Greek Theatre in the Fourth Century BC 9783110337556, 9783110337488

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Greek Theatre in the Fourth Century B.C.

Greek Theatre in the Fourth Century B.C. Edited by

Eric Csapo · Hans Rupprecht Goette · J. Richard Green · Peter Wilson

De Gruyter

IV

ISBN 978-3-11-033748-8 e-ISBN 978-3-11-033755-6

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A CIP catalog record for this book has been applied for at the Library of Congress.

Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available in the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de.

© 2014 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Typesetting: Dörlemann Satz GmbH & Co. KG, Lemförde Printing and binding: Hubert & Co. GmbH & Co. KG, Göttingen o Printed on acid-free paper Printed in Germany www.degruyter.com

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Table of Contents Acknowledgements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . VII Abbreviations and Conventions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . IX Introduction: Old and New Perspectives on Fourth-Century Theatre . . . . . . . . .

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Section A: Theatre Sites Christina Papastamati-von Moock The Theatre of Dionysus Eleuthereus in Athens: New Data and Observations on its ‘Lycurgan’ Phase . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Hans Rupprecht Goette The Archaeology of the ‘Rural’ Dionysia in Attica . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77 Jean-Charles Moretti The Evolution of Theatre Architecture Outside Athens in the Fourth Century . . . . 107

Section B: Tragedy and Comedy Oliver Taplin How Pots and Papyri Might Prompt a Re-Evaluation of Fourth-Century Tragedy . . 141 Sebastiana Nervegna Performing Classics: The Tragic Canon in the Fourth Century and Beyond

. . . . . 157

Johanna Hanink Literary Evidence for New Tragic Production: The View from the Fourth Century . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189 Andrew Hartwig The Evolution of Comedy in the Fourth Century . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 207

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Table of Contents

Section C: Performance outside Athens Eoghan Moloney Philippus in acie tutior quam in theatro fuit … (Curtius 9. 6. 25): The Macedonian Kings and Greek Theatre . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 231 Brigitte Le Guen Theatre, Religion and Politics at Alexander’s Travelling Royal Court

. . . . . . . . 249

Vayos Liapis Cooking Up Rhesus: Literary Imitation and Its Consumers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 275 Zachary Biles – Jed Thorn Rethinking Choregic Iconography in Apulia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 295 Edward G. D. Robinson Greek Theatre in Non-Greek Apulia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 319 J. Richard Green Regional Theatre in the Fourth Century. The Evidence of Comic Figurines of Boeotia, Corinth and Cyprus . . . . . . . . . . 333 David Braund – Edith Hall Theatre in the Fourth-Century Black Sea Region . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 371

Section D: Finance and Records in Athens Eric Csapo – Peter Wilson The Finance and Organisation of the Athenian Theatre in the Time of Eubulus and Lycurgus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 393 Benjamin W. Millis Inscribed Public Records of the Dramatic Contests at Athens: IG II2 2318–2323a and IG II2 2325 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 425 Plates . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 447 Illustration Credit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 465 Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 467 Indices . . . . . . . Museum Index Index Locorum General Index

