 1998 (corrected revision of 1994 impression), which offers almost exactly the same text (with reduced apparatus) as Lloyd-Jones and Wilson 1992, accompanied by facing translation. Commentaries used are Easterling 1982 and Davies 1991, the best modern commentaries, while Jebb 1892, even though inevitably out of date, is a stillessential classic commentary which proved useful in many respects.

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Introduction

Theoretical and methodological points that came to light during research are discussed in this introductory chapter. The issue of the female subject, a critical question of feminist theory that has raised intense and extensive debate, is first addressed. It seems that although various alternatives have been suggested, the possibility of a critique of the patriarchal structures that can be expressed via the precarious locus of the female remains the subject matter of all relevant discussions. As is explained in the second part of this chapter, tragedy, and specifically Trachiniae, allows the female to be constructed as an acting and speaking subject and offers a privileged area of expressing female agency. Following these observations, the concluding part of the chapter elucidates the theoretical working model that has determined the structure of reasoning of this book, a model that can offer an alternative to this critical question in view of Deianeira’s value as an ‘object of exchange’ which establishes kinship.

Female citizenship and agency The discussion on moral responsibility and female agency is conducted on the basis of the legal status of women in the Greek world, and mainly in Athens. It is a common assumption that ‘the law is gendered, and at the same time engenders society: on the one hand, it reflects the social construction of sexual roles, and on the other it reinforces this construction’.1 We can take as an example the earliest known Athenian legislation, the laws of Draco – enacted by Draco near the end of the seventh century bc and reinscribed in 409/408 bc – which, as Cantarella has shown, ‘codified the Homeric division of women as “seduced” and “seductresses”, transforming the social stereotype into a legal classification which had fundamental legal consequences on women’s life’.2 However, the way women were treated in the full range of legal contexts seems to be a rather disputed matter. The widespread position is that women’s legal status was analogous to 1

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Gendered Politics in Sophocles’ Trachiniae

that of slaves and children, a view that seems to reflect Aristotle’s concept of citizenship, which is defined in his Politica as ‘the participation in the deliberative or judicial administration of a polis’.3 But Cantarella and Patterson have firm grounds to reject this view. Cantarella recognizes that ‘Athenian women had the status, but not the functions, of citizens’. This means that although they were barred from taking part in political life, they ‘were considered citizens and indicated as such by the words aste and politis (feminine forms of astos and polites), two words indicating two different levels of participation in civic life’.4 And even after Perikles’ citizenship law (450 bc), which excluded from citizenship those not born of two citizen parents,5 their status became a condition for the citizenship of their children. Patterson also discusses Perikles’ law within its linguistic and historical context to show that Athenian women who met the requirements of the law were citizens.6 These conclusions are particularly important since they prove that although women in Athens were undoubtedly controlled and could not in fact function as complete citizens, they were not completely alienated from either their privileges under the law or their obligations to the law. Hence, despite being considered legal minors, they are not at the outset debarred from any discussion on agency and moral responsibility. Modern theories on ideology and the subject can also be exploited towards the positive possibility for female agency to be expressed and defined. On this discussion, the working model of ideological production proposed by Goff has been enlightening.7 Goff starts by admitting that ‘the subject comes to consciousness in the terms of a dominant ideology that has already closed off certain possibilities for him or her and opened only certain others’, but, following the Gramscian construct of hegemony and other theoretical models, such as the theory of structuration developed by Anthony Giddens and the model of subcultures, she also discusses alternatives to gender ideology and female agency and sees a space for the articulation of resistance that is opened up within the process of ideological production. She also observes the paradox of gender ideology and female agency, thus: ‘Although gender ideology often seeks to deny women active independent agency, it also requires them to be successfully functioning wives and mothers, and thus requires them to exercise an energetic practical agency in their own sphere’.8 Therefore, for Goff the relationship between gender ideology and female agency is not necessarily contradictory: Women’s agency is part of gender ideology, not in its interstices like bacteria between healthy cells, but like a virus that itself occupies the cell. If women in

Introduction

3

such societies have been able to retain the possibility of resistance, it is perhaps partly because they have been required to retain the possibility of active agency. The agency of free adult wives and mothers may, however, be differentiated from the simple material agency required from other subordinates, such as hired workers and slaves of either sex.9

Accordingly, Goff sees religion as a privileged area of dissent and suggests that ‘in performing rituals women of ancient Greece exercise unusual agency and cultural presence and are constituted as active subjects of the ritual process’.10

The female tragic subject Like ritual and being itself a form of ritual act, tragedy offers comparable alternatives that prove that within tragic narratives women are not simply reproducing the ideological constraints that govern their lives; instead they perform within a privileged area of dissent and exercise unusually active agency. However, it is widely and commonly believed that within the structures of Athenian democracy and democratic tragedy, the tragic subject is a male subject. Vernant, for instance, suggested that Athenian tragedy introduced a new discourse on the subject which implicated the citizen of democratic Athens. Greek tragedy ‘involved the creation of a “subject”, a tragic consciousness, the introduction of tragic man. Similarly, the works of the Athenian dramatists express and elaborate a tragic vision, a new way for man to understand himself and take up his position in relation to the world, the gods, other people, himself, and his own actions’.11 At the same time, there is the view that the female is considered incompetent as per its potentiality to claim subjectivity; that is, to deliberately engage in the tragic plot as an agent of action. As Zeitlin puts it, ‘women are never an end in themselves, and nothing changes for them once they have lived out their drama onstage. Rather, they play the role of catalysts, agents, instruments, blockers, spoilers, destroyers, sometimes helpers or saviors for the male characters’.12 On the other hand, tragic women, as opposed to real Athenian women, do speak and act, claiming the position of the subject within a system that de facto objectifies them, namely a system which considers them the object of male activity. This is the paradox of female subjectivity in Athenian tragedy, and it is this exact point that has caused serious debate within feminist critique on tragic texts. Because although feminist ideology speaks about a systemic objectification

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Gendered Politics in Sophocles’ Trachiniae

of the female that too often excludes the potentiality of female subjectivity, tragic texts have been seen as a locus of – limited from its very outset and eventually foreclosed but still detectable – potential resistance. On these grounds, in order for the female to be constructed as an acting and speaking subject, it needs to temporarily appropriate a kind of subjectivity. From this provisional and precarious position, the female construct makes possible a multifaceted survey within the male-dominated world of drama. As Wohl puts it, the female subject in tragedy is a very useful construct, as it entails ‘a dynamic of critique foreclosed’, which operates dynamically in different directions exploring various possibilities: The woman’s failed attempt to participate in the system that oppresses her achieves a multiple purpose: first, it reaffirms the system, which is posited as the only valid forum for subject formation; second, it allows for an institutionalized (and therefore contained) form of resistance to the system, a critique that questions without undermining the basic structure; and third, while allowing that critique to be voiced, it delegitimizes anyone who voices it, thus reinscribing the repressed status of the critique and the hegemonic status of the system and its legitimate participants. This dynamic of critique foreclosed is in part, I suggest, what makes the female subject so useful a construct in tragedy.13

How does this dynamic function in Trachiniae? As I will suggest in my discussion on the act of sending the robe (Chapters 3 and 4), despite the fact that Deianeira’s failure in her transaction with Herakles can be seen as embodying structural elements that are located to the sphere of the female (e.g. secrecy, association with magic, destructiveness), this failure cannot be simply seen as a ‘natural defect’ of the female but as another aspect of a generalized crisis in reciprocal relations presented in the play. In fact, the exchange between Herakles and Deianeira is not simply an exchange ‘with a woman’ but it is, in fact, an exchange ‘between men’ – and it is exactly because of the mediation of the monster that this exchange is destructive. However, this is a suggestion that raises a theoretical question: If Deianeira was designed to unwittingly turn into a Clytemnestra, what kind of control did she have over her action; in other words, how does this affect her agency? Deianeira may be seen as a passive object, trapped within the structures of the male-centred society which objectifies her. Thus, what originally seemed like an exchange between Herakles and Deianeira proves to be another male agon between Herakles and Nessos, under the control of the omnipotence of Zeus.14 Nessos was the first to violate Herakles’ marriage, by attempting to get something

Introduction

5

for nothing. In turn, this violation is reciprocated by his killing by Herakles and, finally, Herakles’ death is orchestrated by the Centaur as his revenge on Herakles. On the other hand, the problematic reciprocities with Eurytos function as the activator of Nessos’ plan. So, through the introduction of the young maiden, Herakles is cooperating with the Centaur, being an accomplice in the execution of his own death. On the basis of this outline, Deianeira’s involvement in Herakles’ death might be interpreted as merely instrumental: the collection of the poisonous blood and the sending of the robe function as the murder weapon, in a murder that was premeditated by the Centaur and accomplished through Herakles’ own actions. The female is excluded from this scheme, while Deianeira’s participation is subjugated to both the agon between the hero and the Centaur, and the poet’s superior aim to dramatize the death of a great hero. Within this line of thought, feminist readings of the play in general deny the possibility of the female subject, arguing for Deianeira simply acting as a mediator and not as an end or a subject herself. Hence, for Zeitlin, Deianeira’s role in Trachiniae is an eloquent example of the foreclosure of self-determination for the tragic female: Although the distress and despair of Deianeira, the innocent, virtuous wife, commands our attention for most of the play, and although she loses none of our sympathy when unwittingly destroying her husband Heracles for love of him, we come to realize that her entire experience, her actions and reactions, are in truth a route for achieving another goal, the real telos or end of the drama. She is the agent designated to fulfill the deceptive, riddling oracles which predict the tragic destiny of Heracles rather than a well-earned respite from his labors here on earth. She kills herself offstage in remorse, but his are the sufferings we witness publicly on stage, and it is he who, in his first and last appearance before us, provides the climax and resolution of the drama.15

At the same time, for Deianeira to be constructed as an acting and speaking subject, even if she is only seen as the agent of the Centaur, she needs to be fabricated as a provisory subject. Female subjectivity, however, has always been problematic and suspicious. So, on the one hand, whenever female subjectivity is expressed, it is too often dangerous and destructive. Ormand, for instance, sees marriage and/or erotic desire as the predominant loci to express the threatening moment of female subjectivity.16 Within this typical understanding of the female as threatening the patriarchal schemes, hence being excluded from humanness, Deianeira can be viewed as a creature analogous to the monsters Herakles confronts. As duBois puts it:

6

Gendered Politics in Sophocles’ Trachiniae Deianeira is in the tragedy both a heroic figure destroyed by her unwitting actions, and a creature made analogous to the monsters who battle with Herakles in his many labors [my emphasis]. She has an Amazon name; unlike the bull, the birds, the Amazons, she destroys him. Deianeira, like Clytemnestra, is a murderess even though she is the agent of another, the Centaur, the barbarian other whose attack on civilization was an attempt to gain power over her. In her act of unconscious violence, she becomes a figure analogous to him, not simply a victim but an agent of destruction and barbaric chaos.17

Similarly, Lyons, presuming the negative connotations of the ‘usual gendered patterns of exchange’ (i.e. the assumption that in tragic genre ‘exchanges between men and women are inevitably fraught with negative consequences’), examines Trachiniae along with Aeschylus’ Agamemnon as examples of destructive gift exchange and failed reciprocity within the context of a crisis in a marriage relationship.18 Lyon’s Deianeira is ‘a foil to Klytemnestra, for her destructive act, also marked by the arrival of a new woman in the house, arises out of her love for her husband, and her own inability to recognize the fierceness of her jealousy and desire when faced with a rival’.19 Thus, modelled on Hesiod’s μέρμερα ἔργα γυναικῶν (‘the ills that women craft’, Theog. 603), Deianeira’s participation in gift exchange is suspect and destructive by the definition of its gender: the metal container as a signal that something is wrong, the actual act of accepting a gift from a man to whom a woman is not married as a violation of the norm, and the contents and the location of the container, which suggest female sexual secrets of a potentially threatening nature, all point towards the incrimination of Deianeira’s act of gift giving. With the female functioning as a mere instrument and Deianeira simply acting as the agent of the Centaur’s victory in the original conflict between him and the hero, heterosexual relations are subordinated to a superior order of homosocial bonding, which ultimately ignores the female. That is, in a society which is defined by a series of relationships between men, women not only fail to function as subjects but also fail to understand the broader homosocial nexus within which male relationships are established. For Ormand, whereas Deianeira’s marriage constructs her as a subject (i.e. from her marriage ‘she derives an identity, a social position, and a sense of self ’), she fails to understand that, ‘from Heracles’ point of view, she is not the subject of his marriage’.20 Hence, Deianeira’s tragedy rests on the fact that she only passively desires to be the object of Herakles’ desire, and fails to see that she is only marginal in Herakles’ universe of homosocial relationships.21

Introduction

7

Within this view, Deianeira’s claim to subjectivity derives from her attempt to be a part of the male/heroic economy of exchange. According to Lévi-Strauss, the economy of heroism is an economy built on the circulation of women by men; these exchanges establish kinship and culture and defuse hostility among men.22 But in tragedy, the disruption of the fundamental system of male bonding, including gift exchange and host–guest relations (xenia), and the exploration of a possibility of female subjectivity entail an attack on male subjectivity, dissolving social bonds and objectifying men.23 So, for Wohl, although objectifying Deianeira, Trachiniae also gives her the option to position herself as a subject by actively participating in the gift exchange of the heroic world and by entering an agon with Eros. However, in Wohl’s view, even when Deianeira is given the opportunity to claim subjectivity, it is only to explore the destructive and illegitimate potentiality of the female subject and to finally justify and re-establish the exclusion of the female from the authoritarian areas of the patriarchal society. For her, ‘Trachiniae offers Deianeira the options of being either an object or a dangerous and illegitimate subject; it allows her only male models for the definition of her own subjectivity, then shows her inability to use these models and her ultimate entrapment by them’.24 Within this line of thought, Deianeira’s subjectivity is ‘bought’ at the price of Iole’s; that is, she positions herself as a subject in a gift exchange by using Iole as an object and receiving her as a gift.25 Since Deianeira’s subjectivity can only be sought through male paths, it is prescribed to reproduce these hegemonic structures which in fact objectify her – only to finally present the failure and delegitimizing of the female subject and the reaffirmation of the system that oppresses her, by sustaining the line of exchange through the union of Hyllos and Iole. Thus, in the end, Deianeira’s participation is forgotten and her actions prove to have been merely instrumental in the larger conflict between Nessos and Herakles.26 Even if the possibility of the female subject is immediately foreclosed, it is recognized that from that position Deianeira makes possible a critique of exchange.27 But is this the only possibility of critique that can be expressed via the precarious locus of the female?

Deianeira’s claim According to Butler, Antigone called for a renegotiation of the structures of a male-centred society, in particular the laws of kinship governing the treatment

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Gendered Politics in Sophocles’ Trachiniae

of women as goods of exchange, thus consigning them to, and consolidating, an inferior social position. As opposed to critics, such as Hegel, Lacan or Irigaray and other feminist readers,28 who have seen Antigone as a figure ‘who articulates a prepolitical opposition to politics, representing kinship as the sphere that conditions the possibility of politics without ever entering into it’, Butler denies the separation of kinship and state and positions her Antigone as having already departed from kinship.29 For her, Antigone’s power, to the extent that she still wields it for us, has to do not only with how kinship makes its claim within the language of the state but with the social deformation of both idealized kinship and political sovereignty that emerges as a consequence of her act. In her act, she transgresses both gender and kinship norms, and [. . .] exposes the socially contingent character of kinship, only to become the repeated occasion in the critical literature for a rewriting of that contingency as immutable necessity.30

Following a route that parallels that of Butler’s Antigone, Deianeira also poses a challenge to the system that oppresses her by transgressing both gender and kinship norms and exposing the artificiality of the socially constructed kinship, thereby denying the separation of oikos and polis. As I will argue in Chapter 1, in terms of gender norms Deianeira introduces an unstable Amazonian symbol, which creates an unsettling subtext that continuously deregulates the stability of her presence within the play and creates cracks within her speech. Together with the monstrous foreground of Trachiniae, this Amazonian background is included within a structure that is formed on the basis of repeated distortions of the wedding ritual, and consequently of nuptial gender categories; a structure that, as will be shown in Chapter 2, repeatedly refers to marriage but is committed to violating this arrangement with monstrous rapes. The destruction of familial order represented in the play, however, is not a domestic or personal but a public political issue, insofar as societal cohesion depends on each oikos’ well-being. Whereas Deianeira is instated on the opposite side of the monsters, representing a proficient member of the political body, which is fully aware of the official gender ideology of classical Athens, she gradually denounces the femininity of the devoted wife who secures the safety of the oikos and coincidentally the well-being of the polis, and appropriates male qualities. Her suicide, also discussed in Chapter 2, can be seen as her attempt to claim a posthumous masculine kleos, while her ‘mistake’, discussed in Chapter 4, nearly transports her to the irrational dark world of magic and beasts and turns her into the agent of the Centaur. Therefore, as the play progresses Deianeira

Introduction

9

abandons the world of reason and polis and moves to a non-political territory which lies beyond human cognition; this area coincides with the liminal realm of both the monsters (the extreme end of masculinity) and the Amazons (the extreme end of femininity). Within this unstable ground of blurred and dislocated gender symbols, Deianeira proves to have been a disguised Amazon, playing the role of a Penelope who was unwittingly turned into a Clytemnestra. At the same time, the play invests in a complete reversal of the fundamental principles of kinship. Trachiniae places the female and the oikos within the political and within citizenship, whereas it does not hesitate to align the male with the forces which destabilize political order. As a result, any temporal or ontological antecedence of oikos (kinship) over polis (state) is abolished while the norms of familial affiliation and marital cohabitation (i.e. kinship) and sociality are being renegotiated in terms that define the oikos as being a prominent political entity. By denying the separation of oikos and polis, the play exposes the artificiality of the socially constructed kinship, thereby challenging the common psychoanalytic notion that presocial (‘natural’) relations determine social relations. On these grounds, Deianeira’s action acquires a contradictory impetus and an additional dynamic of negotiation of kinship norms. Her participation in the gift exchange gives her an opportunity to proclaim herself a subject endowed with agency, an opportunity which seems incompatible with her gender and, as such, is predisposed to fail. As is argued in Chapter 3, however, Deianeira’s failure should not be seen as the result of a general ineptitude of the female subject; instead, it could be better explained as the inevitable consequence of a general crisis in the network of reciprocities that is presented in the play. Nevertheless, by accepting the Centaur’s offer, keeping his poison and deciding to use it, Deianeira is violating and challenging the act of exchange, which together with the incest taboo is taken as an elementary structure which establishes the symbolic order. Thus, she contributes to the denunciation of the vocabulary of kinship proposed in Trachiniae, and in that sense she helps to renegotiate women’s position in the oikos and their ‘value’ as goods of exchange.31 Whereas the Centaur deprived her of the ownership of her own act, Deianeira refuses to defend herself by delegating responsibility to Nessos as the one truly accountable for Herakles’ death. Like Antigone’s refusal to deny that it was she who performed the burial (‘I am claiming ownership of my action and I am not denying that I did it’ (καὶ φημὶ δρᾶσαι κοὐκ ἀπαρνοῦμαι τὸ μή, Soph. Ant. 444) – an act which, as Butler notes, refuses ‘the linguistic possibility of severing herself from the deed’ – with her silence, Deianeira refuses to denounce

10

Gendered Politics in Sophocles’ Trachiniae

ownership of her action.32 But, as we will see in Chapter 4, through her ‘dynamic silence’, Deianeira opens up another possibility for a critique of the phallocentric order while remaining within the female strata. Despite Deianeira’s absence, these dynamics of negotiation of hegemonic masculinity gathered throughout the play are maintained and enhanced in its exodos, as suggested in the final chapter of this book.

1

An Amazon in Athens: Monsters, Gender and the Polis In the first part of this chapter, I deal with the question of Deianeira’s origin, with a view to repositioning her on the stage of the Dionysian theatre, just at the exact moment when she comes out of the palace to introduce herself and expose the present situation to the Athenian spectators. This discussion enables us to retrieve this mythical figure from the distant past and unravel the connotations that it invoked within the Athenian imaginary, so that we will better approach the perspective of the polis and the expectations of the audience as far as the question of ‘Who is Deianeira?’ is concerned, precisely as a new reinterpretation of the myth is introduced. In the second part, I discuss Deianeira as opposed to the remote and monstrous un-political setting of the play, a world that is defined by disclaimers of marriage and illicit sexualities, namely Herakles and his monstrous competitors (Acheloos, Nessos), and is juxtaposed to the social sustainability that is ensured through the well-being of the oikos. With its scenery bounded by an Amazonian background on one side and a monstrous foreground on the other, it is concluded that rather than fostering systemic sexism, the play invests in a complete reversal of the fundamental principles of gender and kinship by presenting an unstable ground of blurred and dislocated gender symbols.

The Amazon in the polis Deianeira’s prehistory reveals a dark and heinous family story from descending both from her maternal and paternal mythical genealogies. Following this paradigm, Deianeira herself, being engaged in a cycle of kinship violations that appears to be inherent in her family, could have been perceived as an Amazonlike figure who deliberately acts as the murderer of her husband. Her mythical existence, however, as can be documented on the basis of the available sources, 11

12

Gendered Politics in Sophocles’ Trachiniae

does not extend beyond the scope of the Herculean narrative and her involvement in the death of Herakles.1 Yet, evidence, albeit scarce, allows us to infer that preSophoclean mythology had established an independent female figure of an old Aetolian legend, conceived on the basis of a template for a bold-hearted and aggressive woman with an Amazonian origin.2 The etymology of Deianeira’s name predicts a heinous and murderous aspect of her character, which classifies her as a ‘femme fatale’ of the class of Clytemnestra. Δηιάνειρα (δήιος: ‘destructive’ and ἀνήρ: ‘man’), following the linguistic form of the adjective ἀντιάνειραι that typically describes the Amazons, is initially explained to mean ‘the slayer of men’.3 This meaning is narrowed to denote ‘the destroyer of a husband’, when Deianeira becomes known for the legend of Herakles’ death. A number of later sources also give evidence to an Atalanta-like prehistory. Apollodorus provides us with a narrative on a warlike figure that ‘drove a chariot and practiced the art of war’ (αὕτη δ’ ἡνιόχει καὶ τὰ κατὰ πόλεμον ἤσκει; Bibl. 1.8.1). Diodorus Siculus speaks of her as one of the Amazons that Herakles fought against during his ninth labour to gain Hippolyta’s belt (4.16.3). These descriptions fully agree with a scholium on Apollonius Rhodius’ Argonautica (Schol. Ap. Rhod. 1.1212 = 288W), referring to a lost poem of Archilochus which recounted that Deianeira was injured in the chest when Herakles recruited her in the battle with the Dryopes, while they are also consistent with the account of the same incident made by Nonnus (Dion. 35.89–91).4 Likewise, in Deianeira’s genealogy we can also find traces that bear witness to the etymology of her name, and which can lead us towards a dark and remote mythical past that alludes to a female destroyer of kinship. From her mother’s side, she originates in a mythical world, related to well-known narratives, which, among others, includes the famous Calydonian Boar hunt. Geographically speaking, the myths about Deianeira are placed in Aetolia while at some point, not safely specified, they are incorporated into the Herculean mythology – and, in particular, into the part that refers to the last years of Herakles’ lifetime as a mortal, his death and his restoration through the abolition of his mortality. The latter part is placed in Thessaly and refers to Trachis and Mount Oita as its focal points. Calydon, the reign of Deianeira’s father Oineus, is a city situated beside the river Evenus in south-west Aetolia. Pleuron, the city of Althaia’s father Thestios, was situated west of Calydon, in the plain between the rivers Acheloos and Evenus, at the foot of Mount Curium, from which the Curetes, the traditional inhabitants of Pleuron, are said to have derived their name. These neighbouring

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towns were the two chief loci of Aetolia in the heroic age and their inhabitants, the Curetes of Pleuron and the Aetolians of Calydon, were engaged in frequent wars (Hom. Il. 9.529). Although Calydon was usually taken as Oineus’ location,5 Sophocles, as early as the prologue of Trachiniae (7), preferred Pleuron instead of Calydon as Deianeira’s parental home. This may be an indication that he is tracing descent through the female line of her family, thereby directing the audience towards Deianeira’s matrilineal genealogy and the stories connected with the brutal death of Meleager.6 The genealogical legend originating from her mother documents a history of exemplary domestic violence and a tendency to promote the prosperity of the parental oikos at the expense of the conjugal oikos. According to the most widespread account of Meleager’s death,7 Deianeira’s mother, Althaia, is charged with the intentional murder of her own son because he killed her brothers during the Calydonian Boar hunt. Myth had it that it was destined for Meleager to meet death, when a torch, burning in the family hearth, was consumed by fire. Although initially Althaia secured her son’s survival by hiding the torch in a box, after the death of her brothers, she herself lit the torch, causing his sudden death.8 The Homeric account of the incident, however, which is probably adapted to offer a parallel in favour of the argument put forward by Phoenix, omits the torch motif and only refers to Althaia calling the Furies and cursing her son. Yet the description underlines Althaia’s fieriness, the intensity of her anger and the cruelty of her request to inflict death upon her own child (Il. 9.561–72): τῇ ὅ γε παρκατέλεκτο χόλον θυμαλγέα πέσσων ἐξ ἀρέων μητρὸς κεχολωμένος, ἥ ῥα θεοῖσι πόλλ’ ἀχέουσ’ ἠρᾶτο κασιγνήτοιο φόνοιο, πολλὰ δὲ καὶ γαῖαν πολυφόρβην χερσὶν ἀλοία κικλήσκουσ’ Ἀΐδην καὶ ἐπαινὴν Περσεφόνειαν πρόχνυ καθεζομένη, δεύοντο δὲ δάκρυσι κόλποι, παιδὶ δόμεν θάνατον· τῆς δ’ ἠεροφοῖτις Ἐρινὺς ἔκλυεν ἐξ Ἐρέβεσφιν ἀμείλιχον ἦτορ ἔχουσα. By her side lay Meleager nursing his bitter anger, wroth because of his mother’s curses; for she prayed instantly to the gods, being grieved for her brother’s slaying; and furthermore instantly beat with her hands upon the all-nurturing earth, calling upon Hades and dread Persephone, the while she knelt and made the folds of her bosom wet with tears, that they should bring death upon her son; and the Erinys that walketh in darkness heard her from Erebus, even she of the ungentle heart.9

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Gendered Politics in Sophocles’ Trachiniae

In the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women, the part of the papyrus describing the fate of Meleager is mostly lost (F25 MW);10 thereby, it does not allow us to attribute to Althaia any responsibility for the death of her son. Yet the use of the adjective κυα[ν]ῶ̣[π]ις (‘dark-eyed’, F25.14 MW), albeit formulaic, may be taken as an indirect indication of a ‘dark’ figure, one that is consistent with her presentation in Bacchylides Ode 5, which clearly refers to Althaia as a murderous son-slayer. This Olympic victory ode, composed in 476 bc , reports an encounter between Herakles and the shade of Deianeira’s brother when the former visits the Underworld on his way to fetch Kerberos. Meleager’s heinous past provides a narrative model of crime within kinship that informs Deianeira’s and Herakles’ future story. While Meleager tells the story of his death by his own mother, Herakles expresses his pity and says that he would like to marry the sister of such a hero. Deianeira is introduced as a sister worthy of her great brother, Meleager (σοὶ φυὰν ἀλιγκία; ‘resembling your appearance’, 168), and consequently as a potential wife worthy of the great hero, Herakles. Meleager tells him of his young sister and Herakles listens with pleasure, oblivious of the fact that this choice of wife will set in motion events leading to his own death. A similar and even more complex reversal and destruction of kinship norms can also be traced through the paternal lineage of Deianeira. Most sources take her as the daughter of Oineus, the king of Calydon. Oineus, in turn the son of Portheus or Porthaon, has a special connection with both Dionysus and Ares.11 On the one hand, this king, who Bacchylides calls ‘favoured of the god of war’ (Οἰνῆος ἀρηϊφίλου, Ode 5, 166), is connected with the god Ares, as in some sources the latter is the real father of two of Oineus’ putative sons, Meleager and Tydeus, while in others he can be his grandfather. On the other hand, Oineus is said to have been the first to receive a vine plant from Dionysus, introducing winemaking to Aetolia, while sometimes Dionysus takes Oineus’ role as the father of Deianeira.12 As Pozzi has suggested, this Dionysiac interference as part of Oineus’ name, as well as the disruptive violence that prevails in the myths concerning him and his family, forms part of a complex Dionysiac pattern resulting in the inversion of the normative kinship.13 It is the same pattern that can be traced in Althaia’s disposition to favouring her own family line and destroying Oineus’ heir, but also in Deianeira’s disposition to violating the laws of conjugal affinity.14 Oineus’ story becomes more interesting when Althaia dies and he takes Periboia, daughter of Hipponomos, as his second wife. Periboia is received as a gift of honour when the city of Olenus is sacked (Theb. F5 PEG), or sent away by her father from Olenus in Achaia to Oineus with an injunction to put her to death, either because she had been seduced by Hippostratus (Hesiod F12 M-W)

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or because she was already with a child by Ares (Diod. Sic. 4.35.1ff.). Tydeus, who is the son Periboia had with Oineus, is also involved in stories incorporating traces of kinship violations or even incest. He is said to have killed his uncles (Hesiod F10a MW, 55–7) or the sons of Melas (Alcmeonis F4 W) or the sons of Agrios (Pherecydes 3F122 EGM) because they tried to wrest power away from Oineus. In an odd story told by Apollodoros, he is said to have been slain by his father Oineus ‘because he leaped over the trench’, (ὑπερπηδήσαντα τὴν τάφρον, Bibl. 1.8.1). This explanation, however, is too uncertain to accuse Oineus of a deliberate homicide. And in an even more serious, extreme case of incest, albeit by the will of Zeus, Tydeus is Oineus’ son by his own daughter Gorge (Peisandros 16 F1 FGrHist; cf. Paus. 10.38.5). Therefore, Deianeira is by the definition of her name and origin doomed in advance to stand against all the forces that establish gender difference in a patriarchal community. Her distant Aetolian origin and the myths concerning her family clearly indicate a confirmed tendency towards violence within the marital and familial kinship, while the etymology of her name refers to a strongly competitive relationship with the male. So, Deianeira is predisposed to damage the institution of marriage, through which patriarchy aims to control sexuality, ensure perpetuation and ultimately secure the survival and prosperity of the oikos and the polis. Although it is difficult to accurately retrieve, this hazy figure introduces from the outset a paradoxical and unstable Amazonian symbol, which pre-exists in a space located outside the limits of the polis and the citizen body. In an Amazonian society, men are despoiled of all those eminently masculine activities that constitute the basic structural principles of patriarchal societies from which real women are excluded: authority over social and political institutions, participation in war and control over the reproduction of offspring. Thus, Amazons, this distant ethnic group of female warriors, equal to men, that the Homeric formula Ἀμαζόνες ἀντιάνειραι (Il. 3, 189; 6, 186) most likely describes, embody an essential ambiguity of gender, blurring masculinity and femininity. While feminine, they perform in accordance with masculine standards, providing a model example against the natural conceptions of gender dichotomies and in favour of the social construction of gender roles. They participate in traditionally male activities, depriving men of their authority, while at the same time they also perform feminine roles, taking full advantage of their reproductive competence and the dynamics of their sexuality.15 So, Deianeira’s Amazonian background alludes to a symbol that confuses the concepts of similarity and difference, hence creating tension between masculinity

16

Gendered Politics in Sophocles’ Trachiniae

and femininity and providing a model of the absolute inversion of the historically documented Greek social norm. By describing the extreme end of femininity, the Amazonian symbol offers an excessively gendered marker that does not only denote the blurring but can also indicate the collapsing of any gendered boundaries, and consequently the absolute absence of actual gender markers. Thus, it inserts in the main narrative an unstable subtext which functions as a disintegrating agent – one that is manipulated in such a way that it continuously deregulates the stability of Deianeira’s presence within the play and creates cracks within her speech. *

*

*

This hazy Amazonian figure, which pre-exists in a space located outside the limits of the polis and the citizen body, seems to be at odds with the Sophoclean Deianeira; namely, the Deianeira who is deceived by the Centaur and, despite causing Herakles’ death, acts out of innocent intentions. It appears that the decisive step forward to absolve her from blame is made when the story of Nessos’ attempted rape is linked with Deianeira’s deception and the Centaur’s interference in Herakles’ death. Although Herakles’ interference in defence of Deianeira’s honour while Nessos attempts to rape her is a well-known story before Sophocles, the episode does not seem to be linked with the deception version in any of the available versions dated before Sophocles’ time, as it is in Trachiniae. And while we cannot confidently attribute this innovation to Sophocles, we can at least observe that the integration of these two independent stories seems to be a late development, as it is not attested earlier than Bacchylides’ Dithyramb 2 (Ode 16) and Sophocles’ Trachiniae.16 This rape and rescue incident can be traced back as far as the seventh century bc in literature, and possibly even earlier in art.17 In archaic art the most popular depiction of the episode is a combat at close quarters between Herakles and Nessos, the former using his sword or club rather than arrows. Herakles, despite being typically cast in epic as an archer, appears with his bow to rescue Deianeira only around the late sixth century.18 Deianeira, on the other hand, plays a more active role in contributing to her own rescue. She is either presented standing on a chariot holding the reins while Nessos kneels before Herakles pleading for mercy,19 or running away from the Centaur and making her own escape.20 Therefore, early accounts of this rape and rescue scene also point towards the direction of an independent warrior-like figure who is contributing to her rescue.

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Furthermore, the rescue scene as depicted in archaic art has been considered incompatible with Sophocles’ account of a deceiving Centaur and a deceived Deianeira, since the close fight of the competitors while Deianeira is running away does not allow for the interaction of the young girl with the Centaur. This interaction, in turn, is the logical prerequisite for the love-philtre version. On the basis of this argument, scholars who insist on the logic of the story have argued that it is only with the appearance of the bow that the deception story can fit into the narrative without logical inconsistencies.21 On the other hand, scholars who argue against this conclusion do so on the grounds of a few early exceptions that present Herakles using the bow.22 It could be argued that insistence on detail and logic when the testimonies come from art is rather risky, so I would be inclined to agree with Stafford who moves away from the logistics of the episode, suggesting that this scenario is more in keeping with the archaic conception of a good fight, as well as suiting the limited canvas offered by most Greek media.23 Unfortunately, the earliest extant literary sources do not give any insights into Deianeira’s motivation either. In the pseudo-Hesiodic Catalogue of Women, which appears to be the earliest and the most extensive literary account of Herakles’ death, there is no suggestion that Nessos was involved in Deianeira’s action (F25 M-W: 17–25):24 κ̣[αὶ ἐπί]φ[ρ]ονα Δηϊάνειραν, ἣ τέχ’ ὑποδμηθεῖ[σα βίηι Ἡρ]ακλη̣[ε]ίηι Ὕλλον καὶ Γλῆνον κα̣ὶ̣ [Κτή]σ̣ιππον καὶ Ὀνείτην· τοὺς τέκε καὶ δείν’ ἔ̣ρξ̣[‘, ἐπεὶ ἀάσατ]ο̣ μέγα θυμῶι, ὁππότε φάρμακον ∙[ ἐπιχρί]σ̣ασα χιτῶνα δῶκε Λίχηι κήρυ[κι] φ̣[έρειν· ὃ δὲ δῶ]κ̣εν ἄνακτι Ἀμφιτρυωνιά[δ]ηι Ἡ[ρακλῆϊ πτολιπό]ρθωι. δ[εξ]αμένωι δέ ο[ἱ αἶψα τέλος θανάτοι]ο παρέστη· καὶ] θ̣άνε καί ῥ’ Ἀΐδ[αο πολύστονον ἵκε]το δῶμα. and [thoughtful] Deianeira, who, overpowered by Heracles’ [force], bore Hyllus and Glenus and Ctesippus and Onites; these she bore, and she committed terrible deeds, [for she acted ] very [foolishly] in spirit, when, [ smearing] the philter on the cloak, she gave it to the herald Liches [to take; and he gave] it to lord [Heracles], Amphitryon’s son, [the city-sacker]. Once he received it, [the end of death was swiftly] at hand for him; and] he died and [came to the much-groaning] house of Hades.25

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Gendered Politics in Sophocles’ Trachiniae

The text is lacunose at the points where Deianera’s emotional state is described (ἀάσατ]ο̣ μέγα θυμῶι). This is certainly not incompatible with Sophocles’ version of the story, and interestingly it already includes a role for the herald Lichas, but it would be equally consistent with a version in which the murder was deliberate on the part of Deianeira. ἀάσατ]ο̣, which is Lobel’s suggestion, can equally describe a deliberate or an unintentional murder (ἀάω in aor. med: ‘to be infatuated’), directing us to think that maybe the ambiguity raised here is intentional. Archilochos had also told the story of the attempted rape by Nessos, the murder of the Centaur by Herakles and the rescue of Deianeira by the latter, but the scarce remains of his poem, contained in a reference from Dio Chrysostom and in two scholia on Apollonius Rhodius and the Iliad respectively (F286–8 W), do not allow us to infer whether Nessos’ deception formed part of his version. The first reference is included in the Sixtieth Discourse of Dio Chrysostom, a little dialogue that clearly reveals the author’s sophistic training and his attempt to display his dexterity in reconstructing Greek myth: Ἔχεις μοι λῦσαι ταύτην τὴν ἀπορίαν, πότερον δικαίως ἐγκαλοῦσιν οἱ μὲν τῷ Ἀρχιλόχῳ, οἱ δὲ τῷ Σοφοκλεῖ περὶ τῶν κατὰ τὸν Νέσσον καὶ τὴν Δηιάνειραν ἢ οὔ; φασὶ γὰρ οἱ μὲν τὸν Ἀρχίλοχον ληρεῖν, ποιοῦντα τὴν Δηιάνειραν ἐν τῷ βιάζεσθαι ὑπὸ τοῦ Κενταύρου πρὸς τὸν Ἡρακλέα ῥαψῳδοῦσαν, ἀναμιμνῄσκουσαν τῆς τοῦ Ἀχελῴου μνηστείας καὶ τῶν τότε γενομένων· ὥστε πολλὴν σχολὴν εἶναι τῷ Νέσσῳ ὅ τι ἐβούλετο πρᾶξαι· οἱ δὲ τὸν Σοφοκλέα πρὸ τοῦ καιροῦ πεποιηκέναι τὴν τοξείαν, διαβαινόντων αὐτῶν ἔτι τὸν ποταμόν· οὕτως γὰρ ἂν καὶ τὴν Δηιάνειραν ἀπολέσθαι, ἀφέντος τοῦ Κενταύρου (Archilochus F286 W; Dio Chrysostom, 60.1). Can you solve this problem for me: whether or not people are justified when they find fault with Archilochos and with Sophocles, in the way they treat the story of Nessos and Deianeira? For some say that Archilochos is being nonsensical when he makes Deianeira chant a long story to Herakles while the centaur is forcing his attentions on her, reminding him of Acheloos’ wooing of her and of what happened at that time: as a result of which Nessos would have had plenty of opportunity to achieve his desires. And others say that Sophocles introduced the arrow-shot too soon, while they were still crossing the river; in which case Deianeira too would have died, because the centaur would have dropped her.26

The speaker of this dialogue wonders about the logistics in Archilochus’ and Sophocles’ treatments of the story of Nessos and Deianeira, as in his opinion

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both versions fail in terms of time consistency. So, while Sophocles speeds up Herakles’ attack, which means that Deianeira would have perished before being instructed by the Centaur, since the dying beast would have dropped her in the river, Archilochus does the opposite, delaying Herakles’ attack and giving the Centaur plenty of time to accomplish his assault. Whereas Dio’s reference does not make this clear, it has been suggested that the version of Herakles using the club or sword makes more sense here, and since this version is not consistent with the love-philtre addition, we should possibly assume that the deception did not form part of Archilochos’ story.27 Arriving at Sophocles’ era, we can look at Bacchylides’ version of the story (Dithyramb 2 = Ode 16), which is a synthesis of the details very similar to what we find in Trachiniae (13–35): πρίν γε κλέομεν λιπεῖν Οἰχαλίαν πυρὶ δαπτομέναν Ἀμφιτρυωνιάδαν θρασυμηδέα φῶθ’, ἵκετο δ’ ἀμφικύμον’ ἀκτάν· ἔνθ’ ἀπὸ λαΐδος εὐρυνεφεῖ Κηναίῳ Ζηνὶ θύεν βαρυαχέας ἐννέα ταύρους δύο τ’ ὀρσιάλῳ δαμασίχθονι μέ[λ]λε κόρᾳ τ’ ὀβριμοδερκεῖ ἄζυγα παρθένῳ Ἀθάνᾳ ὑψικέραν βοῦν. Τότ’ ἄμαχος δαίμων Δαϊανείρᾳ πολύδακρυν ὕφα[νεν] μῆτιν ἐπίφρον’ ἐπεὶ πύθετ’ ἀγγελίαν ταλαπενθέα, Ἰόλαν ὅτι λευκώλενον Διὸς υἱὸς ἀταρβομάχας ἄλοχον λιπαρὸ[ν] ποτὶ δόμον πέμ[π]οι. Ἆ δύσμορος, ἆ τάλ[αι]ν’, οἷον ἐμήσατ[ο·] φθόνος εὐρυβίας νιν ἀπώλεσεν, δνόφεόν τε κάλυμμα τῶν ὕστερον ἐχομένων, ὅτ’ ἐπὶ {ποταμῷ} ῥοδόεντι Λυκόρμᾳ δέξατο Νέσσου πάρα δαιμόνιον τέρ[ας.] Meanwhile we sing of how the son of Amphitryon, a bold-minded man, left Oechalia devoured by fire, and arrived at the headland with waves all around it; there he was going to sacrifice from his booty nine loud-bellowing bulls for

20

Gendered Politics in Sophocles’ Trachiniae Cenaean Zeus, lord of the wide-spread clouds, and two for the god who rouses the sea and subdues the earth, and a high-horned unyoked ox for the virgin Athena, whose eyes flash with might. Then a god, useless to fight against, wove for Deianeira, to her great sorrow, a clever scheme, when she heard the bitter news that the son of Zeus, fearless in battle, was sending white-armed Iole to his splendid house to be his bride. Poor woman, ill-fated, what a plan she devised! Widely powerful envy destroyed her, and the dark veil which covered what was to come, when on the rosy banks of the Lycormas she received from Nessus the fateful, monstrous gift.28

Deianeira is definitely the innocent victim of an ‘invincible divinity’ (ἄμαχος δαίμων, 23), who weaves his destructive plan in her mind. However, her emotional state is not explicitly revealed, as she finally seems to be destroyed by a combination of this mighty divinity together with her jealousy for Iole (φθόνος, 31) and the Centaur’s deceit (Νέσσου πάρα δαιμόνιον τέρ[ας, 35). As in Sophocles, Iole’s arrival as a bride (ἄλοχον, 28) sets the tragic events in motion but, once again, it is impossible to say which of the two poets influenced the other, since neither the ode nor the play is precisely dated.29 *

*

*

So, on the basis of the available testimonia it seems impossible to be certain about which part of the story as presented by Sophocles is his work, or to answer confidently whether he invented the tale of Nessos’ deception, which allocates the role of an innocent victim to Deianeira, despite the fact that this seems like a very plausible possibility. Be that as it may, either introducing a novel version or following a precedent tradition, Sophocles is definitely drawing upon a narrative that departs from the version of an impulsive husband-slayer while as already noticed, in terms of the implications of Deianeira’s Amazonian background, he needs to manipulate and deal with mercurial and diverse mythical material. Even so, as I will also argue in the following chapters of this book, Sophocles is very careful in civilizing this untamable and irregular material. He discreetly places an Amazon within the civilized arrangement of an oikos, also moving her marriage to Herakles to a fairly early stage in the hero’s life, thereby giving her enough time to conform to the political entity of the oikos.30 Especially as far as marriage as a political institution is concerned, the significance of marital narratives in Trachiniae, which I will discuss in the next chapter, needs to be underlined from the outset of every discussion of the play. Nevertheless, it has been argued that the Sophoclean Trachis is a frontier town while the setting of

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the play lacks indications of civic life, thus adding to a sense of suspension of normal civilized procedures.31 Or, in other words, that ‘the public life of the polis is firmly off-stage in the Women of Trachis and quite marginal: the name of the King of Trachis is not even mentioned, and the Malian people in their meadow/ agora are of minimal interest for the action that concerns Deianeira, Heracles and their descendants’.32 However, it is now generally accepted that the ‘public–private’ distinction might require some revision.33 To the Athenian ideology the problems of the oikos are hardly separated from the problems of the polis; hence, Athenians did not see the oikos standing against the polis, but considered the oikos as the nuclear element/the vital cell of the polis.34 Therefore, despite the views that the political setting of Trachiniae is vague or marginal, Deianeira’s house is the centre of civic life, as it represents the civilized institution of marriage that is essential for the well-being of society as a whole. Her oikos is not a private but a political entity; hence Deianeira is exploiting and misappropriating the ship metaphor, a very common and striking metaphor referring to the governance of the citystate,35 to refer to the management of her oikos: ‘I have taken in as a captain takes on a cargo’ (παρεσδέδεγμαι, φόρτον ὥστε ναυτίλος, 537). Deianeira has received Iole in her oikos, like a sailor who is getting more merchandise on a ship, being unable to manage the extra freight. Her oikos cannot bear the cost of a stasis between spouses; neither can it survive under the controversy raised when two commanders are forced to coexist and rule the same body. In this light, Trachiniae is reflecting on a collective political concern about the sustainability of the polis, which can only be ensured through the institution of marriage. Thus, the destruction of familial order represented in the play is not a domestic or personal but a public political issue, insofar as societal cohesion depends on each oikos’ sustainability. What is striking is that within the blurred boundaries of gender distinctions in Trachiniae, the play projects the sustainability of the oikos onto the female pole, while it exploits the male to project the oikos’ destruction. So, Deianeira’s dramatic presence is haunted by over-masculine monsters, all constituting a district that stands against order and reason while it is extremely violent and hyper-sexual. This gives us a drama whose background is defined by monsters and Centaurs, the traditional disclaimers of marriage, kinship, familial association, and consequently of societal conformity, and whose foreground is obsessed with marital and sexual anxieties. In contrast to this un-political masculine setting that is placed away from the drama’s present in terms of time and space, the Sophoclean Trachis and Deianeira’s oikos are placed in the kernel

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of a civilized community, with Deianeira embodying the extreme end of the defender of the oikos and marriage as a civilized procedure, and Herakles and his monstrous competitors (Acheloos, Nessos), who will be discussed below, representing the bearers of illicit sexualities and the disclaimers of marital – and accordingly societal – sustainability.

Deianeira against the monsters The female dramatic world of Trachiniae, political on its own terms, stands against a number of remote forces that are personified through three different but at the same time quite similar agents: Acheloos, Nessos and Herakles. Despite differing in genus, form and function, these agents share common qualities that allow us to classify them within the extensive category of monsters. A monster, according to the Greek standards of normality and abnormality, embodies a variety of antitheses against authoritarian principles; that is, it represents everything that is beyond control.36 Hence, a monster can represent chaos over order, irrationality over reason, natural forces over civilization. Politically speaking, as opposed to all the tendencies that are considered to contribute to societal cohesion, the monster promotes anarchy and chaos and can be classified as a non-polis element, together with other elements that are usually thought of as the ‘Other’, such as the barbarian, the bestial and the female. Seen from this perspective, the impulse to create monsters stems from the need of the authority to denigrate those who are different, whether they are lower classes, foreigners, or marginalized deviant groups; it stems from the desire to demonize the outcast or the pariah by considering him/her the ‘Other’. Therefore, monsters, as political devices, are being utilized to disbar those whom the rules of society deem aberrant, impure or unworthy. Since the monster stands against order and since order is always patriarchal, the monster also contradicts patriarchy and structurally speaking can be considered ‘female’. The females, as well as the slaves and the barbarians, commonly seen by the Greeks as incomplete males, belong to the same category as the monsters, altogether constituting what for the communal unconscious qualifies as the ‘otherness’. It is not then surprising that a very large proportion of Greek monsters are female, such as Medusa, Hydra, Chimaera, Scylla, Charybdis, Sphinx, the Harpies and the Furies.37 In general, it can be argued that in ancient Greek thought the following line of reasoning could be considered plausible:

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Female = Other Monster = Other Thus, Monster = Female38

However, in Trachiniae the ‘Monster = Female’ equation is not verified. As was suggested above, by definition of her name, her Aetolian origin and her Amazonlike nature, Deianeira is predisposed to stand against the forces that ensure the survival and prosperity of the city through the production of offspring. Nevertheless, whereas Deianeira pre-exists in a liminal space located outside the circle that surrounds the limits of the polis and the body of the citizens, Sophocles does not utilize the female in order to project his notion of ‘otherness’. By contrast, he retrieves the female from the margins of the polis, whereas he assigns this liminal space to the male, which he imbues with a sense of monstrosity and presents as approaching the female with particularly violent intentions. This monstrous and overly masculine element of the play,39 classified here as the nonpolis area of Trachiniae, is menacingly approaching the political world of the female, resulting in the destruction of a polis (see Iole’s city) or the eradication of an oikos (see Deianeira’s oikos).40 *

*

*

Be that as it may, let us proceed to see in more detail the way in which these monstrous figures are presented in the play and to substantiate their monstrosity. In terms of biology, Acheloos and Nessos are both abnormal creatures that disrupt the social hierarchy/normality that is based on biological hierarchy/ normality.41 Their aberrancy can be established on the basis of the following primary manifestations of biological monstrosity: i.

As a principle, a monster’s physical abnormity is expressed in terms of enormous or extraordinary size. So, a primary definition of the ‘monster’ could be anything outstandingly big. Great size translates into an advantageous position and superior, supernatural strength. The Titans, the Cyclops and the Giants were all vastly oversized mythical beings with superhuman powers. It has been suggested by Mayor in her reading of myth as natural history that skeletons and fossils of large extinct prehistoric mammal species visible around the Mediterranean may have provided the model for such mythical giants and monsters.42 Regardless of whether these creatures were formed in the light of actual reality or just imagination, it is a fact that immense size is a recurring feature of monsters, closely intertwined with their superhuman power.

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ii. Second, monsters are almost by definition anthropophagous, man-eaters, while the weapons they use to attack their human enemies are very often related to the monster’s colossal mouth as an organ of predation and destruction. As Gilmore observes, the monster fantasy is a cannibal, orally aggressive one.43 The oral cavity appears as a deadly weapon in a remarkable variety of ways, not only by biting, chewing, and swallowing but also by emitting noise, smoke, and fire. Polyphemus is the most famous man-eater of classical literature, devouring one by one Odysseus’ comrades, but one can add famous examples to the list of the mythic cannibals such as the Echidna, Typhoeus and so on. iii. And thirdly, it is the feature of hybridization in monster imagery that is typical and recurring among different cultures. The Tritons, the Centaurs, the Satyrs and the Silenoi, all half-human half-animal creatures, constitute only a small sample of the cross-breed beasts of Greek mythology. The monsters belong somewhere between the human and the beast, like the lion-bodied Sphinx, and the snake-headed Hydra, or conflate ontological realms like the Manticore, or consist of discordant parts from a variety of organisms like the dragon-snake-goat-lion Chimaera, or multiply the most terrible parts of repulsive beasts, often appearing as multi-headed or multi-limbed, like Skolopendra, Cerberus and Orthrus. Acheloos, the first biological aberrancy appearing in Trachiniae, was the deity of the largest river in central Greece and he was often portrayed as the god of water in general – that is, as the source of all nourishment. He appears in the prologue of the play as a very strange and terrifying suitor who is wooing Deianeira and asking her for marriage from her father (ἐξῄτει πατρός, 10). At first glance it seems strange that a river and not a human being is asking for the young girl in marriage (μνηστὴρ . . . ἦν μοι ποταμός, 9). But for the Greeks a river could also imply the river god, and especially for Acheloos this could sound normal.44 Acheloos combines the vast size of the greatest river in Greece together with the immense energy of the physical world. He has the power and impetuosity of a river (ποταμοῦ σθένος, 507) enhanced by the tremendous form of a highhorned, four-footed bull (ὑψίκερω / τετραόρου / φάσμα ταύρου, 507–9). His beard, a synecdoche to refer to his oral cavity, is likened to an aggressive fountain from where a large amount of water is spilled (ἐκ δὲ δασκίου γενειάδος / κρουνοὶ διερραίνοντο κρηναίου ποτοῦ: ‘and from his shaggy beard there poured streams of water from his springs’, 13–14). This beard is an inexhaustible source from

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which water, as an elemental natural force, flows out – making clear that, as Segal notes, Acheloos is ‘a figure who is not yet fully differentiated from the forces of nature’.45 Hybridization is one of the main features he incorporates. Acheloos makes himself visible to the mortal Oineus, taking three different forms (τρισὶν μορφαῖσιν ἐξῄτει πατρός, 10), all of them occurring already in other pre-fifthcentury works of art. He appears on coins and vases as a bull with a human head, or as a serpent with a human torso and the horns of an ox, or as a mixture of a bearded human face with elements of an ox.46 Clarke speculates that the Sophoclean account’s iconography alludes to ‘a peculiarly archaic, perhaps halfforgotten, fragment of his artistic and poetic inheritance when Deianeira describes Acheloos taking on the form of a bull-headed man’.47 In any case, Sophocles is drawing on a complex, possibly archaic, monstrous image in order to illustrate in a prominent way the difficult situation that Deianeira is experiencing due to the animalistic, monstrous configuration of her suitor. In the first place, Acheloos’ hybrid form is just another example of a general tendency to attribute the power of self-transformation to deities related to the unstable element of water. Proteus, Nereus and Thetis all practise the same method in order to confront their opponents accordingly, i.e. Menelaus (Hom. Od. 4.456), Herakles (Apollod. Bibl. 2.5.11) and Peleus (Soph. F151 and F152). This tendency not only alludes to the instability and versatility of the liquid element but also conveys the desperation and exaggerated effort of the deity who must try every available resource to overcome her/his enemy. However, Acheloos’ transformations in the prologue of the drama are not imposed by the needs of his duel with a superior opponent, as Herakles has not yet appeared at the scene of the battle. These are more like an exhibition of the river god’s monstrous appearance and a demonstration of superiority towards a girl who obviously strongly resists a monstrous claim, than they are a defensive stratagem.48 This emphatic way that the river god is introduced highlights Deianeira’s terror and her repulsion against this aspiring suitor. Then, Nessos, as a horse-like Centaur, is also a hybrid of great size and supernatural power that exceeds the human potential. Centaurs are mostly known as the beast-like creatures that fought the Lapiths. Early artistic representations and scattered references attest to the popularity of the stories about this group of human-equine hybrids that populated the mountains, but complete narratives about the Centaurs are only known through later mythographers. Early accounts only mention the origin of Cheiron, but they do not explain the origin of the race of the Centaurs. This is only done by Pindar in

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Gendered Politics in Sophocles’ Trachiniae

the second Pythian, where Kentauros is the name of the offspring of Ixion and Nephele, the latter being a cloud in the form of Hera. In due course, this male offspring mates with Magnesian mares and they beget children that have the familiar half-human half-horse form of the Centaurs, which is reflected in the iconographical development of the sixth century.49 Nessos’ superior strength is clearly understood if one considers that with the strength of his hands alone, he used to ferry people across the deep waters of the river Evenus (559–61): ὃς τὸν βαθύρρουν ποταμὸν Εὔηνον βροτοὺς μισθοῦ πόρευε χερσίν, οὔτε πομπίμοις κώπαις ἐρέσσων οὔτε λαίφεσιν νεώς. [Nessos,] who for a fee used to carry people across the broad flow of the river Evenus, not by plying oars to transport them nor by a ship with sails, but in his arms.

His encounter with Deianeira takes place at the moment when he attempts to rape her while she is crossing the river, but the emphasis of the drama is not so much drawn on the Centaur’s monstrous nature as on the deception of the heroine and the collection of the fatal poison. However, θήρ is the word that best describes this monstrous hybrid figure, and this is the most-cited word used to refer to Nessos in the drama, appearing either as a noun on its own (556, 568, 680, 707) or as an apposition to the noun Κένταυρος (1162), while twice Nessos is simply called Κένταυρος (831, 1141). The aggressive attack of this beast is well presented in the third stasimon, where the chorus is contemplating the events that led to the fulfilment of the oracles which predicted Herakles’ completion of a laborious lifetime, right after Deianeira’s silent departure and before the announcement of her suicide. This lyric passage signals the transition to the second half of the drama, where we are about to watch the outcome of Deianeira’s action. The effect of the monster’s indirect murderous offence is described in a particularly vivid way, also referring to the other well-known female monster that was involved in the death of the hero: Hydra (831–40): εἰ γάρ σφε Κενταύρου φονίᾳ νεφέλᾳ χρίει δολοποιὸς ἀνάγκα πλευρά, προστακέντος ἰοῦ, ὃν τέκετο θάνατος, ἔτεκε δ’ αἰόλος δράκων, πῶς ὅδ’ ἂν ἀέλιον ἕτερον ἢ τανῦν ἴδοι,

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δεινοτέρῳ μὲν ὕδρας προστετακὼς φάσματι; μελαγχαίτα τ’ ἄμμιγά νιν αἰκίζει ὑπόφονα δολόμυθα κέντρ’ ἐπιζέσαντα. For if the cunning constraint of the Centaur with its deadly snare strings his sides, as the poison soaks in whose mother was the darting snake and whose begetter was Death, how could he look upon tomorrow’s sun, being glued to an apparition deadlier than the Hydra? And he suffers every torture from the deadly sting caused by the cunning words of the black-haired one as it boils up.

This is clearly the description of a venomous assault that is not only deadly but also gruesome and painful. The weapons used for this attack are a combination of the lethal venom of the monstrous Hydra that has stuck fast to Herakles’ body, together with the murderous goads of Nessos. On top of these, it is the morbid deceit of the cunning Centaur that has activated the snake’s venom. This explosive combination of the deadly man-eating means of two monsters, enhanced by the malevolence of cheating, does not only cause death but, more importantly, it causes death through severe and promiscuous torture (ἄμμιγά νιν αἰκίζει, 838). Therefore, the presentation of both Nessos and Acheloos in Trachiniae suggests that they are both perceived as biological aberrancies that disturb regularity, and, consequently, the social hierarchy that is based on biological criteria of supremacy. As such, they represent a serious threat to human society and need to be excluded from it. *

*

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Even more importantly, however, these monsters originate from and make up a world that opposes political regularity; thereby they refer to political dislocations on multiple levels. At a first level, the monster, as a universal allusion to raw bestiality and consequently to cultural primitiveness, is a departure from the institution of the polis on the temporal and ontological level. According to Gilmore, the monster is not only a metaphor for retrogression to a previous age and time in a bio-evolutionary sense, namely by being bestial in appearance and primitive in behaviour, and therefore signalling a return of the lowest animal instincts in humankind. Monsters also signal primitivism in a psychodynamic sense, namely by reflecting primary process thinking and the oral sadism of the human neonate and therefore alluding to the return of the individual to prior

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Gendered Politics in Sophocles’ Trachiniae

states of development.50 So, the monster stands as the reminder of the animalistic origin of the primitive nature of the self, while it is fuelled by the fantasy of the incomplete evolution of human nature. Likewise, Trachiniae is a drama of primitive and animalistic origin, both in terms of being obsessed with the past and also because it echoes the savagery of wild nature or primitive bestiality, which invades and destroys the civilized house of Deianeira. So, Trachiniae is unique among Sophocles works via its extensive narrative parts (un-staged action) which outweigh the dialogical/ interlocutory sections (staged action).51 Compared to other Sophoclean dramas, in Trachiniae, the development of the plot depends more on the character’s storytelling ability than on staged action, a fact which may allude to an earlier stage in the development of drama.52 However, rather than assuming an evolutionary course of the dramatist and attributing this peculiarity to a stillimmature stage or considering it evidence for an early dating of the play,53 one can think of a deliberate regression to a ‘less developed’ (archaic) stage that is consistent with the primitive nature of the play’s content, and its overall systematic insistence on the idea of the past and on the mode of past-narrative. As Segal notes, in Trachiniae the ‘violent, primitive past encroaches upon and destroys a civilized house with which we identify and sympathize’.54 The fact that this primitive monstrous past has haunted this drama’s present becomes clear from the very first verse: ‘There is a saying of men, manifested long ago’ (λόγος μέν ἐστ’ ἀρχαῖος ἀνθρώπων φανείς, 1).55 The adjective ἀρχαῖος is the most prominent word of the line and its emphatic position is not a random choice. It is taken with the participle φανείς, as an adjective of time used as predicate (Smyth 1042), but the normal order of the words has been disrupted so that ἀρχαῖος precedes the genitive ἀνθρώπων. Thus, the selection and the emphatic position of the adjective ἀρχαῖος not only stress the antiquity of the Solonian ancient saying, but they also prefigure the primitivism of the mythical content of the play in general. Acheloos’ wooing constitutes the first example of this distant past that still haunts the present of Deianeira. This narrative, given at the very beginning of the play, is a particularly emphatic statement that broadens the perspective of the drama, expanding into the very distant monstrous past of an already ancient story. It is a retrospective narrative, reported as an argument to support Deianeira’s case for challenging Solon’s proverbial saying. Indeed, this narrative provides a plausible argument to support her point of view, as this woman seems to have every right and several reasons to feel disappointed with her life so far. Starting already at that very early moment when she was about to leave her

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parental home and follow this peculiar and repulsive suitor, Deianeira’s emotional state is still defined in terms of prolonged agony and abandonment. Nessos’ story, associated with another past narrative about older prophecies, provides another eloquent example that spells out the way the distant nonpolitical past intrudes upon the present, and how the present is interpreted on the basis of this primitive and remote past. On the one hand, Nessos is an important chapter of Deianeira and Herakles’ shared past, a significant part of the drama’s mythical background. He is not only an ‘ancient beast’; his gift to Deianeira is also ‘old’ (555–6). Nessos, as Karakantza notes, ‘emerges from the remote past, as an ἀρχαῖος θήρ; not just from Deianeira’s past [. . .] but from the Stygian depths of mythical narratives from the primitive past’.56 He intrudes into the present life of this couple in order to complete his fatal attack, one that was already premeditated a long time ago by him alone. But this is also an attack that was already planned to activate the fulfilment of older prophecies that firstly, predicted the hero’s end at that exact moment when he will be relieved from his labours, and secondly, foresaw his death by a strange enemy, an inhabitant of the Underworld. On the other hand, as a Centaur, Nessos is associated with a raw, lawless bestiality. The Centaurs, the controversial offspring of an unnatural rape-based birth, are in general considered to relate to the wilderness of nature and the uncivilized past of the familiar world. Herakles is a well-known victorious opponent of these horse-like warriors; thus the defeat of their wild army is listed among his monster-killing labours that are mentioned in Trachiniae as a reminder of the hero’s glorious and victorious past (1090–100). The Centaurs are there described as a lawless and arrogant army of half-equine hybrid monsters of superior strength (1095–6): διφυῆ τ’ ἄμικτον ἱπποβάμονα στρατὸν θηρῶν, ὑβριστήν, ἄνομον, ὑπέροχον βίαν And the fierce army of the monsters, with two natures and with horse’s feet, insolent, lawless, overwhelming in their might.

This description is consistent with a general view about the Centaurs, repeated in numerous mythical narratives. These equine hybrids are always associated with the violation of orderly exchanges (gift exchange and the exchange of women/marriage) and, consequently, violations of the norms of marriage and reproduction (see, e.g. the story of Ixion, the Centaurs’ father). They are incapable of controlling themselves when drinking wine and they consume raw meat,

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hence they also violate the laws of xenia and feasting.57 In short, they appear as promiscuously sexual and violently bestial anti-cultural beings that lack the skills to socialize with humans. It is therefore clear that both Acheloos and Nessos originate from a world that blurs the boundaries of the civilized/political world, both in terms of the nature of their being but also in temporal terms. *

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Moving to the next level, the monster signifies a political dislocation on spatial grounds; that is to say, by being placed in a transitional and liminal locus the monster constitutes an extra-political being. In general, the monster’s spatial liminality is representative of an attempt to exorcize inward fears in a factual, rational and non-mythological way, by placing the danger at the far end of the known world. As Cohen suggests, it is ‘at the gates of difference’ that the monster dwells.58 So, in all cultural traditions, monsters emerge from borderline, unexplored, wild, peripheral, liminal space. They infest distant wildernesses of which people are afraid, like mountaintops, oceans, glaciers or jungles; they live in an unseen dimension like the Underworld, or in watery places like marshes, fens or swamps; they emerge from their territory at night or during abnormal cosmological events like storms, earthquakes and famines to shake humans from their tranquillity. Thus, the Sphinx is located in Mt Phoikion, outside of Thebes, the Minotaur is in the Labyrinth, Polyphemus lives in a cave, while in general the wonders of water occupy humid areas close to or in the sea, lakes and rivers. By similar reasoning but vice versa, what belongs to the distant and unexplored world produces several xenophobic monstrosities. Especially in ancient societies, where knowledge about the distant world is de facto more limited, it is common for narratives of people who have travelled abroad or for fictitious tales about the far world to reproduce an enlarged and xenophobic description of the distant and exotic world, which often includes monstrous forces. In this light, the exaggerated descriptions of monstrous races and animals of Herodotus’ Histories as well as other ethnographic accounts, such as Ctesias’ and Megasthenes’ Indica or Pseudo-Callisthenes’ Alexander Romance, aim to rationalize the instinctive fear of the unfamiliar and distant diversity. From these accounts, we arrive at the general observation that the further away from Greece’s ethnocentric starting place one travels, the more barbaric and the less human are the races one encounters. Hence, dog-headed men (Cynocephaloi), werewolves and goldguarding griffins, among other Herodotean mirabilia, were all located in the furthest regions of the known world. Herodotus, despite expressing scepticism when talking about these creatures, does not neglect their existence. Ctesias and

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the later ethnographers add even more exaggerated creatures into Herodotus’ list of the fantastic freaks of nature, such as One-legged (Monocoloi), Shade-footed (Sciapodes) and man-eaters (Manticores). The Giants give another illuminating example of how the unknown and unfamiliar barbarism is associated with a monstrous and chaotic excessiveness. These huge animalistic creatures fought with the Olympians before Zeus took his place as the ruler of the cosmos. The Gigantomachy was a very popular theme in literature and especially in art, serving as a prime metaphor for the establishment of order (=Olympians) against chaos (=Giants).59 In classical Athens, under the influence of the Persian Wars and in order to adorn the east metopes of the Parthenon and the shield of Athena Parthenos, the Gigantomachy became the visual expression of the Greeks’ victory over the Persians, with Giants resembling not only chaos but also barbarianism and the Olympians incorporating the Doric order and harmony.60 Nessos of Trachiniae, like his horse-footed relatives, is a Greek highlander originating from the mountains to be found, though, near the riverbanks. Centaurs, these ‘mountain-bred animals’ as Homer calls them (φηρσὶν ὀρεσκῴοισι),61 are the traditional inhabitants of the mountains, and mountains both in reality and in the Greek mythological imagination have been analysed by Buxton as being ‘outside and wild’, ‘before’ and ‘places of reversals’.62 Elaborating on this concept, Bremmer has suggested that as inhabitants of the mountains the Centaurs corroborate Buxton’s conclusions about the wilderness, the primitiveness and the inverted character of the mountains.63 While a Centaur and, as such, a designated highlander, Nessos has additionally undertaken the task of transporting commuters across the river Evenus. Therefore, occasionally we meet him close to the other well-known imaginative liminal locus, the banks of a river, and in this light he is related to Acheloos.64 Acheloos, on the other hand, is not only located at the exact place of the homonymous river but he is himself the personification of the largest river in central Greece. The Acheloos river rises in the Pindos mountain range, flows south through the heart of Aetolia and Akarnania, to empty into the Ionian Sea near the mouth of the Gulf of Korinthos. So, since Deianeira’s paternal home is in Calydon, which is a city situated in south-west Aetolia, Herakles’ contest with this water creature fits well with the geographical background of the story. Acheloos was often portrayed as the god of water in general – that is, as the source of all nourishment – and as such he is also related to femininity and fertility.65 In an attempt to acculturate and placate the river’s impetuosity, Acheloos was extensively worshiped and the oracular Zeus at Dodona usually

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added to each oracle he gave, the command to offer him sacrifices.66 We can clearly understand the liminal function of a river not only because it is associated with the unstable, fluid, nourishing and purifying element of water and has a crucial role in initiation and purification rituals, but also because it serves as a natural boundary between distinct geographical regions. Indeed, in antiquity, the river Acheloos constituted the often-contested boundary between Akarnania and Aetolia.67 With Acheloos and Nessos being placed at, or being associated with, the riverbanks, the precariousness of their transaction with Deianeira is not only anticipated but firmly predetermined. In general, the crossing of the boundaries set by the localities of these monsters signifies a threat to the social equilibrium of the drama. According to Cohen, the monster sets the boundaries that secure social cohesion by establishing and enforcing the normative framework that reproduces social inequalities. As he puts it: The monster of prohibition exists to demarcate the bonds that hold together that system of relations we call culture, to call horrid attention to the borders that cannot – must not – be crossed. Primarily these borders are in place to control the traffic in women, or more generally to establish strictly homosocial bonds, the ties between men that keep a patriarchal society functional. A kind of herdsman, this monster delimits the social space through which cultural bodies may move, and in classical times (for example) validated a tight, hierarchical system of naturalized leadership and control where every man had a functional place.68

In this light, anything that must be exiled from society takes the form of a monster and is demonized by being placed beyond the permissible boundaries. It continues to exist in the form of a threat and a prohibition while it is always present and can always intervene, disrupting the social equilibrium. Furthermore, the riverbanks, along with other liminal and potentially dangerous areas, like mountains and forests, springs and fountains, are loci that regularly associate with encounters between men and women in myth.69 With Trachiniae’s monstrous suitors crossing the permissible boundaries and being associated with the yet untamed maiden, the controlled traffic in women that ensures the regularity and functionality of the patriarchal structure of the drama is being disturbed. The monstrous over-sexuality of the Trachiniae turns the regularity of women’s exchange out of control, causing a great crisis for the patriarchal society. A possibility of a re-establishment of the impaired order will only be discussed under new terms, when at the end of the drama a different

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connubial transaction, one between the father and the son, between Herakles and Hyllos, will take place. Even so, as I will argue in the last chapter of this book, the patriarchal crisis represented in the play will not be called off. *

*

*

Another distinctive attribute of the monster that moves it away from the polis, an indeed paradoxical feature that nonetheless brings it quite close to a god, is its unlimited ability to escape. Etymologically, both Greek and Latin terms for monster, τέρας and monstrum, originally denoted any supernatural divine sign provoking awe, and gradually expanded to denote any physically anomalous being. In fact, the monster acts as a screen on which the duality of human impulses, monstrous and humane, mortal and immortal, murderous and compassionate, is simultaneously projected. Neither side can be totally deactivated and is always contaminated by the other. Equally, the presence of monsters seems to be inextricably intertwined with the lives of those they haunt, even after they are vanquished. As Cohen notes, once the monster is created, it always escapes and can never be totally defeated.70 In the Hesiodic Theogony, for example, monsters and their offspring are never totally eliminated. They form an integral part of the poem’s world; they do not just belong to the departed past. So, the order which was continually opposed by the constant threat and instability caused by the centrifugal monstrous forces that governed the pre-Olympian stage of the Theogony, and which was finally established by the generation of the Olympian gods, does not preclude a later disorder; the centrifugal forces that undergo the Hesiodic creation are only temporally disabled, and the balance that has been achieved can be interrupted, since this centrifugal dynamic can be reactivated. In short, while Hesiod certainly describes a dynamic towards progress, evolution and patriarchy free from monstrous powers, the monsters are still fundamental elements of the same cosmos. When studying the Hesiodic monsters, one can also notice that the various generations of monstrous forces that populate the pre-Olympian chaotic stage of the universe are of contested origin. Not all of them belong to the same category, and neither is there an absolute duality between monsters and nature or between monsters and gods.71 Some monsters can be defeated while some others are immortal and can only be contained; some are anthropomorphic while others are bestial. Within a complex structure of successive incestuous births, monsters are the offspring of gods and genealogically belong to the same categories as gods do. The monsters and the gods consisting of anything non-, extra- and

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super-human, they seem to share an intimate relationship and a genetic relevance. Monsters and gods observe no limits, respect no boundaries, are not subject to prohibitions and can break the rules; for these reasons, they threaten the social cohesion that is ensured by regulating human behaviour and thereby they cannot be fully incorporated into the human society.72 Either as non-political subjects free from societal restrictions or as beings with powers that reach beyond and above the limited human capabilities, monsters and gods both belong to the same superhuman imaginary fantasy. Trachiniae provides an eloquent example of this feature of the always escaping monster that incorporates the supernatural power of the gods. Herakles has received this strange oracle that he is to die at the hands of someone who is not alive. He is to die at the hands of a resident of the Underworld.73 Thus, this monstrous being, which Herakles considered defeated and dead, has the inexhaustible and immortal power to harm his enemy, even from the Underworld (1159–63): ἐμοὶ γὰρ ἦν πρόφαντον ἐκ πατρὸς πάλαι, τῶν ἐμπνεόντων μηδενὸς θανεῖν ὕπο, ἀλλ᾽ ὅστις Ἅιδου φθίμενος οἰκήτωρ πέλοι. ὅδ᾽ οὖν ὁ θὴρ Κένταυρος, ὡς τὸ θεῖον ἦν πρόφαντον, οὕτω ζῶντά μ᾽ ἔκτεινεν θανών. It was predicted to me by my father long ago that I should never die at the hand of any of the living, but at that of one who was dead and lived in Hades. So this monster the Centaur, as the divine prophecy had foretold, has killed me, I being alive and he dead.

As we have already noted, Nessos as a Centaur is the monster par excellence. In fact, he is the only prizewinner of the drama and the invisible perpetrator of the whole conception. He is omnipresent from the beginning of Herakles’ association with Deianeira until the last moments of the hero’s lifetime, having tremendously haunted the lives of this unfortunate couple. In a supernatural way that closely resembles the divine, this monster has superior powers that exceed his mortality. While in the Underworld, he has the power to harm Herakles and orchestrate his revenge. Like his Hesiodean relatives, he stands as a reminder of a monstrous past that can always invade the present and disturb the precarious order of things. *

*

*

Let us now conclude this chapter with a discussion about Herakles and his monstrous aspects.74 As a general rule, difficulties in interpreting Herakles in

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Trachiniae are connected to the fact that he does not seem to conform to the theoretical model of the tragic hero.75 Thus, despite the hero’s omnipresence in the ancient world, the story of the suffering Herakles has only been dramatized twice in the corpus of the extant tragedies, in our drama and in Euripides’ Herakles. As his origin from a divine father and a mortal mother and his civilizing mission suggest, Herakles is modelled as a ‘Greek hero’.76 Overcoming his mortality though, after his death he is granted the special advantages of the gods, including immortality. Whereas this inconsistency between his divine and heroic qualifications is not unique in the mythical corpus,77 it has been presumed that his dual nature as a ἥρως θεὸς as well as the ambiguities inherent in his persona deterred tragic poets from dramatizing his sufferings. And whereas Euripides humanizes Herakles to fit in this heroic magnitude with his tragic plot, Sophocles deprives him of the protagonist role, saving this part for Deianeira for most of Trachiniae. Standing in a position that is too close to but at the same time at a distance from his rivals, Herakles is a liminal figure, located in between a man and a beast, in between a culture hero and a monster, in between a mortal and a god, whilst displaying an equivocal attitude towards basic archetypical polarities, such as ‘human/god’, ‘nature/culture’, ‘male/female’. This peculiar and complex character is the subject of numerous narratives that already caused confusion for mythographers in antiquity. To name only some of the contradictions he incorporates – Herakles can equally act in favour of and against the human community, he has the potential to offer beneficial service to the world but also to severely damage his own family, he suffers like a human but also enjoys the bliss of the immortals, he is excessively masculine but also flirts with female deficiencies. On the grounds of these successive antinomies, it becomes clear that, above all, Herakles avoids taxonomies. That brings him quite close to a monster, which is by definition a figure that refuses to be confined within familiar categories.78 This conceptual fluidity does not only result in a broad semantic range within which the concept of monstrous can be applied, but it also causes great difficulty in defining the monstrous. In fact, the monster’s avoidance of classification, this paradox of the monster’s identity, constitutes the differentia to construct its definition. Thus, it is on the grounds of this difficulty that Cohen suggests the following generic definition of the monster: [Freely blending the medieval with the postmodern (Beowulf with Alien, Richard III with Lestat)], I argue that the monster is best understood as an embodiment

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Gendered Politics in Sophocles’ Trachiniae of difference, a breaker of category, and a resistant Other known only through process and movement, never through dissection-table analysis.79

Similarly, Gilmore, when concluding his history of monsters, notes: The power of monsters is their ability to fuse opposites, to merge contraries, to subvert rules, to overthrow cognitive barriers, moral distinctions, and ontological categories. Monsters overcome the barrier of time itself. Uniting past and present, demonic and divine, guilt and conscience, predator and prey, parent and child, self and alien, our monsters are our innermost selves.80

Indeed, regardless of how much we like to think in terms of polarized opposites, it seems to be the case that there are no clear boundaries between the man and the beast, between nature and monster, between civilization and bestiality. By refusing to conform to a specific category, Herakles’ multifaceted and inconsistent persona fits well into this scheme of the monster’s genetic confusion. Herakles’ story is an extremely complex and extensive one, namely a narration in constant evolution and transformation across millennia, which incorporates many and varied traditions and extends over a broad temporal and geographical context. This Panhellenic superhuman exists in the no man’s land between the civilized and the non-civilized, between the familiar and the unknown, with any attempt to securely integrate him into either being, at best, precarious. Undoubtedly, he is a great hero, but he is so contradictory that he can both be downgraded to the level of the beast and rise to the level of the god. Herakles’ complexity incorporates the contiguity which generally exists between the culture hero and the monster. In various traditions, the monster is the opponent of a culture hero, and in that sense, it stands against culture and civilization as an archetypical anti-cultural opponent.81 In both Near Eastern and Greek mythological tradition, a pattern of a god or hero fighting against a monster or number of monsters is well attested. In Greek mythology, this pattern is first detected in the ‘three generations’ myth of the Hesiodic Theogony and recurs in later versions of the same narrative but also in narratives about Herakles and other culture heroes, such as Perseus, Cadmus and Bellerophontes. At a first level, this contestation symbolizes the establishment of order, culture, reason and patriarchy over the chaotic, natural, emotional and feminine dynamics, present in every representation of the cosmic normality. The monster then represents all that is beyond human control, the uncontrollable and the unruly that threatens the moral and social order, and thus the hero’s triumph over the monster(s) proclaims the humans’ ownership over the world and justifies the present order.82

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However, as the culture hero needs to fulfil his task to clear the field for humanity and fight the monsters, he also needs to approach the monster and to deal with it on an equal footing. In his endeavour, the hero follows a route that is unsettlingly similar to those of the monsters he fights: he resembles the monster, he uses the same weapons and he follows a similar martial morality. In his study of myths of the epic hero in the early cultures from Egypt to the pagan Norse, Cohn repeatedly notes the convergences of the monsters and the heroes who fight them.83 But also, vice versa, the monsters usurp and appropriate human qualities. Characterologically speaking, as Gilmore notes, monsters are fully human: their unmotivated destructiveness, for example, is a human not a bestial trait.84 Thus, both the hero and the monster share common features and represent different sides of the same coin.85 Likewise, as a culture hero, Herakles is traditionally the opponent of monsters. But in another sense, he also seems to resemble the monsters he fights. On the one hand, Herakles is a super-powerful male, an ideal athlete, and a civilizing benefactor. In general, he is defending order over chaos while he also presides over initiation rituals. He is always seen as the superior and ever-winning man who is fighting against superhuman strength and is accomplishing the impossible. He symbolizes the prime defender of civilization, protecting the community from widespread destructive forces and fighting against violations of law. Hence, he is so often presented as a saviour; he releases Prometheus from chains and Theseus from the Underworld; he saves Hesione from a sea-monster, Alcestis from the Underworld, Deianeira from Acheloos and Nessos. Of course, a man of that stamina could well fit into the model of the ideal athlete; namely, the virtuous exemplar of archaic aristocratic values who serves as the legendary founder of both the Olympic and Nemean Games and holds a leading role in Pindar’s epinician odes. It is not then surprising that such a benefactor will end up being a god and enjoying the divine privileges in Olympus, together with his immortal wife, the goddess of youth Hebe. On the other hand, traces of arrogance and egotism, as the inevitable negative sign of an excessive heroic excellence, infect his idiosyncrasy. But what predominantly undermines his grandeur is the tendency to angry violence and brutality, already noticed when as a young man he murders his teacher Linos out of anger. This quality is a recurrent pattern in several narratives, such as the story of the mutilation of the heralds of Erginos, the anti-heroic murder of Eutytus’ son Iphitus or more notably in the slaughtering of his own family. Therefore, while Herakles, the monster-slayer par excellence, is entering the monsters’ territory in order to accomplice his civilizing mission, purge the earth of its

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primitive dangers and make it fit to live in, he exceeds the boundaries that distinguish the world of beasts from that of humans and appropriates features that are specific to wild animals. Hence the many bestial qualities intertwined with Herakles’ identity: his hairiness; his lion-skin clothing; his club made of untreated wood; his inclination to rage and madness; his freedom over love, food and wine; his supernatural and brute strength; his exceptional vitality.86 Following these contradictory qualities, Herakles of Trachiniae is a liminal hero who violates humane sensibilities and too often approaches bestiality. Although he is a much more complex figure than his monstrous rivals, so that we cannot strictly align him with these non-human beasts, in many ways he seems to resemble them. His confrontation with Acheloos in Trachiniae is indicative of the way Herakles struggles to hold on to a role between a culture hero and a beast. He is first introduced in the play in a grand way that suits his reputation as a son of Zeus and Alcmene (ὁ κλεινὸς ἦλθε Ζηνὸς Ἀλκμήνης τε παῖς, 19), but soon his role as a saviour is undermined and questioned (εἰ δὴ καλῶς, 27). As I will discuss in more detail in my next chapter about marriage, Herakles completely fails in his role as a husband and this failure is underlined by the poet’s choice to completely avoid contact between this couple in Trachiniae. He is clearly nominated for the role of a renowned saviour, appearing to confront the hideous monster that is claiming Deianeira and to prevent her from suffering (18–21): χρόνῳ δ’ ἐν ὑστέρῳ μέν, ἀσμένῃ δέ μοι, ὁ κλεινὸς ἦλθε Ζηνὸς Ἀλκμήνης τε παῖς, ὃς εἰς ἀγῶνα τῷδε συμπεσὼν μάχης ἐκλύεταί με· But at the last moment, and to my relief, there come the famous son of Zeus and Alcmene, who contended with him in battle and released me.

Although this first appearance of Herakles as a benefactor who stands as the opposite of the monstrous Acheloos is initially greeted with a temporary contemplation of joy from Deianeira (χρόνῳ δ’ ἐν ὑστέρῳ μέν, ἀσμένῃ δέ μοι, 18), this impression is immediately undermined by the prevalent phobic emotion of the prologue. Reality contradicts the original expectation that the fear Deianeira experienced while expecting to be awarded to one of the two suitors will go away. Instead, fear begets new fear as Deianeira follows Herakles as his wife (λέχος γὰρ Ἡρακλεῖ κριτὸν / ξυστᾶσ’ ἀεί τιν’ ἐκ φόβου φόβον τρέφω, 27– 8). Fear, as the dominant emotion of the prologue, is not eliminated, as expected, but escalates, and at the present moment, Deianeira is experiencing the worst

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fear ever (ἐνταῦθα δὴ μάλιστα ταρβήσασ’ ἔχω, 37), since there is no news about Herakles while she is abandoned and displaced in Trachis. Therefore, while Deianeira is recounting her life so far as Herakles’ wife (27– 35), any positive outcome of the battle of Herakles and Acheloos is called into question (εἰ δὴ καλῶς, 27). By comparing the concluding image of the terrified maiden who is passively watching the battle in the first stasimon (523–30) with the mature Deianeira of the prologue, we can note a similar bewilderment. It seems that the young maiden is watching the battle without expressing a preference for any of the males that claim her as a prize but, on the contrary, her passivity or tolerance can easily be translated to hesitation or even aversion, which is directed invariably towards both suitors. Similarly, even after many years as Herakles’ wife, the mature Deianeira is still in doubt about the success of her coupling with the ‘glorious’ hero. Herakles’ bestiality becomes even more evident in the view of his monstrous rival, in the first stasimon, where the contest of the great river god and the hero is fully elaborated.87 It will prove that the two opponents, albeit juxtaposed as antagonists, share more common features than one would expect.88 They rush into the battle fully armed and fully prepared for an intense confrontation (504–5): τίνες ἀμφίγυοι κατέβαν πρὸ γάμων, τίνες πάμπληκτα παγκόνιτά τ᾽ ἐξῆλθον ἄεθλ᾽ ἀγώνων; What mighty antagonists entered the lists for the sake of the marriage? Who set out for the ordeal of the contests amid many blows and much dust?

The use of the intensifying (πάν-: ‘all’) and the duplicate (ἀμφί-: ‘two, from both sides’) prefixes convey the sense of the absolute preparation of the opponents, for a battle that will make use of every possible means of attack and defence in order to declare the winner of the prize.89 The symmetry of the presentation of the competitors, which argues for the equation of both opponents, is emphasized by both the hiatus in lines 510–11, and by the repetition of ἐς μέσον and ἐν μέσῳ in the interval of just two lines. While Aphrodite is standing right in the middle to supervise the contest (ἐν μέσῳ Κύπρις ῥαβδονόμει ξυνοῦσα, 516), the combatants are approaching to meet each other in the middle of the palaestra (ἴσαν ἐς μέσον, 513). The ultimate union of the two rivals though, a union in a close-combat wrestle that clearly points towards the uniformity of the two monsters, occurs in the epode, where there is a sudden transition into a scene echoing a resounding and violent effect (517–22):

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Gendered Politics in Sophocles’ Trachiniae τότ’ ἦν χερός, ἦν δὲ τόξων πάταγος, ταυρείων τ’ ἀνάμιγδα κεράτων· ἦν δ’ ἀμφίπλεκτοι κλίμακες, ἦν δὲ μετώπων ὀλόεντα πλήγματα καὶ στόνος ἀμφοῖν. Then there was a clatter of fists and of the quiver, and of the bull’s corns, all together; and legs were wound around waists, and deadly blows struck foreheads, and groans came from both.