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527 527 535 556

List of Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 575

VII

Acknowledgements Over the course of three days in July 2011 (19–21) the Centre for Classical & Near Eastern Studies of Australia at the University of Sydney hosted a Colloquium, “Death of Drama or Birth of an Industry?: the Greek Theatre in the Fourth Century B. C.”. That Colloquium and this volume, which derives from it, were made possible with the financial and logistical support of many individuals and institutions. We gratefully acknowledge the support we received from the Ian Potter Foundation; the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences and the School of Philosophical and Historical Inquiry; the Department of Classics & Ancient History (and its William Ritchie Visiting Fellowship programme) and the Department of Archaeology (at the University of Sydney); the Australian Research Council; the Centre for Classical & Near Eastern Studies of Australia (at the University of Sydney); the Australian Archaeological Institute at Athens (and its Director, Alexander Cambitoglou, its Chief Operating Officer, Wayne Mullen, and its Deputy Director, Stavros Paspalas); the Nicholson Museum (and its Senior Curator, Michael Turner); the Women’s College of the University of Sydney (and its Conference Manager, Gineke de Haan); Mr Christopher Flynn. Their generosity also made possible the attendance and participation at the Colloquium of a number of post-graduate students from Greece and the United Kingdom. For assistance with the provision of images we would like to thank the following institutions and individuals: the Allard Pierson Museum, Amsterdam and W. M. van Haarlem; the National Museum, Athens and Stavros Paspalas; the American School of Classical Studies at Athens (Agora Excavations) and Robert Pitt; Art Resource and Robbi Siegel; the Antikenmuseum und Sammlung Ludwig, Basel and Andrea Bignasca; the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston and Marta Fodor; Musées royaux d’Art et d’Histoire, Brussels and Greet van Deuren; the Australian National University Classics Museum, Canberra and Elizabeth Minchin; the Nationalmuseet, Copenhagen and John Lund and Bodil Bundgaard Rasmussen; the Corinth Excavations, American School of Classical Studies at Athens and Ioulia Tzonou-Herbst; the Delphi Archaeological Museum and the First Ephoreia of Prehistoric and Classical Antiquities, Athens; the Groningen Institute of Archaeology, University of Groningen and Kirsten van der Ploeg; the Antikenmuseum of the University of Heidelberg; the Pierides – Laiki Bank Museum, Cyprus and Katerina Prodromou; the Regional Archaeological Museum ‘Luigi Bernabò Brea’, Lipari and Umberto Spigo; the British Museum, London; the German Archaeological Institute in Athens; the Bildagentur für Kunst, Kultur und Geschichte and Norbert Ludwig; the Staatliche Antikensammlungen und Glyptothek, Munich and Irene Bösel; the Soprintendenza Speciale per i Beni Archeologici di Napoli e Pompei and Soprintendente Teresa Elena Cinquantaquattro, Stefania Saviano and Alessandra Villone; the Bibliothèque National de France, Paris and Pascale Kahn; the Réunion de Musées Nationaux and Tiphaine Leroux; the Soprintendenza per i Beni Archeologici della Basilicata and Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Policoro and Soprintendente Antonio De Siena; the Princeton University Art Museum, Princeton and J. Michael Padgett; the Museo Archeologico Regionale Paolo Orsi di Siracusa and Angela Maria Manenti; the Tampa Museum of Art, Tampa and William Zewadski and Seth D. Pevnick;

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Acknowledgements

the Martin von Wagner Museum (Antikensammlung), Würzburg and Arcangela CarboneGross. The Colloquium also benefitted enormously from the contribution of three Chairs – Alastair Blanshard, Elizabeth Minchin and Frank Sear – and of a participant whose paper does not appear in this book – Robert Pitt; and from the energetic and efficient practical assistance of various kinds given by Atticus Cox, Billy Kennedy, Sophie Morton and Wendy Reade. Olivier Pollet helped to produce the map that appears in fig. 9.1; and Myriam Fincker the images in the chapter by Jean-Charles Moretti. We thank them all. Finally, we express our most sincere thanks to Sophie Morton and Andrew Hartwig for their fine editorial assistance.

Abbreviations and Conventions

IX

Abbreviations and Conventions Abbreviations Journals and basic reference works are abbreviated according to the DAI List of Abbreviated Journals, Series, Lexica and Frequently Cited Works available on-line at http:// www.dainst.org/en/publication-guidelines?ft=all. We list here the abbreviations that are most frequently used as well as abbreviations that do not appear in the DAI list. ABL ABV Agora 16 Agora 19