The two competitors are depicted in a close-contact corporeal battle, where literally they are united in one body consisting of both human and bestial elements: hands, bows and horns intertwined all together, resulting in a powerful and loud clash of phallic and warlike symbols of masculinity. The pre-political character of the scene points to primitive bestial brutality that can be indistinguishably ascribed to both Herakles and Acheloos. So, it is clear that the text does not allow for differentiation between the two or an indication of the superiority of the one against the other; that leaves the ever-winning Aphrodite to be designated as the only winner of the game (μέγα τι σθένος ἁ Κύπρις ἐκφέρεται νίκας ἀεί, 497). The degradation and undermining of Herakles’ success escalate as the play progresses. As we will see, Herakles’ monstrosity is enhanced through recurrent comments on the corrosion of his character while his grandeur shrinks through references to his brutal and anti-heroic behaviour: the treacherous murder of Iphitus, the destruction of Oechalia and the rape of Iole, the blatant violation of his marriage and the unjust replacement of his legal wife, the violent murder of Lichas, and ultimately in the exodos of the drama the excessive vindictive rage against Deianeira and the inconceivable demands to his son. Then, it also seems that like the political monsters we examined in the previous sections of this chapter, Herakles is too bestial to fit into the political setting of Athenian tragedy, as his monstrous heroism cannot comply with the requirements of the democratic polis. On the one hand, Herakles’ archaic heroism leaves traces of arrogance and egotism, traces which will be fully developed in Trachiniae through the elaboration of his anti-heroic deeds. On the other hand, like Ajax and Achilles, Herakles’ excellence is manifested through a heroic individualism, a quality that fits the archaic aristocratic values, which praises the self-reliance of a one-man task and rewards independence but fails to fit into the democratic ethos, which requires a collective sense of achievements. Indeed,

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the start of the fifth century sees a steep decline in the frequency with which Herakles is depicted in Attic art, while images of Theseus increase in popularity. This shift has been explained as reflecting the political transformation that followed Kleisthenes’ reforms of 508/507 bc , from the sixth-century aristocratic oikoi and tyrannies to the democratic city-state. Whereas, as Stafford notes, ‘the shift from one hero to another is not as neat as some have supposed’, the frequency with which Herakles’ exploits are attested in art and literature of the archaic period suggests that they were more appealing to archaic than to classical sensibilities.90 At the same time, Herakles is too important to be excluded from the democratic polis. We know that he was extensively worshipped, that his figure predominated in art and literature and that his stories were extremely popular among the Greeks. However, Herakles was never, strictly speaking, a fully integrated member of the human political world, and neither was he fully detached from the monsters he stood against. So, to sum up – by being abnormal, intermediary and inexplicable, monsters offer a threat to the intellectual schemes used to comprehend our existence and undermine basic understandings of humanity, nature and culture. They expose the artificiality and the fragility of all our classificatory boundaries, while violating the established structures that constrain social unity and reproduce hierarchical social relations. They ask us to reconsider and re-evaluate our understanding of difference and re-examine our tolerance towards its expression. Hence, the signs of monstrosity, just like the Amazon symbol, introduce a paradoxical and unstable expression of masculinity. In this light, Trachiniae defies the widespread view that the male perspective is inclined to an unfriendly predisposition towards the female, so becoming paradoxically an early manifesto of the feminist movement. By bringing the female back into the fold of the social and the polis, the play redefines the female and reverses the stereotypical Greek male view, that as a woman Deianeira belongs to the untamed, animal world, while she is morally weak, susceptible to strong desires, and consequently, subjected to male domination. That is not to say that Trachiniae is composed on the basis of the female–male bipolarity and that we can consistently draw conclusions and ascribe specific attributes to characters based on this distinction. But it is to suggest that because the gendered structures of this drama are disordered, symbols of instability are introduced for the purpose of dramatizing moments of great tension and of great crisis. By disrupting the systematic arrangement of the categories of monstrosity, masculinity and femininity, this drama presents an unstable world in which the mechanisms of the identification with the self and the detachment from otherness fail.

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2

Three Weddings and a Funeral: Marriage and Sexual Violence As suggested in the first chapter, Trachiniae is a drama defined by Amazons and Centaurs, the traditional disclaimers of marriage, kinship, familial association and consequently conformity to social norms. It is a drama whose prehistory is burdened with the implications of a precarious and impulsive Amazonian symbol, while its present, the Sophoclean Trachis, is violated by a distant mythical world of monsters. Although the play is dealing with particularly untamed and irregular mythical material, it nevertheless civilizes this material and places an Amazon within the arrangement of an oikos. It has been proposed, consequently, that the destruction of familial order represented in the play is not a domestic or personal but a public political issue, insofar as societal cohesion depends on each oikos’ well-being. On the basis of these suggestions, in this chapter, through a discussion of the marital narratives of the drama, we will follow the way this irregular material is included within a structure that repeatedly refers to marriage but is committed to violating this arrangement through illicit and monstrous sexualities that violently interrupt the wedding rituals and disrupt the systematic gender order.1 It appears that in Trachiniae, marital and sexual anxieties stand prominently in the foreground with repeated distortions of the wedding ritual and consequently of nuptial gender categories constituting the basis upon which the poet forms his plot.2 This is not only manifest in the form of the play, with imagery and diction of marriage being used at a high frequency by the poet,3 but also in the structure, as the entire synthesis can be read as the dramatization of three veiled marriages which end up in two ‘death as marriage’ ceremonies and a funeral. Marriage in Trachiniae is not only omnipresent in every scene; it is also closely intertwined with sexual violence and echoes of rape.4 The problematics of this intertwinement on the grounds of the polis will be discussed in the first part of this chapter. Then, by close-reading parts of the play, we will follow this 43

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intertwinement through the plot construction of the play. As will be shown in the second part of this chapter, Trachiniae presents the consequences of what seems to be a failed attempt at rape but is, in fact, a successful seduction of a maiden (Nessos’ seduction of Deianeira) and a deathly violation of a hero’s body (Herakles’ rape). At the same time, as will be suggested in the third part of this chapter, the poet chooses a structure whereby a violent contestation between contenders for a maiden’s bed/body narrated retrospectively (Herakles’ and Acheloos’ claim) stands prominently at the introduction to the drama, while a forcible abduction of a maiden to be imported as the new bed/body in an existing oikos (Iole’s rape) motivates the action of it. Following that, in the last part discussing the analogies in the way the deaths of Deianeira and Herakles are presented, it will be shown that Herakles’ movement towards his ruined oikos, also seen as a wedding procession culminating in the scene of ἀνακαλυπτήρια (‘festival of unveiling’), incorporates evidence of rape and sexual violence because of the νόσος that has penetrated his overwhelmed body and has transformed him into a crying maiden. Thus, Nessos penetrates not only the maiden but, more importantly, indirectly rapes the great hero while his violation implicitly directs the whole action of the play.

Violated marriages and the polis With the female body being so vulnerable to sexual assault, female resistance against a male pursuit is a common motif in Greek myth. So, within the gendered schemes of male-dominated Greek myth, rape narratives are typical examples of a general model of courtship which by default represents the female body as silently passive and the male pretender as violently aggressive. In consequence, elements of sexual violence and female resistance are very often incorporated in connubial narratives. As Oakley and Sinos note when discussing the Talos Painter krater depicting Helen’s abduction by Theseus in the context of a wedding setting, ‘to try to distinguish between weddings and abductions may be a modern rather than an ancient concern, one that requires drawing a clearer boundary than ancient iconography permits’.5 It is reasonable, then, that Zeitlin wonders: ‘Does Greek myth then support a general model of courtship in which the male is expected to take the initiative and the female coyly or modestly to resist? Does she say “no” when she actually means “yes”, dissimulating desire behind a screen of feigned reluctance or taking refuge in fantasies of ravishment and forced possession?’6 Or is it more notable that Rabinowitz warns against the possibility

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of exemplifying and legalizing the experience of rape, as ‘the violence sometimes merges into normative heterosexual relations’?7 Tragic scenarios, though, demonstrate a sceptical attitude toward cases of rape and provide us with plenty of examples which suggest that sexual violence was considered inadmissible.8 Discussing tragic cases, Scafuro (selectively, dealing with six tragic characters) and Sommerstein (more comprehensively) have suggested that the evidence of Athenian tragedy shows that the distinction between consensual and non-consensual sex was a matter of substantial importance to the Athenians.9 As Sommerstein puts it, ‘a society in which this story-pattern [i.e. the ‘Potiphar’s wife’ scenario] was popular, or even comprehensible, must have been a society in which, while a woman who willingly committed adultery was abhorred, a woman raped against her will was seen as an innocent victim’.10 Moving to Sophocles, Tereus is an eloquent example of how the poet deals with the heinous crime of rape, emphasizing the atrocity of Tereus’ crime against Philomela by possibly supplementing the traditional story with the mutilation, the betrayal and the wrong that is done to Tereus’ own wife, Procne.11 Similarly, in Trachiniae we are confronted with the problematics of sexual violence against the female, which is not only excessive but also mirrored and doubled. This is a drama that expresses deep concern about the disastrous consequences of aggressive sexual violence, either implied (Iole’s presumed rape) or presented as a failed possibility (Deianeira’s attempted rape). So, sexual desire is the drive which distorts the typical arrangement of marital exchanges, skipping the orderly agreement between the female’s κύριος and the potential groom in all narratives recounted (Oineus–Acheloos and Herakles–Deianeira, Herakles– Nessos–Deianeira, Eurytos–Herakles–Iole) but the last one (Herakles–Hyllos– Iole), which I will discuss in the final chapter of this book. This fact allows us to speak about a repeated pattern that permeates all erotic contacts made in the drama, and suggests a critical stance towards male aggression against the female. At the first level of reading, the intertwinement of nuptial and rape connotations in Trachiniae explores the severe impact that this connection has on Herakles’ oikos. At the second level, involving the political implications of this intertwinement, a wedding ritual that is violently subverted through rape raises a fundamental question. As Karakantza in her reading of literary rapes has suggested, ‘the narratives of rape explore the possibilities of how – by violating the institutional order of the society – some of the female members fall victims to a secondary symbolic process – notably that of a symbolic subverted wedding ritual that seems to deny the very legitimacy of the polis’.12 The mythical abuse of

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the virginal bodies is a narrative nucleus inherited by the discourse of polis that ‘contradicts the public image that it [sc. the polis] wishes to formulate and present in order to legitimize its body politic’.13 In addition, we could also argue that, along with all other patriarchal political structures which are underpinned by the suppression of the female, the polis is also underpinned by rape.14 Then, given that marriage is the elementary structure ensuring societal cohesion, the violated marriages of Trachiniae are opposed to marriage as a civilized institution aiming at the reproduction and the continuation of the oikos and reflect an anxiety about the practice of marriage, thus allowing for the exploration of the consequences of the transgression of the norms of society. As Zeitlin notes, Greek myth almost invariably projects its scenarios of sexual violence on to others than adult Greek males, others who in one way or another inhabit the peripheries of its cultural space. These actors may be other gods, whose sexual energy represents their natural fecundating force, or those demonic hybrids of mixed human and animal nature such as satyrs and centaurs. They may be barbarians whose despotic and sensuous nature puts them outside of Greek rules, and they may be adolescent males who are still on the boundary between child and adult.15

In line with this observation, the ‘monsters’ of Trachiniae, including Herakles, assume the role of the Other who violates societal sustainability that is ensured through the institution of marriage. That being so, by taking marriage as a starting point, it seems that the basic issue at stake in this drama is familial affiliation and marital cohabitation as an essential component of political society, juxtaposed with a non-political distant world, which is constituted, as suggested in the previous chapter, by masculine monstrosities.

Rape to death In the course of the play the procession of the triumphant hero from Cape Cenaeum to his house undergoes multiple reversions; it is first imagined as a pseudo-nuptial procession to celebrate the re-enactment of Deianeira’s wedding; then it transforms into another quasi-wedding procession introducing Iole as Deianeira’s replacement; eventually, it turns into a final pseudo-nuptial procession with Herakles oscillating between the role of the new bride lifting the veil and the sacrificial victim being burned alive. So, if we turn back to the beginning of the drama and the choral song that follows the revelation that

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Herakles is about to return home (205–24), positioned here instead of in the expected first stasimon, we may be surprised to realize that the house which was about to celebrate a wedding (ἁ μελλόνυμφος, 206) is finally greeting a funeral procession. The preamble of choral song responds to Deianeira’s call to celebrate the unexpectedly good news to the women of both the inside of the palace and the outer court (202–4).16 In many instances, this preamble as well as the song itself point in the direction of a wedding song intended to celebrate an imminent wedding (Ὑμὴν ὑμέναιος).17 Herakles’ movement towards his home is envisioned by Deianeira as a bright wedding procession, typically consisted of music, singing and shouting, under the light of torches that were held high in the air (ὄμμ’ . . . ἀνασχόν, 203–4).18 She visualizes that the procession leading Herakles to his home will bring prosperity and fertility to the household (καρπούμεθα, 204), using a metaphor that could allude to the rituals of incorporation of the bride upon arrival in the groom’s home, known as καταχύσματα.19 Responding to Deianeira’s invitation, the coryphaeus calls for the celebration of the imminent wedding (205–9).20 He first calls the house (or the maidens of the household) to raise a shout of joy (ἀνολολυξάτω, 205) and sing songs of triumph at the female centre of the house, the hearth (ἐφεστίοις ἀλαλαγαῖς, 206).21 The singer also calls the men of the household to jointly sing to Apollo (207–9). This individualized invitation may allude to the fact that, as was usual for ritual performances, the participants in a wedding procession were divided into age and gender categories.22 Then, turning to the maidens of the chorus, the coryphaeus calls them to sing a paean to Apollo’s sister, Artemis, and her neighbours, the nymphs (201–15).23 The call to Artemis, a goddess holding a leading position during the wedding ritual that signals the transition from a παρθένος to a γυνή, draws upon the traditional role of the eternal virgin as the protector throughout the bride’s girlhood,24 while Ἄρτεμιν ἀμφίπυρον (214) recalls an image of the goddess holding two torches, one in each hand, and can allude to the torches that the mother of the bride or the groom was holding during the nocturnal wedding procession. Creating thus the pretext of a pseudo-marital ceremony and possibly alluding to the Homeric marital pseudo-ceremony, ordered by Odysseus to conceal the slaughter of the suitors (Od. 23.130–52),25 the song can be interpreted in different ways, as the news of Herakles’ coming creates different possibilities. Firstly, it is Deianeira who is about to experience the re-enactment of her wedding. Her husband is finally about to return home, having completed the labours that kept him away from his family for such a long time. Then, Herakles’ movement

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towards his home can be seen as a reversed wedding procession. In both cases, the ‘bride’ (Deianeira–Herakles), resembling a sacrificial victim, is moving towards her/his sacrificial death, which in the drama’s world has turned into reality. And finally, the house is literally about to celebrate Iole’s marriage. The girl is being carried in the house with the aim to be Herakles’ new wife, but she finally turns out to be the wife of Hyllos, the two of them united in order to ensure the perpetuation of Herakles’ oikos. This progressive mutation of the imminent wedding ceremony is echoed and predicted in the second part of the song (216–21), possibly delivered by the leader of the other semichorus until the whole chorus joins in at 221 to sing the refrain of the paean. This is a self-referential reply that responds positively to the coryphaeus’ invitation to sing and dance. But instead of a paean celebrating the imminent wedding, the chorus sing and dance in a Bacchic competition (Βακχίαν ὑποστρέφων ἅμιλλαν, 219–20) with flute accompaniment (αἴρομαι . . . τὸν αὐλόν, 216–17).26 The flute is the instrument associated with religious enthusiasm, and especially the Dionysian worship. With the members of the chorus envisioning themselves as bacchanals or even as members of a real tragic chorus, the mood of the song changes from dithyrambic to Dionysian.27 Drawing on the concept of disastrous maenadism, this transition from a wedding to a tragic setting prepares for the actual reversal of the forthcoming marriage and the absolute destruction of Herakles’ oikos.28 Indeed, in the play, the normal order and arrangement of events and the allocation of gender roles in the wedding ritual are progressively confused, dislocated or reversed. What started as two parallel processions, one of a new bride towards her welcoming home (Iole) and another of a victorious hero coming back to his family (Herakles) ends in a wife’s re-enactment of a failed marriage through suicidal death (Deianeira) and a sacrificial ‘marriage to death’ of a pseudo-maiden (Herakles). So, while the play dramatizes the eager expectation of the bridegroom’s arrival and the unsuccessful attempt of a wife to achieve happiness through the re-experience of her wedding ceremony, it ends with suffering, death and an undesirable marriage. In a nutshell, the outcome of this dramatic setting is ‘three failed weddings, two deaths and a funeral’. *

*

*

In Trachiniae, the dislocation of the norms of the hymeneal conjugation originates in Nessos’ violation. In fact, it is because the bestial world violates the political frame of the drama and the orderly economy of marriage, that marital and sexual relations are ruptured. Nessos comes from the family of the Centaurs, the

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well-known disclaimers of marriage.29 Functioning as a conjunction between different incidents of the drama and providing the only link between an extremely disconcerted couple, between Herakles and Deianeira, he has won the reputation for being the representative of bestial violence par excellence. His interruption is a decisive turning point for Trachiniae; this initiatory, primal act of violation marks the beginning of this wedding journey, the rite of passage from maiden to wife, with an attempted rape, a death and a gruesome transaction (559–65):30 ὃς [sc. Nessos)] τὸν βαθύρρουν ποταμὸν Εὔηνον βροτοὺς μισθοῦ ’πόρευε χερσίν, οὔτε πομπίμοις κώπαις ἐρέσσων οὔτε λαίφεσιν νεώς. ὃς κἀμέ, τὸν πατρῷον ἡνίκα στόλον ξὺν Ἡρακλεῖ τὸ πρῶτον εὖνις ἑσπόμην, φέρων ἐπ’ ὤμοις, ἡνίκ’ ἦ ’ν μέσῳ πόρῳ, ψαύει ματαίαις χερσίν· [Nessos] who for a fee used to carry people across the board flow of the river Evenus, not by plying oars to transport them nor by a ship with sails, but in his arms. While he was carrying me upon his shoulders, when I was first accompanying Heracles as bride, after my father had sent me off, while I was in mid-stream he laid lustful hands upon me.

Deianeira complains about her bridal journey, as it was deprived of every bridal honour and was nothing like the πομπή she, as a princess, ought to have had. The sending forth her father ordained, the bridal procession leading to her new home (πατρῷον στόλον, 562) that she dutifully followed, was an unpleasant experience overshadowed by an attempted rape and a bestial death. As has been noted by many scholars, these lines present a violent dislocation of the nuptial ritual; as Armstrong puts it, ‘a bad dream of bestial violence’.31 Segal explains that Deianeira’s transition to her new house is a parody of the wedding procession, which would typically include a cortège of wagons leading the bridal chariot, loaded with gifts and accompanied by joyful families.32 Rehm suggests that the background myth behind this epeisodion describing Deianeira’s violation by Nessos during her transfer to her husband’s home is the famous battle between the Centaurs, and the Lapiths during Peirithoos’ wedding.33 DuBois notes that the bestial violates the most central institution of the polis, the orderly exchange of women through marriage.34 According to her, the sexual echo of the Centaur’s violent act is implied in the shape of the writing tablet, the δέλτος (χαλκῆς δέλτου γραφήν, 683; cf. παλαιὰν δέλτον, 156–7), on which Deianeira kept Nessos’ instructions.35

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The interruption of Deianeira’s ferrying, however, does not only violate her marriage but is also recalled when Herakles’ poisoned body is being ferried back to his house.36 At the end of Hyllos’ report of the events in Cenaeum we are informed about Herakles’ wish to be transferred away from this land, to a place where no one would be able to see him in this miserable and shameful state, and that Hyllos would place him in a boat (797–806). The use of the verb πορθμεύω to describe Herakles’ ferrying over the sea (μ’ ἔκ γε τῆσδε γῆς / πόρθμευσον ὡς τάχιστα, 801–2) establishes this connection, alluding to Deianeira’s ferrying by the vicious Centaur (ἐπόρευε, πομπίμοις, 560; πορθμῶν, ἔπεμψα, 571). Both ferries, Deianeira’s bridal procession across the river Evenus and Herakles’ ferry over the sea, are violently interrupted by the monstrous Centaur, who functions as the decisive link between this disconcerted couple. Whereas the beast failed in his attempt to rape Deianeira, it succeeded in penetrating and emasculating Herakles’ body to death. The diseased body of the great hero will be finally carried on stage in a procession (ἐκφορά: a funeral procession with mourners), which will expose his living corpse to the scene of the theatre of Dionysus (πρόθεσις: the laying out of a corpse), in order to dramatize his final moments before being transferred to his tomb. Like his assault against Deianeira, Nessos’ attack against Herakles incorporates evidence of violent rape, with the νόσος having penetrated the hero’s overwhelmed body and having transformed him into a terrified crying maiden (ὥστε παρθένος, / βέβρυχα κλαίων, 1071–2), about to lift her veil in the final act before the wedding night (1078–80 imply a scene of ἀνακαλυπτήρια, namely the ritualistic unveiling by the bride). Consequently, Nessos’ attack started as a violent rape/penetration of Deianeira’s wedding but ends in the rape/penetration of Herakles’ body, turning the imminent wedding into a funeral and the sacrificial perpetrator of the preparatory offerings (προτέλεια) into the sacrificial victim.37 Nessos but also Acheloos and Herakles, who will be the focus of the next section of this chapter, controvert the sustainability of the polis, by being dominated by their unbounded sexuality. All three sexual assailants assemble a text of silent but excessive sexual violence, violence emanating from the distant bestial primitive world but expanding into the political present of the Trachiniae. Monstrous and aggressive sexual desire is the anti-political element that interrupts the political order of the drama’s present, resulting in a morbid crisis, personified as a paroxysmal disease that takes the leading role on stage at the end of the drama. These aggressive anti-political elements are definitely gendered, but what is striking is that they are performed via the masculine characters of the play, leaving the locus of the polis to the female.

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Mirrored weddings among illicit sexualities So, Nessos is not the only perpetrator in Trachiniae; equally harmful and immoral deeds are carried out by Acheloos and Herakles.38 And actually, the actions of these two males also establish a strong link between the stories of their victims. This is why when meeting Iole, Deianeira identifies an image of her younger self. Just like Iole, she had herself experienced the fear that her beauty would prove destructive when she was also a young maiden watching her suitors’ rivalry: ‘I was sitting there struck numb with fear that my beauty might end by bringing me pain’ (ἐγὼ γὰρ ἥμην ἐκπεπληγμένη φόβῳ / μή μοι τὸ κάλλος ἄλγος ἐξεύροι ποτέ, 24–5; cf. Eur. Hel. 27).39 On the grounds of Iole’s ill-omened beauty that has put her at the risk of a forcible claim and has assigned her the role of the desired object, a role that is so familiar for Deianeira, she is in a position to sympathize with the young girl and feel her misery (465–7): ἐπεί σφ’ ἐγὼ ᾤκτιρα δὴ μάλιστα προσβλέψασ’, ὅτι τὸ κάλλος αὐτῆς τὸν βίον διώλεσεν, καὶ γῆν πατρῴαν οὐχ ἑκοῦσα δύσμορος ἔπερσε κἀδούλωσεν. I pitied her most of all when my eyes lit on her,40 because her beauty had destroyed her life, and by no fault of hers, poor creature, she had brought her native land to ruin and to slavery.

As many scholars have noticed, in many ways this younger bride mirrors the old one. Segal, for instance, suggests that Herakles’ two marriages are ironical mirror images. Iole is Deianeira’s complement, a younger Deianeira, a doublet of Deianeira’s younger self, so that the two women evoke all the different stages in a woman’s life: the wooed girl, the new bride, the mother, the widow.41 Rabinowitz also believes that Iole is a doublet of Deianeira, so that two stages in women’s lives, the young and the mature, are represented simultaneously. Iole is a pathetic object of the war and of the gaze, just as Deianeira was at one time the passive prize sought by Nessos and Acheloos and rescued by Herakles.42 Furthermore, Wohl shows that ‘Deianeira explores her own subjectivity by imagining a subjectivity for Iole’; she ‘creates Iole in her own image and as a means to her own self-definition’.43 Elaborating on these observations, in the following, I will discuss Acheloos’ and Oechalia’s narratives, both of them echoing the betrothals of Deianeira and Iole respectively, with a view to exploring how the common experience of

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separation from the paternal oikos is mirrored and observed through the prism of sexual violence.44 Instead of an orderly wedding ceremony following a betrothal agreement between two involved parties, the bride’s and the groom’s families, Deianeira’s and Iole’s wedding experiences start with their violent removal from the protected place of their youth, this imaginary utopia where they are enjoying an exceptional life that is free from toils (ἡδοναῖς ἄμοχθον . . . βίον, 147) and unaffected by heat, rain and wind (οὐ θάλπος θεοῦ, οὐδ’ ὄμβρος, οὐδὲ πνευμάτων οὐδὲν κλονεῖ, 146). In a civilized environment, like Athens, the betrothal (ἐγγύη) would be an agreement between the legal guardian of the prospective bride and the groom (or his legal guardian) that arranges the transition of the bride to her new home, an agreement that was typically accompanied by the transfer of a dowry from the girl’s legal guardian to her future husband.45 But in the stories recounting the betrothals of Deianeira and Iole, no proper agreement is taking place. Both girls, presented as objectified victims of their sexuality, are violently separated from their paternal utopia under the rule of fear and constraint. Let us start with Iole’s betrothal. The sack of Oechalia and the rape of Iole by Herakles should have been a standard and well-known version with the value of a mythological exemplum illustrating the destructive dynamics of beauty and desire, as is evident in strophe b of the first stasimon of Euripides’ Hippolytus (545–54):46 τὰν μὲν Οἰχαλίαι πῶλον ἄζυγα λέκτρων, ἄνανδρον τὸ πρὶν καὶ ἄνυμφον, οἴκων ζεύξασ’ ἀπ’ Εὐρυτίων δρομάδα ναΐδ’ ὅπως τε βάκχαν σὺν αἵματι, σὺν καπνῶι, φονίοισι νυμφείοις Ἀλκμήνας τόκωι Κύπρις ἐξέδωκεν·ὦ τλάμων ὑμεναίων. That filly in Oechalia, unjoined as yet to marriage-bed, unhusbanded, unwed, Aphrodite took from the house of her father Eurytus and yoked her like a footloose Naiad or a Bacchant and gave her – to the accompaniment of bloodshed and smoke, with bloody bridal – to Alcmene’s son. O unhappy in her marriage!47

Here, Iole is an unwed filly, a husbandless virgin, violently abducted from her father’s house, amidst blood, smoke and murderous marital vows, and given as a

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bride to Herakles by Kypris. This is clearly a rape described as a type of wedding that concludes in an inverted μακαρισμός (ὦ τλάμων ὑμεναίων), with Kypris exceptionally assuming a role that is traditionally assigned to the male guardian of the bride, handing the girl over to the groom (ἐξέδωκεν). Be that as it may, the violence Iole experienced when Herakles sacked her city and the fact that she was raped are almost silenced in Trachiniae, as Sophocles’ account of the sack of Oechalia is part of Lichas’ ‘lying tale’ (248–90), which intends to hide part of the truth from Deianeira, and is therefore adjusted accordingly.48 What is instead repeated emphatically – twice by the messenger (351–70, 431–3) and once by Lichas (476–8) – is that the real motive behind the sack of Iole’s city was Herakles’ passion for the girl.49 Nevertheless, in the first stasimon, the ode that follows this revelation, rather than directly commenting on Herakles’ erotic drive that prompted him to rape an innocent girl and destroy her city, the poet returns to the theme of Deianeira’s wooing by Acheloos, which was introduced in the prologue. Of all the erotic narratives of Trachiniae, Acheloos’ wooing is particularly significant as it is not only prominently exposed in the prologue, but it is also emphatically doubled in the first stasimon. This repetition illustrates the details of Acheloos’ claim by means of a lyric passage, a mode which allows a more elaborate revelation of the excitement and emotion that the scene of primitive violence evokes. The ode begins with a generalization about the power of Aphrodite: ‘A mighty power is the Cyprian! Always she carries off victories’ (μέγα τι σθένος ἁ Κύπρις· ἐκφέρεται νίκας / ἀεί, 497–8), that corresponds to Deianeira’s previous acknowledgement of Eros’ almightiness: ‘he [sc. Ἔρως] rules even the gods just as he pleases’ (οὗτος γὰρ ἄρχει καὶ θεῶν ὅπως θέλει, 443). In fact, the ode develops in detail material treated in the prologue. As Davies notes, the repetition of the same material treated by an iambic scene in a choral passage is a technique that is common in Greek tragedy, but usually, the choral song precedes the iambic scene.50 As Davies continues, the correspondence between the two scenes in terms of context, structure and phraseology is hard to neglect. We can also add that both scenes begin with the rhetorical figure of praeteritio/παράλειψις (499–506): καὶ τὰ μὲν θεῶν παρέβαν, καὶ ὅπως Κρονίδαν ἀπάτασεν οὐ λέγω οὐδὲ τὸν ἔννυχον Ἅιδαν, ἢ Ποσειδάωνα τινάκτορα γαίας· ἀλλ’ ἐπὶ τάνδ’ ἄρ’ ἄκοιτιν ἀμφίγυοι κατέβαν πρὸ γάμων,

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Gendered Politics in Sophocles’ Trachiniae τίνες πάμπληκτα παγκόνιτά τ’ ἐξῆλθον ἄεθλ’ ἀγώνων; The stories of the gods I pass over, nor do I relate how she tricked the son of Kronos, or Hades shrouded in darkness, or Poseidon the shaker of earth. But to win this bride what mighty antagonists entered the lists for the sake of the marriage? Who set out for the ordeal of the contest amid many blows and much dust?

Just like in the prologue, where Deianeira refused to recall the details of the confrontation between Acheloos and Herakles and declared that only a person uninvolved could fearlessly watch and give an account of the fight (‘I cannot tell of the manner of his struggle, for I know nothing of it; whoever was sitting there not terrified by the sight, he could tell you’; καὶ τρόπον μὲν ἂν πόνων / οὐκ ἂν διείποιμ’·οὐ γὰρ οἶδ’, ἀλλ’ ὅστις ἦν / θακῶν ἀταρβὴς τῆς θέας, ὅδ’ ἂν λέγοι, 21–3), the young girls of the chorus refuse to speak about Aphrodite’s triumphs over the three most powerful gods that govern the universe, Zeus, Hades and Poseidon, whose amorous stories were paradigmatic.51 However, it seems that these girls have the detachment which Deianeira considered necessary for someone to be able to report the details of this intense fight. Thus, all possible alternative exempla that comment on the omnipotence of Eros and the destructive dynamic of sexual passion are rejected by the chorus one by one, to place the emphasis on the last in the climax stories, the story about Aphrodite’s triumph over Acheloos and Herakles.52 In the first antistrophe and the first part of the epodos the narrative focuses on the battle itself, initially presenting the two opponents from a long shot, and then zooming in for a close-up of the body-to-body battle (507–22): ὁ μὲν ἦν ποταμοῦ σθένος, ὑψίκερω τετραόρου φάσμα ταύρου, Ἀχελῷος ἀπ’ Οἰνιαδᾶν, ὁ δὲ Βακχίας ἄπο ἦλθε παλίντονα Θήβας τόξα καὶ λόγχας ῥόπαλόν τε τινάσσων, παῖς Διός· οἳ τότ’ ἀολλεῖς ἴσαν ἐς μέσον ἱέμενοι λεχέων· μόνα δ’ εὔλεκτρος ἐν μέσῳ Κύπρις ῥαβδονόμει ξυνοῦσα. τότ’ ἦν χερός, ἦν δὲ τόξων πάταγος,

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ταυρείων τ’ ἀνάμιγδα κεράτων· ἦν δ’ ἀμφίπλεκτοι κλίμακες, ἦν δὲ μετώπων ὀλόεντα πλήγματα καὶ στόνος ἀμφοῖν. One was a mighty river, appearing as a bull, long-horned, four legged, Achelous from Oeniadae; and the other came from Bacchic Thebes, brandishing his springing bow, his spears, and his club, the son of Zeus. They then met together in the middle, longing for her bed; and alone in the centre the beautiful Cyprian was there to umpire in the contest. Then there was a clatter of fists and of the quiver, and of the bull’s horns, all together; and legs were wound around waists, and deadly blows struck foreheads, and groans came from both.

The two opponents are introduced in all the magnitude that is appropriate to their impressiveness. The grandeur of the style is achieved through a series of specifications that precede their final naming. Acheloos’ excellence stems from his physical power, presented as a combination of the impetuosity of a river (ποταμοῦ σθένος, 507) and the tremendous form of a high-horned four-footed bull (ὑψίκερω τετραόρου / φάσμα ταύρου, 508–9). Accordingly, Herakles is defined by a lively and sonorous image of him carrying all three weapons traditionally attributed to him, the bow, the spear and the club (τόξα καὶ λόγχας ῥόπαλόν, 512), an image which is further emphasized by the reference to the wilderness of his bacchanal origin (Βακχίας ἄπο / ἦλθε . . . Θήβας, 510). The erotic echo of the scene is expressed at multiple levels. The presence of the goddess of love and desire in the centre of the scene, together with the sexual connotations of εὔλεκτρος (515) and ξυνοῦσα (516), evince a pervasive erotic mood.53 The iconography and vocabulary recall Deianeira’s wedding bed and point towards the sexual intercourse at the wedding night: ἐπὶ τάνδ’ ἄρ’ ἄκοιτιν, 503; κατέβαν πρὸ γάμων, 504; ἱέμενοι λεχέων, 514; ὄμμα νύμφας, 527. Then, the athletic agonistic context points towards the celebration of an event which will lead to the rewarding of the winner with the object of his desire. The agonistic imagery (κατέβαν, 504; ἐξῆλθον ἄεθλ’ ἀγώνων; 505; ἀμφινείκητον ὄμμα νύμφας, 527), the introductory generalization and the absence of copula (497), the question-answer scheme (504–5), the grandiose presentation of the opponents with a series of descriptions that precedes their naming (507–13), the schema pindaricum (ἦν . . . κλίμακες, ἦν . . . πλήγματα, 520–1),54 all have a Pindaric echo and create the pretext of a victory ode which concludes with the presentation of the prize.55

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The scene exudes violence, both visually and audibly; deafening sound effects (τινάσσων, 512; πάταγος, 518; πλήγματα, στόνος, 522) and spectacular sight, in a scenery full of blows and dust (πάμπληκτα παγκόνιτά, 505), where different means of weaponry and phallic symbols (τόξα, λόγχας, ῥόπαλόν, 512; χερός, 517; κεράτων, 519) are all mixed together, in order to determine the winner of the wrestling bout. Of course, as Easterling notes, neither opponent is the winner here; it is Aphrodite, always victorious, who is in charge of this game, and this time she will be the winner once again (ἐκφέρεται νίκας ἀεί, 497; μόνα δ’ εὔλεκτρος ἐν μέσῳ Κύπρις ῥαβδονόμει ξυνοῦσα, 515).56 After all, this game is just another example of Aphrodite’s omnipotence over both gods and men. Then, the erotic context of this victory ode, as Wohl puts it, shows ‘a shift of erotic focus away from Deianeira and onto the agon itself [. . .] a movement from the heterosexual (with each man vying individually for the woman) to the homoerotic (with the bond between the two heroes mediated through the woman)’.57 The victimized, passive and silent female object is presented in striking contrast to this context of aggressive eroticism, violence and loud sounds. Whereas the violence is between the two males, not against the female, Deianeira’s appearance at the end of the ode carries clear connotations of rape. Her presentation strongly opposes her traditional image as an Amazon-like figure that resists her abduction.58 Differing strikingly, and presumably deliberately, from this independent figure, Deianeira in the ode is assigned the schematic female passivity that is typical in mythical erotic pursuits and rape scenes, a passivity that can be translated to hesitation, or even aversion, invariably directed towards both suitors. She is transferred away at the shore of the river, in agony about the outcome of the fight which will determine which of the two opponents will be her mate in bed. This is an agony that has implications of rape, conflated with premarital fear (523–30):59 ἁ δ’ εὐῶπις ἁβρὰ τηλαυγεῖ παρ’ ὄχθῳ ἧστο τὸν ὃν προσμένουσ’ ἀκοίταν. †ἐγὼ δὲ μάτηρ μὲν οἷα φράζω·† τὸ δ’ ἀμφινείκητον ὄμμα νύμφας ἐλεινὸν ἀμμένει · κἀπὸ ματρὸς ἄφαρ βέβαχ’, ὥστε πόρτις ἐρήμα. But she in her delicate beauty sat by a distant hill, awaiting her bridegroom. [I tell the tale as though I had been there]; but the face of the bride who is the object of

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their strife waits there piteously. And suddenly she is gone from her mother, like a calf that has wandered.

This violent and sudden separation of the girl from her mother, like a heifer which is taken away from its dam (κἀπὸ ματρὸς ἄφαρ βέβακεν, / ὥστε πόρτις ἐρήμα, 529–30), marks the end of the intense fight and signals the satisfaction of the winner’s desire. Removing the prize from the battlefield can be interpreted as a further indication to the homosociality of the scene. The eroticism of the agon, as Wohl puts it, ‘is shown to unite the two male competitors, rather than either competitor with the female object’.60 Be that as it may, I am more inclined to see Deianeira’s image at the end of the ode as focusing on her own alienated emotional experience. This is an abrupt shift in focus from the battle scene to the image of the frightened young girl. It is a displacement which is not only evident on the grounds of metre (from dactylic to iambic) and language, but which also sets up a sudden shift on visual and acoustic grounds. Thus, the concluding image of the ode illustrates the anxious and silent anticipation of the bride-to-be and displays the same isolation and distancing of the heroine which was described in the prologue. The lyrical means, of course, allow much more emphasis on the emotions experienced by the heroine and a kind of liveliness that resembles the technique of visual art.61 More importantly, this is an image which mirrors Iole’s silent appearance in the first epeisodion. Like Deianeira’s betrothal, Iole’s abduction is a moment of great violence which defies any kind of reaction from the maiden. Since she left her home, Iole has refused to speak a word and is shedding silent tears (322–7): οὔ τἄρα τῷ γε πρόσθεν οὐδὲν ἐξ ἴσου χρόνῳ διήσει γλῶσσαν, ἥτις οὐδαμὰ προύφηνεν οὔτε μείζον’ οὔτ’ ἐλάσσονα, ἀλλ’ αἰὲν ὠδίνουσα συμφορᾶς βάρος δακρυρροεῖ δύστηνος, ἐξ ὅτου πάτραν διήνεμον λέλοιπεν. If she gives tongue, it will not be like the past, for she has come out with nothing great or small, but has always wept, poor creature, in grievous travail, ever since she left her windswept native land.

Just like the other Sophoclean rape victim, the mutilated Philomela in Tereus whose striking feature is silence, both Deianeira and Iole internalize their suffering and remain passive and silent observers, refusing to speak for

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themselves while the male subject is deciding upon their destiny.62 As regards to Deianeira’s silence in particular, this will be made even more explicit when she exits the scene never to be seen again, uncomplainingly accepting Hyllos’ accusations for the murder of his father.63 Despite the warning of the chorus that this way she is seconding her accuser (τί σῖγ’ ἀφέρπεις; οὐ κάτοισθ’ ὁθούνεκα / ξυνηγορεῖς σιγῶσα τῷ κατηγόρῳ; 813–14), she will silently withdraw, having already decided that she will herself put an end to her insufferable life. Consequently, the narrative about Acheloos’ wooing of Deianeira is manipulated to work as a template not only for Deianeira’s but also Iole’s traumatic experiences of their separation from the paternal oikos. Both women being the objects of Herakles’ sexual desire, their premarital history is treated as a unity, under the common parameters of violent sexual desire and beauty as a disastrous force. At the same time, the consecutive juxtaposition of these two scenes gives the impression that the two women make up one person; at distinctive time levels, both women are nothing more than the object of Herakles’ lust. In that sense, Deianeira is Iole’s alter ego just like Iole is Deianeira’s alter ego. Exploring the idea of destructive sexual desire, the first ode does not only repeat Deianeira’s traumatic experience but also stands in between two instances, the battle in Oechalia (first episode) and the unequal battle that will be held between Deianeira and her rival in Herakles’ bed, by means of magic charms (second episode). On the grounds of the scene that follows, the ode anticipates this confrontation. Correspondingly, on the grounds of the preceding scene, it seems likely that the idea of Herakles’ destructive passion also overshadows the scene of Deianeira’s wooing. Coming after the narrative about the violence Iole experienced when raped by Herakles, which was suspiciously suppressed by Lichas, the mythical exemplum of Acheloos’ wooing elaborates on the recurring theme of the destructive power of love and desire. Thus, Iole’s silenced rape is indirectly and ironically echoed in the background of the ode’s narrative. And vice versa, through a reverse dynamic operated by the perspective of the frightened female silent object, Deianeira’s story is overshadowed by the intentionally concealed rape of Iole, a scene that presupposes a convention of sexual violence. Violent sexual drive stands prominently as the link between both episodes, ensuring structural and thematic consistency. In this context, Acheloos’ and Oechalia’s narratives are complementary, enhancing one another and at the same time doubling the parallel narratives of Deianeira’s and Iole’s betrothals, in which they are both presented as victims of rape. Besides, one of the main themes of the play is the tragic consequences of erotic desire. However, this is not to suggest

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that Trachiniae is a melodrama; instead (among other things), it is a drama about the different manifestations of the power of Aphrodite, namely the way Aphrodite acts as a catalyst, regulating and manipulating human relationships.64 As Zeitlin notes, the Greek society is ‘a system that receives the operation of eros as an irresistible and coercive force and sees its effects as a dangerous encroachment upon the autonomy of the self ’. This typical perception of eros does not only focus on the virginal feminine body but is broadened in order to ‘encompass the ways in which the power attributed to the erotic drive also makes violent assaults upon the male’.65 Zeitlin resorts to the myths of Hylas, Hermaphroditus, Pentheus and Hippolytus to illustrate her argument. We could add that Trachiniae offers another illustrative example of the coercive force of eros, and indeed an example unique in that it monitors eros from multiple and heterogeneous perspectives. Being monstrous and masculine (Acheloos’, Nessos’ and Herakles’ pursuits of Deianeira; Herakles’ pursuit of Iole) or ‘feminine’ (Deianeira’s pursuit of Herakles and even Herakles’ ‘rape’ by a severe νόσος – or Nessos), thus spreading simultaneously over different gender and species categories, the complex erotic narratives of Trachiniae classify the play among the most comprehensive and multivariate analyses of eros in surviving Greek literature.

Death after a death Concomitant with the violations of the wedding ritual by the monsters of Trachiniae is the gruesome deaths of both spouses in a subversive way that is annotated with the complete reversal of the gender order. Let us follow how these deaths are reported. Astonished at the dreaded news of the approaching procession of the dying Herakles and Deianeira’s self-hanging, the chorus responds with resounding polyptoton: ‘achieving alone death after a death’ (πρὸς θανάτῳ θάνατον ἀνύσασα μόνα, 885). With Nessos acting as the only point of contact between this disconnected couple, it is only through their deaths that the experiences of Deianeira and Herakles meet in Trachiniae. Standing between the two incidents, the fourth stasimon (947–70) comments on this futile meeting; the deaths of Deianeira and Herakles converge (κοινὰ δ’ ἔχειν τε καὶ μέλλειν, 952) in that they are both equally terrible misfortunes, so that they wonder which one to lament (947–52): πότερα πρότερον ἐπιστένω, στρ. αʹ πότερα μέλεα περαιτέρω, δύσκριτ’ ἔμοιγε δυστάνῳ.

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Gendered Politics in Sophocles’ Trachiniae τάδε μὲν ἔχομεν ὁρᾶν δόμοις, ἀντ. αʹ τάδε δὲ μένομεν ἐν ἐλπίσιν· κοινὰ δ’ ἔχειν τε καὶ μέλλειν. Which case shall I lament for first? Which is the sadder? It is hard for me, poor creature, to decide. The one we can see in the house, the other we await in expectation; seeing and waiting to see are just the same.

This first strophic doublet of the song seems to match well with a typical lamentation: initial hesitation expressed by means of questions, antithesis, parechesis and repetition.66 The strophe and the antistrophe stand in absolute correspondence, underlining the symmetry between the deaths. Indeed, in the way these deaths are presented, we can detect analogies that underline the fact that the parallel pathways of this otherwise failed union intersect at the time of the tragic closing ceremony. On the one hand, it is the association or juxtaposition of death and wedding, in such a way that once again death is presented through the reversal of a proper wedding ceremony that recurs as a pattern in the account of both deaths. Thus, these two incidents correspond in that they are presented in a way that presumes upon the nuptial patterns which cohere the play as a whole. On the other hand, what is striking is that within this wedding setting the typical correlations of gender roles are completely dislocated, emphasizing the ultimate subversion of gender order in which Trachiniae invests. *

*

*

Let us start with Deianeira’s death, which comes first. Very early in the prologue of the play, Deianeira stated that her existence is completely dependent on that of Herakles (‘either we are saved if he has saved his life or we are gone with him’; ἢ σεσώμεθα / κείνου βίον σώσαντος, ἢ οἰχόμεσθ’ ἅμα, 83–5). With that in mind, even when the deathly effect of the philtre was only a suspicion and not a confirmed reality, she announced her intention to die and despite the chorus’s attempts to remind her of her good intentions, she did not negotiate her decision: ‘Well, I have determined, if he comes to grief, that with the same movement I too shall die with him’ (καίτοι δέδοκται, κεῖνος εἰ σφαλήσεται, / ταὐτῇ σὺν ὁρμῇ κἀμὲ συνθανεῖν ἅμα, 719–20). Therefore, since her decision to die with her husband in the event of his fall was expected, we can assume that when, at the end of the third epeisodion and after her son’s description of the effect that her gift had on his father and his accusations, Deianeira silently left the scene (813ff.), she had already decided that she would herself put an end to her life.

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The account of her death is reported in detail by the Nurse in the fourth epeisodion (900–31). The report starts by following her from the moment she was headed towards the house. Although Deianeira had already decided her death, it seems that the look of Hyllos in the yard preparing a litter that would accommodate Herakles’ dying body (κοῖλα δέμνια, 901) motivated and confirmed her intention. First, Deianeira bid farewell to the part of her oikos that included the physical space: its objects, her children and her servants. She hid herself in the court, and while falling near the altars and touching her belongings, she moaned aloud for the altars being abandoned. Then, as she moved in the house, when seeing the face of any of her attendants, she called upon her fate and her ‘childless future state’ (τὰς ἄπαιδας ἐς τὸ λοιπὸν οὐσίας, 911).67 After giving the send-off to her oikos, Deianeira started preparing for the actual suicide in a way which suggests that her death is envisioned as the reenactment of her unfortunate marriage: she rushed into the bedchamber (‘suddenly I saw her burst into the marriage chamber of Heracles’; ἐξαίφνης σφ’ ὁρῶ / τὸν Ἡράκλειον θάλαμον εἰσορμωμένην, 912–13), made the nuptial bed (‘I saw the woman casting blankets on the bed of Heracles’; ὁρῶ δὲ τὴν γυναῖκα δεμνίοις / τοῖς Ἡρακλείοις στρωτὰ βάλλουσαν φάρη, 915–16) and lay down on the middle of it (‘took her place in the middle of the bed’; καθέζετ’ ἐν μέσοισιν εὐνατηρίοις, 918). Having completed the arrangement of the nuptial scenery, within a chamber that is completely owned by and surrounded by Herakles, as the double repetition of the adjective Ἡράκλειος for both the chamber and the bedding suggests, she then addressed the final farewell to what constitutes the symbol of her own existence (ἐμά) – her bridal bed and her marriage (920–2): ὦ λέχη τε καὶ νυμφεῖ’ ἐμά, τὸ λοιπὸν ἤδη χαίρεθ’, ὡς ἔμ’ οὔποτε δέξεσθ’ ἔτ’ ἐν κοίταισι ταῖσδ’ εὐνάτριαν. Oh, my bridal bed, farewell now for ever, since you will never again receive me to lie upon this couch.

λέχη refers to the marriage bed, and generally, marriage. νυμφεῖα could refer to the ‘bridechamber’ (νυμφεῖον [sc. δῶμα]), the ‘nuptial rites’ (νυμφεῖα [sc. ἱερά] or the ‘bride’. Both Davies and Easterling take νυμφεῖα to mean ‘bridal chambers’.68 In any case, there is a tautology in this syntax (λέχη τε καὶ νυμφεῖα, 920), underlining that Deianeira is referring to her sleeping together with her husband, namely the sexual aspect of her marriage (cf. εὐνάτριαν: ‘bedfellow’). And indeed, we should also consider that with this final farewell to her husband, she has left herself bare, posing her body available for the actual penetration by the sword (923–6):

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Gendered Politics in Sophocles’ Trachiniae τοσαῦτα φωνήσασα συντόνῳ χερὶ λύει τὸν αὑτῆς πέπλον, οὗ χρυσήλατος προὔκειτο μαστῶν περονίς, ἐκ δ’ ἐλώπισεν πλευρὰν ἅπασαν ὠλένην τ’ εὐώνυμον. Having said so much, with a sweeping hand she loosed her robe, where a gold pin lay above her breasts, and bared all her side and her left arm.

The eroticism of the bridal chamber, with the woman naked in the centre of her bed, suggests that with her death Deianeira re-enacts her wedding. Deianeira prepares herself for the subsequent forcible penetration by the sword by imagining it as an imminent act of sexual intercourse with her husband. The tragic setting, however, encompassing her absolute isolation and alienation and frustrating the bridal fantasy, confirms the failure of this wedding. As has been noted by Loraux, in their deaths tragic wives bring their marriages to fulfilment. On these grounds, we can see Deianeira’s suicide as a way to be connected with her husband through death, as an example of ‘to die with’, in Loraux’s words, just like Euripides’ Helen, who swears that, if Menelaus dies, she will kill herself with the same sword and rest at his side (Hel. 837, 982–6). As Loraux suggests, the fate of ‘to die with’ ‘becomes, in the case of female suicides, the object of a will that seems at once like love and like despair [. . .] a tragic way for a woman to go to the extreme limit of marriage, by [. . .] drastically reordering events, since it is in death that “living with” her husband will be achieved’.69 Similarly, Seaford sees Deianeira’s death as the extreme manifestation of the negative tendency of her wedding transition, which has never been accomplished. Her death is the only moment when she enacts her otherwise failed marriage.70 Also for Segal, Deianeira’s suicide, right before the arrival of ‘Herakles as the new bride’, is the grim form of ‘the consummation of the union on the wedding night as Deianeira dies in the conjugal bed with gestures that evoke the new bride’s defloration (“loosing her peplos”, 924–926)’.71 Within this line of thinking, Deianeira’s death is feminine, as it is both a conjugal death of a tragic wife fulfilling her marriage and a suicidal death that conforms to a pattern of tragic women’s deaths. However, Deianeira’s death also entails contradictions and inconsistencies so that it both reaffirms the gendered world of tragedy but at the same time questions these gendered schemes. Death denotes a movement, and especially for women death is a flight, an escape from reality, which is implied through the vocabulary used for female suicides (αἰώρημα, πτῶμα, πήδημα).72 Deianeira’s journey towards her death is also described as a movement, a flight (βέβηκε,

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874), but it is one with a ‘motionless foot’ (ἐξ ἀκινήτου ποδός, 875). This oxymoron may suggest, as Loraux notes, that Deianeira did not fly away by hanging herself but that she has died like a soldier. Indeed, Deianeira’s death, completed in the time in which the Nurse ran to warn her son of what she was about, comes to her in a manly way (930–1): ὁρῶμεν αὐτὴν ἀμφιπλῆγι φασγάνῳ πλευρὰν ὑφ’ ἧπαρ καὶ φρένας πεπληγμένην. We saw that she had struck herself with a two-edged sword in the side below the liver and the seat of life.73

Whereas female death in poetry is normally associated with the throat, the side and the liver are the two fatal places on the warrior’s body.74 But Deianeira’s death comes to her as a bloody slaughter with the use of a sword, through a stab on the side below the liver, just like death comes to a man. On the other hand, although dying like a soldier, Deianeira uncovered her left side (ἐλώπισεν / πλευρὰν ἅπασαν ὠλένην τ’ εὐώνυμον, 925–6), the side of the female, and not, as could be expected, her right side, where the liver is anatomically placed.75 Through these contradictions, we can recognize the constraints of her gender creating deliberate inconsistencies, and assume, as Loraux suggests, that ‘a woman’s death, even if contrived in the most manly way, does not escape the laws of her sex’.76 For Loraux, ‘tragedy certainly does transgress and mix things up – this is its rule, its nature – but never to the point of irrevocably overturning the civic order of values’.77 As a result, tragedy only questions the fixed gender schemes of patriarchy in order to reinforce them, without proposing any alternatives. As Wohl sees it, Deianeira’s death journey is a metaphor for female subjectivity, which is, in fact, a movement towards her bed, a female space owned, at its very core, by the man. Seen from the perspective of the foreclosed female subject moving within the gendered spatial schemes of Athenian tragedy, Deianeira’s death scene ‘reinforces the impossibility of forming a dominant female subjectivity through male models’.78 Even so, in her death and through her death Deianeira has grown. She is no longer frightened and passive; she takes action; and through her daring and violent deed (‘a grim death as regards the doing of it’; σχετλίῳ τὰ πρός γε πρᾶξιν, 880) of forcing herself onto a two-edged sword (‘she was pierced by a two-edged sword’; ταύτην διηίστωσεν , 881), wrought by her own hand (‘She struck herself with her own hand’; αὐτὴ πρὸς αὐτῆς χειροποιεῖται τάδε, 891), she claims a ‘masculine heroic kleos’ so that the young girls of the chorus are surprised and bewildered to hear (882–8):

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Gendered Politics in Sophocles’ Trachiniae τίς θυμός, ἢ τίνες νόσοι, τάνδ’ αἰχμᾷ βέλεος κακοῦ ξυνεῖλε; πῶς ἐμήσατο πρὸς θανάτῳ θάνατον ἀνύσασα μόνα στονόεντος ἐν τομᾷ σιδάρου; ἐπεῖδες—ὢ μάταια—τάνδε ὕβριν; What passion, what affliction, took her off with the point of its cruel dart? How did she contrive it, achieving alone death after a death, by the stroke of the cruel iron? Did you – ah, the futility! – see this violent deed?

The chorus wonders about the kind of θυμός and the kind of νόσοι that led her to such an inconceivable act. νόσος occurs nineteen times in Trachiniae, of which eleven denote Herakles’ actual sickness (784, 980, 1013, 1030, 1084, 1115, 1120, 1230, 1235, 1241, 1260), three Herakles’ desire (435, 544 twice), two an unpleasant state in general (235, 852) and one Iole herself (491).79 The νόσοι of 882 should refer to Deianeira’s motive and, given the reference to the new bride a few lines later (ἀνέορτος ἅδε νύμφα, 894), I am inclined to believe that these νόσοι might refer to Deianeira’s desire for Herakles and her jealousy of Iole, and to agree with Jebb’s translation (‘what pangs of frenzy?’), rather than Lloyd-Jones’s (‘what affliction?’).80 It is also possible that it refers to Herakles’ νόσοι, and in that sense, Deianeira’s suicide is motivated by the account of the effect of the poisoned robe given by Hyllos at the end of the previous (third) epeisodion and her despair at the news that her husband is dying. θυμός, on the other, is a generic word denoting the principle of life, and as such can be seen as the seat of strong emotions, whether joy, grief, anger, desire or courage, but also the seat of thought.81 With ἐμήσατο two lines later, we can take τίς θυμός as meaning ‘what kind of mind?’ or ‘what line of thought?’ and not necessarily assume a deranged mind, as both Jebb (‘what fury?’) and Lloyd-Jones (‘passion’) do.82 Given the context of gender confusion associated with Deianeira’s way of dying, we can also take it as denoting transgender ‘courage or daring’ (cf. καὶ ταῦτ’ ἔτλη τις χεὶρ γυναικεία κτίσαι, 898). Still, these two words, θυμός and νόσοι, shed some light on the circumstancesbased motive of her suicide. And they suggest that the act of Deianeira’s suicide, even if motivated by strong emotion (νόσοι), is one that requires a bold and courageous heart/mind (θυμός). Her moral map, however, namely the principles of right and wrong behaviour which dictate Deianeira’s suicide, direct her decision and enlighten her motives, are exposed in the dialogue with the chorus

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that comes straight after her statement that she is determined to die together with Herakles (721–30). These lines are important from a dramatic point of view, as these are the last words spoken by Deianeira in Trachiniae, with the exception of a few lines exchanged in a distichomythia with Hyllos that introduce his long speech about the events in Cenaeum (749–812). The idea expressed is that for a woman whose care is to enjoy a good reputation, consistent with her noble origin, death is preferable to staying alive but having a bad reputation: ‘For a woman whose care is to be good cannot bear to live and to enjoy evil repute’ (ζῆν γὰρ κακῶς κλύουσαν οὐκ ἀνασχετόν, / ἥτις προτιμᾷ μὴ κακὴ πεφυκέναι, 721–2). The chorus attempts to reassure her by suggesting that she should not prejudge the outcome and lose her hope before the actual realization of facts, but Deianeira knows, having witnessed the effect of the philtre on the woollen flock, that it is more likely that she will prove illadvised (μὴ καλοῖς βουλεύμασιν, 725). On the basis of Deianeira’s values, the distinction between instigation and actual offence, between good and vicious intention, does not make any difference. For Deianeira the fact that she has a share of this misfortune (ὁ τοῦ κακοῦ / κοινωνός, 729–30) and that this misfortune affects her own oikos (ἔστ’ οἴκοι βαρύ, 730), and consequently her reputation, is enough to condemn herself to death and bypass the state law. Deianeira’s conception of female kleos echoes the traditional aristocratic conception of female virtue, as expressed by Thucydidean Perikles in the funerary epitaph, which suggests that a woman’s kleos is to have nothing said of them, neither for good nor ill: ‘and greatest will be hers who is least talked of among the men whether for good or for bad’ (ὑμῖν μεγάλη ἡ δόξα καὶ ἧς ἂν ἐπ᾽ ἐλάχιστον ἀρετῆς πέρι ἢ ψόγου ἐν τοῖς ἄρσεσι κλέος ᾖ, 2.45.2). But equally, it also echoes the ideal of aristocratic heroism, as expressed by the Sophoclean Ajax, who chooses noble death instead of ill reputation, even if Athena’s anger was not meant to last for more than a day (‘The noble man must live with honour or be honourably dead’; ἀλλ’ ἢ καλῶς ζῆν ἢ καλῶς τεθνηκέναι / τὸν εὐγενῆ χρή, 479–80). In this light, with her suicide, Deianeira, a woman with transgendered courage (θυμός), contests her own femininity to fantasize a masculine possibility, murders her weakness and passiveness, and requests the right to aristocratic heroism so that the chorus asks agitatedly: ‘And did a woman bring herself to do this with her own hand?’ (καὶ ταῦτ’ ἔτλη τις χεὶρ γυναικεία κτίσαι; 898). At this moment we can see her claiming a transgendered posthumous kleos, despite knowing that kleos will be hard to come by.83 At this same moment, we can also recognize her Amazonian origin, her pure sexuality and her genderless existence emerging, free from any legal, social or political restrictions imposed

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by femininity. The Amazonian symbol, as already noted, offers an unstable icon of similarity and difference that can create gender confusion and tension between masculine and feminine markers. In a similar way, as we will see in the following analysis, Herakles’ excessive masculinity is another unstable symbol that is also apt for the negotiation of gendered distinctions. *

*

*

Like Deianeira, who is experiencing her death positively, as a metaphorical final sexual intercourse with her husband and as the means to claim a posthumous kleos, Herakles is begging for death, as the only resource left in his situation. Thus, for the sufferers themselves, death is a desirable solution that will redeem them from their current unbearable life. Despite any analogy, however, Deianeira’s ‘heroic suicide’ is emphatically juxtaposed to Herakles’ emasculation as the result of an attack by a vicious νόσος. Thus, not only does Deianeira claim a man’s death for herself but, in Loraux’s words, she ‘robs Heracles of a man’s death’.84 But let us look closer at Herakles’ last moments. As a special case within the tragic corpus, the arrival of Herakles’ funeral πομπή is announced prematurely within the lyric song itself (fourth stasimon), underlining the critical conditions of this exceptional entrance.85 In the second strophe, the chorus had expressed their wish to be carried away by a wind so as not to witness the ‘unspeakable spectacle’ (ἄσπετον θέαμα, 961) of the mighty son of Zeus – who, as they have been informed, is approaching – dying in great agony (953–61). But the procession must have been already visible from the εἴσοδος when they were singing the second antistrophe and observed that: ‘it was for what was near, not what was far [. . .] For here is a party of strangers, come from far away’ (ἀγχοῦ δ’ ἄρα κοὐ μακρὰν [. . .] ξένων γὰρ ἐξόμιλος ἅδε τις στάσις, 962–4). Thus, the arrival of the πομπή prevented them from fleeing. Herakles’ living corpse is introduced into the scene of the theatre with great solemnity and formality, dictated by the ritual setting of a funeral. An aged man is leading the procession of Herakles’ litter, which is carried (φορεῖ, 965; φέρει, 967; φέρεται, 968) by a party of strangers walking in silence: ‘as though caring for one dear to them they are planting silently their heavy tread’ (ὡς φίλου / προκηδομένα βαρεῖαν / ἄψοφον φέρει βάσιν, 965–7). At the same time as the procession arrives, Hyllos enters the scene, coming from the house,86 and expresses his horror at the spectacle of his dying father with loud screams that violently interrupt the deathly tranquillity of the procession (971–2). The Old Man advises silence to prevent awaking the savage pain of sleeping Herakles (973–82). As Segal has noticed, ‘the rite moves forward again to a grotesque

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parody of the “awakening song” (diegertikon) for the new couple after their wedding night; but these songs are horribly transferred to the awakening of Heracles from his bed of pain (974–987)’.87 When he first speaks, Herakles utters a series of disoriented appeals, exclamations, questions and commands, indicative of his erratic state (983–7): ὦ Ζεῦ, ποῖ γᾶς ἥκω; παρὰ τοῖσι βροτῶν κεῖμαι πεπονημένος ἀλλήκτοις ὀδύναις; οἴμοι ἐγὼ τλάμων· ἁ δ’ αὖ μιαρὰ βρύκει. φεῦ. O Zeus, where in the world have I come? Among what mortals do I lie, racked by unceasing pains? Alas for me in my misery! Again this cursed plague consumes me! Ah!

We can assume that the visual contact with his surroundings is limited, possibly blocked by the garment that should completely cover his body and face, until he removes it after line 1078. His first words spoken in Trachiniae are addressed to Zeus, while Herakles is absolutely confused about his current state and oblivious of the presence of others. This is an exceptionally dramatic moment, when the much expected (for almost a thousand lines) nostos is finally accomplished. Here we would normally ‘expect a climax in the form of a prayer to his native land from the returning traveller’, as Davies notes.88 On the contrary, we hear Herakles lamenting, having completely lost his orientation and desperately wondering about his surroundings, like Odysseus who wakes in Ithaca to find a country that he does not recognize and laments: ‘Alas, to the land of what mortals have I now come?’ (ὤ μοι ἐγώ, τέων αὖτε βροτῶν ἐς γαῖαν ἱκάνω, Od. 13.200 = 6.119). He calls upon the altars of Cenaeum, where he offered sacrifices, wondering about the reward they have rendered to him (993–5). He turns to Zeus (995–9), asking about the kind of outrage he has done upon him so that he sees this ‘evergrowing flower of madness’ unappeasable (τόδ’ ἀκήλητον / μανίας ἄνθος, 998– 9). He queries whether the abilities of a charmer or a surgeon, other than Zeus, will be able to ‘lull to sleep this plague’ (τάνδ’ ἄταν / χωρὶς Ζηνὸς κατακηλήσει, 1001–2). He reacts spasmodically to any attempt made by the attendees to relieve him, probably by touching him and perhaps trying to lift him off: ‘Where are you touching me? Where are you laying me? You will kill me, you will kill me! You have roused up every part that had been lulled to rest!’ (πᾷ μου ψαύεις; ποῖ κλίνεις; / ἀπολεῖς μ’, ἀπολεῖς / ἀνατέτροφας ὅ τι καὶ μύσῃ, 1007–9).

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Within the heroic world of tragedy, a male death can only be imagined as one coming from the sword or spear of another man on the field of battle. A man wounded in close combat is a complete man, as opposed to a warrior returning without a mark earned in a battle, like the inglorious Menelaus of Euripides’ Andromache (‘You alone came back from Troy unwounded’; οὐδὲ τρωθεὶς ἦλθες ἐκ Τροίας μόνος, 616). Notwithstanding, Herakles of Trachiniae is too severely affected by the νόσος to force himself onto a ‘beneficial’ sword, which will release him from his suffering, like the one Deianeira owned and used as the means of her emancipation. It is striking that Herakles’ repeated request for a weapon as well as the fact that the great hero is bereft of his weaponry strongly contradict the subversive use of the sword by Deianeira just a while ago. It is more than once that Herakles begs for a mercy killing, as a preparatory expression of his final brutal request to be burned alive. When calling upon the Greeks, Herakles accuses them of being unjustifiably unrighteous in that they do not offer him a beneficial weapon or fire that can relieve him of the pain of being alive, in reciprocal exchange for the services he has offered to them: ‘will no one bring fire or a weapon that can help me? Will no one come and lop off my head, ending the misery of my life?’ (οὐ πῦρ, οὐκ ἔγχος τις ὀνήσιμον οὔ ποτε τρέψει; / οὐδ’ ἀπαράξαι κρᾶτα βίου θέλει / μολὼν τοῦ στυγεροῦ; 1014–17). Later, after recognizing his son’s familiar voice (1023–5) and starting to interact with others, he calls upon Athena, who has always been his protector (1031); and he then turns to his son begging for some kind of relief by a sword, as an act of favour that, given the circumstances, everyone would approve: ‘take pity on your father, draw a sword that none can blame and strike beneath my collar-bone!’ (τὸν φύτορ’ οἰκτίρας, ἀνεπίφθονον εἴρυσον ἔγχος, / παῖσον ἐμᾶς ὑπὸ κλῃδός, 1034–5). And later, he turns to Hades himself, to ‘put him to sleep with a swift death’ (εὔνασον εὔνασόν μ’ / ὠκυπέτᾳ μόρῳ, 1041–2). Eventually, he asks Hyllos to throw his miserable body, while still alive, on a funeral pyre on the mountain Oeta, without tears of lamentation (1191–200). Though abhorrent for someone to even think about, Hyllos’ contribution to Herakles’ death is received by the latter as a positive favour to be granted (χάριν, 1252), since this will be his ‘rest from labour, the final end of this man’ (παῦλά τοι κακῶν / αὕτη, τελευτὴ τοῦδε τἀνδρὸς ὑστάτη, 1255–6).89 Herakles’ repeated request for redemption through death as well as the abhorrence and brutality of his request to be burned alive emphasize the insufferableness of his current situation. This has been presented as a violent attack by a bestial νόσος. In the anapaestic-lyric preface of the final exodos (971– 1043), this disease, caused by the poison of the Hydra combined with the blood of Nessos, is treated like an invisible opponent, another beast Herakles needs to

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fight against.90 Like a fourth actor, it is vividly presented as if it were live on stage, described as it is with expressions which treat it as a personified wild beast that should not be irritated: ‘do not arouse the savage pain of your stern father’ (μὴ κινήσῃς / ἀγρίαν ὀδύνην πατρὸς ὠμόφρονος, 974–5); ‘You must not wake him from the sleep that holds him, nor stir and rouse up the awful malady that comes and goes’ (μὴ ’ξεγερεῖς τὸν ὕπνῳ κάτοχον / κἀκκινήσεις κἀναστήσεις / φοιτάδα δεινὴν / νόσον, 978–81). This is an unapproachable, savage plague (ἀποτίβατος ἀγρία νόσος, 1030) and the verbs used to describe its effect on Herakles’ body are normally used to denote food consumption (βρύκει, 987: ‘devours’; δαίνυται, 1088: ‘feasts on’). In particular, the νόσος is presented as an attack by an outrageous and inconceivable enemy, worse than anything he has ever encountered in the past. The emphatic cumulative apposition of Herakles’ past enemies in his long speech (1046–111) serves in order to direct to this comparison. His body has undertaken great toils commissioned by Hera and Eurystheus, but none of them was as much evil as the misfortune Deianeira put upon his shoulders (1046–52). ‘The spearmen of the plain’, ‘the army of the Giants’, ‘the violence of the monsters’, his enemies met in ‘Greece or the barbarian lands’ – none of them managed to bring him down (1058–61). His hands once confronted the lion in Nemea, the Lernean Hydra, the Centaurs, the beast of Erymanthus, the dog of Hades, the serpent of the Golden Apples, and endured several other labours, but he was never defeated as he is now (1089–102). We can detect a turn in the way Herakles endures his suffering, no longer addressing his νόσος, from the moment he realizes that it was Nessos rather than Deianeira who managed to defeat him (1143).91 Until then, the hero endures and identifies his νόσος as the personification of his mischievous wife. It is the female origin of this attack that Herakles finds inconceivable, unbearable and shameful, and this is an argument that is further enhanced by the fact that in Greek νόσος is a feminine noun. Both Deianeira and the νόσος are seen by Herakles as potential threats, as typical dangerous women who incorporate secret sexual power that may emasculate him. So, in striking contrast to this great number of powerful enemies that never managed to defeat mighty Herakles, he was mastered by one single evil woman and one single female νόσος, without the use of a weapon: ‘But a woman, a female and unmanly in her nature, alone has brought me down, without a sword’ (γυνὴ δέ, θῆλυς οὖσα κἄνανδρος φύσιν, / μόνη με δὴ καθεῖλε φασγάνου δίχα, 1063–4). Never before had someone caused such great suffering to him as this one, which ‘the daughter of Oineus with beguiling face’ (ἡ δολῶπις Οἰνέως κόρη, 1050) caused. Her gift is called ‘the woven covering of the Erinyes’

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(Ἐρινύων / ὑφαντὸν ἀμφίβληστρον, 1051–2), which ‘has been put upon his shoulders’ (καθῆψεν ὤμοις τοῖς ἐμοῖς, 1051), having enchained him in ‘unspeakable bondage’ (ἀφράστῳ τῇδε χειρωθεὶς πέδῃ, 1057).92 This attack is not only disgracefully performed by a feminine hand. Even more importantly, the effect of the disease is defined in terms that designate a direct attack on his masculinity, a symbolic emasculation. Consistent with what seems like a widespread idea among the Greeks, according to which the effect of magic love-charms indicated intellectual manipulation and an assault on someone’s ability to think and act autonomously, and so as a means of passivation and mental castration,93 Herakles’ νόσος is an offence against the selfdetermination of his masculine spirit. Its effect is internalized and treated as an incurable mental disorder which has irreparably influenced the interior of Herakles’ soul: ‘What outrage have you done upon me, what outrage, so that I see this ever-growing madness, not to be appeased’ (οἵαν μ’ ἄρ’ ἔθου λώβαν, οἵαν, / τόδ’ ἀκήλητον / μανίας ἄνθος καταδερχθῆναι, 996–9). This is an inconceivable malady that requires an expert to tranquillize: ‘Who is the charmer, who the surgeon that shall lull to sleep this plague, other that Zeus?’ (τίς γὰρ ἀοιδός, τίς ὁ χειροτέχνας / ἰατορίας, ὃς τάνδ’ ἄταν / χωρὶς Ζηνὸς κατακηλήσει, 1000–3). It strikes aggressively at regular intervals (φοιτάδα / νόσον; ‘the malady that comes and goes’, 981–2; cf. Soph. Phil. 808: ὀξεῖα φοιτᾷ καὶ ταχεῖ᾽ ἀπέρχεται), having fully occupied Herakles’ brain, resulting in his body convulsing into spasms: ‘Again this cursed plague consumes me!’ (ἁ δ’ αὖ μιαρὰ βρύκει, 987); ‘here it comes again’ (ἅδ’ αὖθ’ ἕρπει, 1010); ‘It leaps up again, the evil thing, it leaps up to destroy me, the cruel plague, irresistible’ (θρῴσκει δ’ αὖ, θρῴσκει δειλαία / διολοῦσ’ ἡμᾶς / ἀποτίβατος ἀγρία νόσος, 1027–30); ‘Again a spasm of torture has burned me, it has darted through my sides, and the ruthless devouring malady seems never to leave me without torment’ (ἔθαλψέ μ’ ἄτης σπασμὸς ἀρτίως ὅδ’ αὖ, / διῇξε πλευρῶν, οὐδ’ ἀγύμναστόν μ’ ἐᾶν / ἔοικεν ἡ τάλαινα διάβορος νόσος, 1082–4); ‘For again it is feasting on me, it has blossomed, it is launched’ (δαίνυται γὰρ αὖ πάλιν, / ἤνθηκεν, ἐξώρμηκεν, 1088–9). In Herakles’ long speech (1046–111) of the exodos, this agonizing address to Hyllos that is moving erratically between his major accomplishments, his shameful and painful downfall and his insatiable desire for revenge, he begs for his son’s succour to take revenge on Deianeira, exposing in detail his current condition to arouse his pity. The attack of the νοσος is there exposed as an offence against his body, against his corporeal entity, which constitutes the core of Herakles’ existence and substantiates his masculinity. As Loraux notes, ‘Herakles is constituted from the outside. Identified with his body and specifically with his invincible strength,

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Herakles has no interior. Even when he appears in tragedy, it would be sheer fantasy to attempt to endow him with one’.94 So, the bestial imagery associated with the νόσος refers metaphorically to the consumption of Herakles’ raw flesh by a corrosive disease, which has devastated the whole body of the great hero. It has thereby stolen his freedom, which is determined by the ownership of the body, and has degraded his body to the status of a slave (1053–7): πλευραῖσι γὰρ προσμαχθὲν ἐκ μὲν ἐσχάτας βέβρωκε σάρκας, πλεύμονός τ’ ἀρτηρίας ῥοφεῖ ξυνοικοῦν· ἐκ δὲ χλωρὸν αἷμά μου πέπωκεν ἤδη, καὶ διέφθαρμαι δέμας τὸ πᾶν, ἀφράστῳ τῇδε χειρωθεὶς πέδῃ. It has clung to my sides and eaten away my inmost flesh, and lives with me to devour the channels of my lungs. Already it has drunk my fresh blood, and my whole body is ruined, now that I am mastered by this unspeakable bondage.

As Zeitlin observes, it is at ‘those moments when the male finds himself in a condition of weakness, that he too becomes acutely aware that he has a body – and then perceives himself, at the limits of pain, to be most like a woman’.95 This is because ‘in the gender system the role of representing the corporeal side of life in its helplessness and submission to constraints is primarily assigned to women’.96 In the critical moment when he is asking Hyllos to renounce his mother, Herakles embodies the virgin body, a ‘miserable body’ (ἄθλιον δέμας, 1079) that is degraded to perform pain and lament (1070–80): ἴθ’, ὦ τέκνον, τόλμησον· οἴκτιρόν τέ με πολλοῖσιν οἰκτρόν, ὅστις ὥστε παρθένος βέβρυχα κλαίων, καὶ τόδ’ οὐδ’ ἂν εἷς ποτε τόνδ’ ἄνδρα φαίη πρόσθ’ ἰδεῖν δεδρακότα, ἀλλ’ ἀστένακτος αἰὲν εἰχόμην κακοῖς. νῦν δ’ ἐκ τοιούτου θῆλυς ηὕρημαι τάλας. καὶ νῦν προσελθὼν στῆθι πλησίον πατρός, σκέψαι δ’ ὁποίας ταῦτα συμφορᾶς ὕπο πέπονθα δείξω γὰρ τάδ’ ἐκ καλυμμάτων. ἰδού, θεᾶσθε πάντες ἄθλιον δέμας, ὁρᾶτε τὸν δύστηνον, ὡς οἰκτρῶς ἔχω. Come, my son, bring yourself to do it! Pity me, pitiable in many ways, I who am crying out weeping like a girl, and no one can say he saw this man do such a thing before, but though racked with torments I never should lament! But now such a thing has shown me as a womanish creature.

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Gendered Politics in Sophocles’ Trachiniae And now draw near and stand close to your father, and see what a calamity has done this to me; for I will show it to you without a veil. Look, gaze, all of you, on my miserable body, see the unhappy one, his pitiable state!

With a dynamic movement that alludes to the bare female body before sexual intercourse and through a linguistic mode that refers to the ritualistic removal of the veil by the bride (ἐκ καλυμμάτων, 1078, refers to the ritual of ἀνακαλυπτήρια),97 Herakles’ violently penetrated, degraded and servile body is finally exposed fully naked. Herakles’ death is a critical moment, when, as duBois also notes, ‘there is a fusion of oppositions, a released dialectic, which plays upon the audience’s pity and fear, and demands an examination of the traditional categories of difference’.98 This dialectic could be further underlined by the fact that the same actor performs Deianeira’s and Herakles’ parts. The transformation of the male actor into female to perform Deianeira’s parts and finally back to male to perform Herakles’s parts,99 despite being a standard convention with which the audiences were definitely familiar, may also be seen as calling attention to disruptions of sexual identities both in the fictional world of Trachiniae and in the reality of male theatrical tragic space.100 However, on the basis of the proposal offered at the much debated end of the play, namely the re-establishment of patriarchy through the engagement of Hyllos with Iole, one could claim that Herakles’ feminization is only presented on stage with a view to revealing the desire of the male subject to reaffirm the patriarchal order and finally reassure the traditional gender schemes. It is also true that Herakles’ commands to Hyllos indicate a movement from the exterior corporeal towards the interior mental side of the hero, inviting us to speculate on his thought processes. At the same time, as I noted earlier, Deianeira could be escaping from her gender only to be again subdued within the constraints of gendered masculinity; that is, by claiming a virile death and male heroic qualities. Therefore, it could be suggested that, despite undoubtedly questioning the established gendered structures of patriarchy through their deaths, both Deianeira and Herakles remain captured within the gendered dualism of the tragic universe. We will return to this question in the final chapter, where the problems associated with the end of the play will be discussed on the grounds of authority and hegemonic masculinity (Chapter 5). Before that, we must discuss gender as it is associated with the problematic reciprocities presented in the play (Chapter 3) and the play’s proposal as far as the question of Deianeira’s guilt is concerned (Chapter 4).

3

Beware of Monsters Bearing Gifts: Exchange and Reciprocity As we noted in the previous chapter, Deianeira’s masculine death provides her an opportunity to escape from the passivity of her gender. Whereas this ‘aberrant’, unfeminine suicide is unique in the extant tragic corpus, it forms a deviancy that is consistent with the special qualities of this Amazonian figure, which is susceptible to an inconstant representation of her gendered attributes, since it embodies the collapse of any distinction between self and other. Similarly, in her transaction with Herakles, Deianeira is given another opportunity to proclaim herself an equal partner and as such a subject endowed with agency, an opportunity which seemed incompatible with her gender; hence it was predisposed to fail, and thus it finally does. But is this due to a general ineptitude of the female subject, as has generally been assumed, or can it be better explained as a plausible and inevitable consequence of a general crisis in reciprocity that is presented in the play? This chapter will enquire into a slightly different possibility in understanding Deianeira’s alleged offence and her failed transaction with Herakles, and will examine the kind of contingencies that arise if we look at her failure to successfully accomplish a positive transaction as another example of the all-embracing breakdown of reciprocal transactions presented in the play, rather than a personal and gendered failure. So, it is argued that Deianeira’s failure should not be seen as the result of a general ineptitude of the female subject; instead, it could be better explained as the inevitable consequence of a general crisis in the network of reciprocities that is presented in the play. Just like in the nuptial narratives, which were discussed in the previous chapter, in all exchanges of Trachiniae, the positive dimension of reciprocity turns negative. After briefly elucidating on the idea of negative reciprocity in the first part of this chapter, we will discuss how this reciprocal crisis is exemplified in the individual transactions that take place between three parties: Nessos, Herakles and Deianeira. The second part of this chapter will comment on Nessos’ initiatory violation of reciprocity. The third part follows the 73

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long list of transgressions of the fundamental bond that unites individuals into the group of philoi in Herakles’ world, to conclude, in the fourth part, with his final and decisive violation of charis in his marriage with Deianeira.

Corroded reciprocal transactions Deliberation on reciprocity in ancient Greece has its roots in the theories of the French sociologist Mauss, who is generally recognized as the founding father of modern debates on gift exchange in the early twentieth century.1 Mauss’s analysis of the ceremonial gift and gift exchange was a kind of counter-model that traditional societies could present, as opposed to the purely self-interested and selfish exchanges involved in a capitalistic economy. Denying the notion of a ‘free’ gift, he suggested that all gifts are embedded in a set of social relationships and obligations following the scheme of giving, receiving and reciprocating. Thus, the purpose of the gift is to create group cohesion by establishing an ongoing cycle of gift exchange, which is profoundly different from the exchanges of commodities in the marketplace. Although Mauss’s ideas have been generally criticized and revised, his notion that societies exchange with the purpose of creating and reinforcing social bonds has become commonplace. Mauss’s concept of gift exchange is closely linked to and often confused with the concept of reciprocity. Reciprocity denotes a mechanism for exchange and social integration of particular importance in pre-market civilizations, on the basis of the normative obligation for equalization of what is given and received. The term had been initially used by ethnologists to describe exchange processes in primitive societies and was later introduced by Polanyi into the debate about pre-industrial economies.2 Polanyi uses the term to describe the exchange principle between symmetrical relations in so-called ‘embedded’ economies not regulated by law or the market, but on the basis of social obligations. Thus, in contrast with the exchange of gifts, reciprocity does not presuppose the exchange of material goods but only refers to the principle of mutuality. Characteristic for both concepts, though, is the intertwinement of the material with social and political implications, which on the whole does not apply to the modern alienated monetary exchanges. Mauss’s and other anthropologists’ and sociologists’ theories on gift exchange and reciprocity, such as those of Malinowski, Lévi-Strauss, Bourdieu and Sahlins,3 were very appealing to classicists who dealt with the economy of gift exchange in ancient Greece and Rome.4 Whereas reciprocity is not unanimously recognized

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as constituting a notion that can be applied to all (commercial, political and ethical) relationships that are characteristic of Greek culture, it is generally accepted that, as a more abstract social and moral principle, reciprocity is to be identified in various kinds of practice and discourse in the entire period of Greek antiquity.5 As far as the Greek democratic polis is concerned, it has been suggested that once democracy had developed, reciprocity as an economic and social exchange mechanism (i.e. the voluntary requital of benefit for benefit and loss for loss) competed with and was gradually replaced by forms of legally regulated market/commodity exchange (i.e. non-voluntary impersonal exchange of items motivated by the desire by both exchange parties to maximize self-benefit).6 It is now agreed that this transition from reciprocal to commodity-based society could not be uninterrupted and without any discontinuities. Thus, it seems that whereas commodity exchanges progressed at the expense of reciprocal transactions, resulting in the marginalization of reciprocity, in actual social practice reciprocal exchanges persisted alongside commodity-based exchanges.7 In Greek thought, it seems to be a common belief that commodity exchange reinforces a corrosive moral disorder, as opposed to a social order that is regulated through reciprocity. Of course, crises of reciprocity are also significant in epic (e.g. Paris violates xenia in Menelaus’ house, Achilles’ refusal to fight turns against the Greeks),8 but, in general, these crises are treated through a different perspective in Athenian drama, which dramatizes the harm done within relationships that are expected to be defined within positive reciprocal bonds; that is, it dramatizes crises of reciprocity within relationships that unite individuals into relationships of philia (that is, marriage, xenia and suppliancy). On these grounds, tragedy has been seen as manifesting the problematic nature of reciprocity in classical Athens, which seems to be at odds with the Homeric, more straightforward, treatment of reciprocity.9 Trachiniae does not escape from this general rule of problematic tragic reciprocities. Using Sahlins’s terms, what could best describe the corroded reciprocal network between the three exchangers of the play (Nessos, Herakles and Deianeira) is ‘negative reciprocity’. According to Sahlins, reciprocity is a spectrum defined by its extremes, the solidary extreme (generalised reciprocity) and the unsociable extreme (negative reciprocity), and the mid-point (balanced reciprocity).10 Negative reciprocity, as he notes, ‘is the attempt to get something for nothing with impunity, the several forms of appropriation, transactions opened and conducted toward net utilitarian advantage. The participants confront each other as opposed interests, each looking to maximize utility at the other’s expense’.11

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Reciprocal transactions, forming a network that parallels and is associated with the nuptial setting, are particularly important in Trachiniae. These transactions are indicated through the general term that the Greeks used for a present, either to the gods or to human beings, i.e. δῶρον or δώρημα;12 δῶρον may refer to Nessos’ gift to Deianeira (the philtre being the gift: 555), Herakles’ gift to Deianeira (Iole being the gift: 494, 872) or Deianeira’s gift to Herakles (the robe being the gift: 494, 603, 668, 692, 758, 776). However, in the play, as a rule, the concept of reciprocity in the exchanges that take place within the complex network delineated by three interested parties (Herakles, Nessos and Deianeira) is corroded. Taking this as a starting statement, in the following we will discuss how this notion of negative reciprocity is exemplified in the individual transactions of the play.

Nessos: A gift for a fee The story of Nessos’ gift to Deianeira is presented at the beginning of the second epeisodion. It is introduced as an emphatic oxymoron, as an escape plan whose success depends on ‘the beneficial and generous donation’ (δῶρον, 555) of a seemingly self-interested rapist (555–61): ἦν μοι παλαιὸν δῶρον ἀρχαίου ποτὲ θηρός, λέβητι χαλκέῳ κεκρυμμένον, ὃ παῖς ἔτ’ οὖσα τοῦ δασυστέρνου παρὰ Νέσσου φθίνοντος ἐκ φονῶν ἀνειλόμην, ὃς τὸν βαθύρρουν ποταμὸν Εὔηνον βροτοὺς μισθοῦ ’πόρευε χερσίν, οὔτε πομπίμοις κώπαις ἐρέσσων οὔτε λαίφεσιν νεώς. I had an ancient gift from a monster long ago, hidden in a brazen pot, a thing I received as a girl at the death of Nessus,13 who for a fee used to carry people across the broad flow of the river Evenus, nor by plying oars to transport them nor by a ship with sails, but in his arms.