ARV2 Beazley Addenda2 Beazley, Para CIRB CVA FGrHist FHG ID IE

IG IGBulg I2 IGUR IK Byzantion IOrop. IosPE I2 IScM I

C. H. E. Haspels, Attic Black-Figured Lekythoi (Paris 1936) J. D. Beazley, Attic Black-Figure Vase-Painters (Oxford 1956) A. G. Woodhead, Inscriptions: The Decrees, Agora XVI (Princeton 1997) G. V. Lalonde – M. K. Langdon – M. B. Walbank, Inscriptions: Horoi, Poletai, Leases of Public Lands, Agora XIX (Princeton 1991) J. D. Beazley, Attic Red-Figure Vase-Painters 2(Oxford 1963) T. H. Carpenter, Beazley Addenda: Additional References to ABV, ARV2 and Paralipomena 2(Oxford 1989) J. D. Beazley, Paralipomena (Oxford 1971) V. Struve, Corpus Inscriptionum regni Bosporani (Moscow 1965) Corpus Vasorum Antiquorum F. Jacoby, Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker (Berlin 1923– 1958) K. Müller – T. Müller, Fragmenta Historicorum Graecorum, 5 vols. (Paris 1841; repr. Cambridge 2010) Inscriptions de Délos (Paris 1926–1972) K. Clinton, Eleusis. The Inscriptions on Stone: Documents of the Sanctuary of the Two Goddesses and Public Documents of the Deme (Athens 2005–2008) Inscriptiones Graecae G. Mihailov, Inscriptiones Graecae in Bulgaria repertae. I. Inscriptiones orae Ponti Euxini 2(Sofia 1970) L. Moretti, Inscriptiones Graecae Urbis Romae (Rome 1968) A. Łajtar, Die Inschriften von Byzantion, Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 58 (Bonn 2000). V. C. Petrakos, O¹ φξ«  #  (Athens 1997) B. Latyschev, Inscriptiones Antiquae Orae Septentrionalis Ponti Euxeni Graecae et Latinae I 2(St. Petersburg 1916) D. M. Pippidi, Inscriptiones Daciae et Scythiae Minoris antiquae. Series altera: Inscriptiones Scythiae Minoris graecae et latinae. I. Inscriptiones Histriae et vicinia (Bucharest 1983)

X IScM III

LCS Liddell – Scott – Jones LIMC MMC3 MNC3 MO

MTS2 PCG PhV2 RVAp SEG SIG SNG TGR TrGF

Abbreviations and Conventions

A. Avram, Inscriptiones Daciae et Scythiae Minoris antiquae. Series altera: Inscriptiones Scythiae Minoris graecae et latinae 3. Callatis et territorium (Bucharest 2000) A. D. Trendall, The Red-Figured Vases of Lucania, Campania and Sicily, BICS Suppl. 31 (London 1973) H. G. Liddell – R. Scott – H. S. Jones, A Greek-English Lexicon 9(1996); Suppl. (1996) Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae 1–8 (Zürich – München 1981–1999) T. B. L. Webster – J. R. Green, Monuments Illustrating Old and Middle Comedy, BICS Suppl. 39 3(London 1978) T. B. L. Webster – J. R. Green – A. Seeberg, Monuments Illustrating New Comedy, BICS Suppl. 50 3(London 1995) B. Millis – S. D. Olson, Inscriptional Records for the Dramatic Festivals at Athens: IG II2 2318–25 and Related Texts (Leiden – Boston 2012) T. B. L. Webster, Monuments Illustrating Tragedy and Satyr Play, BICS Suppl. 20 2(London 1967) R. Kassel – C. Austin, Poetae Comici Graeci, currently 1–8 (Berlin – New York 1983ff.) A. D. Trendall, Phlyax Vases, BICS Suppl. 19 2(London 1967) A. D. Trendall – A. Cambitoglou, Red-Figure Vases of Apulia 1–2 (Oxford 1978–1982) Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum W. Dittenberger, Sylloge Inscriptionum Graecarum 3(Leipzig 1914–1924) Sylloge Nummorum Graecorum (London 1931ff.). P. Ciancio Rossetto – G. Pisani Sartorio (eds.), Teatri greci e romani alle origini del linguaggio rappresentato I–III (Roma 1994) Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta 1–5 (Göttingen 1971–2004)

Abbreviations for ancient Greek authors are listed as in Liddell – Scott – Jones XVI–XLV, with the exception only of Plays by Aristophanes (Ar.) and the one work of Plato (Pl.), i. e. Laws, capable of being rendered with a monosyllabic English title. References to scholiasts are indicated by “schol.” followed by the author-abbreviation. Abbreviations for Latin authors follow the Thesaurus Linguae Latinae Index (1900). Abbreviations for Papyrus collections are as they appear in Liddell – Scott – Jones XL–XLII.

Names Like most contemporary authors we have walked the thin line between the extreme Latinisation of Greek names, and the defamiliarisation of historical figures already well-known by their Latinised names. Persons and places well enough known to head an entry in S. Hornblower – A. Spawforth (eds.), Oxford Classical Dictionary 3(Oxford 1996) are spelled as in that heading. Thus Socrates is the famous philosopher, but Sokrates is a less illustrious namesake. OCD’s extreme Latinism made for many uncomfortable compro-

Abbreviations and Conventions

XI

mises. Even editors have their limits and our line was drawn at “Thoricus” and “Odeum”: the place appears here as “Thorikos” and the building as “Odeion”.