This is an odd narration that includes a beneficial offer among too much blood, an irregular wedding, uncontrolled sexual aggression and lurking selfinterest. Nessos’ act of giving is imbued with excessive death (φθίνοντος ἐκ φονῶν, 558) and driven by considerations of personal advantage. As the text says, Nessos had not unconditionally taken over the transportation of commuters across the river Evenus. He was doing that using his arms (χερσίν, 560) and he

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was doing it for a fee (μισθοῦ, 560). In the Athenian state, the free male was selfemployed in a great variety of occupations and avoided work that required regular and repetitive service for the receipt of a salary (what we would term a ‘job’); unlike skilled labour, μισθοφορία was the hallmark of a slave.14 Thus, μισθός could never be transacted between equals; it always marked an asymmetrical relationship between the exchanging partners and a lack of selfsufficiency or autarky in the part of the recipient.15 In that sense, apart from Nessos’ service being disgraceful as a paid subjugation, it is also clear that it constitutes a self-interested service. As a result, it seems that when Nessos laid his lustful hands upon Deianeira (ψαύει ματαίαις χερσίν, 565), he was expecting this lewd gesture to be his payment or, at least, her ticket for the transportation. However, Nessos’ act of giving was perceived by Deianeira as a disinterested contribution (δῶρον, 555). Indeed, the verb used for Deianeira’s act of receiving (ἀνειλόμην, 558), while can be translated as passively accepting, also gives a sense of actively ‘picking up’, ‘taking away’.16 So, Deianeira is manipulated into trusting that her dealings with the beast could be beneficial to her (568–71): ἐκθνῄσκων δ᾽ ὁ θὴρ τοσοῦτον εἶπε·‘παῖ γέροντος Οἰνέως, τοσόνδ᾽ ὀνήσῃ τῶν ἐμῶν, ἐὰν πίθῃ, πορθμῶν, ὁθούνεχ᾽ ὑστάτην σ᾽ ἔπεμψ᾽ ἐγώ· As he expired, the monster said so much: ‘Child of aged Oeneus, you shall get this benefit from being carried by me, if you will follow my instructions, because you were the last of my passengers.

In his dying declaration, Nessos skilfully influences Deianeira to believe that if she will be convinced to follow his instructions (ἐὰν πίθῃ, 570), she could benefit from his ferrying (ὀνήσῃ τῶν ἐμῶν . . . / πορθμῶν, 570–1, cf. εὔνοιαν, 708). In Greek aristocratic thought, the expectation of profit from services (κέρδος) is generally considered shameful and distinctive of lower-class people. Under the influence of the egalitarian male citizenship model, profitable practices, like lending, trade and financial services, were relegated to the margins of society, where they were controlled by foreigners, women, freedmen and slaves. As Finley has suggested, in Homeric exchanges the pursuit of profit at the expense of another is morally dubious: ‘Whether in trade or in any other mutual relationship, the abiding principle was equality and mutual benefit’.17 Later, in the classical polis, ‘receiving money or gifts signified inferiority, dependence and, if not legal, metaphorical slavery. A person who needed to make a profit – that is, aimed at

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receiving more than he had given – forfeited his autarky, preferred slavery to freedom and reduced his status of a political being to that of a mere “body”, like a prostitute’.18 Therefore, κέρδος is one of the most suspect terms for wealth, its connotations being almost always crassly material.19 The word κέρδος, for instance, serves as a leitmotif in all of Creon’s speeches in Sophocles’ Antigone, a play which presents his thinking as governed by constant fear of conspiracies that are driven by the greed for money and power.20 Within this line of an idealistic aristocratical thought, the Messenger’s expectation to profit from his services is boldly expressed in monetary terms (τι κερδάναιμι, 191). The same expectation expressed from Lichas is ironically very close to χρηστὸς, the moral opposite of κακός (ἀνάγκη χρηστὰ κερδαίνειν ἔπη, 231). Equally ironic is Deianeira’s utilitarian and unrefined articulation of the benefit possibly earned through the good news of Herakles’ well-being (κέρδος ἐμπολᾷ, 93). On these grounds, Deianeira’s transaction with Nessos is conducted within a grey zone of self-interested trading, which is located outside the area of noble and trustworthy exchanges; hence, it is by definition suspicious and unacceptable not simply because a woman mediates, but because it is conducted with a beast who is driven by self-interest. Deianeira is manipulated to trust that this transaction will somehow bring her benefit. However, the power of the Centaur’s enticement is such that it completely numbs her mind and turns her into his docile and involuntary instrument (ἔθελγέ μ’, 710). As if hypnotised by the beast, she is continuously struggling to maintain a distance from the conscious act of sending the tunic and resorting to the use of potions, insisting on the accuracy with which she follows his instructions: ‘I remembered this, [. . .] adding all the things he while he still lived had told me’ (τοῦτ’ ἐννοήσασ’, [. . .] χιτῶνα τόνδ’ ἔβαψα, προσβαλοῦσ’ ὅσα ζῶν κεῖνος εἶπε, 578–81). With comparable attention, she gives Lichas accurate and detailed instructions when she handles the gifts he needs to deliver to Herakles. As she describes the strict ritual that is to be followed, her tone implies the sacredness of the sacrifice that is to be accomplished (604–9): ‘take care that no other person puts it on but he, and that neither the light of the sun nor the sacred precinct nor the blaze at the altar light upon it before he [. . .] show it to the gods’ (φράζ’ ὅπως μηδεὶς βροτῶν / κείνου πάροιθεν ἀμφιδύσεται χροΐ, / μηδ’ ὄψεταί νιν μήτε φέγγος ἡλίου / μήθ’ ἕρκος ἱερὸν μήτ’ ἐφέστιον σέλας, / πρὶν κεῖνος [. . .] δείξῃ θεοῖσιν, 604–9). Similarly, when she is giving an account of the effect that the poison had on the tuft of wool she used to anoint the robe, she repeats that she did not miss anything from the strict instructions of the beast: ‘I neglected none of the

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instructions which the monster gave me, [. . .] but observed them, like writing hard to wash away from a bronze tablet’ (ἐγὼ γὰρ ὧν ὁ θήρ με Κένταυρος, [. . .] προυδιδάξατο / παρῆκα θεσμῶν οὐδέν, ἀλλ᾽ ἐσῳζόμην / χαλκῆς ὅπως δύσνιπτον ἐκ δέλτου γραφήν, 680–3). This act of preserving Nessos’ guidelines through writing on a tablet (δέλτος), as has been suggested by duBois, is a metaphor for an aggressive, masculine sexual act.21 Thus, via the sinister and sexual allusions of the writing tablet, it is implied that the course and the end of the action that started with Deianeira’s attempted rape have been recorded on Deianeira’s assaulted body since a very early moment of her common past with Herakles. Then, the way Nessos’ instructions are reported reveals a particular interest in the way information is transmitted, an interest that comes back at various occasions in the play and is closely associated with the question of knowledge (and in particular of delayed knowledge),22 and the function of writing. Whereas these instructions were orally transmitted to Deianeira long ago, she has indelibly kept his words in her memory so that she is able to report them verbatim in direct speech (569–77). His words constitute an authoritative order (θεσμῶν, 682),23 which she followed to the letter (παρῆκα [. . .] οὐδέν, 682) and saved like a written decree to a bronze writing tablet, from which Nessos’ word is hard to wash away (χαλκῆς ὅπως δύσνιπτον ἐκ δέλτου γραφήν, 683). As opposed to νόμος, which signifies a rule that ‘was motivated less by the authority of the agent who imposed it than by the fact that it is regarded and accepted as valid by those who live under it’ (see νόμον / κάλλιστον, 1177–8; cf. 616), θεσμός is ‘the decree or decision of a single, authoritative person’.24 The writing tablet that saved Nessos’ instructions recalls the writing tablet on which Deianeira kept Herakles’ instructions, mentioned early in the prologue and repeated at the beginning of the first epeisodion (δέλτον, 46, 157). The prophecy that predicted the end of his toils was recorded in writing by Herakles (ἃ τῶν ὀρείων καὶ χαμαικοιτῶν ἐγὼ / Σελλῶν ἐσελθὼν ἄλσος ἐξεγραψάμην / πρὸς τῆς πατρῴας καὶ πολυγλώσσου δρυός, 1166–8), and was left in a writing tablet to Deianeira before he departed for his last journey (δέλτον, 46; δέλτον ἐγγεγραμμένην / ξυνθήμαθ’, 157–8). This implication is a premature indication of the fatal connection between Nessos and the oracles, and the writing motif connotes this connection; both the oracles and Nessos’ instructions constitute important sources of information and they are both associated with writing. This suspicion over written normative discourse has deep foundations in ancient ideology, which in general did not perceive the recording of information as ensuring or promoting comprehension and knowledge. This seems to be a

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modern perception of societies in which relationships and laws are regulated on the basis of written texts, which cannot be applied in antiquity. Especially in democratic Athens, this suspicion can be discerned in the debate over written laws, which suggests that the written version of the law could be seen as agitating conflicts. At the time of the radical democracy and even in the fourth century the Athenians still thought highly of ancient Solon and considered him to be their lawgiver, as they referred to all their laws with the description ‘the laws of Solon’, despite the fact that his early sixth-century law was revised and shown on the wall of the Stoa Basileios in the late fifth century (410–406 bc ).25 Yet there were some critics, as Aristotle mentions in the Athenian Constitution, who believed that even Solon’s laws suffered from fuzziness and lack of clarity and that this was the cause of disputes, believed by many to be deliberate in order to put the demos in charge of the trials.26 As the philosopher later tells us, the oligarchy of the Thirty annulled the laws of Solon which had ambiguities and abolished the authority of the jurors.27 So, it is possible, as Thomas alleges, that these critics – or some of them – were oligarchic, since ‘democrats were content to leave the jury scope for interpretation in individual cases, and oligarchs were keener to iron out ambiguities’.28 Whatever the case, Aristotle’s comments reflect an anxiety about problems that arose when the laws were recorded in writing, a practice which was considered to encourage the initiative and power of the bodies which put them into action; an anxiety which in turn can be seen as deriving from a general Greek tendency to advance the oral at the expense of written word.29 On the other hand, writing down the law was definitely seen as a way to eliminate inequality and provide equal and all-embracing justice,30 and we do know that Athens pledged itself to use only written law in law courts from 403 bc onward. Within this context, Aristotle’s numerous remarks on the question of whether written laws should be changed or whether they were better than unwritten give proof that the argument went on well into the fourth century.31 When reading Trachiniae with this debate in mind, we are confronted with an ambivalent issue that results in public anxiety being reflected in tragedy.32 Like writing down the laws, writing down Zeus’ prophecies or Nessos’ instructions does not eliminate the inconsistencies, neither does it necessarily promote knowledge. Instead, in these cases, the writing misguides the ‘reader’.33 Besides, oracles are by definition ambivalent, whether they are written or oral.34 They constitute open texts, and as such, they provide a valuable and flexible dramatic tool, which is always manipulated so as to serve specific objectives that vary according to each drama. Whereas their function is certainly authoritative and

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delimiting, at the same time they do not eliminate the tragic persona’s (and/or the poet’s) autonomy; neither do they abolish the characters’ entitlement to pose themselves as independent subjects within an entrenched narrative. In Trachiniae, the oracle’s generic ambiguity is also diffused into the written means of recording it, namely the writing tablet. But this diffusion also works vice versa. Written speech is flexible and susceptible to various interpretations; thus, recording does not ensure the right interpretation of the prophecy. Instead, in Trachiniae it is an indication that foreshadows its misinterpretation. Therefore, because oracles are written, they are additionally ambivalent as they are charged with the elliptical and abstract character of writing. In that sense, despite writing down the oracle, Herakles misjudged its meaning and wrongly believed that his suffering had ended (κἀδόκουν πράξειν καλῶς, 1171). Like Deianeira, Herakles is manipulated (by the poet) to misinterpret the information dictated to him by the priests of the sanctuary of Zeus at Dodona, as the insufficiency of data blurs his judgement (cf. Oedipus). Herakles will belatedly understand the meaning of the prophecy, and even then he will be able to interpret a second, even older oracle which was revealed (without being recorded) to Herakles by his father (πρόφαντον ἐκ πατρὸς πάλαι, 1159).35 So, it is only after Herakles gets the information about Nessos’ interference that this prophecy will make sense, proving to be consistent with the newer prophecy (προσέμειξεν ἄφαρ / τοὔπος τὸ θεοπρόπον ἡμῖν / τᾶς παλαιφάτου προνοίας, 821–4; ὡς τὸ θεῖον ἦν / πρόφαντον, 1162–3). Like the oracles’ meaning being belatedly comprehended by Herakles, the true substance of Nessos’ gift is comprehended by Deianeira when the knowledge cannot prevent the action already taken. She perceives the real balance of the transaction when it is already too late (‘this I learn too late, when the knowledge cannot serve me’; μεθύστερον, / ὅτ’ οὐκέτ’ ἀρκεῖ, τὴν μάθησιν ἄρνυμαι, 710– 11). This gift, as Deianeira belatedly realizes, could be nothing but a counter-gift. Being herself the very cause of the Centaur’s death, and therefore him being her enemy, his contribution could only be unfavourable (707–10): πόθεν γὰρ ἄν ποτ’, ἀντὶ τοῦ θνῄσκων ὁ θὴρ ἐμοὶ παρέσχ’ εὔνοιαν, ἧς ἔθνῃσχ’ ὕπερ; οὐκ ἔστιν, ἀλλὰ τὸν βαλόντ’ ἀποφθίσαι χρῄζων ἔθελγέ μ’· For why, in return for what, could the monster have done a kindness to me, the cause of his death? It cannot be; but he cajoled me, wishing to destroy the man who had shot him;

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Besides, the very nature of the gift advocates the same conclusion: that Nessos turned Deianeira into her husband’s murderer to take revenge on his attacker rather than favour her. Thus, Deianeira rightly concludes that she herself has caused her husband’s death: ‘For if I am not to prove mistaken in my judgement, I alone, miserable one, shall be his ruin’ (μόνη γὰρ αὐτόν, εἴ τι μὴ ψευσθήσομαι / γνώμης, ἐγὼ δύστηνος ἐξαποφθερῶ, 712–13). The proof for the rightness of this reasoning is unmistakable, as she belatedly infers: ‘How shall it not destroy my husband also? That is my belief ’ (πῶς οὐκ ὀλεῖ καὶ τόνδε; δόξῃ γοῦν ἐμῇ, 718). It is not only the fact that the philtre is contaminated by the murderous arrows of Herakles, which did not only kill Nessos but once defeated even an immortal, that confirms her belief: ‘I know that the arrow that struck him tormented even Chiron, who was immortal, and it destroys all the beasts whom he touches’ (τὸν γὰρ βαλόντ’ ἄτρακτον οἶδα καὶ θεὸν / Χείρωνα πημήναντα, χὦνπερ ἂν θίγῃ, / φθείρει τὰ πάντα κνώδαλ’, 714–15). It is also the fact that the philtre consists of the poisoned blood of the dying Centaur that should have been considered evidence for its lethal effect (‘the black poison of the blood, coming from the fatal wound’; ἐκ δὲ τοῦδ’ ὅδε / σφαγῶν διελθὼν ἰὸς αἵματος μέλας, 716–17). For all that, Deianeira erred in not evaluating the transaction with the beast in time, although the information that was required for the right reasoning was available from the very beginning. To sum up on Nessos’ gift to Deianeira: Deianeira mistakes a commodity exchange for a disinterested transaction. By implicitly engaging her in a corrupted gift exchange, Nessos’ original violation inaugurates a series of refracted transactions, which altogether reflect on the imbalanced economy of the play. This imbalance is expressed in terms of a tension between the nobility of aristocratic transactions and the corroded morality of the market. It is also implied through the written means of the beast’s gift, which has inscribed on Deianeira’s body both the ending of her story and Herakles’ fate as foretold by the oracles. The same tension is also evident when Deianeira receives Iole, a ‘gift’ that Herakles offered as a reward for her marital devotion. The debased economic language employed to refer to this transaction suggests a moral corrosion in relationships of trust and erotic reciprocities, while at the same time it points to Herakles as the corrosive factor. Although he departs from a starting point that is different from Nessos’, Herakles’ participation in the transactions of the play, which I will discuss next, is equally pervasive and once again brings the hero closer to the disordered world of the beasts.

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Herakles: Reciprocity in crisis Herakles’ world presents a heroic economy in crisis. Starting from the trafficking of his own body in the story of his enslavement to Omphale, Herakles’ independence, and thereby his ability to participate in the aristocratic gift exchange between equals, is irreparably affected and eroded. Diodoros (4.31.5– 8) and Apollodoros (Bibl. 2.6.2–3) both mention the story connected with Herakles’ murder of Iphitos, before recounting the Kerkopes and Syleus episodes. After the murder, the hero falls ill and is advised by the Delphic oracle that he must be sold as a slave to compensate Eurytos for his son’s murder. However, neither of the sources deals with the love affair between Omphale and Herakles and the exchange of clothes between the couple, which was an aspect of the story that proved very appealing to Latin literature. Whereas the visual arts may provide much earlier evidence for the transvestism, from as early as the sixth century bc , it is in Latin literature that it is treated in detail, providing a mythological exemplum for the modern lover metaphorically enslaved by his mistress.36 Although the surviving fragments do not give much indication of the plots involved, the popularity of the story in comic poetry – Omphale was the title of two satyr plays and at least three comedies – suggests that the episode must have provided comedians with the opportunity to present the anti-heroic aspects of Herakles’ identity, namely his libertine tendency towards food, drink and love affairs.37 In Trachiniae the episode of Herakles’ enslavement is briefly accounted in the prologue, to explain the hero’s absence from home. His loss of freedom is first mentioned in relation to his servitude to Eurystheus (‘such is the life that was always sending my husband home or away from home in servitude to a certain man’, τοιοῦτος αἰὼν εἰς δόμους τε κἀκ δόμων / ἀεὶ τὸν ἄνδρ’ ἔπεμπε λατρεύοντά τῳ, 34–5) and a few lines later in relation to his enslavement to Omphale (‘they say that he was a slave to a Lydian woman’, Λυδῇ γυναικί φασί νιν λάτριν πονεῖν, 70), an indeed shameful experience, as Deianeira’s response suggests (‘then one might hear anything, if he put up even with that!’, πᾶν τοίνυν, εἰ καὶ τοῦτ’ ἔτλη, κλύοι τις ἄν, 71). The consequent reference to the capture of Oechalia, another anti-heroic episode in Herakles’ career, indicates his metaphorical enslavement because of his unbridled passion for Iole. As Lichas admits, Herakles excelled in all respects but with respect to his desire for Iole he was inferior: ὡς τἄλλ’ ἐκεῖνος πάντ’ ἀριστεύων χεροῖν / τοῦ τῆσδ’ ἔρωτος εἰς ἅπανθ’ ἥσσων ἔφυ (488–9). This completes the heroic/anti-heroic portrait of Herakles, which undermines the hero’s aristocratic nobility by questioning his freedom, and thus, just as for

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Nessos, his right to be included in the aristocratic reciprocal exchange as an equal party. With this, a secondary network of problematic reciprocities between Herakles and Eurytos, indicating a crisis within relationships that unite individuals into relationships of philia, is included in the play. The story is a frame narrative that is embedded as a ‘tale within the main tale’ about Iole and is reported by Lichas in his so-called ‘deception speech’. According to the herald, Herakles felt that Eurytos was the one who was truly responsible for his disgraceful enslavement and for that reason, after completing his servitude, he returned and conquered his city. So, it was Eurytos that first insulted Herakles, doubting his skills in archery and throwing him out of his house at dinner time; in short, violating xenia. In return, Herakles killed Eurytus’ son Iphitus by treachery and Zeus sent him to be sold to Omphale to punish him for this murder (252–80): κεῖνος δὲ πραθεὶς Ὀμφάλῃ τῇ βαρβάρῳ ἐνιαυτὸν ἐξέπλησεν, ὡς αὐτὸς λέγει, χοὔτως ἐδήχθη τοῦτο τοὔνειδος λαβὼν ὥσθ’ ὅρκον αὑτῷ προσβαλὼν διώμοσεν, ἦ μὴν τὸν ἀγχιστῆρα τοῦδε τοῦ πάθους ξὺν παιδὶ καὶ γυναικὶ δουλώσειν ἔτι. κοὐχ ἡλίωσε τοὔπος, ἀλλ’ ὅθ’ ἁγνὸς ἦν, στρατὸν λαβὼν ἐπακτὸν ἔρχεται πόλιν τὴν Εὐρυτείαν. τόνδε γὰρ μεταίτιον μόνον βροτῶν ἔφασκε τοῦδ’ εἶναι πάθους· ὃς αὐτὸν ἐλθόντ’ ἐς δόμους ἐφέστιον, ξένον παλαιὸν ὄντα, πολλὰ μὲν λόγοις ἐπερρόθησε, πολλὰ δ’ ἀτηρᾷ φρενί, λέγων χεροῖν μὲν ὡς ἄφυκτ’ ἔχων βέλη τῶν ὧν τέκνων λείποιτο πρὸς τόξου κρίσιν, †φώνει δέ, δοῦλος ἀνδρὸς ὡς ἐλευθέρου, ῥαίοιτο·† δείπνοις δ’ ἡνίκ’ ἦν ᾠνωμένος, ἔρριψεν ἐκτὸς αὐτόν. ὧν ἔχων χόλον, ὡς ἵκετ’ αὖθις Ἴφιτος Τιρυνθίαν πρὸς κλειτύν, ἵππους νομάδας ἐξιχνοσκοπῶν, τότ’ ἄλλοσ’ αὐτὸν ὄμμα, θἠτέρᾳ δὲ νοῦν ἔχοντ’, ἀπ’ ἄκρας ἧκε πυργώδους πλακός. ἔργου δ’ ἕκατι τοῦδε μηνίσας ἄναξ, ὁ τῶν ἁπάντων Ζεὺς πατὴρ Ὀλύμπιος, πρατόν νιν ἐξέπεμψεν, οὐδ’ ἠνέσχετο, ὁθούνεκ’ αὐτὸν μοῦνον ἀνθρώπων δόλῳ

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ἔκτεινεν. εἰ γὰρ ἐμφανῶς ἠμύνατο, Ζεύς τἂν συνέγνω ξὺν δίκῃ χειρουμένῳ. ὕβριν γὰρ οὐ στέργουσιν οὐδὲ δαίμονες. Heracles was sold to the barbarian Omphale and served out a year, as he himself tells me. And he was so much stung at having this shame set upon him that he put himself on oath and swore that in all truth he would yet enslave the man who had brought about this affliction together with his child and wife. And he did not fail to keep his word, but once he had been purified he raised a mercenary army and went against the city of Eurytus; for he it was whom he held responsible, alone among mortals, for what he had suffered. When Heracles had come to his house and was at his hearth, being an old friend, Eurytus had reviled him greatly with insults coming from a baneful mind, saying that, though he held in his hands arrows that could not be escaped, he was inferior to Eurytus’ own sons when matched in archery, and [that he was a slave who was crushed by the mere voice of a free man.] And at dinner when he was full of wine he threw him out. Angry at this, when Iphitus came later to the ridge of Tiryns, on the track of wandering horses, as he had his eye in one place and his mind in another Heracles hurled him from the high platform of the fortress. It was on account of this deed that the lord, Olympian Zeus, the father of all, sent him to be sold. He did not tolerate it, because this was the only man he had killed by treachery; if he had fought him openly, Zeus would have pardoned him, since he had worsted his enemy in just fashion, for the gods also do not put up with violent crime.

The causal sequence of the events as presented by Lichas runs as follows: Eurytos violated xenia, Herakles killed Iphitus in return, Zeus punished Herakles by commanding his enslavement, and Herakles sacked his city as he thought Eurytos was responsible for his punishment. The Messenger’s version of the story (351ff.), finally admitted by Lichas at the end of the first epeisodion, only questioned the fourth point of this sequence, namely Herakles’ motive for the sack of Eurytos’ city; that is, Lichas admitted that Herakles’ passion for Iole was the real cause for the capture of Oechalia (475–7). However, the fact that Lichas’ story was immediately disputed by the Messenger allows us to doubt whether the audience originally received the whole story as the real one. It could be suggested that although only the part referring to Herakles’ motive was clearly refuted, there are enough reasons to assume that the whole version given by Lichas could have sounded suspicious and untrustworthy to Sophocles’ audience. Whereas Herakles’ motivation for the attack on Oechalia has some precedent in archaic tradition, as does the murder of Iphitos, the two narratives are never explicitly linked as they are in Lichas’ tale.38 In Odyssey, Iphitos met his death

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when he was staying as a guest in Herakles’ house, on account of some stolen horses he had retrieved on an expedition to Messene with Odysseus. Herakles’ motive is not spelled out, but since he is said to have kept the horses, while the violation of xenia and the impiety of the murder are stressed, the obvious inference is that he killed Iphitos in the ignoble pursuit of gain.39 The available evidence, however, does not allow a definite answer to the question of whether the story presented by Lichas was a Sophoclean invention or if another poet before Sophocles had already connected these events. Wilamowitz presumed that the connection within the contents of Lichas’ tale was a Sophoclean conjunction, which, however, linked pieces derived from a different version used in an earlier poem.40 Davies, on the other hand, has suggested that Lichas’ tale does not derive from a different version of the story in earlier epic, but is rather Sophocles’ invention, elaborated with various motifs, to create an account from which Iole is absent, an account that is dramatically convenient.41 In any case, Lichas’ presentation of the murder of Iphitos as being stimulated by Eurytos’ violation of xenia is a total inversion of the Homeric presentation of Herakles’ crime against xenia (Od. 21.11ff.).42 This inversion allows Lichas to fabricate a motive for the sack of Oechalia other than Herakles’ desire for Iole, and thus to conceal the significant detail that would upset the queen. It is also possible that Sophocles is purposely amending the well-known Homeric version of the story, introducing the violation of xenia by Eurytos and not Herakles, with a view to undermining the validity of Lichas’ version on the whole. Besides, Lichas’ account is generally suspect and inconsistent. In respect to the person responsible for Herakles’ enslavement, his explanation is vague, since it clearly points towards Zeus as commanding Herakles’ punishment, while at the same time it reports Herakles’ belief in Eurytos’ responsibility (ἀγχιστῆρα τοῦδε τοῦ πάθους, 256; μεταίτιον [. . .] τοῦδ’ εἶναι πάθους, 260–1). Given that the real motive for the sack of Oechalia will be soon revealed, Eurytos’ blame is to be discarded to the benefit of Zeus’ exclusive responsibility for Herakles’ enslavement. In any case, even if we ignore the question of the person truly responsible for Herakles’ servitude, his behaviour is still unacceptable, even though it has been ‘smoothed over’ to Herakles’ advantage by the herald. Herakles indeed committed an anti-heroic murder, which offended the ethics of Zeus, as it was not a self-defensive reaction committed openly (εἰ γὰρ ἐμφανῶς ἠμύνατο, 278), which could be considered justifiable homicide (ξὺν δίκῃ χειρουμένῳ, 279), but constituted a violent and unjust crime committed by treachery (δόλῳ, 277; ὕβριν, 280), which required purification through his enslavement (ὅθ’ ἁγνὸς ἦν, 258).

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Under these circumstances, it could be argued that the audience should have suspected that Lichas’ version, if not intentionally deceptive, is at least eclectic. After all, Lichas’ concealment was a lie deliberately refined to create an account from which Iole is suspiciously absent, and indeed a lie which is soon uncovered by the Messenger. However, even after Lichas’ lies have been exposed, the status of the circumstances surrounding Iphitos’ murder and how this murder fits into the true story is not clear. This impious murder is placed in the background and is never mentioned again. But this is not to conceal Herakles’ violent instincts, as another violent and even more impious murder is eloquently described later; that is the murder of the herald (772–85). To conclude, in Herakles’ world the concept of reciprocity, which is particularly important for the establishment of stable and healthy relationships within the wider social circle which delineates one’s living area, is fundamentally disturbed. If one considers, in addition, that the brutal murder of Lichas will also be added later to the hero’s violations, Herakles’ defence becomes a particularly difficult task. The hero’s misconception of reciprocity can partly be explained on the grounds of a deficiency in his potentiality to act as a free man, which is a prerequisite for participation in noble transactions. Consequently, as the episodes reporting the murders of Iphitos and Lichas, Herakles’ enslavement to Omphale and the sack of Eurytos’ city suggest, the hero repeatedly transgresses the laws of the civilized community; that is, he violates xenia, destroys an oikos only to satisfy his lust and commits two unjust murders. As we will see in the following section, the violation of his marriage adds to this long list of transgressions of the fundamental bond that unites individuals into the group of philoi, and further exemplifies the crisis within reciprocal relationships presented in Trachiniae.

Marital reciprocity on sale On top of this inappropriate behaviour, Herakles violates his own marriage by sending his mistress to Deianeira’s oikos and by asking his wife to accept an indeed ill-suited and humiliating cohabitation. As opposed to Lichas’ ‘lying tale’, the Messenger’s version of Oechalia’s capture (351–68) provides an informative and accurate account of Iole’s expected status within this oikos. Herakles failed to persuade Iole’s father to give him his daughter, ‘to have as his secret love’ (κρύφιον ὡς ἔχοι λέχος, 360) and went on to destroy Oechalia. As David notes, ‘λέχος means a legitimate and regular union unless a characterizing epithet is added, as here’.43 Thus, the epithet κρύφιον which describes λέχος here determines this

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union as illegitimate and characterizes Iole as Herakles’ concubine.44 The Messenger adds that Herakles is sending this girl ‘with special care’ (οὐκ ἀφροντίστως, 366), not intending for her to have the status of a slave (οὐδ’ ὥστε δούλην, 367). Later, when interrogating the herald, expressing no hint of hesitation, he uses the word δάμαρ to describe Iole’s expected status (δάμαρτ᾽ ἔφασκες Ἡρακλεῖ ταύτην ἄγειν, 428), while in the next line the same word is emphatically repeated by Lichas (429). Δάμαρ, used a few lines earlier for Deianeira (Δῃάνειραν, Οἰνέως κόρην, δάμαρτά θ’ Ἡρακλέους, 405–6), is usually used for the lawfully wedded wife. Davies suggests that there is a special point to using this word, as opposed to Easterling who argues that due to the heroic setting there is no legal accuracy in the way marital unions are described.45 Although the text does not allow for a clear distinction between a legitimate and an informal union, the repetition of the same word for both women (406, 429, 430) emphatically signifies the displacement of Deianeira by the younger bride. This ambiguity of the marital terms is intentionally exploited in order to stress the confusion that Iole’s entrance has caused in this house.46 However, the legal problematic of this new union – essentially the question of the legal status of the offspring that will descend from such a union – is not a matter of concern in the play,47 at least not in the way Herakles’ debased sense of reciprocity is. Then, in Herakles’ myth there is a structural and recurring pattern uniting infidelity and jealousy in a ‘cause and effect’ scheme. Zeus’ infidelity with Almene (and Herakles’ birth) causes Hera’s anger and Herakles’ torture. Similarly, Herakles’ infidelity with Iole causes Deianeira’s jealousy and despair. Deieneira knows that Herakles has already shared his bed with this girl; Iole is not an innocent parthenos but is already a ‘yoked’ woman, who has already taken a place in Herakles’ marriage bed (‘I think she is no maiden but taken by him’; κόρην γάρ, οἶμαι δ’ οὐκέτ’, ἀλλ’ ἐζευγμένην, 536). Deianeira is forced to tolerate her displacement from her own bed, wondering whether this queer cohabitation is bearable: ‘what woman could live together with this girl, sharing a marriage with the same man?’ (τὸ δ’ αὖ ξυνοικεῖν τῇδ’ ὁμοῦ τίς ἂν γυνὴ / δύναιτο, κοινωνοῦσα τῶν αὐτῶν γάμων; 545–6). She knows that the youthful and blooming beauty of Iole will soon make her invisible in the eyes of Herakles; and soon, Herakles will only be ‘called Deianeira’s husband but will be the actual man of the younger girl’ (πόσις μὲν Ἡρακλῆς / ἐμὸς καλῆται, τῆς νεωτέρας δ’ ἀνήρ, 550–1).48 This violation of marital reciprocity from Herakles is a prerequisite and a direct cause of Deianeira’s act of sending the robe. Given that, as shown in the previous chapter, in Trachiniae the nuptial setting is reversed, these exchanges, framed within the nuptial setting of the play and having connotations that point

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towards the gifts exchanged on the occasion of an actual wedding, also follow a course that opposes the regularity of a normal transaction and the proper reciprocity of trust and affection that is expected in a marriage. Deianeira’s gift is a kind of wedding cloak. In classical Athens, a cloak woven by the bride herself, usually called χλανίς, was send to the groom for the wedding (Ar. Av.1693; Poll. 3.39ff.). This tunic was meant to represent women’s skill in weaving and textile production, which was their most important contribution to the household and intimately identified with female sexuality, marriage and procreation.49 The garment Deianeira sends to Herakles, however, is called, rather indiscriminately, χιτών (580, 612, 769) or πέπλος (602, 613, 674, 758, 774, cf. Deianeira’s πέπλον in 924) or στολή (764). χιτών is a generic term for a Greek tunic or clothing, a staple element of Greek male and female dress, predominantly female in the classical period.50 πέπλος is a female woollen cloth, specifically the type offered to Athena at the Panathenaia, and was casually regarded as the epitome of Greek female dress. It had a profound symbolic association with feminine virtues of chastity, fecundity and domestic labour but after the archaic period it was in practice primarily a ritual garment.51 The cloak is intertwined with both Nessos’ and Herakles’ gifts within the schemes of both the wedding setting and that of gift and counter-gift.52 Starting with Nessos’ initial violation of the wedding πομπή of Deianeira and Herakles (πατρῷον στόλον, 562), accompanied by Nessos’ ‘escorting oars’ (πομπίμοις κώπαις, 560–1; cf. wedding πομπή), marital reciprocality undergoes multiple transformations. Thus, Nessos’ gift to the newly-weds (δῶρον, 555) is recalled in Herakles’ sending of Iole as both a bride and a wedding gift to Deianeira (στόλον, 226; πέμπων, 366; ἀντὶ δώρων, 494; στόλῳ, 496; δῶρον πόμπιμον, 872), but also in Deianeira’s act of sending the poisonous robe to Herakles (δῶρα, 494; δώρημ’, 603; στελεῖν, 612; δωρημάτων, 668; δῶρον, 692; δώρημα, 758; στολῇ, 764; δώρημ’, 776). In all these offerings, however, the positive reciprocity expected in a proper marriage turns into negative. The concept of a gift given in return is denoted in Greek with the terms ἀντίδωρον, ἀντιδωρεά and ἀντίδοσις (‘counter-gift’), while the terms ἀμοιβή (‘gift as repayment’) and χάρις (‘gift expressing gratitude’) were also used for gifts that included the aspect of mutuality.53 χάρις is especially significant in the noble economy of heroism, where it signifies the sense of gratitude, whether on the part of the giver or the receiver, which can be reciprocated through an equal gift; it seems to be the closest Greek synonym to the English ‘reciprocity’ and can be translated as ‘thankfulness’, ‘gratitude’, ‘favour’, ‘service’, ‘grace’ etc. The term occurs in all central relationships based on reciprocity, whether in the relationship

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between mortals and gods or between mortals, such as warriors or members of the household community. In her study on the meaning of χάρις, MacLachlan has suggested that all these different meanings can be reduced to a single definition of χάρις as reciprocal ‘social pleasure’.54 In contrast to the benefit one would expect to get from monetary transactions (κέρδος), reciprocal favour (χάρις) is not driven by self-interest. It is granted a positive value and it is potentially beneficial, but it is immaterial; it cannot be sold, exchanged or transacted. This immaterial aspect of χάρις is more evident when the term is used with a visual significance to designate the gratifying effect which was supposed to emanate from woven pictures on clothes, engraved images on jewels or the mental images evoked by the poet’s words.55 Within marital relationships, χάρις meant the thankfulness of the bride in return for the groom’s offerings, as in the case of the bride of Iphidamas in Iliad 11, where the poet reminds us of the fate of the hero who died at Troy and, despite being given a great deal of bride-wealth, had seen no χάρις from his bride (Hom. Il. 11.242– 5).56 In that case, χάρις may be seen as part of the reciprocal relationship between married couples and their families, or can be taken as the wife’s selfless offering of herself and her devotion in favour of the prosperity of her husband’s oikos. Nevertheless, marital χάρις carries predominantly sexual connotations (as in Soph. Aj. 522; Eur. Hec. 830; Hel. 1397).57 However, in Trachiniae χάρις is always corrupted. χάρις is what the Messenger expects to get in return for the good news he brings to Deianeira (κτῴμην χάριν, 191); or what Lichas gets from the chorus in return for the truth (κτήσῃ χάριν, 471); or what both Deianeira and Herakles will enjoy if Deianeira agrees to Lichas’ advice to show kindness to Iole (κοινὴν χάριν, 485); or what Herakles thinks Zeus rewards him with as a repayment for his sacrifices (χάριν ἠνύσω, 995); or the small favour Herakles asks from Hyllos, namely him marrying Iole (χάριν βραχεῖαν, 1217); or the kindness Hyllos shows towards his father in agreeing to burn him alive (τὴν πάρος χάριν, 1230; τὴν χάριν, 1252). χάρις is particularly important in the context of Deianeira’s marriage, where it indicates what she believes that she has offered to Herakles, through her long-lasting support as a devoted wife, and obviously what she expects to get back from her husband. Instead, Deianeira’s χάρις is degraded to the level of οἰκούρια, while Herakles’ gift in requital for her devotion is just Iole; this is indeed an unfair repayment, a reversed ‘gift in return’, as Deianeira admits with clear frustration (536–42): κόρην γάρ, οἶμαι δ’ οὐκέτ’, ἀλλ’ ἐζευγμένην, παρεσδέδεγμαι, φόρτον ὥστε ναυτίλος,

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λωβητὸν ἐμπόλημα τῆς ἐμῆς φρενός. καὶ νῦν δύ’ οὖσαι μίμνομεν μιᾶς ὑπὸ χλαίνης ὑπαγκάλισμα. τοιάδ’ Ἡρακλῆς, ὁ πιστὸς ἡμῖν κἀγαθὸς καλούμενος, οἰκούρι’ ἀντέπεμψε τοῦ μακροῦ χρόνου. For I have taken in the maiden – but I think she is no maiden but taken by him – as a captain takes on a cargo, a merchandise that does outrage to my feelings. And now the two of us remain beneath one blanket for him to embrace; such is the reward that Heracles, he who is called true and noble, has sent me for having kept the house so long.

So, within Deianeira’s marriage, the expected reciprocity is degraded to the level of the vulgar marketplace, and relationships are relegated to the area of commercial shipping.58 This reciprocal crisis is personified through Iole. Having initiated a circle of unjust transactions with Eurytos, Herakles introduces Iole into his oikos as a commodity (ἐμπόλημα) which distorts the equilibrium of his bed (δύ’ οὖσαι μίμνομεν μιᾶς ὑπὸ / χλαίνης ὑπαγκάλισμα), and consequently the equilibrium in his house. Being overburdened with two wives, Herakles’ oikos will soon sink. Deianeira has received this gift from Herakles like a sailor who accepts too much cargo on a ship, and proves unable to manage the extra freight (παρεσδέδεγμαι, φόρτον ὥστε ναυτίλος, / λωβητὸν ἐμπόλημα τῆς ἐμῆς φρενός). By appropriating the ship metaphor, for the management of the oikos, Deianeira implies that the order of her oikos is in a deep, ‘political’ crisis;59 this is expressed in terms of stasis between spouses, a controversy which has been raised because two women were forced to coexist and rule the same body. Thus, Deianeira bitterly remarks that in return for the long time during which she has offered him her services (οἰκούρι’ [. . .] τοῦ μακροῦ χρόνου),60 Herakles has rewarded her with this kind of gift (τοιάδε). The hyperbaton of τοιόσδε and its noun emphatically underlines the great discrepancy of quality between the parts of this exchange. Correspondingly, the gift Deianeira sends to Herakles in return for this unfair repayment is not only dubious and corrupted but murderously destructive. For all that, Herakles is the one who essentially initiates the circle of uneven and unjust reciprocities, as he is the one who answers her positive gift, her devotion, with a negative gift, a younger woman to replace her in his bed. Seen in this light, Deianeira believes that she is responding to Herakles’ unfair treatment in an equal way that corresponds to his offending against his marriage (δίκαια, 495). This is implied at the end of the first epeisodion when Deianeira prompts Lichas

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to follow her into the palace in order to take away and deliver to Herakles some unspecified gifts, in exchange for his gifts that she felt obliged to attach (490–6): ἀλλ’ εἴσω στέγης χωρῶμεν, ὡς λόγων τ’ ἐπιστολὰς φέρῃς, ἅ τ’ ἀντὶ δώρων δῶρα χρὴ προσαρμόσαι, καὶ ταῦτ’ ἄγῃς. κενὸν γὰρ οὐ δίκαιά σε χωρεῖν προσελθόνθ’ ὧδε σὺν πολλῷ στόλῳ. But let us go into the house, so that you may take away the message that I charge you with, and may also carry gifts in exchange for gifts that I must attach. It would not be right for you to go empty-handed after having come here with so large a train.

προσαρμόζω (‘fit to, attach closely to’) is etymologically linked to ἁρμόζω, a word used for betrothal and also, in the middle voice, to indicate the harmony between the couple as the goal of their marriage.61 In this context of sinister wedding gift exchanges, προσαρμόσαι seems to recall the nuptial setting only to prefigure the fastening of the cloak to Herakles (ἁρμόσαιμι, 687). The ambiguous allusion to these ‘gifts to be attached’ at the closure of the first epeisodion undermines Deianeira’s preceding magnanimous speech (436–69) and foreshadows her announcement that she will use the Centaur’s philtre, which is made at the beginning of the second epeisodion (531ff.), as well as the ultimate disaster that this exchange will cause. At this point, though, we are left with nothing but a feeling of agony mixed with fear, so that we wonder: How was Deianeira expected to respond to her husband’s ‘gift’? Was she expected to tolerate his infidelity, as she had done in the past, as her noble status dictated and she herself envisioned as the prudent and sensible reaction? Having in mind this corroded network of reciprocities that has been presented so far, we will proceed in the next chapter to observe the reasoning of Deianeira’s determination and to discuss what is generally believed to be her guilt.