Transliteration Other Greek words and proper names follow the currently dominant standard convention for transliteration. We employ: ch for ; x for ; ph for φ; y for  (but u in a diphthong); ai for ;oi for . Dates As a general rule all dates will be B. C. (bibliographic references of course excluded) unless otherwise specified (or blatantly obvious).

XII

Abbreviations and Conventions

Introduction

1

Introduction: Old and New Perspectives on Fourth-Century Theatre Until recently the fourth-century theatre has languished in the deep shadow of its fifthcentury counterpart. To understand this neglect we need to reach back more than two centuries to the very beginning of ‘modern’ scholarship on Greek drama. Friedrich and August Schlegel built upon an organic model of literary history1. Their own model had deep and complex ideological roots in romanticism and German nationalism2. It assimilated the fifth century to the bloom of the Greek spirit (of which tragedy was the highest expression), and the fourth century to its decay3. Others built upon this binary structure. Nietzsche sharpened the apex of transition in his account of tragedy’s sudden demise in his Birth of Tragedy, especially in section 12 where Euripides’ aesthetic Socratism, rationalism and realism are said rather sensationally to have murdered tragedy, and in section 14 where the chorus, pictured as the religious and spiritual well-spring of tragedy, is said to have dried up. Here however the chronology is confused by the observation that the chorus began to dwindle even in Sophocles, but its collapse was accelerated through phases that “follow one another with terrifying speed in Euripides, Agathon and New Comedy”. The modern history of the ancient theatre was invented under the spell of these metaphors and images. But one had to wait for German scholarship to be exported for the opposition between fifth and fourth century to become systematic enough to override the evidence itself. In the first general history of ancient Greek theatre to be written in English (1889), Arthur Haigh (drawing directly on the already extensive German scholarship) left little doubt about the social cost of a loss of empire, explaining that “in the fourth century, after the fall of the Athenian empire, the political splendour of the City Dionysia came to an end”, with the consequence that “the fourth century is a period of decay as far as tragedy is concerned4”. But Haigh was keen to drive the lesson home and felt the need to find an actual death for tragedy to supplement what was merely a moral death. That the fourth century theatre included revivals of fifth-century tragedy had long been recognised and immediately problematised as something that quashed originality and also encouraged the manipulation of canonical texts by actors (always, it would seem, for the worse)5. Haigh converted the existence of revival into a proof of the loss of vitality: “a sure symptom of decay, both in tragedy and comedy, was the tendency to fall back upon the past, and reproduce old plays … as regards tragedy this practice had already become prevalent by the middle of the fourth-century”. But Haigh evidently wanted to suggest more than a loss 1

2 3

F. Schlegel 1794a. 1794b. 1795–1797. 1798. 1815; A. Schlegel 1809. See e.g. Behler 1993, 72–130; Duff 2009. The organic paradigm has mainly been of interest to Euripidean studies because initially at least Euripides (and later, late Euripides) is held

4 5

responsible for the decay: Michelini 1987, 3–11; Riley 2008, 154–174; Mastronarde 2010, 12. Haigh 1889, 12. 27. E.g. Grysar 1830, 2–8.

2

Introduction

of vitality and he hints at an actual (organic!) death without actually saying so: “by the middle of the fourth century the career of Attic tragedy began to draw to a close … there were signs of decay in productive power”.6 Others would follow the metaphor to its necessary conclusion, putting an end to both tragedy and comedy (and much else) and not waiting for the middle of the fourth century to let them die. Even if today we are more likely to use words like ‘decline’ rather than ‘decay’, and much less likely to express regret that the specific qualities of fourth-century theatre “grew to such a height as to become a positive vice, and to sap the military energies of the people”7, the biological metaphor is still alive and well, as are the ‘facts’ it generated. A rapid and casual survey of books published in the last two decades yields abundant news of tragedy’s or comedy’s death in the fourth century and even several permutations of the just-as-easily-disprovable claim that fourth-century theatre contained nothing but revivals of fifth-century classics: “With Sophocles and Euripides both dead, and leaving no successors, the fourth-century theatre contented itself with revivals” (Arnott 1989, 46); “in the fourth century new tragedies ceased to be produced and revivals of the classic works occupied the stage instead” (McNeill 1991, 262); “what is clear is how the loss of spiritual weight in the drama [after Euripides] coincided inevitably with the decline of tragedy and drama generally in an exhausted, overwrought Athens, and with it the quality of the writers drawn to the art” (Lee 2005, 197); “tragedy primarily survived in the form of revival in the fourth century” (Rogers 2007, 17); Erskine and Lebow (2012, 7) take for granted “the decline and all but disappearance of tragedy at the end of the fifth century BCE”. If any of this were true, then one could learn all one needed to know about fourthcentury drama by studying the fifth-century texts, and this, it seems, is a convenience worth any rationalisation, since for the most part the fourth-century texts are just not there. By the latter half of the twentieth century, the ideological roots of the organic model were dead, even if much of its superstructure continued to darken scholarship. A new and still more powerful paradigm appeared in the 1960s, most brilliantly in the writings of the structuralist Jean-Pierre Vernant8. Vernant placed the already polarised division into a binary chain that marked off the fifth century as the ‘moment’ of tragedy. Tragedy was a tool for solving problems and relieving tensions created by the transition from an ideology founded in aristocratic, agrarian, mythic and ritual values, to a new ideology of the democratic polis founded in reason. But by the fourth century (as Nietzsche had already observed) polis values were already established and the moment of tragedy was over. The idea that tragedy (and by extension comedy) served to define the values of a democratic citizen was taken up in a somewhat reductive form as a kind of propaganda of Athenian civic self-definition, usually at the expense of some foreign ‘other’, especially in ColdWar America, Britain and France. Ancient drama took on the thought-policing role performed by the modern mass-media. This paradigm encouraged the belief that tragedy and comedy were by Athenians, for Athenians and completely concerned with representing what it meant to be Athenian. But the fourth century just did not fit well into this paradigm. There was in the fourth century overwhelming evidence that drama was no longer uniquely Athenian: tragedy and comedy were manifestly performed elsewhere, and even in Athens foreigners were manifestly active 6 7

Haigh 1889, 32. 39. Haigh 1889, 317.

8

Esp. Vernant–Vidal-Naquet 1972, chapters 1 and 2.

Introduction

3

in the theatre. Moreover, the chorus, the surrogate of the citizen body, no longer dominated the drama. As a result little attention was spared for fourth-century development. But there was distortion, too. The paradigm was saved only at the cost of denying and repressing increasing evidence for the export or reperformance of drama even in the fifth century. In this and many other respects the new paradigm grew complicit with the old. From at least 1830 a dogma had arisen about the ‘single performance’: Grysar wrote with confidence that: habebant veteres Graeci iam antiquitus atque inde a cultioris tragoediae primordiis hoc institutum, ut fabulae semel in scenam productae non iterum darentur9. But Grysar then went on to list a huge body of evidence to the contrary by way of exception. These exceptions were forgotten by post-war scholarship. The belief that until well into the fourth century individual dramas were normally performed only once and for an exclusively Athenian audience had until the 1990s, congealed into dogma. It received its most authoritative expression even in the most unexpected places. Webster urged that “the Greek dramatist could only be certain of a single presentation of his tragedy on the stage” (1956b, XI f.). But the subtlety of Webster’s “only certain” is lost in Pickard-Cambridge (1968, 99): “in the fifth century the only performances of old plays (with an exception to be noticed) were presentations of unsuccessful plays in a revised form”. Starr (1991, 320) says the same thing but excepts only “more successful works”. The exceptions are evidently in doubt, but the ‘rule’ was needed to save a generation of deeply Athenocentric studies of Greek theatre. By the late 1980s ancient drama was no longer ‘Greek’ but securely ‘Athenian’, a view most monumentally advertised in the edited collection by Winkler and Zeitlin (1990) with the subtitle “Athenian Drama in its Social Context”, where (394) we are urged to “remind ourselves that fifth-century plays were written for single performances”. The notion is still echoed in much more recent books and by leading experts10. Scholarship shied away from the fourth century. To say that theatre is Athenian in the fifth century but international in the fourth, and that its real function was Athenian self-definition, is effectively to say that in the fourth century it is an empty shell. Why does this vision of the fourth century theatre prove so resilient in an age less driven by romantic, nationalistic or cold-war binaristic agendas? Some responsibility must be borne by the shape of the ancient evidence. In the case of tragedy, particularly, all of the weight seems to be on one side of the divide. All but (possibly) one of our complete tragedies belong to the fifth century11. Our one complete satyr play is fifth-century. Most comedy is fifth-century. It is true that the best evidence for revivals of ‘old tragedy’ and ‘old comedy’ is from the fourth century. It is true that in our fourth-century dramatic texts the chorus is scarcely visible. Ancient commentators testify to the superiority of the fifth century, the most important being Aristophanes whose Dionysus complained that since the death of Euripides and Sophocles there were no more creative tragedians, even if it was a feeder for a joke; and Aristotle, the ultimate source of the biological model, himself suggested that the tragedy of his day was ‘characterless’ and elsewhere implies, or can be understood to imply, 9