4

Crime and Punishment: Guilt, Justice and Silence With her hasty decision to use Nessos’ philtre, Deianeira’s tragedy is transferred to the irrational pre-political realm of supernatural powers, magic charms, monsters and Amazons. Up until then, by representing an extremely devoted wife and a proficient member of the political body, who is fully aware of the official gender ideology of classical Athens, Deianeira had been located on the opposite side of the male monsters. However, no matter how steadily she has been placed within the civilized arrangement of the polis, Deianeira is still an Amazon, representing the extreme end of femininity which coincides with the liminal realm of the monsters. This unstable subtext that the Amazon symbol inserts into the main narrative functions as a disintegrating agent, manipulated in such a way that it continuously deregulates the stability of her presence within the play and creates cracks within her speech. In terms of gender ideology, Deianeira gradually denounces the femininity of the devoted wife who secures the safety of the oikos and coincidentally the wellbeing of the polis, and appropriates male qualities. As has been suggested, in her transaction with Herakles, she anticipates the more active male role by transforming Iole into an object of exchange but also by actively participating in a corrupted transaction with a beast.1 We also saw the peak of this movement in the scene of her suicide, which allocates her a male heroic death. As she moves closer to the realm of masculinity, Deianeira approaches Herakles’ bestiality, to ultimately meet him in her death. However, as was suggested in the previous chapter, the way this dislocation of the female from the political to the bestial occurs makes it clear that it was the network of reciprocities initiated by Nessos and Herakles that orchestrated and set this corruption in motion, rather than Deianeira’s feminine deceitfulness, as could be falsely, stereotypically and biasedly alleged. In this chapter, we will explore Deianeira’s transaction with Herakles as a question of guilt and punishment; hence, after overviewing briefly, in this first 93

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part of the chapter, the way Deianeira’s crime has been received in literature, we will discuss, in the second part, her offence and the issues of female agency that are raised collaterally, as a consequence of the fact that the act of sending the robe is the result of Deianeira’s self-conscious decision. As a follow-up, in the third part, we will look more closely at the play’s proposal in the aftermath of this deed with respect to different systems of justice. Despite the fact that this part of the play is the part where Deianeira’s placement within the polis may be in a somewhat precarious position, since she is now moving closer to the realm of the beasts and magic charms, this is also a part that allows us, as we will see in the last section of the chapter, to detect a different dynamic of the female, a dynamic of resistance expressed in terms that disclaim the authority of phallocentric logos.

Is Deianeira guilty? In general, earlier scholars were eager to take sides in the debate concerning the guilt or innocence of Deianeira, either arguing in order to acquit her on the grounds of her intentions or her husband’s unacceptable behaviour, or to condemn her by proving the opposite. From the beginning of the twentieth century and until the late 1980s, the most popular trend regarding Deianeira’s culpability was to see her as an ideal wife whose mistake is a kind of Aristotelian ἁμαρτία (‘failure’). These scholars who see a portrait of an exemplary wife – modelled on Penelope’s mould – drawn in the first part of Trachiniae find it hard to understand her so-called deception of the chorus and Lichas or her involvement in sending the poisonous robe. Thus, her compassionate nature has often been complemented with an innocent naivety or even foolishness.2 Another characterization, obviously connected to her female ‘physis’ and enhanced by the fact that Deianeira very early in the prologue of the drama is shown to be reluctant to take action and reliant on the nurse’s advice, is that of her impracticality and lack of initiative.3 It has also been claimed that deception is alien to her character,4 but she can equally be seen as acting impulsively,5 or out of an uncontrollable sexual passion for Herakles that blurs her ability to make considered decisions.6 Early traces of Deianeira’s guilt can be detected already at the beginning of the twentieth century when Errandonea argued that Sophocles did not innovate but followed the tradition of Deianeira the violent murderer. Thus, the Sophoclean Deianeira, accurately reflecting the etymology and the tradition of

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her name, deliberately deceives the chorus and orchestrates her husband’s murder by poison to get revenge for his infidelity. Following Müller, who was first to point out similarities between Deianeira and Clytemnestra, Errandonea suggested that the behaviour of Clytemnestra of Aeschylus, as well as that of Medea and Hermione of Euripides (in Medea and Andromache respectively), offer close parallels to the Sophoclean heroine.7 Ever since, Deianeira has been read by several modern critics in the view of the Aeschylean counter-model, either to point out similarities or to juxtapose differences.8 Similarly, a fragment thought to belong to Οἰχαλίας ἅλωσις, which mentions Medea’s murder of Creon by means of φάρμακα, has also been considered to provide evidence of an early epic figure who deliberately murders her husband, as well as an analogy to Deianeira’s intentional crime.9 Modern criticism, acknowledging the ambiguity inherent in mythic discourse and the complexity of the dramatic characters of Greek tragedy, has also reexamined the criteria of Deianeira’s guilt. Ryzman’s ethical analysis sees Deianeira as a complicated and contradictory figure who may have ‘unwittingly transgressed natural laws, although she has attempted to retain her moral values’. So, ‘whilst she attempts to retain warm, compassionate qualities and rise above feelings of bitterness, at the same time we can find indications of other characteristics which draw her closer to the destructive forces represented by the centaur and elements of his world, such as the poisonous ointment’.10 Similarly, Gasti’s ethical analysis finds Deianeira guilty of an offence against natural law, as she totally misunderstands the natural laws that govern the sequence of events. Thus, against the dilemma between an inward and outward morality that she faces, she chooses to act in secrecy to avoid social criticism.11 Psychoanalysis has also offered sophisticated analyses of Deianeira’s innermost intentions. Slater’s early reading of the play on the grounds of family dynamics and the mother–son relationships of Hera in a male-dominated society, read Deianeira as another figure exemplifying the maternal malevolence, inherent in Herakles’ mythical career; she simply ‘duplicates Hera’, while Herakles is away for so long because he is ‘avoiding his wife’.12 Deianeira’s subconscious repressed motives are noted by duBois, who believes that Deianeira, ‘like Clytemnestra and Medea, [. . .] is a murderess, albeit against her conscious desires’,13 but also Scott, who argues that: ‘Deianeira herself is unaware of her own motives. She is aware only of her loving motives and has repressed all awareness of her murderous fury at Heracles’ behaviour’.14 More recently, employing insights from modern trauma research and trauma theory, Weiberg has argued that Trachiniae traces the direct connection between Deianeira’s

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psychological wounds and the physical wounds of her husband and dramatizes her psychological wounds as a victim of violence and sexual assault.15 Apart from the differences in approaching guilt, most of these studies acknowledge the fact that Deianeira’s intentions were innocent. However, it seems that on the grounds of the fifth-century morality, regardless of whether she acted with full knowledge or partial ignorance and carelessness, desperate risk or optimistic hope, naivety or subconscious anger, the fact remains that Deianeira caused the death of her husband and in that sense, she is to blame. Dodds believes that the concept of motive in a moral sense is a very late development while to Adkins, in the fifth century intentions were of little importance.16 In this line of thinking, a number of scholars have moved away from the defence of Deianeira on grounds of innocent intentions and have applied different criteria in order to give an explanation to her error. Faraone, for instance, suggested that Deianeira’s actions were part of a widespread pattern in which toxic substances were generally approved and wives used love magic as they jockeyed among their competitors. But Deianeira erred in administering an incorrect dosage, thus she only needed to be tried for accidental homicide.17 Then, Carawan challenged the cardinal assumption that Sophocles’ Deianeira is guiltless in the eyes of the ancient audience and suggested that since for the Athenians an act qualifies as murder if it has a lethal result, regardless of the perpetrator’s intention, ‘Deianira emerges in Trachiniae as a figure endowed with innocent intentions but burdened with guilty knowledge’.18 Finally, Hall’s ethicalpolitical reading attributed Deianeira’s mistake to her false precipitate judgement and incompetent deliberation and saw Trachiniae as ‘a sophisticated lesson in the activity entailed by practical deliberation – what the Greeks termed to bouleuesthai’.19

Despair and hope Be that as it may, let us proceed with a close reading of the circumstances and the line of reasoning that led to Deianeira’s decision, so that we will shed some light on her obscure ‘culpa’. The speech introducing her decision to use the philtre (531–87) is a paradoxical mixture of bitter frustration and rational reasoning, full of ambiguities and irony. Nevertheless, her decision is sufficiently and persuasively supported, as she exposes the circumstances under which she is forced to act; that is, when she describes her ‘suffering’ (τὰ δ’ οἷα πάσχω, 535). As she explains, even if desperate, her resolution is made under sensible reasoning,

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in an attempt to confront her husband’s much younger concubine who is about to replace her in her own oikos (536–54). It seems that Herakles has left her no choice but to act in a way that she herself considers shameful. Therefore, under the influence of these developments, an ultimate and shameful means seems to offer a lifeline: λυτήριον λύπημα, (554).20 Lloyd-Jones’s translation ‘a means of remedying pain’ (cf. Torrance: ‘solacing release’)21 seems to miss the idea that this means does not only offer the possibility of disentanglement (λυτήριον) from pain but is itself painful (λύπημα); that Deianeira is painfully forced to resort to this resource, as the last and desperate source of help in an extremely difficult situation. As well as an emphatic alliteration, λυτήριον λύπημα is a resounding, unmistakable oxymoron, which briefly foretokens the deathly consequences of her aspiration – that is, a ‘liberating pain’ that will not only cause pain but is itself painful. In many more ways this ‘liberating pain’ evokes negative connotations and is suspect. As noted, this gift is itself a problematic offering, which was not only given to Deianeira a long time ago by her would-be rapist (δῶρον, 556) but is also a gift reciprocating Herakles’ unfair reciprocity (494–6). As for the intention of the giver, it needs to be noted that whereas a gift is expected to be a selfless offering aiming to please the receiver, in Deianeira’s case the gift is the pretext used to conceal her true intention, namely the hope that she will overcome the younger bride and win back Herakles. This idea of a gift being pleasant for both the receiver and the sender is expressed in Deianeira’s suggestion to Lichas: ‘make sure that his gratitude and mine shall be combined, so that you get double thanks’ (φύλασσε [. . .] ὅπως ἂν ἡ χάρις κείνου τέ σοι / κἀμοῦ ξυνελθοῦσ’ ἐξ ἁπλῆς διπλῆ φανῇ, 616–19).22 So, instead of sending a gift to her husband, Deianeira is, in fact, using the philtre in the hope that she ‘may somehow overcome this girl with spells and charms [aimed at Herakles]’ (φίλτροις δ’ ἐάν πως τήνδ’ ὑπερβαλώμεθα / τὴν παῖδα καὶ θέλκτροισι τοῖς ἐφ’ Ἡρακλεῖ, 584–5). Thus she trusts an untrustworthy promise given by a beast that claimed that its poisoned blood would benefit Deianeira, as it ‘shall be a charm for the mind of Heracles [beneficial for her],23 so that he shall never more see and love another woman instead of [her]’ (ἔσται φρενός σοι τοῦτο κηλητήριον / τῆς Ἡρακλείας, ὥστε μήτιν’ εἰσιδὼν / στέρξει γυναῖκα κεῖνος ἀντὶ σοῦ πλέον, 575–7). This philtre is suspiciously kept hidden in a brazen pot inside the house for a long time (λέβητι χαλκέῳ κεκρυμμένον, 556; δόμοις γὰρ ἦν / [. . .] ἐγκεκλῃμένον καλῶς, 578–9; ἐν μυχοῖς, 685–6). Given that just like the philtre, which is imbued with a lot of portentous secrecy, the act of Deianeira using it also needs to be kept secret (λάθρᾳ, 533; μόνον παρ’ ὑμῶν [. . .] σκότῳ, 596; ἐν δόμοις κρυφῇ,

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659), it seems unlikely for even the most well-intended audience to miss piecing together the fatal connections. As I have already noted, there is an ominous verbal link between Deianeira’s robe and Clytemnestra’s murder of Agamemnon and her use of weavings to destroy her husband (1051–2, cf. Ag. 1580). Like Aigisthos’ sword which dyed Agamemnon’s robe red (φᾶρος τόδ’ ὡς ἔβαψεν Αἰγίσθου ξίφος, Aesch. Cho. 1011), Deianeira ‘dyes’ Herakles’ cloak with the poison (χιτῶνα τόνδ’ ἔβαψα, 580), repeating the same word that was used a few lines earlier for the effect of the lethal arrows dipped in the Hydra’s poison (ἔβαψεν, 574).24 Then, Nessos’ gift in general introduces a layer of magic and unspeakable elements; hence it is placed in the far-distant past of the drama (παλαιὸν δῶρον ἀρχαίου θηρός, 555–6) when Deianeira is still a young girl (παῖς ἔτ᾽ οὖσα, 557) and remains suspiciously hidden in the innermost and most sunless place of the palace but nonetheless, it is inscribed in Deianeira’s memory in an indelible way (ὅπως δύσνιπτον γραφήν, 683). Then, the act of sending the robe is described in terms signifying a cunning deed (χερσὶν ἁτεχνησάμην, 534; μεμηχάνηται τοὔργον, 586; μηχαναῖς, 774). τεχνάομαι can be translated as ‘contrive’ or ‘execute cunningly’, while μηχανάομαι is more frequently used in a negative sense to denote the act of devising by art or cunning.25 The garment itself is the product of female weaving, thus a symbol of domestic female labour, which is generally associated with female deceit (δόλος).26 However, it is surprising that, although Deianeira is described by Herakles as δολῶπις (1050), when δόλος is used in Trachiniae it describes male deceit, namely Herakles’ killing of Iphitos (δόλῳ, 277) or the Centaur’s deception (Κενταύρου [. . .] δολοποιὸς ἀνάγκα, 831–2; δολόμυ- / θα κέντρ’, 839–40). It seems more likely therefore that the obscure guile connected with the philtre is mostly in line with the use of magic charms (κηλητήριον, 575; φίλτροις, 584; θέλκτροισι, 585; φάρμακον, 685; φαρμακεὺς, 1140; φίλτρῳ, 1141), which is generally considered shameful and dishonourable, rather than implying female deceit.27 Besides, the binding formula, possibly echoed in the phrase λυτήριον λύπημα (554), as has been suggested, may also refer to magic, as binding is a common theme in the methods of charms.28 *

*

*

Despite the unmistakably sinister connotations, it is also true that until she finally decides that she will use the Centaur’s philtre, Deianeira’s state of mind undergoes multiple transitions. Her first reaction against the arrival of the group of spear-won captives is compassion for the young girls’ misfortunes,29 mixed

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with an indeterminate sense of anxiety (242–3; 293–313).30 The way Deianeira welcomes the girls is really remarkable, indicative of her compassionate ethos: ‘They deserve pity, if their calamity does not deceive me’ (οἰκτραὶ γάρ, εἰ μὴ ξυμφοραὶ κλέπτουσί με, 242–3). It shows great empathy but also deep irony as Deianeira is unsuspicious about the status that Iole is expected to have in her oikos. So, whereas the herald is eager to bring the news about Herakles’ imminent return, she is distracted from the arrival of the hero to focus on the pitiful misfortune of the girls. After only a few lines acknowledging her pleasure in listening to the good news of her husband’s triumph, which seem to express typical courtesy rather than real admiration for his deeds (293–5), she repeats her sympathy for the captives, hoping that nothing like their misery will ever occur to her family (298–302): ἐμοὶ γὰρ οἶκτος δεινὸς εἰσέβη, φίλαι, ταύτας ὁρώσῃ δυσπότμους ἐπὶ ξένης χώρας ἀοίκους ἀπάτοράς τ’ ἀλωμένας, αἳ πρὶν μὲν ἦσαν ἐξ ἐλευθέρων ἴσως ἀνδρῶν, τανῦν δὲ δοῦλον ἴσχουσιν βίον. Yes, a strange pity comes upon me, dear women, when I see these unhappy ones homeless and fatherless, astray in a foreign land; perhaps they were formerly the children of free men, but now their life is one of slavery.

Deianeira is seeing herself as one of these girls, sharing similar experiences, while, as we explored in Chapter 2, with both her and Iole being victims of sexual violence, she seems to identify her younger self in Iole’s fate. Iole, as she admits, is even more pitiful (ἐπεί νιν τῶνδε πλεῖστον ᾤκτισα, 312). Although the young bride should be in a prominent position among the other captives, we cannot understand the exact reason she has distinctively aroused Deianeira’s attention. It seems that she can see Iole’s tears (δακρυρροεῖ, 326), but there is nothing excessive in her mourning (οὔτε μείζον’ οὔτ’ ἐλάσσονα, 324) while Deianeira observes that she is the only one who looks like she knows how to behave prudently (φρονεῖν οἶδεν μόνη, 313); hence, we can assume that Iole’s passive, silent and noble suffering is juxtaposed with the other captives’ reaction, which may be expressed with more vivid movements and louder cries. In any case, this benevolent reception ironically opposes the forthcoming revelation. Having realized the danger this girl has introduced in her house, when confronted with the truth by the Messenger, Deianeira expresses her desperation (375–9) and admits the impasse in which she has found herself: ‘What must I do, women? The story we have heard leaves me struck dumb’

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(τί χρὴ ποεῖν, γυναῖκες; ὡς ἐγὼ λόγοις / τοῖς νῦν παροῦσιν ἐκπεπληγμένη κυρῶ, 385–6). Acting as a wise advisor and in accordance with the current judicial regulations, at this crucial point the chorus consider that the examination of the witness before taking any decision is crucial.31 However, the interrogation of Lichas by the Messenger only exacerbates the impasse. In her long speech at the end of the first epeisodion, we truly admire Deianeira for her sensibility, her superiority, her moral grandeur and her rhetoric skills. Coming after the Messenger’s repeatedly failed attempts, it is only Deianeira’s contribution that proves crucial in order to persuade the herald that her reaction will comply with the standards prescribed by her noble status, and effective in eliciting the truth from him (436–69). The arguments in favour of Deianeira’s case are of two kinds, and she appeals to these at the beginning of her statement: those based on her moral status (‘The woman you will be telling it to is not evil’; οὐ γὰρ γυναικὶ τοὺς λόγους ἐρεῖς κακῇ, 438) and those based on her sensibility (‘nor is she ignorant of the ways of men, that they do not always take pleasure in the same things’; οὐδ’ ἥτις οὐ κάτοιδε τἀνθρώπων, ὅτι / χαίρειν πέφυκεν οὐχὶ τοῖς αὐτοῖς ἀεί, 439–40). Following these strong statements, Deianeira first argues for her sensibility, by elaborating on her belief that a reasonable woman is not supposed to fight against the invincible god Eros (441–9). She then turns to Lichas, appealing to her opponent’s morality (καλὴν, 450; χρηστός, 452; κακός, 452; ἐλευθέρῳ, 453; οὐ καλή, 454) and asking him to consider the consequences of lying (449–56). And lastly, she invokes her own moral status, by reminding Lichas of the ethos and integrity she has proven in the past relationships that Herakles, the famous lover, had and, more importantly, the sympathetic pity and concern for the sufferings of Iole and the other captives she expressed when first confronted with them (457–69; cf. 242–3, 293–313). That is indeed her strongest argument; hence Deianeira repeats this to Lichas when at the end of the second epeisodion she gives him the last instructions (627–8). Deianeira demonstrates an efficient presence of mind and convincingly acts the role of the ‘good wife’ who is responding to her husband’s infidelity in a sensible, prudent way; thereby, she persuades Lichas of her good judgement (‘I can see that you, being mortal, think like a mortal and not unreasonably’; σε μανθάνω / θνητὴν φρονοῦσαν θνητὰ κοὐκ ἀγνώμονα, 472–3), succeeds in dispelling his fears and convinces him to speak the whole truth. For all that, the fact that Lichas alone chose to conceal the truth, acting, as he claims, autonomously rather than being guided by Herakles, as he was afraid of the consequences of her sadness (‘afraid I might wound your heart by telling you this story’; δειμαίνων τὸ σὸν / μὴ στέρνον ἀλγύνοιμι τοῖσδε τοῖς λόγοις, 481–2),

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prompts us to think that he considered anger and desperation to be the expected reaction in a similar case. Thus, in the common perception of the audience, the opposite reaction – the unreasonable/emotional reaction of a heavily depressed woman – even if not acceptable and recommended, should be considered at least possible, expected and presumably justified. In fact, Sophocles constructs the circumstances so that two different possible responses against male infidelity are presented, asking us to consider the critical impasses caused on such occasions. Nonetheless, his Deianeira is presented as being aware of which behaviour was sensible, and she repeatedly states that hers is not a reaction prompted by instinct or anger, since she is fully conscious of the fact that any struggle against Eros, the gods or a god-sent malady is vain or even insensible (441–2; 445–6; 491–2; 543– 4; 552–3). *

*

*

So how did such a wise woman come to such a decision? Deianeira’s determination to send the poisoned robe has been seen as contradicting her intentions, as presented in her ‘good wife’ speech in the preceding epeisodion. With that, we may notice a purposefully conspicuous shift in her mood or inconsistency between the promise she gave earlier to the herald and her final decision, analogous to Ajax’s deception speech.32 However, there is no indication in the text implying a shift in her mood. By evoking the mighty power of Aphrodite, the ode that follows Lichas’ interrogation illustrates in a lyrical way the image of the uneven fight with the goddess of love and desire that Deianeira had earlier introduced. It could be suggested that the ode also foreshadows her participation in an uneven contest with Iole (‘overcome this girl’; ὑπερβαλώμεθα / τὴν παῖδα, 584–5), a contest that was set in motion with her decision to use the philtre. Apart from this indirect allusion to the forthcoming contest though, there is no hint denoting her obscure reaction. Fully aware of the risk she is taking, Deianeira is reluctant in proceeding with the execution of her plan and once again turns to the chorus for advice, despite having already applied the philtre to anoint the robe (582–97): κακὰς δὲ τόλμας μήτ’ ἐπισταίμην ἐγὼ μήτ’ ἐκμάθοιμι, τάς τε τολμώσας στυγῶ. φίλτροις δ’ ἐάν πως τήνδ’ ὑπερβαλώμεθα τὴν παῖδα καὶ θέλκτροισι τοῖς ἐφ’ Ἡρακλεῖ, μεμηχάνηται τοὔργον, εἴ τι μὴ δοκῶ πράσσειν μάταιον εἰ δὲ μή, πεπαύσομαι. Χο. ἀλλ’ εἴ τις ἐστὶ πίστις ἐν τοῖς δρωμένοις,

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δοκεῖς παρ’ ἡμῖν οὐ βεβουλεῦσθαι κακῶς. Δη. οὕτως ἔχει γ’ ἡ πίστις, ὡς τὸ μὲν δοκεῖν ἔνεστι, πείρᾳ δ’ οὐ προσωμίλησά πω. Χο. ἀλλ’ εἰδέναι χρὴ δρῶσαν·ὡς οὐδ’ εἰ δοκεῖς ἔχειν, ἔχοις ἂν γνῶμα, μὴ πειρωμένη. Δη. ἀλλ’ αὐτίκ’ εἰσόμεσθα·τόνδε γὰρ βλέπω θυραῖον ἤδη·διὰ τάχους δ’ ἐλεύσεται. μόνον παρ’ ὑμῶν εὖ στεγοίμεθ’·ὡς σκότῳ κἂν αἰσχρὰ πράσσῃς, οὔποτ’ αἰσχύνῃ πεσῇ. De. Of rash crimes may I never know or learn anything, and I detest women who perform them. But in the hope that I may somehow overcome this girl with spells and charms, the deed has been contrived . . . unless you think that what I am doing is foolish! If so, I shall abandon it. Ch. Why, if one have any faith in the performance, we think you have not been ill-advised. De. My faith extends so far, that I can believe it, but I have never put it to the test. Ch. Well, you must know when you take action, since even if you think you have one, you have no way of testing it unless you try it. De. Well, we shall soon know, for I see this man already at the door, and he will soon be here. Only do you cover my tracks loyally, for in darkness even if what you do is shameful you will never be put to shame.

There are two things to be observed in these lines: Deianeira’s insistence on her reputation and the recurring use of words that correlate in the realm of human cognition. These two seem to be closely associated since for the Greeks the moral quality of action (δρᾶν/πράττειν καλῶς or κακῶς) is determined accordingly with the process of thinking (βουλεύεσθαι). The ancient Greek model of human cognition held that information processing occurs in a series of stages, starting from an opinion that rests on belief (δόξα, δοκεῖν) rather than having a factual basis (πεῖρα, ἐμπειρία, πειρᾶσθαι), thereby being liable to error, and terminating in the confident knowledge (ἀλήθεια, γνῶσις, γνῶμα, πίστις, γιγνώσκειν, εἰδέναι). These lines show a particularly disturbed reasoning process, which leads to an extremely obscurantist and absurd conclusion, a conclusion that undermines Deianeira’s sensibility as presented up until now: ‘in darkness even if what you do is shameful you will never be put to shame’ (ὡς σκότῳ / κἂν αἰσχρὰ πράσσῃς, οὔποτ’ αἰσχύνῃ πεσῇ, 596–7). As Solmsen has suggested, ‘the chorus, inquiring about the presence (or absence) of a πίστις, learns that the πίστις on which Deianeira proposes to act is

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no better than (subjective) belief and declares this inadequate’.33 Nevertheless, Deianeira ignores the chorus’s advice of caution (ἀλλ’ εἰδέναι χρὴ δρῶσαν, 592); she proceeds with her plan to win back Herakles (the goal of action), comforting herself with the idea that the act of shame (the means of action) can be kept a secret. It seems that she is well aware of the anxiety the use of love magic causes to the public opinion and explicitly acknowledges the risk taken by acting without knowledge – that is, using the magic philtre without having prior knowledge of the effect of it (κακὰς τόλμας, 582). At the same time, she tries to distinguish herself from those who resort to such extreme solutions (μήτ’ ἐπισταίμην ἐγὼ, 582; τάς τε τολμώσας στυγῶ, 583) and wishes for the success of her plan, so that she will not be forced to learn about these deeds when it is already too late (μήτ’ ἐκμάθοιμι, 583). Thus, in these lines Deianeira ironically observes the difference between knowing (ἐπισταίμην) and learning (ἐκμάθοιμι), but nevertheless proceeds with her desperate plan. It is not that she is naive or does not understand the difference between having knowledge which is the result of experience and having an opinion which rests on belief. It is just that Deianeira is too involved in her own suffering, too focused on her goal (namely, winning Herakles back and overcoming her misfortune) and too hasty to realize this difference in respect to her own situation. Besides, it was on the grounds of her previous experience that she claimed to have some kind of superior knowledge (ἔξοιδ’, 5; cf. ἐκμάθοις, 2), when in the first lines of the prologue she disclaimed the validity of the ancient and authoritative saying (λόγος . . . ἀρχαῖος, 1) that advises not to prejudge anyone’s fate before the end of life, thereby considering the possibility of a transition from happiness to misery and vice versa: ‘you cannot understand a man’s life before he is dead, so as to know whether he has good or bad one’ (οὐκ ἂν αἰῶν’ ἐκμάθοις βροτῶν, πρὶν ἂν / θάνῃ τις, οὔτ’ εἰ χρηστὸς οὔτ’ εἴ τῳ κακός, 2–3). There is no doubt that this proverbial statement (γνώμη), commonly attributed to Solon, constitutes one of the most authoritative axioms of antiquity and that it was meant to be applied without any exception to everyone.34 But Deianeira profoundly declares that the epitome of Solonian wisdom does not apply in her case, rejecting any possibility for her life to change either for the better (i.e. she has lost any hope for the future) or worse (i.e. she seems ironically unsuspicious of the worst misfortunes that may come).35 As Aristotle explains, a speaker experiencing an excited emotional state may effectively dispute the validity of popular and commonly accepted axioms (παθητικῶς εἰρημένη [γνὼμη]).36 The rejection of this γνώμη, although a common rhetorical scheme

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(refutatio sententiae), has an ironic and impressive effect to the audience. In the very first lines of the drama and at the critical point of the protagonist’s introduction, Deianeira is exposed in an impressive way which reveals the emotional intensity she experiences. By misappropriating the μακαρισμός of the wedding ceremony, the typical pronouncement that the married couple will live happily ever after, Deianeira enters the scene to emphatically denounce the failure of her marriage and declare that she has nothing to hope for.37 Based on the same desperate reasoning, in the first lines of the first epeisodion she discourages the chorus’s promptings, by telling them that they are not in a position to fully understand her as they are too young and inexperienced (νῦν δ’ ἄπειρος εἶ, 143). Despite their young age, though, these young girls prove mature and empathetic enough to suffer along with the queen and offer her a good piece of advice, just like they did in the prologue, when they encourage an optimistic approach to life by contemplating on the idea of rotation and invoking the successive movement of the wheel of fortune that alternates joy and sorrow (112–40). The optimism that the girls propose at this point cannot be seen as teenage naivety but as a sophisticated suggestion of an attitude to life, which is the counter-argument to the absolute denial of hope expressed by the queen already in the first lines of the play. But Deianeira repeatedly misses the chance to benefit from the chorus’s advice, and this is what she will do again later, at the end of her report on the woollen fleece and before facing Hyllos, when the chorus advise that ‘one should not expect the worse before the thing has happened’ (τὴν δ’ ἐλπίδ’ οὐ χρὴ τῆς τύχης κρίνειν πάρος, 724), but Deianeira repeats her strong belief that there is no hope left for her: ‘When one has proved ill-advised, there is no hope that can furnish any confidence’ (οὐκ ἔστιν ἐν τοῖς μὴ καλοῖς βουλεύμασιν / οὐδ’ ἐλπίς, ἥτις καὶ θράσος τι προξενεῖ, 725–6). By denying the maidens’ advice because of their lack of experience at this early stage of the drama, Deianeira ironically introduces the significant opposition between experience and knowledge, and prematurely undermines her own decision to use Nessus’ love philtre without first testing it. The chorus’s knowledge, however, just like the Solonian saying, is based on collective experience (objective knowledge),38 as opposed to Deianeira’s view of life, which is only informed by her own personal experience (subjective knowledge). Based on her subjective and insufficient knowledge and driven by her desperation, Deianeira misjudges the circumstances of Nessos’ gift, ignores the chorus’s advice and precipitately takes the risk to deliver the cloak to the hurried Lichas (αὐτίκ’; θυραῖον ἤδη; διὰ τάχους, 594–5), being carried away by a sense of

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urgency, which is dictated by her anxious need to keep her husband and her place within his oikos and to overcome the young bride. In due course, however, the meaning of the chorus’s advice will be clarified and fully comprehended; it will be very shortly after the sending of the present, at the beginning of the third epeisodion, but still inevitably late. This epeisodion is about Deianeira learning; and the process of her learning is deliberately divided into two parts. She first reports the effect of the poison on the woollen tuft she used to anoint the robe to the chorus (672–706) and then faces Hyllos reporting the facts (749–806). It is true that Hyllos’ report would suffice to illustrate the effect of the poison. The woollen tuft narrative, however, is an additional version that deliberately puts forward another possible way Deianeira could have acted. The observation of the effect of the poison on the woollen fleece could have informed Deianeira better. Still, she would have formed an opinion and not a stable belief (δόξῃ γοῦν ἐμῇ, 718), but it would have been a better-informed opinion that could have prevented her action. So, the observation of the sample is enough for Deianeira to realize that her action might have gone further than the acceptable (περαιτέρω / πεπραγμέν’ ᾖ, 663–4); enough to acknowledge that she might ‘have done great harm in the expectation of good’ (κακὸν μέγ’ ἐκπράξασ’ ἀπ’ ἐλπίδος καλῆς, 667); and that she has shown ‘eager haste’ (προθυμίαν, 669) in a matter that was incomprehensible to her (ἄδηλον ἔργου, 670). Therefore, with this premature and still incomplete, yet completely comprehensive account of the possible effect of the poison (672ff.), the chorus’s warning becomes fully understood: Had Deianeira tested (πειρωμένη, 593) the poison on a sample, she would have had some kind of knowledge of the effect (γνῶμα, 593), which could have prevented the sending of the robe to Herakles. But she acted (δρῶσαν, 592) completely out of an opinion (δοκεῖς ἔχειν [. . .] γνῶμα, 592–3), when she was advised that action should follow knowledge: ‘you need to act with knowledge’ (εἰδέναι χρὴ δρῶσαν, 592). Trusting a shaky opinion, Deianeira acts out of fear and desperation, which, as profoundly expressed in the very first lines of the prologue, is a prolonged state of mind for her that reaches a climax when Herakles replaces her with a younger bride.

Reciprocity and justice Let us now move to a discussion of Deianeira’s mistake, through the way Hyllos as her accuser and defender, Herakles as the directly offended victim, the girls of

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the chorus as representatives of a society in crisis and Deianeira as the offender, deal with this crime. This will allow us to comment on the play’s proposal regarding Deianeira’s guilt, which, as will be suggested, leaves enough ‘gaps’ to negotiate the female’s position within the gender order of Trachiniae. In stark opposition to legal systems that believe that legal ‘gaps’ must at all costs be avoided, Greek legislators seem to have readily acknowledged the notion of ‘gaps’ in the laws as well as the ‘lawmaking’ capacity of judges;39 namely, they saw the role of judges as ‘filling in’ what was required to do justice in individual cases.40 Besides, Greek law as a whole conforms to a generalized Greek tendency towards openness, public debate and discussion among a large segment of the community.41 And as it has been suggested, while it grew during the archaic period, it maintained a productive twofold nature, as a combination of fixed, stable, written legislation together with an oral, dynamic legal process for settling disputes that would persist in Athens right through the classical period.42 Athenian tragedy can be thought of as contributing to this public debate, as constituting a part of this dynamic oral process within the polis. We can see these legal ‘gaps’ as causing great tension in the plays themselves and we can identify the tragedians’ desire to contribute to the filling of these ‘gaps’ in many sophisticated pathways; through the chorus’s remarks and statements, through the debates between the actors, through the commentary function of the choral songs, through the irony of the ignorant tragic personae. The problem of legal ‘gaps’ lies, for example, at the heart of Antigone, where both Antigone and Kreon claim to act on the basis of laws that they have written for themselves in violation of communal norms; or at the heart of Oresteia where fundamental questions about what it means to do justice before the law are explored. And whereas we cannot be certain about the extent to which tragedy’s function was reformative, the cracks and the ironies of the texts can be seen as contributing significantly to the negotiation of norms, and consequently the filling out of political, legal and societal ‘gaps’. Moving to Trachiniae, through the presentation of the way its characters perceive Deianiera’s offence, the play seems to comment on the effectiveness and the fragility of political institutions which dispense justice and to make a sophisticated public statement on an issue which appears to have caused an intense debate in Sophocles’ time: private desire for revenge against justice which serves public interest. Together with the Protagoras of Plato, Trachiniae locates private vengeance in the bestial world of Herakles, while it allocates the ideology of institutionalized and forward-looking punishment to the benefit of the community to Hyllos and the chorus. It also attributes another kind of perception

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of justice to Deianeira, one which moves her closer to Herakles’ disavowal of the political lawmaking power but entails a political dynamic, a dynamic of negotiation of gendered loci by means of silence. The private and primitive desire for revenge and retribution in response to intentional insult or injury, under the rubric of ‘blood demands blood’ (lex talionis), was a widespread notion in Greek culture.43 In Homer, for instance, wreaking vengeance is ‘sweeter than honey dripping down the throat’ (Il. 18.109) while in numerous tragic plots, an unpunished crime is seen as the cause of pollution or disease, either to the insulted party or the offender.44 We also know that Draco’s legislation on homicide (621/620 bc ) sought to regulate and limit private revenge; thus we can speculate that until that moment this would have been the habitual response to every offence. Accordingly, it seems plausible for an agonistic society like classical Athens that the private desire for revenge in response to intentional insult or injury was not completely discarded; as sources suggest, seeking revenge could be cast as a familial or religious duty or as an imperative of honour.45 On the other hand, as evidenced by the portrayal of the demise of blind retributivism in Oresteia, for instance, the rejection of retributive justice would have been familiar to the Athenians as early as Aeschylus’ time. Therefore, it seems that there was simultaneous and equally widespread scepticism about the legitimacy of retribution as an appropriate public response by the institutions of the polis, expressed by those thinkers who pondered the nature of legal institutions. Political thinkers, orators and philosophers in classical Athens explicitly confronted the problem of the justification of punishment. In their discussions, we can discern two diverse trends reflecting current views on the awarding of justice and the justification of punishment: private motives (revenge) of the prosecuting party, and public interest in punishing an individual who had violated the laws of the city. In most discussions, these two interests are subordinated to the question of whether justice should be understood as the common good of a community and, if so, what the common good was. Besides, in many ways, Greek political thought is a fundamental response to the potential for civil strife and instability within the polis. On these grounds, as Cohen suggests, Greek political thinkers were well aware of the fragility of legal institutions in their world and agreed with Thucydides’ conviction that a legal system based primarily on the fear of punishment was unlikely to prove effective in maintaining the social order, particularly in times of need or crisis.46 Consequently, as Cohen continues, thinkers such as Isocrates, Aristotle and, above all, Plato focused on incorporating legal punishment into a larger

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framework of education and socialization, which would instil the kinds of moral dispositions that might make law an effective guide for human behaviour.47 Within this line of thought, although the primitive desire for revenge was a distinguishable trend in discussions about punishment, it was by no means seen as serving the community. On the contrary, it could be seen as belonging to a pre-political system of justice. In the Platonic dialogue, for example, Protagoras condemns any backward-looking rationale for punishment as primitive or bestial (ὥσπερ θηρίον ἀλογίστως). He draws a strict line between a private primitive desire for revenge and retribution on the basis of public interest, and argues in favour of a forward-looking punishment that can only be justified by institutions that look to the future consequences of punishment.48 Herakles’ system of justice, as presented in Trachiniae, belongs to the realm which Protagoras attributes to a θηρίον. As Allen has observed, ‘tragic characters who are said to punish excessively or lawlessly are often accused of three other violations: of impiety, of introducing novelty to the laws, and of treating law as a private possession’.49 Of these three accusations, Herakles can be considered guilty of the third. He longs for a private punishment, which is intended to extract suffering from the offender in reciprocal exchange for the suffering of those against whom she/he had offended: ‘Heal the agony with which your godless mother has engaged me! May I see her fall in the same way, the very same, in which she has destroyed me!’ (ἀκοῦ δ’ ἄχος, ᾧ μ’ ἐχόλωσεν / σὰ μάτηρ ἄθεος, τὰν ὧδ’ ἐπίδοιμι πεσοῦσαν / αὔτως, ὧδ’ αὔτως, ὥς μ’ ὤλεσεν, 1035–40). The impact of this kind of punishment is considered by Herakles as educational and twofold: ‘Let her only come near, so that she may be taught to proclaim to all that both in life and death I have punished evildoers’ (προσμόλοι μόνον, / ἵν’ ἐκδιδαχθῇ πᾶσιν ἀγγέλλειν ὅτι / καὶ ζῶν κακούς γε καὶ θανὼν ἐτεισάμην, 1109– 11). It aims at educating the wrongdoer and preventing him from committing other offences (‘specific deterrence’: ἵν’ ἐκδιδαχθῇ), but more importantly at using the punishment of an offender as an example to educate the populace as to the consequences of crime, and to strike fear into the hearts of other potential criminals (‘general deterrence’: πᾶσιν ἀγγέλλειν). Based on his understanding of justice (ἐν δίκῃ, 1069), Herakles believes that his son should carry the burden of revenge taken in the name of his father (1064–9): ὦ παῖ, γενοῦ μοι παῖς ἐτήτυμος γεγώς, καὶ μὴ τὸ μητρὸς ὄνομα πρεσβεύσῃς πλέον. δός μοι χεροῖν σαῖν αὐτὸς ἐξ οἴκου λαβὼν

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ἐς χεῖρα τὴν τεκοῦσαν, ὡς εἰδῶ σάφα εἰ τοὐμὸν ἀλγεῖς μᾶλλον ἢ κείνης ὁρῶν λωβητὸν εἶδος ἐν δίκῃ κακούμενον. My son, become my true-born son, and do not honour the name of your mother more! Take your mother from the house with your own hands and give her into mine, so that I may know for certain whether you suffer more at seeing my body tortured than at seeing hers justly maltreated!

He wants to turn his son into another Orestes, who will assume the obligation of revenge in the name of a dead father and will continue the cycle of vengeance killings, as in Aeschylus’ Oresteia. On the opposite side of this attitude stands the chorus. The chorus in Trachiniae is presented as a group of young girls who are not directly affected by the offence that occurred within the oikos of Deianeira and Herakles (see οἴκοι; τοῦ κακοῦ / κοινωνός, 729–30). At the same time, the chorus being a part of the community (like the audience),50 they have the right and the obligation to judge and they can judge objectively and effectively. As such, they can be seen as a citizen body or a body of jurors whose distance from the wrongdoing proves effective, since their involvement does not affect their judgement. They do believe that Deianeira deserves a fair trial, and remind her of her rights in judicial terms: ‘Why do you depart in silence? Do you not know that your silence seconds the accuser?’ (τί σῖγ’ ἀφέρπεις; οὐ κάτοισθ’ ὁθούνεκα / ξυνηγορεῖς σιγῶσα τῷ κατηγόρῳ; 813–14). Like jurors ought to do, they acknowledge the factor of good and evil intent and make a distinction between intentional and accidental homicide (‘people that come to grief through no fault of their own’; τοῖς σφαλεῖσι μὴ ’ξ ἑκουσίας, 727). Their verdict is summarized in the second strophe of the third stasimon (841–5): ὧν ἅδ’ ἁ τλάμων ἄοκνος μεγάλαν προσορῶσα δόμοισι βλάβαν νέων ἀίσσουσαν γάμων τὰ μὲν αὐτὰ προσέβαλεν, τὰ δ’ ἀπ’ ἀλλόθρου γνώμας μολόντ’ ὀλεθρίαισι συναλλαγαῖς Of these the poor woman had no foreboding when she saw the great disaster of the new marriage speeding towards the house; part of the deed she herself supplied, but part came from another’s will, at a fatal meeting.

This verdict acknowledges a part of guilt for Deianeira (τὰ μὲν αὐτὰ προσέβαλεν, 843–4), but at the same time it recognizes two kinds of extenuating circumstances.

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First, the idea of instinctive reaction in urgency (ἀίσσουσαν, 843; cf. ἄφαρ, 821), which is consistent with a serious (μεγάλαν, 842), unexpected (νέων; ἀίσσουσαν, 843) and dangerous attack (βλάβαν, 843) against her oikos (δόμοισι, 842), requiring immediate action. This seems like a discharge in the light of selfdefence, which in the Athenian law system could render a homicide lawful and repudiate any accusation.51 And second, they repeat the idea that Deianeira is exempt from deliberation to kill, as, in fact, she acted as the instrument of the Centaur (ἀπ’ ἀλλόθρου γνώμας, 844–5; cf. μὴ ’ξ ἑκουσίας, 727), who is charged as the moral instigator of this crime, the person who had the βούλησις to kill.52 We could discern a similar line of reasoning in Hyllos’ reception of his mother’s offence. Whereas his initial reaction, before taking into account Nessos’ deception, was identical to his father’s, Hyllos’ position proves flexible as in the course of the play we notice a reversal in his awareness. Hyllos is at first presented as another Orestes, who looks forward to a punishment for his mother that will reciprocate the offence made against his father: ‘farewell to her; and may she have for her own the joy she gave my father’ (ἀλλ’ ἑρπέτω χαίρουσα· τὴν δὲ τέρψιν ἣν / τὠμῷ δίδωσι πατρί, τήνδ’ αὐτὴ λάβοι, 819–20). He is an avenger, and this is stressed through an emphatic triple repetition of the word ‘right’ (θέμις; θέμιν, 809–10), together with an appeal to the traditional observers of punishment, ‘avenging justice’ and the ‘Furies’ (ποίνιμος Δίκη; Ἐρινύς, 808–9). However, as the tragic events unfold, we observe Hyllos growing older and gradually becoming a part of the chorus’s communal world in which justice is awarded via public debate and fair trial. His final verdict, as uttered at the end of his debate with Herakles (1114–42) – a part that I think it would be appropriate to call ‘Deianeira’s trial’, as it is the only part of the exodos that deals with Deianeira and can be taken as replacing the significant gap created by her absence from the concluding part of the play – like the chorus’s verdict, has taken into account the special conditions of her offence and thus acknowledges similar extenuating factors (1122–42, cf. above 841–5): Υλ. τῆς μητρὸς ἥκω τῆς ἐμῆς φράσων ἐν οἷς νῦν ἔστ’ ἐν οἷς θ’ ἥμαρτεν οὐχ ἑκουσία. [. . .] Υλ. ἅπαν τὸ χρῆμ’ ἥμαρτε χρηστὰ μωμένη. [. . .] Υλ. στέργημα γὰρ δοκοῦσα προσβαλεῖν σέθεν ἀπήμπλαχ’, ὡς προσεῖδε τοὺς ἔνδον γάμους. [. . .]