10

Grysar 1830, 3: “the ancient Greeks had established from former times, and indeed from the first beginnings of tragedy’s refinement, the rule that plays once brought upon stage should never again be produced”. E.g. Garland 2004, 3; Slater 2002, 54; even Calder 2006, 3 who challenges Webster’s inferences. The last two are reprints of earlier pieces.

11

Even general consensus that Rhesus was fourth century was only reached after 1964 because of and despite Ritchie’s (1964) attempt to prove it Euripidean. The play only survived because in antiquity it was mistaken to be by Euripides.

4

Introduction

that its choruses were deficient12. It is true, finally, that the fourth century canonised the fifth, exalted its poets as culture heroes and models and that fourth-century dramatists in some (limited) ways idolised and emulated the fifth-century dramatists. To fourth-century eyes the fifth century was incomparably great in every respect but most paradigmatically in “its poets, choruses and actors13”. But this is the great crux and paradox of the problem. If the shape of our evidence is overwhelmingly in favour of the fifth century, it is largely because the fourth century shaped it this way. In assuming the vast superiority of fifth-century theatre, we are accepting, too often without question, a fourth-century judgement. Aristophanes and Aristotle, rightly or wrongly, could be interpreted to endorse the notion that the fourth century was all about imitation and decay. The non-survival of postfifth century dramatic texts could be understood, rightly or wrongly, to reflect the judgement of the ages, that everything later was mediocre or merely imitative and therefore superfluous. The fourth-century canonisation of the fifth-century tragedians could be taken, not as a state of social psychology, but a confession of inferiority. But what if the discourse on ancient theatre had begun with different priorities? What if the Schlegels, instead of idolising poetry and particularly Greek tragic poetry as the highest expression of the human spirit, had fetishised some other art, or even given equal status to all the arts, or indeed all spheres of human endeavour? Would it not then have been possible, even easy, to establish the fourth-century theatre as the culminating monument of ancient culture? Almost all our Classical evidence for actors is fourth-century and even Aristotle can be cited for the proposition that the actor’s art achieved perfection in the fourth century. Music too, if one believes our ancient sources, only really became music from rather late in the fifth century. Popular enthusiasm for the theatre is best attested by our fourth-century sources, whether texts, artefacts or monuments. It is in the fourth century that at Athens the ability to attend the theatre begins most clearly to take on the definition of a civic right. From the fourth century comes a vastly greater quantity of information about theatre as an industry, managed by an increasingly complex set of officials, and crafted by an ever greater number of specialised artists. Though the Schlegels did not guess it (or care), the magnificent stone Theatre of Dionysus would be recognised already by Dörpfeld as a product of the fourth century. But most spectacular of all is the spread of drama which certainly began in the fifth but was so rapid in the fourth century that by its end there was a theatre and dramatic festival in every self-respecting city and town, not only in Greece, but throughout the Hellenised East – theatre indeed became the main vehicle of Hellenisation14. How ‘given’ is the 12

13

Ar. Frogs 72; Arist. Po. 1450a 25. 1456a 25–32. Aristotle claimed that tragedy “had attained its proper nature” (Po. 1449a 15), but it was post-Schlegelian poetics that explained its decay as a result of ‘denaturing’ its proper form: see e.g. Gravenhorst who blamed the passage of the Blütezeit on Euripides’ failure to stick with the traditional forms “in denen sein Geist sich nicht naturgemäß bewegen konnte” (1856, 94; our emphasis). For the biological model behind the Poetics, see esp. Depew 2007. E.g. D. 18, 317–319:   Ρ λ ’  «   «, θ   « « «  « [ξ]    !« 9 ", #   » λ $μ  %« . ρ ! « ³« $ξ Ρ « '’   « (; 

14

’ Ρ «, A'); ² ’ $φμ« ² «; Ν« !  « - % . /; Ω ξ  $! φ. $  μ« « 1-«, τ ) !, 3 ξ Ν’ 4/, μ 1-’ 5!1 λ « 6’ 7, — Ν , «  « , « ) « , « $/ « . Most of this information was, of course, available to most of the scholars who shaped the decadence theory, but it only served to prove their point: these were purely ‘material’ not ‘spiritual’ developments, and were somehow, even gained at the cost of the spiritual. Haigh (1889, 206f.), for example, writes that “it was not until the fourth century that the influence of the actors became so universal as to inflict distinct injury upon the art of dramatic writing”.

Introduction

5

inferiority of fourth-century theatre – indeed how ‘given’ is even the inferiority of fourthcentury dramatic poetry? What emerges from this is that the evidence has been shaped and reshaped for us to suit ancient and modern preoccupations and agendas, and the results can certainly be challenged. There is indeed a disturbing fluctuation even about how and where to place the dividing line between the great and the inferior age: Schlegel and many others thought Euripides the beginning of the end (but this would put the beginning of decay in about 455), or the late Euripides (but this would put the beginning of decay in about 420), or is it the death of Aristophanes (as late as 380)? Different testimonies can be privileged: despite fourth-century classicism, Aristotle cites both Carcinus and Chaeremon as often as he does Aeschylus, and Theodectes and Astydamas win his positive approval, which Euripides virtually never does; the Athenians placed a statue of Astydamas right in the theatron of the new ‘Lycurgan’ Theatre of Dionysus more than a decade before the statues of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides were erected in the parodos. But most of all, evaluations can change: the Rhesus may never be dubbed a great tragedy, but there is certainly room for a vindication of Aristophanes’ latest plays or Menander’s comedies, and a fuller appreciation of the fragmentary remains of fourth-century drama. The Cold War ended in 1989, but this is only a small part of the reason why a very different conception of Greek theatre, and indeed the Greek world15, is now emerging. The current climate of free trade, the internet, and high levels of personal mobility have made scholarship much more ready to look for and accept evidence for a multicultural, interconnected and networked Mediterranean, where former generations noticed only cultural and economical isolation. We are also equipped with better tools to find evidence of interconnection. Cultural studies have become multidisciplinary, more receptive to complex models of cultural interaction, and far more sensitive to the interactivity of political, economic and cultural production. Indeed, the ancient theatre is a paradigmatic locus of both forms of interactivity, between cultures and within them. It is, we think, no coincidence that it was in the 1990s that scholarship began to take its first serious look at fourth-century theatre. This was thanks to a number of developments in many relevant fields: literature, iconography, archaeology, and social history. But it was thanks, most of all, to interactivity between these fields. Although Menander’s texts and his place within the history of drama have been widely studied since the first major discoveries of Menander papyri in the early twentieth century, Menander is the great exception. The other playwrights of the fourth century suffered a near complete neglect. A crucial development was the gathering and publication of the texts of the fragmentary authors in Poetae Comici Graeci (PCG). It was complete (apart from the volume devoted to Menander’s plays preserved on papyri) in 1991. Apart from the Studies in Later Greek Comedy (Manchester 1953) by the intrepid pioneer T. B. L. Webster, the first comprehensive study devoted to fourthcentury (Middle) comedy, by Nesselrath, appeared as recently as 1990. The first commentaries on ‘Middle Comic’ poets followed in its wake. Richard Hunter’s commentary on Eubulus, published in 1983, is an exception, but it was begun as a dissertation under Colin Austin, one of the editors of PCG. Arnott’s commentary on Alexis followed in 1996, Ben Millis’ Anaxandrides in 2001; 2008 saw the publication of Athena Papachrysostomou’s commentary on six Middle Comic poets; 2009 saw two commentaries on the

15

Morris 2003.