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Υλ. Νέσσος πάλαι Κένταυρος ἐξέπεισέ νιν τοιῷδε φίλτρῳ τὸν σὸν ἐκμῆναι πόθον. I have come to tell you about my mother, how it now stands with her and how she did wrong by accident. [. . .] She did altogether wrong, but her intent was good. [. . .] Why, she went wrong thinking that she was applying a philtre, having seen the bride who is in the house! [. . .] Nessus the Centaur long ago persuaded her to inflame your passion with such a love charm.

Deianeira’s motivation is now presented so as to point to Herakles’ responsibility for introducing a second woman into his house (ὡς προσεῖδε τοὺς ἔνδον γάμους; cf. μεγάλαν προσορῶσα δόμοισι βλάβαν νέων ἀίσσουσαν γάμων, 842–3), her instigation is mitigated by Nessos’ ulterior motive (Νέσσος ἐξέπεισέ νιν; cf. ἀπ’ ἀλλόθρου γνώμας, 844–5) and her error is evaluated as accidental damage caused by innocent intent (ἥμαρτεν οὐχ ἑκουσία; ἥμαρτε χρηστὰ μωμένη; cf. μὴ ’ξ ἑκουσίας, 727). So, what we can observe through Hyllos’ transformation is a transition from a law that prosecutes to a law that counsels the wrongdoer. Like the chorus’s ideas of justice, Hyllos’ arguments are formed on the basis of placating the vindictive urge of the offended and restraining him from taking the law into his own hands. Like the chorus who believe that Deianeira deserves to be treated with equity and advise her that ‘anger is softened’ (ὀργὴ πέπειρα, 728) when intent is innocent, Hyllos’ defence of his mother against his diseased father aims to quiet his anger (‘you are out of temper and stung to anger’, δάκνῃ / θυμῷ δύσοργος, 1117–18; ‘your mind would be altered, if you were to learn all’, κἂν σοῦ στραφείη θυμός, εἰ τὸ πᾶν μάθοις, 1134). These arguments are now in the polis; they move away from Herakles’ understanding of punishment as private, lawless and brutal, and belong to the rhetoric of the courts that seeks to control vengefulness by channelling it into open public discourse. As opposed to Herakles’ idea of regulating his anger through an ‘eye for an eye’ response, already seen in the way he reacted to Eurytos’ offence, his son and the chorus suggest another pathway, a solution that arises through the discourse of the polis and aims at the benefit of the polis. It is the same means that is listed among the achievements of a civilized community and celebrated in the ‘Ode to

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Man’ of Sophocles’ Antigone: the anger that is city-regulated and/or cityregulating (ἀστυνόμους / ὀργὰς, 354–5).53 Their arguments reflect the radical democratic notion of the rule of law, which, as Cohen notes, ‘meant that in principle no individuals, whether magistrates or ordinary citizens, were above the law. It also meant, however, that the rule of law was inextricably connected to the court’s perception of the interests of the demos’.54 And as Allen has observed, ‘anger in the community disturbed the peaceful relations among citizens. To cure anger was to restore and also order, and so punishment was used not only to cure anger but also to establish stable power structures’.55 Thus, regulating Herakles’ anger is not only meant to ensure that the rule of law will be applied through a legal procedure but, more importantly, it is meant to establish that the dispensing of justice will ultimately work to the interests of the polis.

Right to silence Whereas Hyllos’ and the chorus’s ideology represents ‘political’ justice, at first reading Deianeira’s justice scheme seems to contradict Hyllos’ and the chorus’s ideas and to be in the same vein as Herakles’‘pre- or non-political’ understanding of justice as a private issue. The lines citing Deianeira’s last statements before her silent exit (719–30) are significant to understand the line of thinking that led to her suicide. Two kinds of arguments are conflated here: her identification with Herakles’ fate, which has been pointed out already in the prologue, and her reputation (719–22): καίτοι δέδοκται, κεῖνος εἰ σφαλήσεται, ταὐτῇ σὺν ὁρμῇ κἀμὲ συνθανεῖν ἅμα. ζῆν γὰρ κακῶς κλύουσαν οὐκ ἀνασχετόν, ἥτις προτιμᾷ μὴ κακὴ πεφυκέναι. That is my belief. Well, I have determined, if he comes to grief, that with the same movement I too shall die with him. For a woman whose care is to be good cannot bear to live and to enjoy evil repute.

On the one hand, Deianeira’s wish to ‘die with’ her husband agrees with the reaction of a woman who is in love with her husband to the news of his death, especially if one considers that she has some kind of responsibility for this death. On the other hand, it seems that Deianeira thinks highly of her reputation, holds it in greater value than her own life, and so decides that a life in disgrace is not worth living. So, within a line of reasoning that agrees with Thucydides’ idea of

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female kleos as deriving from female invisibility but also with Ajax’s perception of personal honour,56 she disclaims her right to a fair trial and rejects the chorus’s argument that she should consider that she erred unintentionally, and thus deserves a more lenient judgement (729–30): Χο. ἀλλ’ ἀμφὶ τοῖς σφαλεῖσι μὴ ’ξ ἑκουσίας ὀργὴ πέπειρα, τῆς σε τυγχάνειν πρέπει. Δη. τοιαῦτά τἂν λέξειεν οὐχ ὁ τοῦ κακοῦ κοινωνός, ἀλλ’ ᾧ μηδὲν ἔστ’ οἴκοι βαρύ. Ch. But when people come to grief through no fault of their own, anger is softened, and you should benefit from this. De. That is the kind of thing that a person who has no trouble of his own would say, but not the one to whom the evil belongs.

With the exception of a brief dialogue with Hyllos, when he enters the scene to report the latest news from Cenaeum (734ff.), we can take these lines as consisting of Deianeira’s last words before her silent exit since, after her son’s accusations, she will be lost for words. It is important to note that at this point Deianeira thinks that the wrongdoing is part of her own private oikos (οἴκοι, 730), and that she is personally participating in this offence that belongs to her (τοῦ κακοῦ / κοινωνός, 729–30). She is seeing herself as a part of a burdened (βαρύ, 730) blood cycle, which can only be alleviated with new blood, her own blood. So, having chosen her own way of private justice, she will affirm Hyllos’ accusations and she will refuse to defend herself. The chorus may warn her that ‘silence seconds her accuser’ (ξυνηγορεῖς σιγῶσα τῷ κατηγόρῳ; 813–14) but her refusal to speak suggests that she has already condemned herself. Equally, in the description of her death by the Nurse (899ff.), there is nothing in the text implying that she did not consider herself guilty. She bypasses the institutionalized way of awarding justice within the polis, reaching alone and for herself a verdict that is strict and plain: she erred, and so she needs to be punished, as a life devoid of a good reputation is not worth living. Thus, it seems that her idea of justice is also formed on the basis of a private law system, which is akin to Herakles’ ethical standards and does not belong to the discourse and ideology of the polis. It is also consistent with the idea of honour expressed by the other over-masculine Sophoclean hero, Ajax, in a way that unexpectedly brings Deianeira very close to a masculine aristocratic system of ethics. However, while appertaining to male discourse, Deianeira’s perception entails a different dynamic, a dynamic of resistance expressed in terms that disclaim the authority of phallocentric logos.

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Feminine silence is a dramatic device that tragedy exploits in order to dramatize moments of crises, and in order to express a possible dynamic of resistance. As opposed to active masculine logos, the absence of speech is a communicative device of contesting authorized linguistic forms and refuting the normative discourse of phallogocentrism. Within this line of reasoning, Deianeira’s silence (σιγῶσα, 814) does not only refute institutional justice but can also serve as the means of performing an act of dynamic resistance. Her silence is excluded from the discourse of the polis as it refuses the validity of institutionalized punishment, and in that sense, it approaches Herakles’ political exile. But while Herakles’ exile does not offer any alternatives, Deianeira’s does. Via a pathway that brings her close to Butler’s Antigone, by refusing to conform to the semantics of the proper language, Deianeira refuses ‘the linguistic possibility of severing herself from the deed’.57 Her political exile thus becomes a performance of the dynamic of silence as the language-in-the-feminine, in that it speaks and at the same time undoes the languages of the political. And this is an act of resistance that opens up a possibility of nullifying the patriarchal exclusion of the female, explored through a completely feminine stratum. Elaborating on and disputing a long history of critical discussion on ‘phallogocentric’ discourse,58 Butler has analysed the centrality of logos (phallocentric language) and phallus as privileged sites of power that authorize the heteronormative matrix of coherent and intelligible gender norms.59 Following Butler, Athanasiou has argued that within a schematic phallocentric dichotomy between active masculine speech and passive feminine silence,60 the absence of speech–silence is a communicative device of contesting authorized linguistic forms and refuting the normative discourse of phallogocentrism.61 Within this line of reasoning, Deianeira’s stance after the anagnorisis of the consequences of her action discloses a further possibility of resistance. On the one hand, as per her sense on punishment, Deianeira is moving closer to Herakles’ and Nessos’ liminal territory, where justice is rewarded on the grounds of a pre-political distributive society, which defies the function of institutionalized law. On the other hand, whereas Deianeira’s silence relocates her in the nonpolitical territory of Herakles and Nessos, and in that sense, it is also exiled from the discourse of the polis, through her silence she can also be seen as performing an act of dynamic resistance.62 But in contrast to Herakles’ expulsion of the political world that is defined by institutional justice, Deianeira’s exile from the polis entails a dynamic. Because it is enacted through silence, thus refusing to conform to the semantics of the proper language, her exile is a performance of the dynamic of silence as the

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language-in-the-feminine, in that it speaks and at the same time undoes the languages of the political. This possibility of a critique to a patriarchal structure, posed by the exiled and silenced female subject, is indeed a positive proposition that is appended to the negativity of its foreclosure. But even more importantly, it is a possibility that is explored through female paths. As opposed to the critique to the patriarchal order posed through her participation in the gift exchange, which can be seen as a critique that employs male paths, Deianeira’s dynamic silence is a way to pose a critique while remaining within the female strata.63 This is a silence that, while reproducing the exclusion of the female from the discourse of patriarchy, at the same time exploits this exclusion in order to open up a dynamic possibility of nullifying the phallocentric logos that establishes, sustains and reinforces this exclusion by declaring it void. It has been argued, therefore, that Trachiniae raises collateral issues about justice and non-institutionalized punishment, issues that indicate a tension between individual attitudes and communal norms, and issues which are addressed as a consequence of Deianeira’s ‘mistake’ and through the way the characters of the drama comment on her deed. By way of a disputation on Deianeira’s ‘mistake’, which could be taken as the substitute for the missing ‘trial of Deianeira’, the play does not only comment on the tensions that the system of justice entails but also attempts to fill void ‘gaps’ that patriarchy has not managed to complement. Thus, Deianeira’s dynamic absence from the end of the play, along with Hyllos’ disinclination to follow his father’s commands, which I will discuss in the final chapter of this book, can be seen as nullifying (or, at least, silently interrupting and so, negotiating) the fundamental logos of patriarchy, as articulated by Herakles in the concluding part of the drama.

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Absent in the Exodos: Authority and Masculinity Following the conclusion of the previous chapter on the counteracting power of Deianeira’s dynamic absence from the end of the play, we will now proceed with a recounting of the way the establishment of hegemonic masculinity and phallocentric logos is articulated by Herakles in the concluding part of the exodos. Two kinds of authority will be discussed: first, the authority of traditional narratives over tragic mythos, and second, the authority of Herakles over Hyllos in view of the latter’s coming of age and his enforced marriage with Iole. Both these aspects of authority are raised for discussion at the end of the play, through the system of rules invoked by Herakles that he calls κάλλιστος νόμος (1178–9). In the first part of this chapter, we will elaborate on the idea of the authoritarian dynamics of the extra-dramatic worlds in the closure of the play. By dramatizing Herakles’ rite of passage to death and possibly immortality, the end of Trachiniae necessitates the settlement of a dramatic order, no matter how precarious this order may be, and sets up the closure of the play but nonetheless continues to invest in the scheme of gender irregularity within an impaired patriarchal society, defined by bestial masculinities, sexual violence and diseased reciprocities. Following this observation, the second part of this chapter will argue that despite Deianeira’s absence, the exodos of the play maintains the dynamics of negotiation of hegemonic masculinity gathered throughout the play and persists in setting this world into question.

The authority of Herakles’ νόμος It is anticipated that in a tragic ending the audience expectations as raised by the events of the plot will be reconciled with the expectations that are conditioned by their knowledge of the mythical tradition from which that plot is taken.1 Agamemnon’s death at the end of Aeschylus’ play, for instance, is not only the 117

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expected end of a very old and very familiar story, already told in Homer’s Odyssey, but it also follows from the conditions the play has established, such as his guilt for Iphigenia’s death, his actions at Troy, the curse on the house of Atreus and Clytemnestra’s (and Aegisthus’) desire for revenge.2 Similarly, at the end of the Sophoclean Oedipus Tyrannus, regardless of whether Oedipus remains king of Thebes (as Homer has it in Od. 11.271ff.) or not, we expect that he will be shown to have killed his father and married his mother, not only because the traditional story has it that way but also because the prophecies and the overall action of the play predict this outcome. The audience’s expectations are treated by Aristotle in the Poetics, where the critic applies a conceptual nexus linking unity, wholeness and completeness, to define the tragic ending as that part ‘which naturally comes after something else, either as its necessary sequel or as its usual sequel, but itself has nothing after it’.3 For him, an ending is an element that is required in order to finalize any connected narrative sequence (criterion of finality), while it is also a necessary complement of any plot that is a well-structured whole (criterion of connectedness).4 Furthermore, tragedies, in general, were read as part of a continuing myth and in relation to previous tragic versions of that myth.5 Aristotle also acknowledges this kind of authority when he speaks about mythological necessities.6 He recognizes that each myth has certain elements which are needed if the story is going to hold together, and explains that the poet cannot undo the received stories. Thus, in this line of thought the audience’s expectations in tragic closures are conditioned by two kinds of authority; they are expected to be consistent with the events of the plot (‘dramatic authority’) while they may also be reinforced by the audience’s knowledge of the myth (‘authority of history’).7 Trachiniae is a challenging play regarding these expectations. The exodos (971–1278), in particular, is agreed to be one of the most problematic parts of the play and many scholars are inclined to see it as the second part of a diptych tragedy, one which has a vague association with the events previously presented and fails to give the impression of an irreversible ending. Hence, they tend to see it as a closure which disrupts the criteria of connectedness and finality that a play’s closure is expected to meet. In brief, connectedness is interrupted as Deianeira, the main persona of the play who dominated the scene for almost one thousand lines, is totally forgotten, while finality is disturbed as the play alludes to events outside the plot, and indeed events that suggest a happy conclusion that contradicts the tragic finale. As a result, the closure has been seen to disprove the audience’s expectations as aroused by the events of the plot, and to be enforced

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by the audience’s expectations as conditioned by their knowledge of ‘history’. It has been noted, for instance, that after line 1114 of Trachiniae Herakles ‘speaks with the authority of history’,8 or that the playwright ‘yields to the obligation of history’.9 A set of two lines uttered by the chorus (1112–13), possibly their last words, seals the end of ‘Herakles’ rhesis’ (1046–111) – an agonizing address to his son, which moves erratically between his major accomplishments, his shameful and painful downfall, and his insatiable desire for revenge – and marks the transition to a dialogue between him and Hyllos, which I like to call ‘Deianeira’s trial’ (1114–42).10 This is a scene of double anagnorisis, which reveals both Deianeira’s ‘innocence’ and Nessos’ interference, but in fact it is only the latter reference to Nessos that is considered significant by Herakles and this is the revelation that signals a notable overturn within the final episode. From then on, Herakles develops an insight that allows him to speak with some kind of authority. We can call this last part of the final episode ‘Herakles’ deathbed instructions’ (1143–258).11 The significant overturn that is indicated in the lines following the anagnorisis of Nessos’ involvement is signalled by the sense of finality that the definitive fulfilment of the oracles entails. After this revelation, Deianeira is almost forgotten and scarcely referred to, being neglected in a way that mirrors her refusal to defend herself and her silent exit at the end of the third epeisodion (813–20). On the other hand, Herakles’ first words suggest a definite end as he states that he now sees his death as a complete reality (1143–5): ἰοὺ ἰοὺ δύστηνος, οἴχομαι τάλας· ὄλωλ’ ὄλωλα, φέγγος οὐκέτ’ ἔστι μοι. οἴμοι, φρονῶ δὴ ξυμφορᾶς ἵν’ ἕσταμεν. Ah, ah, I am done for! I am dead, I am dead, there is no longer light for me! Ah me, I know now in what a calamity I stand!

The finality of this consummation is highlighted through a series of present perfect verbs (οἴχομαι; ὄλωλ’ ὄλωλα), which do not only demonstrate the way the past affects the present, but also indicate the function of Nessos as the mutual factor between past and present, between Herakles and Deianeira.12 Indeed, it will transpire that the clue about Nessos’ involvement is also consistent with a second oracle predicting the origin of Herakles’ murderer. And once Herakles realizes this correlation, he understands that Zeus’ prophecy simply indicated the end of his life (828–30, 1173) and complies with his father’s plan since death appears to be the only option left.

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However, the final part of the exodos that follows this anagnorisis and presents Herakles’ future plan to Hyllos seems to interrupt the finality that is indicated by the fulfilment of the oracles, and to extend to a future that resides beyond the play’s present. Because, in view of Herakles’ future deification,13 this oracle should not be interpreted disjunctively (as a choice between two mutually exclusive possibilities of death or happy life for the rest of time) but conjunctively (as one and the only possibility that accommodates both death and happiness). It now looks as if once again, by investing in the scheme of phenomenal and real knowledge, the play directs us (and a mythologically informed audience) to think that this revised interpretation of the oracle is not necessarily correct and that the hindsight acquired by Herakles and the chorus just a while ago is still partial. Furthermore, Herakles now refers to two different facts of undeniable historical value for the Athenian audience, and plans future arrangements that extend beyond dramatic time. Everybody should have understood the procession leading Herakles to be cremated on the top of the mountain Oeta as aetiology for the actual and archaeologically confirmed ritual, during which a bonfire was lighted and dedications were offered.14 It is also very likely, as Lloyd-Jones has pointed out, that the detail of Herakles giving permission for someone else to light the pyre and ensuring ritual purity for Hyllos (1210–15) referred to the version according to which Poeas, or his son Philoctetes, was the person responsible for this task.15 Be that as it may, this pyre would relate to a practice that was perfectly familiar to the Athenians, belonged to real contemporary life and created a link between the world of the drama and the world of the audience. And also, the audience could surely infer that Herakles’ request for Hyllos to marry Iole referred to the well-known myth which considered that Hyllos and Iole were the ancestors of the illustrious dynasty of the Heracleidae.16 This was certainly a strong tradition, and Pherecydes stretches it as far as to claim that it was for Hyllos that Herakles asked Iole’s hand.17 Whether or not the story of the pyre naturally carried with it thoughts of the apotheosis (and vice versa) is a puzzling debate but despite the solution proposed to this dilemma,18 it remains a fact that after the revelation about the Centaur’s involvement, the dynamics of tradition reveal a tendency to displace the dynamics of the plot. One can easily see both the pyre and coerced marriage as being appended to the superior will of traditional narrative but also paralleling the self-referential function of Euripides’ formulaic endings.19 At this point, poetry submits to the justification of the actual worship of Herakles on Mount Oeta and the establishment of the mythological continuity of the Heracleidae,

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while Herakles’ words are given a new kind of aetiological and prophetic authority. The prime role is now given to the tragic chorus who are dancing in a festival of Dionysus in real time, while Deianeira’s and Herakles’ tragedy is left aside. After this point, Herakles develops an insight that enhances the performance of his words with the force of an institutional speech act; he is not only speaking but he is ‘doing things with words’, to use Austin’s phrase, while the perlocutionary effect of his speech extends beyond the time limits of this drama.20 Besides, Herakles’ liminal status as a moribund human, and indeed a moribund human who is not far from being deified, exalts the prolocutor of this speech to the status of a divine agent. The hero now acts in the knowledge that he is fulfilling some divine plan. Thus, it is not coincidental that the processing of Herakles’ directives is formalized with the sacredness of the contractual language of Hyllos’ blind oath,21 or that his instructions are validated by the authority of a νόμος (1174–9): ταῦτ’ οὖν ἐπειδὴ λαμπρὰ συμβαίνει, τέκνον, δεῖ σ’ αὖ γενέσθαι τῷδε τἀνδρὶ σύμμαχον, καὶ μὴ ’πιμεῖναι τοὐμὸν ὀξῦναι στόμα, ἀλλ’ αὐτὸν εἰκαθόντα συμπράσσειν, νόμον κάλλιστον ἐξευρόντα, πειθαρχεῖν πατρί. So now that this is clearly being fulfilled, my son, you must fight at my side, and not wait until my words grow sharp, but comply and work with me, finding that it is the noblest of laws that bids a man obey his father.

This νόμος that Herakles appeals to must refer to the long-lived and common unwritten law according to which one is expected to obey and show respect to one’s parents (see Aes. Cho.707–9; Eur. fr. 853N2; Soph. Ant. 639–40). But πατρί here is ambiguous. It certainly refers to the obedience of Hyllos to his father Herakles, which is what the latter struggles to ensure for the traditional story to be confirmed and will be discussed in the next part of this chapter. Herakles’ respect for his father Zeus, however, could also be implied by this phrase (cf. the phrase πατρῴῳ Διὶ, 753, describing Zeus as Herakles’ father or as a father in a more general sense). Zeus is not only the regulator of his son’s fate as the actual voice behind the oracles, but also the ultimate source of divine authority and the general regulator of all human beings and actions: ‘[he] who ordains all things’ (ὁ πάντα κραίνων βασιλεὺς, 127).22 It is no accident, therefore, that the written oracle which Herakles left with Deianeira before he went away is said to have come from Dodona, a sanctuary of Zeus, rather than the more usual source of

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tragic oracles, Apollo’s Delphi. And certainly, the last line of the play (‘And nothing of this is not Zeus’, 1278) is not an accident; this picks up all these references to Zeus and seals the end with an idea of the inevitability or inaccessibility of superior forces.23 Zeus is prominent in the play: he is referred to more than thirty times, which is about twice as frequently as in any other play, as Budelmann notes, while his superior plan and the paternal kinship with Herakles function as a kind of leitmotif in Trachiniae.24 Of the various references to Zeus in the play, what is of great interest to our discussion is the aspect of Zeus as the planner that structures and shapes poetry, an aspect which evokes the poet’s persona, as in Διὸς βουλή of the Iliad. Quite early, in the parodos of the play, when rejecting the likelihood of Zeus lacking a general counsel for humans, the chorus speaks about Zeus as a general planner: ‘who has seen Zeus so lacking in counsel for his children?’ (τίς ὧδε / τέκνοισι Ζῆν’ ἄβουλον εἶδεν; 139–40). This Zeus, however, could possibly have a poetic plan for Trachiniae as well. And this must be a plan that would include the extra-dramatic events that are meant by this κάλλιστος νόμος, the noblest of laws validated by the authority of the father, despite the fact that these events exceed the staging time and are not directly associated with the plot. Therefore, Herakles’ voice at the moment when he spells out these orders that are dictated by the authority of a paternal νόμος, has been elevated to an extradramatic level, lying on a scale of events that derive directly from Zeus and exceed both human contemplation and dramatic delineation. So, in view of the preceding analysis it could be suggested that after 1143 Herakles is being transformed into a kind of deus who appears at the end of the play and spells out an aetiology which explicitly connects the enacted events of the plot with the world of the audience. In general, the deus ex machina may be read as redirecting a play’s disoriented route towards the established tradition and real ritual practice, and confirming the end by inducing a stasis.25 Especially in plays where something went wrong during the course of the events, as it often did, and tragic mythos had reached an extremity which seemed to depart from tradition, the deus offered the means to readdress the plot in the direction of the established narrative. In these plays, the authoritative force of the traditional ending is so strong so that it seems to enforce (rather than reinforce) closure, despite disrupting the direction the play has been taking or being in conflict with the audience expectations as aroused by the events of the plot. As Sophocles’ Philoctetes, for example, draws to an end, it appears that the conclusion is going to depart quite radically from tradition; if Neoptolemus and Philoctetes simply return home, as they plan to, the Greek expedition in Troy will fail.26 At this

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point, however, Herakles appears and commands them to embark for Troy and capture the city, and so the myth is back on track. The disjunction between the direction of the plot and the conclusion imposed by Apollo is even sharper at the end of Euripides’ Orestes, one of the most disconcerting endings in all of Greek tragedy which explicitly draws our attention to the struggle between the inherited myth and the direction in which the play is heading. Apart from the deus, the effect of this concluding stasis can also be caused by a prophecy that predetermines the future through the authority of a divinity or an aition that founds a cult.27 The aition, or closing aetiology, spells out the connection between past and present, between myth and history, by showing that the events of traditional narrative exploited by the poet survive in some specific way into the present world of the audience. The speaker of aetiology, as suggested by Dunn, is ‘a figure whose privileged knowledge extends beyond the bounds of the drama’, and Herakles from that point onwards seems to qualify for this role.28 While maintaining his dramatic role, he is slightly disconnected from the action, so that he can speak with two voices, foretelling for Hyllos events he does not understand, while explaining an institution already familiar to the audience. By their very nature, these formulaic devices are subversive, since they underscore the artificiality of closure by drawing attention to themselves as conventions and as self-conscious rhetorical gestures.29 This kind of enforced and artificial ending is rather exceptional in Sophocles but very typical in Euripides, who appears to make regular use of these conventional features (what Dunn calls ‘closing gestures’), which reinforce the conclusion by marking in several ways the boundary between the world of the play and the extra-dramatic world, but without shedding any particular light on the preceding events.30 As a result, half of Euripides’ extant plays make use of a deus ex machina. Thus, in contrast to Euripides’ formulaic endings, which subversively mark the boundary between the world of the play and its various tangential worlds, Sophocles’ endings have been seen as exploiting these boundaries in a more subtle way.31 In general, Sophocles’ endings have been seen as exemplifying the Aristotelian virtues of connectedness and finality (as Roberts puts it: the plays end with a ‘simple finality’), as opposed to Euripidean ‘anti-Aristotelian epilogues’.32 Nevertheless, possible allusions to extra-dramatic events can be detected in the endings of all his extant plays.33 But despite these cases of contingent disruption of the play’s finality and/or connectedness, scholars desist from seeing them as direct and artificial projections to future events that are not thematically or structurally integrated within a well-designed plot. Instead, they

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prefer to read these connotations as indirect allusions that are typical of an elegant and discreet irony, or discern an open-endedness (in Smith’s terms, an ‘anti-closural’ mode), in which a subtle hint of a familiar story opens up a future beyond and even at odds with the mood of the play’s conclusion.34 Open-ending and closing resistance can surely be detected at the end of Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, for instance, where the audience knows that Agamemnon’s murder cannot be the final end since the same tradition includes Orestes’ vengeance for his father’s death. But in that case, the audience’s knowledge of the myth, enhanced by various forms of prolepsis in the drama itself, disturbs closure by leading them to think of an end that lies beyond the conclusion of the play and looks forward to the rest of the trilogy. Then again, as noted, Euripides’ endings reveal a trend to submit to the authority of a fixed narrative, in an artificial way that explicitly and deliberately demonstrates the divergence between his mythos and traditional narrative. Instead, Sophocles’ endings tend to engage in a conversation with the authority of tradition in a quiet and allusive way. His closures have been seen as particularly typical of an open-endedness, in which the audience’s knowledge of the myth complicates the closure of a single play and is manipulated in order to comment on the infinitude of the forces that set human tragedies in motion.35 In that sense, his ambiguous endings do not directly disturb the completeness of the play to put emphasis on the artificiality of the ending (as in Euripides) or the continuation within the extent of a trilogy (as in Aeschylus), but intentionally interrupt the dramatic present in order to give an ironic hint of continuation in perpetuity and play with the tragic ignorance of the persons involved, regardless of whether this allusion points to another happy finale (as in Herakles’ apotheosis in Trachiniae) or to another tragic story (as in the future pursuit of Orestes by the Erinyes in Electra). Similarly, at the end of Trachiniae, though it would appear that the power of ‘history’ tends to displace the play’s dramatic present, it is also true that closure meets expectations as raised by the plot, and that these extra-dramatic references are integral elements of a whole.36 Repeatedly in the course of the play the expectation of the hero’s return is prepared and encouraged and this is exactly the exodos’s content. Of course, within the tragic arrangement this nostos is reversed and instead of the triumphal entrance of the hero we witness his funeral. However, the concept of an extended and failed nostos lies at the core of Herakles’ existence; he was born in exile, he was deprived of his patrimonial inheritance in ruling over Argolid, he always remained an extensive traveller and he never succeeded in his familial life. Moreover, given that the exodos starts with the

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diseased Herakles being carried on a stretcher and ends with Herakles being transferred to his tomb, thus dramatizing the hero’s death and funeral, it seems plausible that the scene consists of the agonies he has been suffering, the realization of imminent and inevitable death and his deathbed instructions. Therefore, these requests are included within this funeral frame and smoothly incorporated into the dramatic setting of the hero’s last moments. Moreover, the requests themselves have a specific dramatic function which advances our reading of the play. Hyllos’ marriage to Iole does not only verify the established genealogy of this legendary family and bind Hyllos to this role by swearing an oath, but it is also essential for the continuation of Herakles’ generation and planned to salvage the remains of his family, especially since the play has presented the destruction of his oikos.37 Then, the hero’s immolation completes the sacrificial pattern which was repeatedly exploited in the play, while it is also included within the pattern of the Herculean labours, as it is presented as the ultimate and possibly the hardest task the hero needs to accomplish.38 And finally, the possibility of apotheosis encourages a retrospective interpretation of the play. Herakles’ imminent self-immolation and the eternal bliss he was known to enjoy on Olympus, as a possible aftermath to his cremation, is based on an idea of confusion between life and death. This is not merely an implication raised by the hero’s ambivalent status between a mortal and a god, but it is an implication also embedded in the way the oracle is articulated and an idea that is extensively elaborated in the exodos, where he is presented as a living corpse who organizes and attends his own funeral.39 Besides, the uncertainty about the future to which the allusion to apotheosis gives rise is also embedded in the very deep structure of a play which repeatedly comments on the inaccessibility of superior knowledge, while it concludes in a circular motion which started in the very first lines of the play, proposing a retrospective interpretation of Deianeira’s reference to the Solonian saying. The very nature of this conclusion advises us to see it as one of the type of closures which is included (among departure, reunion or reconciliation, solution or fulfilment and ritual) in the list of closures that for Smith evoke one of the ‘natural stopping places of our lives and experiences’ (or ‘cultural markers of closure’) which have themselves terminating force.40 As Roberts notes, of these markers mourning is not surprisingly the most common of concluding rituals in existing tragedies: of twenty-three plays that end with death, nineteen end with some form of or reference to burial or mourning ritual.41 It is interesting, however, as Roberts continues, that in tragedy these markers may be used in such a way as to interfere with closure. In several plays, for example, the ritual of

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burial is deprived of some of its effect by the exclusion of a would-be participant. In Euripides’ Medea, Medea and Jason will remain divided in the ritual expression of their grief for their children, since Medea alone will carry out the burial. In Trachiniae, Herakles’ burial will be completed in the absence of his family, underlining the alienation from his oikos presented in the play, while ritual lament is denied, emphasizing the extremity of the strength and endurance of this superhuman hero, whose suffering will be accentuated through ritual inertia. On the other hand, the ritual confusion of this burial with both rituals of marriage and sacrifice results in a ritual crisis which hinders its completion and underlines its propensity to fail.42 Herakles’ pyre is a holocaust, a fire ritual, usually associated with the worship of the dead, in which the destructive power of fire will be fully displayed as the sacrificial victim will be wholly burned.43 As Calame notes: ‘On Oeta, no libations, no slitting of the victim’s throat, no sharing of the meat, no parts which would have been reserved for the people, no companionship with or without the gods: the victim is entirely destroyed by fire’.44 However, it is not only the sacrificial ritual that fails. The play also dramatizes the failure of this marriage through the transformation of the nuptial ceremony into a funeral, but on the grounds of Herakles’ apotheosis even this concluding funeral is at stake. In general, through the linguistic and metaphorical use of the symbolic gestures attached to ritual acts, our text indicates disarrangement of active and passive identities and gendered role models, elaborated in terms of ritual irregularity. In the course of the play, Herakles is constantly moving between the roles of the sacrificer and the sacrificial victim. As a follow-up to his violent act of destroying a city, Herakles founds a sanctuary on Cape Cenaeum and performs a sacrifice, but Deianeira’s sacrificial robe will transform this foundation sacrificer (θυτήρ, 656) into the sacrificial victim. Then he moves to Trachis and acts again as a sacrificer, organizing a second holocaust on Mount Oeta (1192), but once again he will be transformed into the victim of this second sacrifice, as the fire will consume his own diseased body. Moreover, while Deianeira acts as the sacrificer of her spouse, the text simultaneously qualifies her, like Ajax, for the role of the victim of a sacrificial slaughter (ἀρτίως νεοσφαγής, 1130; cf. the same phrase in Aj. 898). Herakles’ feminine and passive sacrifice would, thus, correspond to Deianeira’s heroic and active sacrifice. All these roles that Deianeira and Herakles undertake move irregularly between the poles of a subject (active doer) and an object (passive receiver) of action and are in constant interaction with the corresponding active and passive roles related to the rituals of sacrifice, marriage and funeral.45

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To sum up, we have so far suggested that through the way the audience’s knowledge of traditional narrative is exploited at the end of the play, we can discern a sophisticated interaction between tragic mythos and the authoritative principle of history. This is not a one-sided submission to the established tradition, but rather a diplomatic relationship that simultaneously allows for the reaffirmation and exploitation of the dynamics of tradition. This analysis has also allowed for the proposal that in the exodos of the play Herakles is being transformed into a kind of deus ex machina or a speaker of aetiology, namely a speaker whose privileged knowledge extends beyond the boundaries of the drama. While maintaining his dramatic role, he is slightly disconnected from the action, so that he can speak with two voices, foretelling for Hyllos events he does not understand, while explaining a mythical version and an institution already familiar to the audience. Finally, we have established that by dramatizing Herakles’ rite of passage to death and possibly immortality, the end of Trachiniae necessitates the settlement of a dramatic order, no matter how precarious this order may be, and sets up the closure of the play but nonetheless continues to invest in the scheme of irregularity in terms of ritual and gender roles.

Hegemonic masculinity and Hyllos’ maturation We will now conclude this analysis of the idea of authority, moving to the authority Herakles exercises over Hyllos on the grounds of the latter’s transition to adulthood and his enforced marriage with Iole. This authority derives from the same (κάλλιστον) νόμον that Herakles appeals, the enforcement of which can be considered to suggest the establishment of the circulation of women and consequently the affirmation of hegemonic masculinity. It is imposed as a form of gendered hegemony, thereby raising issues of gender order and bringing us to the fundamental aspect of Herakles’ speech and the exodos in general: his attempt to put back together and re-establish hegemonic masculinity,46 which is currently impaired and diseased, through the only source of power left to him, the paternal sovereignty over his son. At a parallel, supplementary narrative level, Trachiniae follows Hyllos while he is making his journey of transformation from an ephebe to a complete male.47 The play initiates this in the moment when Hyllos is prompted to abandon the maternal space of the oikos and set out ‘in search of his father’ (ἀνδρὸς κατὰ ζήτησιν, 55),48 just like Odyssey begins with and observes Telemachus’ quest for his father (‘quest pattern’).49 Hyllos is introduced in the prologue of the drama as

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one of Deianeira’s young sons (παισὶ μὲν τοσοῖσδε πληθύεις: ‘you have so many sons’, 54); as an ephebe who is old enough, compared to the other sons of Deianeira, to plausibly be the one to be sent in search of his father (μάλιστα δ᾽ ὅνπερ εἰκὸς Ὕλλον: ‘and above all Hyllus, whom it would be natural to send’, 56). As an ephebe, Hyllos is a young man who has arrived at physical and sexual maturity and belongs to a special category.50 In Athenian society, the ephebes constituted an age group of young men from about sixteen to twenty who had reached puberty but were not yet adult men, while they also formed a distinguished status group which was assigned with social roles that corresponded to their transitional status of not yet being citizens with full civic rights.51 As in all communities, the category of the ephebe entails a considerable reconfiguration of kinship and other social relationships, as the young sons gain some measure of independence from paternal authority, and leave their birth families to enter the ranks of the citizenry and assume the role of a male. Hyllos’ maturation is carried out in two stages. In the first place, he goes through the initiation of adulthood by renegotiating his relationship with his mother. This renegotiation undergoes several critical phases before it evolves: identification, detachment, rebinding and defending the maternal symbol. At the same time, it promotes the gradual development of Hyllos’ cognitive and emotional maturity and establishes his transformation into an efficient public speaker, a development that is considered significant in order to be entitled to the role of a complete male adult. His first appearance, in the second part of the prologue (61–93), introduces the way in which Hyllos relates to both his parents and the level of his cognition. It is then that the process of acquiring knowledge begins for him. Following the pattern which indicates the play’s concern with learning processes, his task is to set out in search of his father and learn the truth about his whereabouts (πᾶσαν πυθέσθαι τῶνδ’ ἀλήθειαν πέρι, 91). His cognitive behaviour is presented as still being immature; his knowledge of his father’s whereabouts relies on indirect and imprecise information (μύθοις, 67; κλύεις, 68; φασί, 70; κλύω, 72; ἀγγέλλεται, 73) rather than facts. He is still in the stage when he expects his mother to be his tutor (δίδαξον, μῆτερ, εἰ διδακτά μοι, 64), while he admits to being oblivious of the important prophecies concerning Herakles’ fate (τὸν λόγον γὰρ ἀγνοῶ, 78). His attachment to his mother and identification with the maternal symbol implied in the prologue give way to a severe disengagement occurring during the third epeisodion, when he ends up disowning his mother’s name for causing the death of his father and temporarily proving himself to be in a perfect match with his father’s name. Having witnessed the effect of Deianeira’s robe on his

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father’s body, Hyllos returns during the third epeisodion (731ff.) to denounce his mother and report the atrocious incidents in Cape Cenaeum by way of a ‘messenger-rhesis’ (749–812), thereby bringing about Deianeira’s suicide. At the end of this epeisodion and while his mother is heading towards her deathbed, he bids farewell with words that confirm his complete detachment from the maternal shelter (815–20): ἐᾶτ’ ἀφέρπειν. οὖρος ὀφθαλμῶν ἐμῶν αὐτῇ γένοιτ’ ἄπωθεν ἑρπούσῃ καλός. ὄγκον γὰρ ἄλλως ὀνόματος τί δεῖ τρέφειν μητρῷον, ἥτις μηδὲν ὡς τεκοῦσα δρᾷ; ἀλλ’ ἑρπέτω χαίρουσα· τὴν δὲ τέρψιν ἣν τὠμῷ δίδωσι πατρί, τήνδ’ αὐτὴ λάβοι. Let her depart! May a fair wind carry her far from my sight! For why should one vainly honour the dignity of the name of mother, when none of her actions are a mother’s? Let her go; farewell to her; and may she have for her own the joy she gave my father!

At this moment, Hyllos breaks away from his mother and commits a symbolic matricide to fully identify with his father’s name and desires. Yet, in the Nurse’s speech which reports Deianeira’s death during the fourth epeisodion (899–956), this severe separation is completely abrogated and Hyllos is presented in an erotic rebinding with his mother, which is prompted by the revelation of Deianeira’s true motives and her decision to commit suicide. Once again, however, the truth was belatedly delivered (932–42): ἰδὼν δ’ ὁ παῖς ᾤμωξεν·ἔγνω γὰρ τάλας τοὔργον κατ’ ὀργὴν ὡς ἐφάψειεν τόδε, ὄψ’ ἐκδιδαχθεὶς τῶν κατ’ οἶκον οὕνεκα ἄκουσα πρὸς τοῦ θηρὸς ἔρξειεν τάδε. κἀνταῦθ’ ὁ παῖς δύστηνος οὔτ’ ὀδυρμάτων ἐλείπετ’ οὐδέν, ἀμφί νιν γοώμενος, οὔτ’ ἀμφιπίπτων στόμασιν, ἀλλὰ πλευρόθεν πλευρὰν παρεὶς ἔκειτο πόλλ’ ἀναστένων, ὥς νιν ματαίως αἰτίᾳ βάλοι κακῇ, κλαίων ὁθούνεχ’ εἷς δυοῖν ἔσοιθ’ ἅμα, πατρός τ’ ἐκείνης τ’, ὠρφανισμένος βίον. When he saw, the son cried out; for he realised, poor man, that he had charged her with the crime in anger, having learned too late from those in the house that that monster had got her to do this act in innocence. Then her unhappy son

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never ceased to lament, weeping over her, not to cover her with kisses, but lying side by side with her he uttered many a groan, saying that he had charged her falsely with the crime, and weeping because now he would be bereft of both, his father and her also.

With this heavily emotional scene, Hyllos’ adolescence crisis culminates, as the Orestean hostility of the previous scene gives way to an Oedipal proximity which carries latent tones of incest.52 After this rebinding with the maternal symbol, in the immediately following part of the exodos and while the play conclusively attempts to resolve the crisis, Hyllos is expected to abandon the maternal locus to take his place in the male society represented by his father. He needs to assume all responsibilities that a complete male has and replace his father by duplicating him. But this will be neither an easy task nor a successful one. He will be confronted with the inconceivable commands and the hardness of his demanding father, who will first ask Hyllos to reject his mother’s name and identify himself with him (1064–5): ὦ παῖ, γενοῦ μοι παῖς ἐτήτυμος γεγώς, καὶ μὴ τὸ μητρὸς ὄνομα πρεσβεύσῃς πλέον. My son, become my true-born son, and do not honour the name of your mother more!

Like Apollo in Aeschylus’ Eumenides (657ff.), Herakles is trying to defuse the woman’s always suspect and dangerous intermediary reproductive role within the patriarchal family. In Herakles’ androcentric and homosocial conception of kinship relationships, Deianeira’s participation in her son’s birth seems to constitute a disturbing interruption and thereby he attempts to eliminate her role.53 Thus, Hyllos must renounce his status as a child of his mother and consent to the law of his father, just like Herakles consents to the law of Zeus and accepts his death, regardless of whether this is fully comprehensible or not. Nevertheless, in the dialogue between Hyllos and his father that follows Herakles’ long rhesis (1114–42), Hyllos is still his mother’s son, thus endangering and disrupting his relationship with his ill father. But his obligation and desire to defend the dead and, for him, innocent mother is too strong to remain silent. No matter how sovereign his father stands, Hyllos confronts him like a knowing and mature adult and stands by the side of his mother. Against his father’s repeated accusations (ὦ παγκάκιστε, 1124; εὐλαβοῦ δὲ μὴ φανῇς κακὸς γεγώς, 1129; ὦ κάκιστε, 1137), he argues for his mother’s innocence and establishes his transformation into an efficient public speaker.

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This is a crucial juncture for both Hyllos and for the play in general, as it signifies a transitional moment. On the one hand, it signifies the transition of Hyllos to adulthood while, on the other hand, it denotes the final transition to the last scene of the drama, in which Herakles will be the centre of interest and activity. As I argued in the previous chapter, in the way Hyllos stands against Deianeira’s mistake we can trace an onward movement, while his view, together with the chorus’s perception, makes up the view of the polis and democratic culture, as opposed to Herakles’ pre-political view of private justice. It is in this moment, right before Herakles’ awareness and acceptance of the truth, that we can locate Hyllos’ cognitive and emotional maturation and his transition from the state of a young boy to that of a fully grown citizen. At this first stage, Hyllos successfully enters the maturation phase while remaining on the mother’s side. Renegotiating his relationship with his father, the second stage in his maturation process, is the next task Hyllos undertakes, as for Herakles Hyllos is still expected to establish his loyalty to his father by embracing heroic and aristocratic ideals. So, after the revelation of the real culprit and Deianeira’s dismissal, Herakles announces his last commands to his son, explaining that this is the critical moment when Hyllos needs to prove that he is the worthy son of a nobleman: ‘You have come to a point where you will show what sort of man you are, you that are said to be my son’ (ἐξήκεις δ’ ἵνα / φανεῖς ὁποῖος ὢν ἀνὴρ ἐμὸς καλῇ, 1157–8). In Herakles’ view, Hyllos needs to be transformed into a worthy warrior who fights at the side of his father (σύμμαχον, 1175), the fighter par excellence, and complies and works with him (συμπράσσειν, 1178). He needs to follow the one and the only law Herakles respects, the law that enforces obedience to the father, despite its righteousness (πειθαρχεῖν πατρί; 1178–9). In addition to this stern preface of his pronouncement and the authoritarianism that this νόμος suggests, Herakles also demands the assurance offered by a blind oath, so that he will bind Hyllos’ compliance by means of sacred language (1181– 90). The oath is a gendered marker associated with masculine authority in a political setting, which signals and confirms the transition into maturity. As Fletcher suggests, the oath in ephebic dramas punctuates the achievement of adulthood, a youth becoming a man, by means of language.54 The oaths of Sophocles’ heroes in particular, Fletcher notes, ‘emphasize the connection between masculine friendship and political authority, and seem to be especially pertinent to the transition to manhood’.55 Thus, with the oath, Hyllos is committing himself to the world of hegemonic masculinity and to the responsibilities of adulthood, which, among other commitments, entail accountability for his words and the agreement between word and deed.

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The fact that Herakles commits Hyllos to an unconditional consensus with an open contract that precedes his declarations anticipates the aversion expected by the forthcoming commands. As Hyllos admits, out of respect to his father he will comply with his will, although he foresees that things have come to a critical moment which might lead to a serious conflict: ‘Father, I am afraid at coming in our talk to such a point, but I will obey your decisions’ (ἀλλ’, ὦ πάτερ, ταρβῶ μὲν ἐς λόγου στάσιν / τοιάνδ’ ἐπελθών, πείσομαι δ’ ἅ σοι δοκεῖ, 1179–80). In Herakles’ commands to Hyllos we can discern the heroic pattern found in the myths of Perseus, Jason and Theseus, who need to fulfil specific tasks in order to successfully pass into adulthood. As Anderson observes, these heroes’ entry into adulthood is typically marked with a hunting exploit, the slaying of a beast or monster, a task which confirms their manhood, and the securing of a spouse either by surpassing rival suitors or successfully challenging the bride’s father, a second task which validates their transformation into complete adults. However, in cases of interrupted maturation, for example in the scenarios of Euripides’ Hippolytus or Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus, the hunting rite and the marital rite are systematically inverted.56 Similarly, Hyllos’ ephebic testing will include both a hunting achievement and an obligation to marriage. More specifically, in the place of the monster he needs to slay in order to prove his worth as a hero, Hyllos is asked to burn his father’s body to death (1191–202). Indeed, throughout this book, we have identified Herakles with a monster and this coincidence corroborates this analogy. Hyllos reacts with intense abhorrence and terror to this command which he perceives as patricide (‘to have the guilt of your murder on my hands’; φονέα γενέσθαι καὶ παλαμναῖον σέθεν, 1207). However, he is compelled to abide by Herakles’ decision, as he is bound to obey by blind vow. So, he agrees with merely participating in his father’s transportation to Oeta, assuring him that the act of carrying him there will not be neglected (‘I shall not grudge the act of carrying you there’; φορᾶς γέ τοι φθόνησις οὐ γενήσεται, 1212), provided Hyllos himself will not come into direct contact with the fire (‘Except that I shall not put my own hands to it’; ὅσον γ’ ἂν αὐτὸς μὴ ποτιψαύων χεροῖν, 1214). Hyllos’ conditional participation in this rite is peculiarly unconventional and can be considered to dispute his public role as fulfilled through the performance of his religious duties. But, more importantly, it underlines the impiety implied by this action of symbolic patricide. Following the hunting achievement, the confirmation of Hyllos’ maturity and his acceptance among equal and political adults needs to be sealed and validated by his marriage to Iole (1216–29).57 With this marriage, Hyllos takes his father’s

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place as Iole’s spouse and completes the process of replacing his father initiated by the symbolic patricide that Herakles’ sacrifice implied. So, he successfully performs his ephebic appraisal assignments, proves his worth and ends his journey of transformation from an ephebe to a complete male, by assuming the role of the male genitor of the illustrious dynasty of Herakles’ descendants. This endogamous and incestuous marriage is a predominantly androcentric resolution which does not only ensure the survival of the oikos but eliminates any risk that arises from the transition and importation of an external and dubious reproductive object into the oikos.58 Thus, by neatly replacing the disastrous extramarital relationship between Iole and Herakles with a marriage that is untainted by sexual desire and paternally sanctioned, this union can be considered to ensure the continuation of Herakles’ collapsed oikos and reaffirm the patriarchal authority which has been questioned throughout the play. In that sense, the closure of the play could be seen as a ‘good end’ (καλῶς τελευτᾷς, 1252), which complies with Herakles’ ideals and the patriarchal order he represents. However, the subsequent intense dispute between Hyllos and his father (1230–51) at the critical moment of the epilogue of the drama denotes a significant crisis which puts this ‘good end’ at serious risk. Whereas Herakles introduces this last request as a ‘small favour, over and above great things’ (χάριν βραχεῖαν πρὸς μακροῖς ἄλλοις, 1217), Hyllos’ response reveals even greater aversion. He perceives this command as a symptom of Herakles’ disease (νοσοῦντι, 1230; εξ ἀλαστόρων νοσοῖ, 1235; ὡς νοσεῖς φανεῖς, 1241), as an act of irreverence toward the gods (δυσσεβεῖν, 1245; δυσσέβεια, 1246), and explicitly states that he could not tolerate a marriage with the woman that was the real cause of his family’s disaster: Iole ‘is the sole cause of my mother’s death, and of your being in the state that you are’ (ἥ μοι μητρὶ μὲν θανεῖν μόνη / μεταίτιος, σοὶ δ’ αὖθις ὡς ἔχεις ἔχειν, 1233–4). Thus, he unconditionally states that death is preferable than living together with this woman (κρεῖσσον κἀμέ γ’, ὦ πάτερ, θανεῖν / ἢ τοῖσιν ἐχθίστοισι συνναίειν ὁμοῦ, 1236–7) and proclaims the impasse he has encountered (ὡς ἐς πολλὰ τἀπορεῖν ἔχω, 1243). Hyllos clearly states that he will only compromise with this union in the name of his father (‘For I could never be shown up as a traitor if I obeyed you, father’; οὐ γὰρ ἄν ποτε / κακὸς φανείην σοί γε πιστεύσας, πάτερ, 1250–1), while it is obvious that he himself objects to his ideals. As he finally admits, his compliance is only the outcome of coercion: ‘there is nothing to prevent these things from being accomplished, since you command and you compel me, father’ (ἀλλ’ οὐδὲν εἴργει σοὶ τελειοῦσθαι τάδε, / ἐπεὶ κελεύεις κἀξαναγκάζεις, πάτερ, 1257–8). It is

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important to note that Hyllos clearly states that he only abides by Herakles’ commands ‘for his sake’ (σοὶ).59 Thus, despite Herakles’ striving, and in a direction that opposes his effort to re-establish a compromised order, Hyllos’ reluctance, repeatedly expressed in his interaction with his father and peaking in the final verse of the play (κοὐδὲν τούτων ὅ τι μὴ Ζεύς, 1278), is a marker of resistance against the paternal, patrilineal, androcentric and patriarchal authority as expressed through Herakles, which, as has been suggested, should be excluded from the democratic polis. In agreeing to participate in the holocaust of Herakles and assume the role of the genitor of the illustrious dynasty of the Heracleidae, Hyllos will replace his father but will not simply duplicate him. He may agree to comply with Herakles’ authority, but this is a compromised and precarious agreement, in the name of a paternal authority that has already been challenged and at stake. Therefore, by renouncing the traits of his father that describe him as an inefficient political being, Hyllos has been shaped like a person who is distinct from a group, class or even family.

Epilogue: A precarious journey Consequently, it may seem that despite having repeatedly challenged traditional structures through the repositioning of the female and the blurring of gender identities, in the name of Herakles’ νόμος, the play is finally seeking to reestablish the patriarchal order, and to a certain extent, it succeeds. As feminist readers of the play notice, this νόμος and the exchange of Iole it suggests grounds the play’s social order that is patriarchal, patrilineal and aristocratic, and legislates the circulation of women.60 However, the exodos of Trachiniae still retains the dynamics of negotiation that has been meticulously formulated thus far, no matter how hard it seems to try to reset the foundations of hegemonic masculinity. This dynamic resistance is not only a force that the play preserves because of the momentum already gained, but it is a force that is enhanced in the exodos through Herakles’ pathetic appearance and Hyllos’ reluctance,61 presences that are both illuminated by Deianeira’s remarkable absence. In a more general sense, narratives about male initiation seem to reflect a concern over the question of how a boy becomes a man and share an interest in the problems a family faces as a father tries to hand down his place in society to his son. By describing an Oedipal succession, the replacement of the father by the son necessitates a paternal, patrilineal and patriarchal model. However, in

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Greek tragedy this succession is decidedly unconventional, since the transition from youth to adulthood is frequently explored within the framework of a family crisis and presented as incomplete or irregular.62 Likewise, in Trachiniae Hyllos’ rite of passage to maturity is presented in an irregular way which reflects a concern over the question of the emancipation of a young boy. This scenario of his entry into adulthood is incorporated within a broader framework of the family crisis dramatized in the play, and intersects with both his father’s rite of passage to immortality and his mother’s wedding journey to her death.63 His journey begins in the prologue, when he sets out in quest of his father, to be completed in the exodos, when he agrees to marry Iole and continue his father’s lineage. But nonetheless his journey is not completed without obstacles and hesitation. During this transformation, Hyllos undergoes several liminal and irregular experiences, which are all appropriate to the liminal stage of his rite of passage. The marginality and precariousness of his journey are expressed in terms of the continuous crisis that Hyllos undergoes while he is forced to assume the responsibilities of a traditional manliness, represented through Herakles.64 In the course of the play and until the final resolution he experiences the extremity of being physically and psychologically detached from the safety of his parental oikos, and the emotional strain of coming into intense conflict with his parents. Furthermore, the scenario of his maturation carries troubling undertones of impiety and violations of kinship bonds, and specifically undertones of matricide, patricide and incest. Hyllos’ accusations may be seen as motivating his mother’s suicide, while his renouncing of her name can be considered as a symbolic matricide. Subsequently, both his participation in the holocaust of Herakles and his replacing of his father’s role as Iole’s partner signify a symbolic patricide. Finally, the Oedipal episode with his mother, as well as the fact that he will share the same bed with his father’s concubine, bears connotations of excessively close, almost incestuous, relations. Although, strictly speaking, Hyllos is not guilty of any of these violations, he comes close enough to the possibility of being affected by these impieties and reacts with strong hesitation to his father’s demands. Also, as noted above, during his journey to adulthood, Hyllos has undergone a transformation and has been shaped as an independent individual, who has not renounced his identity as a son of his mother but nevertheless has been promoted to a politically developed man. Paying respect to his mother and preserving her memory while she is physically absent by acting as her advocate, he avoids the possibility of Deianeira being tried in absentia and ensures her symbolic presence in this final act of a play that could, in fact, have been named

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after her. Through the intensity of a love scene in which Hyllos unequivocally declares his love but also his refusal to break away from the name of his mother, and by providing a worthy representative for the absent defendant, the play seems to refuse to violate the locus of the female in favour of a broken patriarchy. In view of these impasses, it becomes clear that the end of Trachiniae presents significant resistance to a denouement. Herakles’ attempt to tidy up the messy setting of the exodos is not a complete and straightforward success story. Hyllos’ agreement to his father’s commands may signal the end of the present crisis, yet the potential of a future crisis is not eliminated. There are still issues at stake and there still remains uncertainty and hesitation about the proposed ending of the play. And as such, the closure of Trachiniae is a disputed ending which is open to diverse interpretations. With Deianeira being excluded, the exodos seems to function as a defence against the collapse of gender boundaries presented in Trachiniae and as an attempt to reinstate the impaired gender order. Still, Hyllos’ hesitation against Herakles’ authority and his response to his father’s incomprehensible and abhorrent demands, illuminated by his refusal to break away from the name of his mother, as well as Herakles’ challenging presence highlighted by Deianeira’s dynamic absence, provoke a protest against this attempt, a protest which succeeds in enhancing the dynamics of negotiation in which the play has invested. As it has been so often noted throughout this book, the play repeatedly disputes the gender order defined by male hegemonic schemes. The ideals of the aristocratic patriarchal world are recurrently identified with the non-political world of the beasts and questioned. Following this impetus, the exodos of the play maintains the dynamics of negotiation of hegemonic masculinity gathered throughout the play, and persists in setting this world into question. Therefore, whereas this concluding part could be seen as a backing against the subsidence of gender boundaries, it does not succeed in restoring (and neither does it seek to restore) the disturbed gender order. Instead, the play finally seems to refuse to violate the locus of the female in favour of broken masculinity.

Notes Introduction 1 Cantarella 2005, 237. 2 Cantarella 2005, 239. 3 ᾧ γὰρ ἐξουσία κοινωνεῖν ἀρχῆς βουλευτικῆς ἢ κριτικῆς, πολίτην ἤδη λέγομεν εἶναι ταύτης τῆς πόλεως, 1275b19–21. 4 Cantarella 2005, 245. And indeed, in El., Sophocles uses the feminine politis in Electra’s address to the female members of the chorus (ὦ πολίτιδες, 1227); see Finglass 2005, 203. 5 As noted in the Athenian Constitution: μετέχουσιν μὲν τῆς πολιτείας οἱ ἐξ ἀμφοτέρων γεγονότες ἀστῶν, [Ath. Pol.] 42.1. 6 Patterson 2005, 267–89. 7 Goff 2004, 9–14. 8 Goff 2004, 10. 9 Goff 2004, 11. 10 Goff 2004, 12–13. 11 Vernant 1990b, 240. 12 Zeitlin 1985a, 67. 13 Wohl 1998, 28. 14 Zeus’ omnipotence raises the significant question of the potential of human determination (in relation to the divine will) in Greek thought and especially in Greek tragedy (‘human agency’). For divine intervention and human determination in Soph. OT, see Cairns 2013, 110–71; Finglass 2018, 70–6; Karakantza 2020, 213–45 (‘Oedipus as a Human Agent’). 15 Zeitlin 1985a, 67. Similarly, Foley 2002 notes that ‘wives are not expected to have the knowledge and self-control to make important independent decisions in the absence of a guardian or, ideally, to have interests that divide them from a spouse’ (95–7), while elsewhere she speaks about Deianeira as an example of ‘female moral incapacity’ (116). 16 Ormand 1999, 5–6, 16. 17 DuBois 1982, 103. 18 Lyons 2012, 5. See Chapter 5: ‘Tragic Gifts’, 77–90, for a discussion of Aesch. Ag. and Soph. Trach. 19 Lyons 2012, 81–2.

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20 Ormand 1999, 36–7. 21 Ormand 1999, 50–5. For male homosocial desire, see also Ormand 1999, 14–18. 22 Lévi-Strauss 1963 and 1969. For feminists, Lévi-Strauss’s system of exchange reproduces normative and unequal gender relations; see Rubin 1975, 157–210. 23 See Wohl 1998, xiii–xv, xx–xxiv. On the subject of exchange, see xxix–xxxvii. 24 Wohl 1998, 56. 25 Wohl 1998, 28. 26 See Wohl 1998, 46 et passim. 27 Wohl 1998, 27–8. 28 As Butler (2000, 2) notes, Antigone ‘hardly represents a feminism that might in any way be unimplicated in the very power that it opposes. [. . .] as a figure for politics, she points somewhere else, not to politics as a question of representation but to that political possibility that emerges when the limits to representation and representability are exposed’. 29 Butler 2000, 2. Italics in original. 30 Butler 2000, 6. 31 Following Butler, in her reading of Soph. OT, Karakantza has suggested that Jocasta, simultaneously being the mother and the wife, owns a heavily gendered body which undermines kinship (Karakantza 2020, 70–80). 32 Butler 2000, 7. This is an act that, as Butler notes, is everywhere delivered through speech acts.

1 An Amazon in Athens: Monsters, Gender and the Polis 1 Commentaries of Trach. provide useful discussions on earlier treatments of the myths of Herakles and Deianeira: Jebb 1892, x–xxiii; Kamerbeek 1959, 1–7; Easterling 1982, 15–19; Davies 1991, xxii–xxxvii. Helpful discussions of the available sources can also be found in March 1987, 49–77, Gantz 1993, 431–4 and Dámaris 2021, 266–80. 2 Jebb 1892, xxxi–xxxii. Also Wilamowitz-Moellendorff 1895, 78: ‘She is an Aetolian, and the women of this tribe are endowed by saga with the most vigorous traits, as is Althea, Deianira’s mother, who killed Meleager with a similar malice, as her daughter slew Heracles’. Cf. Errandonea 1927, 145–64 and Stoessl 1945. 3 The epithet appears in Homer for Amazons (Il. 3, 189: Ἀμαζόνες ἀντιάνειραι; 6, 186: Ἀμαζόνας ἀντιανείρας), in Colluthus Epicus for Athena (170: ἀντιάνειραν Ἀθήνην) and in Pindar for στάσις (O. 12.16: στάσις ἀντιάνειρα). 4 As was pointed out to me by the anonymous reviewer, there is also an interesting tradition that opens the possibility of Deianeira being worshipped as a cult heroine. This is attested by Pausanias (2.23.5), who mentions the existence of two different

Notes to pp. 12–16

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8 9 10 11 12 13

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tombs of Deianeira, one claimed by the Argives in Argos and another confirmed by Pausanias at the foot of Mount Oita (also noted by Larson 1995, 79). Hom. Il. 9.529–35; Apollod. Bibl. 2.7.5; Diod. Sic. 4.34.1. See Jebb 1892, ad loc. As evidenced by the titles and fragments of many lost dramas (Phrynichus Pleuroniai; Aesch. Atalanta; Soph. Meleager; Eur. Meleager; Accius Meleager), the story of Meleager’s death seems to have offered a popular tragic plot. For different accounts on Meleager’s story, see March 1987, 29–46; Gantz 1993, 328–35; Davies and Finglass 2014, 515–20. Apollod. Bibl. 1.8.1–3; cf. Aesch. Cho. 602–11; Diod. Sic. 4.34, 4.48; Paus. 10.31.3–4; Ovid. Met. 8.266–546; Hyg. Fab. 171. Transl. by Murray 1999. =F22 in the edition of Most 2007. Hom. Il. 9.543, 14.115–18; cf. Hesiod. F22, F19a.50 MW; Apollod. Bibl. 1.7.10. For Oineus, see Roscher 1884–90, Bd.3.751–62. Apollod. Bibl. 1.8.2; cf. Hyg. Fab. 129; Servius’ commentary on Verg. Aen. 4.127; Eur. Cyc. 37–40. Pozzi 1996, 104–8. Following Sulgberber’s and Svenbro’s conclusions about the names of the offspring of mythological heroes, Pozzi has proposed the hypothesis that Deianeira may carry in her name an epithet of her father. Along this line of thinking, it is suggested that Oineus and Deianeira can be examined as a parallel, mutatis mutandis, with Oinomaos and Hippodameia. Thus, Pozzi’s speculation concludes that Deianeira’s name is likely to have alluded to an unknown, perhaps earlier, tradition that could have presented her father, unwilling to give his daughter to marry, presiding at a test where the losers perished (following the example of the well-known fatal chariot race to which Oinomaos subjected his daughter’s suitors). Seaford has shown how the metaphor of maenadism or Bacchic frenzy functions in myth and tragedy; see Seaford 1988, 118–36; 1989, 691–9; 1993, 115–46. For Amazons, see Bothmer 1957; Bennett 1967; duBois 1982; Tyrrell 1984; Hardwick 1990, 14–36; Blok 1995; Dowden 1997, 97–128; Bremmer 2000, 51–9; Eller 2011; Mayor 2014; Penrose 2016. Diodorus’ summary of the story could be influenced by Sophocles, as it follows the same line of thought presented in Trachiniae (Diod. Sic. 4.38.1–2): ἡ δὲ Δηιάνειρα πυθομένη τοῦ Λίχα τὴν πρὸς Ἰόλην φιλοστοργίαν καὶ βουλομένη πλέον ἑαυτὴν ἀγαπᾶσθαι, τὸν χιτῶνα ἔχρισε τῷ παρὰ τοῦ Κενταύρου δεδομένῳ πρὸς ἀπώλειαν φίλτρῳ (‘But Deianeira learned from Lichas of the affection that Herakles had for Iole and wishing that she would be loved more, she anointed the tunic with the destructive philtron that the Centaur had given to her’). However, as Prof. Gregory Nagy pointed out to me, it is also possible that Diodorus’ narrative is independent.

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17 For the testimonia and relevant discussion, see March 1987, 49–77; Gantz 1993, 431–4; Stafford 2012, 76–7; Carawan 2000, 189–237; Dámaris 2021, 270–3. 18 LIMC s.v. Nessos 80 and 91a, c. 530–520. There may be an earlier rendition of Nessos’ death by archery in a fragment from the Argive Heraion dated to the early seventh century (LIMC s.v. Nessos 89), but identification is uncertain (see March 1987, 52–3). 19 This is her earliest appearance in extant art, in a proto-Attic vase in New York, LIMC s.v. Nessos 36, but is also seen in a Melian amphora in Athens, LIMC s.v. Herakles 1690. 20 LIMC s.v. Nessos 43–5, c. 550 bc ; 22 and 27, c. 515 bc . An interesting momentum is depicted in the tondo of the Ambrosios Painter, c. 520 bc (LIMC s.v. Nessos 98), who reduces the scene to just Deianeira riding on Nessos’ back, reluctantly submitting to his embraces. As Stafford (2012, 77) notes, this choice ‘shifting the focus away from the physicality of the fight towards the emotionally fraught relationship between would-be rapist and victim, is ahead of its time’. 21 March 1987, 52–3. 22 Carawan 2000, 189–237. 23 Stafford 2012, 77. 24 March 1987, 49ff. discusses the fragment. On dating the Catalogue of Women and on the traditions it drew upon, see West 1985, 164–8 and Hunter 2005, 2–4 et passim. 25 Transl. by Most 2007. 26 Transl. by March 1987, 55, n.22. See also Swift 2019, 413–14. 27 Kamerbeek 1959, 3; March 1987, 55. 28 Transl. by Svarlien 1991. 29 A possible fragment of Bacchylides (P. Berol. 16140 = Snell and Maehler 64) also refers to the confrontation between Herakles and Nessos. But the attribution of the poem is uncertain; Bowra thought it was Pindar’s (F341B). See Snell 1940, 177–83. 30 In Bacchyl. 5 and Hom. Od., Deianeira’s marriage happens after Herakles’ last labour in the Underworld and his meeting with Meleagros. Hence, Wilamowitz 1917, 100–2 reasoned that this series of events follows the traditional version, according to which Deianeira’s marriage to Herakles must have come at the end of the hero’s lifetime and in close connection with his death. Sophocles probably innovates by transferring the meeting of the two persons to a much earlier stage, before the accomplishment of the labours. 31 Segal 1992/1995, 92. Also Segal 1981, 62: ‘The Trachiniae is the only extant play of Sophocles in which a human community, the polis or the heroic society of warriors, does not exert strong pressure on the protagonists. Trachis is the vaguest of political entities (cf. 3940). This is a play not of cities, but of wild landscapes’; and Segal 1995, 29: ‘Like the Ajax and the Philoctetes, the Trachiniae is a play not of cities, but of wild landscape. The city of Trachis never tangibly materializes, and Heracles’ family is not

Notes to pp. 21–3

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37 38

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especially well established there: they are “uprooted” (anastatoi, 39), a word that gives a certain restless coloring to the setting from the beginning’. Also, Knox 1983, 7: ‘Sophocles [. . .] poses the heroic figures of the ancient saga against the background of a half-mythical, half-contemporary polis, or, in the case of the Trojan War plays Ajax and Philoctetes, of the polis in arms, the στρατός. There is only one exception: Trachiniae’. Easterling 1982, 19. According to Easterling the house in Trach. ‘represents the familial order that is destroyed both from outside and, at the same time, by the agency of a poison secretly stored within it. What it does not represent in this play is the house as opposed to civic space’. On the question on whether tragedy enunciates political discourse, see Griffin 1998, 39–61, who takes a negative position, and the responses to Griffin: Seaford 2000, 30–44; Goldhill 2000, 34–56; Rhodes 2003, 104–19; see also Finglass 2005, 199–209 and Karakantza 2011, 21–55, which are relevant to Sophocles. See the discussion of the oikos as the foundation of Aristotle’s polis in Nagle 2006. Alcaeus F6, F208, F249; Aesch. Sept. 2, 62, 208–10; Soph. Ant. 162, 189–90; OT 22, 922–3; Pl. Resp. VI. 488a–489d. See Finglass 2018, ad OT 22–4. Monster Studies have already been established as a sub-discipline. Cohen 1996 constitutes the most important contribution to the field in the sense that it sets the foundation to the interdisciplinary effort of studying monsters. Over the last decade or so, the field has grown significantly, as the impact of Monster Studies has resulted in a relatively large number of articles, edited volumes, journals and books. Recent bibliographical guides are offered by Mittman and Dendle 2012; Picart and Browning 2012; Musharbash and Presterudstuen 2014; Weinstock 2014. For Monsters and Classics, see Morgan 1984; Atherton 2002; Murgatroyd 2007; Garland 2010; Felton 2012; Lowe 2015; Mitchell 2015; Gloyn 2019. However, Classics has yet to benefit substantially from the progress made, as for classicists a monster is mostly a figure within the frame of mythological narratives. See Felton 2012, 105. As Prof. Goff pointed out to me, monsters are quite often seriously phallic, and they routinely attack females. Not overlooking this aspect, the equation that I propose here aims to indicate the definition of normativity within patriarchy, rather than disregard the ‘masculine’ element in the concept of the monster. Except for Hydra, whose reference in Trach. does not imply an independent dramatic character, such as Nessos’ or Acheloos’, but is absorbed by the Centaur’s supremacy. However, it is also interesting that Herakles’ νόσος, caused by the poison of the Hydra combined with the blood of Nessos, despite being feminine, is also treated like an opponent who resembles a real beast. For the bestial features of the νόσος, see Biggs 1966, 223–35, Segal 1977/1995, 36–7, Sorum 1978, 59–60, 62. The fact that this monstrous element approaches the female with particularly violent intentions prompts further investigation to identify elements of rape narratives as

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part of the monstrous world of the drama. Sexual violence is the subject matter of the next chapter of this book. For Aristotle, biology confirms a purposeful (teleological) order that is inherent in nature. In this light, monsters are seen by the philosopher as rare exceptions to this recurring, common and principal pattern. However, for him, the fact that monstrous births only occur rarely and accidentally implies that they do not violate or annihilate the rationality of biological teleology but, in fact, contribute to the definition of the natural norm. So, Aristotle’s idea about natural perfection does not exclude the monster but can incorporate it and rationalize it, by defining it as unfinished, incomplete or unsuccessful. For monsters in Aristotle, see Morgan 1984, 124–7; Asma 2009, 45–9. Mayor 2000. Gilmore 2003, 180–7. For Acheloos, see Isler 1970, 1981; Gantz 1993, 28–9, 41–2, 526, 432–3, 150, 168; Brewster 1997, 9–14. Currie 2002 shows how ritual bathing by girls in a river could be interpreted by myth as sexual intercourse with the river god. Segal 1977/1995, 29. See Jebb 1892, ad 10; Stafford 2012, 75–6. Clarke 2004, 112. The presentation of Acheloos as an aspiring suitor of Deianeira in the prologue of the play (Trach. 6–17) is placed within the antagonistic framework of a suitorcontest. Pozzi 1996 has suggested the hypothesis that Oineus may have been reluctant to give away his daughter in marriage and may have presided at a test where the losers perished, so that Deianeira’s name represents accurately an epithet of her father. In this light, Acheloos’ multifaceted and protean representation by Sophocles may serve his intention to create the pretext of a fight with more than one participants-suitors. Therefore, the scene may be intended to recall a (well-known?) suitor-contest set by her father. For Centaurs, see duBois 1982; Gantz 1993, 143–7; Marangou and Leventopoulou 1997, 671–721; Padgett 2003; Bremmer 2012, 25–53. For Nessos, also see Diez de Velasco 1992, 838–47. Gilmore 2003, 187–9. See Jebb 1892, xlvii–xlix. For the importance of stories and storytelling in Trach., see Kraus 1991, 75–98. For the formal qualities of the play see Easterling 1982, 14. See Reinhardt 1979, 36: ‘The succession of situations in the Trachiniae may be compared with archaic sentence-structure in which ideas are strung in a row, in which one phrase is set next to another without link or connection’. Markantonatos (2012, 354–5), for instance, assumes this kind of evolution: ‘There are strong grounds for thinking that in his later surviving plays, especially in Philoctetes and Oedipus at Colonus, Sophocles has reached a power and massiveness of narrative

Notes to pp. 28–34

54 55 56 57 58 59 60

61 62

63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71

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manipulation which other contemporary dramatists (Euripides included) have hardly surpassed, unless in the exceedingly self-referential and narratively intricate Bacchae.’ Segal 1977/1995, 27. For the ways the primitive past pervades the Trach., see Segal 1977/1995, 30, 39 et passim. The Lloyd-Jones translation (‘There is an ancient saying among men, once revealed to them’) does not reflect this syntax. Karakantza 2020, 106. Κενταύρους ὠμοφάγους, Theognis Eleg. 542. For Centaurs as the embodiment of wilderness, see Bremmer 2012, 27–30. Cohen 1996, 7–12. See Felton 2012, 111. For Gigantomachy as the visual expression of excess over rationality and order, also see Dwyer 1998, 295. The decoration of both the metopes (Amazonomachy in the west, Fall of Troy in the north, Gigantomachy in the east, and the Fight of Centaurs and Lapiths in the south) and the chryselephantine statue of Athena Parthenos, housed in the Parthenon, has a purely warlike theme which evokes the opposition between order and chaos, between the human and the animal, between civilization and barbarism. This general theme is considered to be a metaphor for the Median Wars, and thus the triumph of the city of Athens. See Schwab 2005, 159–97. Hom. Il. 1.268; cf. [Hes.] Shield of Herakles, 186; Bacchyl. F 66; Eur. Her. 364–5, IA 1047. Buxton 1994, 80–113, where his article, Buxton 1992, 1–15, is reproduced, in slightly reduced form, and juxtaposed with similar treatment of ‘other territories: sea, caves and springs’. See also Buxton 2013, 9–31. Bremmer 2012, 25–53. Places near water, as localities beyond the limits of the ordered polis, have associations with sexual danger (Karakantza 2004, 35–6). A statuette figures Acheloos in feminine dress (Lee 2006, 317–25). Ephorus, quoted in Macrobius 18. See Lee 2006, 318. Cohen 1996, 13–14. Gould 1980, 52; Buxton 1994, 80–113; Karakantza 2004, 36. Cohen’s ‘Thesis II: The Monster Always Escapes’; see Cohen 1996, 4–6. For the generation of monsters in Hes., see Clay 1993, 105–16, where it is generally argued that with the interference of monsters Hesiod gives us a glimpse of what a monstrous anti-cosmos might be. The locus classicus for the beasts and gods determining the non-human boundaries is Aristotle’s Politics (1253a1ff.; cf. Eth. Nic. 1145a20–8). According to the philosopher, people are naturally designed to live in a polis (ὁ ἄνθρωπος φύσει πολιτικὸν ζῷον,

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1253a2). The one living solitary is either a worse or a better man (ὁ ἄπολις διὰ φύσιν καὶ οὐ διὰ τύχην ἤτοι φαῦλός ἐστιν, ἢ κρείττων ἢ ἄνθρωπος, 1253a3), namely he/she is either a beast or a god (ὁ δὲ μὴ δυνάμενος κοινωνεῖν ἢ μηδὲν δεόμενος δι᾽ αὐτάρκειαν οὐθὲν μέρος πόλεως, ὥστε ἢ θηρίον ἢ θεός, 1253a28–9). The paradox that ‘the dead are killing the living’ is often exploited in tragedy; see, e.g. Aesch. Cho. 886, Ag. 1018; Soph. Aj. 1026–7, El. 1417ff., Ant. 869ff., OT 1451–4. Covering both Greek and Roman eras, the available material on Herakles is more than any other Greek god or hero. His story covers numerous incidents, starting from his birth and moving to his myriad battles with various opponents, his death and his apotheosis as well as his post-mortem existence in Olympus. Herakles was widely worshipped as a god and a hero. His presence in literature also covers a wide scope of genres: from the earliest Greek epic to lyric, tragic, satyr and comic poetry, philosophical essays and love poetry. He is one of the most – if not the most – easily recognizable mythical figures in art, his image being familiar throughout antiquity up to the present day. As expected, the bibliography on the ‘Herakles’ theme is equally expansive. Galinsky 1972 and more recently Stafford 2012 offer comprehensive studies on Herakles’ varying presentation in Greek art and literature. The latest handbook on Herakles, edited by Ogden (2021) and of a great scale and depth, covers the subject in question in full extent, presenting it in an accessible form. Unfortunately, it was published too late to be fully considered in this volume. It is commonly accepted that Herakles’ heroic identity becomes very complicated when he acts as a tragic hero. Reinhardt 1979, 42 views Herakles as operating outside heroic society. Bowra 1944, 137, on the other hand, regards him as a figure of the heroic world who is not subject to the same laws as ordinary men. Segal 1977/1995, 38ff. discusses Herakles’ oscillation between heroism and bestiality, between ‘greatness’ and ‘nothingness’. Foley 1985, 177 notes that Herakles was too superhuman and too anticultural to fit readily into a genre that specialized in civic and domestic disasters. On tragic Herakles, also see Ehrenberg 1946, 144–66; Galinsky 1972, 41; Silk 1985, 1–22; Liapis 2006, 48–59; Papadimitropoulos 2008, 131–8; Lloyd 2021, 301–15. For the Ancient Greek Hero, see Nagy 2013; for Herakles as a paradigm of ‘heroic disaster’, see Lu 2013. Asclepius, Dioskouroi, Dionysus et al. are other pretenders to the hero-god status. See Stafford 2010, 229–30. Whereas monsters as the mythological background of Herakles’ legendary narrative were noticed by several critics, Segal 1977/1995, 26–68 and Sorum 1978, 59–74 were the first who seriously took them into account in their readings of Trach. Sorum was also the first to suggest that Herakles is himself a monster (Sorum 1978, 63). Cohen 1996, x. Gilmore 2003, 194.

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81 Zeus being one of the first culture heroes, followed by Apollo fighting against Pytho and other semi-gods or heroes, such as Cadmus, Bellerophon, Theseus, Odysseus and Herakles. For the notion of the hero, see Schwartz 1969; Campbell 2004; Long 2005, 2090–3. For the notion of the hero (and Herakles in particular) and the monster in Greek myth, see: Kirk 1974; Eisner 1987, 189; Dowden 1992, 111–12; Dowden 1998, 113–33. 82 See Gilmore 2003, 28–9. 83 Cohn 2001. 84 Gilmore 2003, 193. 85 See Gilmore 2003, 11–12. 86 See Kirk 1974, 206–9. To Kirk’s list of oppositions, Loraux 1995, 116–39 adds the opposition between super-masculinity and femininity. 87 The battle between Herakles and Acheloos has already been identified as one between monsters: Galinsky 1972, 37; Sorum 1978, 61–4. For a discussion of the first stasimon, see also Sorum 1978, 68–75. 88 The contest of the two opponents was a popular theme in literature and visual arts; see Gantz 1993, 432–3; Stafford 2012, 74–6. 89 Regardless of which of the four ancient explanations of the word ἀμφίγυοι we were to choose. It is obvious that no definitive answer can be provided to this question, but I think that this is not a problem that creates serious interpretive difficulties. For the relevant discussion see Jebb 1892, Easterling 1982 and Davies 1991, ad loc. 90 Stafford 2012, 167.

2 Three Weddings and a Funeral: Marriage and Sexual Violence 1 For the institution of marriage in ancient Greece and Athens, see Pomeroy 1975, 1997; Just 1989, 28–52; Vernant 1990a, 55–77; Patterson 1991, 48–72; Leduc 1992, 235–95; Oakley and Sinos 1993 (wedding ceremony in ancient Athens). For marriage in tragedy, see Seaford 1986 (marriage in Trach.); Seaford 1987 (tragic wedding); Ormand 1999 and Patterson 2012 (marriage in Sophocles); Foley 2002, 61–73 (review of what we know of the legal, social and economic issues that may condition tragedy’s response to the Athenian tragic system). 2 Seaford 1986, 50–9 and 1987, 106–30, and Segal 1992/1995, 69–94, present readings of marriages of the play as perversions of the normal order. Kraus 1991, 79–88, provides a narratological reading of marriage. 3 Sexual, bestial and nuptial imagery, along with the motifs of light/darkness, disease and knowledge are the most recurring thematic patterns in the language of image and symbol of Trach.: Hoey 1964, Holt 1976.

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Notes to pp. 43–6

4 Deacy and Pierce 1997, Omitowoju 2002, Zeitlin 1986 and Lefkowitz 1993 are probably the most-read and most-cited studies on the topic of rape in antiquity. However, the literature is more extended and a new volume, edited by Deacy and McHardy, is expected in 2020. For a concise outline of feminist approaches to the topic of rape and a reading of Greek tragedy’s rape narratives through this lens, see Rabinowitz 2011, 1–21, where recent works are cited. See also Sourvinou-Inwood 1987, 131–53, for meanings produced by the theme of erotic pursuit, and Karakantza 2004, 29–45, for a study of literary conventions and political ideology in rape narratives. 5 Oakley and Sinos 1993, 12–13. See also Oakley 1995, 66–8, for wedding iconography in scenes with pseudo-brides, i.e. victims of rape, concubines and willing premarital partners, in vase painting. Cohen 1996, 131 proposes that the wedding procession would have involved false struggling on the part of the bride and false abduction on the part of the groom. 6 Zeitlin 1986, 123. 7 Rabinowitz 2011, 16. 8 Speaking on legal grounds, in studies that focus on the evidence on Athenian attitudes towards rape provided by legal texts, there is a tendency to underestimate the distinction between consensual and non-consensual sex because an unmarried girl below a certain age was a legal minor, surveilled under the protection of a κύριος; hence, she is considered incapable of making any decision or choice, including consenting to sexual intercourse. Lack of consent as a legal argument can thus only be applied to the κύριος of a female, since he is the only one who could bring a charge of assault against the offender in court and claim recompense for the damage (shame or dishonour) this offence caused to him and his family. Omitowoju 2002, 128–30, for example, has suggested that sexual intercourse without the consent of a woman was an offence only if her kyrios had not consented to it either. 9 Scafuro 1990, 126–59; Sommerstein 2006, 233–51. 10 Sommerstein 2006, 235. Similarly, Harris 2015, 298–314, drawing on a variety of sources, argues against the views which suggest that women’s desire in tragedy is inherently disruptive, a threat to family and community and presents evidence showing that men in ancient Greece did notice whether women said yes or no in sexual matters, and therefore recognized that women had a will of their own and could make decisions about their bodies. 11 Tereus survives in seventeen fragments (TrGF 581–95b and P.Oxy. 5292). See Fitzpatrick 2001, 90–101 and 2006, 141–95; March 2003, 139–61; Coo 2013, 349–84; Finglass 2016, 61–85 and 2020, 87–102. 12 Karakantza 2004, 39. 13 Karakantza 2004, 40. 14 This annotation was pointed out to me by Prof. Goff.

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15 Zeitlin 1986, 125–6. 16 See Jebb 1892, ad loc.: ‘Those “within” are her handmaidens; those “without”, the Chorus’. 17 Only a few songs that were composed for actual weddings (ἐπιθαλάμιον) are preserved. Sappho is the author of most of them. Alcman’s fragments do not contain any, although he had the reputation of a ‘singer of wedding songs’ (see T3 Campbell). For a discussion of the surviving fragments and other songs that seem to have been composed under the influence of the wedding songs tradition, see Hague 1983. On the basis of the surviving fragments, she concludes that the most profound features that seem to suggest a wedding song are: 1. complimenting the bride and the groom by means of comparison (often to gods, heroes and plants), 2. μακαρισμός (of the groom) and 3. prayers for the future happiness of the couple. 18 Within the particularly complicated syntax of the phrase ‘ὡς ἄελπτον ὄμμ’ ἐμοὶ φήμης ἀνασχὸν τῆσδε νῦν καρπούμεθα’, the participle ἀνασχόν should be taken as intransitive. In that case, ἀνέχω/ἀνίσχω (see LSJ, s.v. ἀνέχω Β.1.b) should be attached with ὄμμα (which could mean ὄμμα αἰθέρος, namely ‘sun’) to signify the sunrise (cf. the phrase πρὸς ἥλιον ἀνίσχοντα, Hdt.3.98). Thus, the phrase is commonly understood to mean the sunrise (see Easterling 1982 ad loc. and Lloyd-Jones transl.) Nevertheless, ὄμμα could be used in a more general sense to mean light or something precious (LSJ s.v.). Also, see LSJ for ἀνασχὸν