6

Introduction

late fifth-/early fourth-century Strattis by Orth and Miles; the rest will follow: the Freiburg project Kommentierung der griechischen Komödie promises to generate commentaries on all the other fourth-century comic poets in the next few years16. Even Aristophanes’ latest play, Wealth, after a century of neglect, received two commentaries in 200117. The interest in fourth-century tragedy is even more recent. The first ever monograph devoted to fourth century tragedy appeared in 1980 (by Xanthakis-Karamanos, a student of Webster)18. As with comedy, the first re-edition of the relevant fragments in nearly a century, Snell and Kannicht in vol. 1 of Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta (TrGF) in 1986, was an important stimulus. Apart from one maverick article on Chaeremon in 1970, all short studies of fourth-century tragedians and tragedies belong to the last twenty years: studies of Moschion (possibly third century) in 1996 and 1997; a study of Chaeremon in 2001; and studies of Rhesus in 2005, 2009, 2010, 2011, and 201219. 2012 saw the first ever full commentary in English on the Rhesus, another is in the works, and the first in any language since 1837 appeared in 200520. We can also date to the early 1990s the beginning of a change in the way scholarship characterises fourthcentury tragedy. Xanthakis-Karamanos was criticised for being too impartial towards it: one reviewer complained that “she is oddly reluctant to admit that fourth-century tragedy represents a decline”21, although in fact the picture she paints is one of light entertainments for an audience that could no longer stomach “true tragedies”22. The first real challenge to an age-old prejudice against fourth-century tragedy was a short but powerful article by Pat Easterling in 1993: “for sensationalism, triviality, affectation and so on we ought perhaps to read elegance, sophistication, refinement, clarity, naturalism, polish, professionalism – a new kind of cosmopolitan sensibility deeply influenced by, and interacting with, the classical repertoire”23. In 1995 Brigitte Le Guen tackled the theory of theatre’s ‘decline’ head on, dispelling all the clichés that sustained it: her article, aimed mainly at rehabilitating Hellenistic theatre was a fortiori valid for the fourth century as a whole24. The phenomenal rise of reception studies in the last two decades has also added its weight and urgency to fourth-century drama – or more particularly the much more recent extension of the concept of ‘reception’ to reception in antiquity. With the possible exception of the Homeric poems25, Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides and Menander offer the fullest and most varied body of material for the study of the ancient reception of poetry, but also performance (which is itself a concept and a perspective with a relatively recent history as we will see below). A major breakthrough in the study of the ancient reception of drama and dramatists was made at the end of the last century with pioneering essays by

16

17 18 19

20

21

Hunter 1983; Arnott 1996; Millis 2001; Papachrysostomou 2008. Sommerstein 2001; Torchio 2001. Xanthakis-Karamanos 1980. Collard 1970; Stephanopoulos 1995–1996 and 1997; Morelli 2001; Liapis 2009a; Fries 2010; Papadodima 2011; Perris 2012. Liapis 2012. Marco Fantuzzi is working on another. In German Feickert 2005 is the first commentary since 1837. Garvie 1983, 13.

22

23 24 25

Xanthakis-Karamanos 1980, 41; cf. Easterling 1993, 562. Easterling 1993, 568f. Le Guen 1995; cf. Le Guen 2007c. Particularly notable studies of Homeric reception are: Nagy 1990; Graziosi 2002; Kim 2010. One should note also Koning 2010 on Hesiod and Kivilo 2010 on Hesiod, Stesichorus, Archilochus, Hipponax, Terpander and Sappho.

Introduction

7

Easterling, Revermann and Allan26. With the only partial exception of Bruno Gentili’s Theatrical Performances in the Ancient World, the first books primarily dedicated to the ancient reception of tragedy were published in the twenty-first century27. Several chapters of Gildenhard and Revermann’s Beyond the Fifth Century (2010) deal with the ancient reception of tragedy. Sebastiana Nervegna’s Menander in Antiquity: the Contexts of Reception (2013) is the first monograph dedicated to the ancient reception of a playwright. Vayos Liapis and Antonis Petrides are, as we write, orchestrating a collective volume devoted to the performance and reception of Greek Tragedy after the Fifth Century. Some of the most important work in ancient reception is focussed on the processes that led to the creation of the tragic canon in which the fourth century played a crucial role28. Much of the impetus behind the rediscovery of the fourth century came from the integration of Performance Studies with Classical Literature and Archaeology – particularly the influence of Performance Studies on Oliver Taplin and Richard (J. R.) Green. Performance Studies was in origin broadly interdisciplinary (embracing such fields as theatre, anthropology, speech-act theory) and both Taplin and Green, starting from very different positions, have dedicated much of their scholarship to reconstructing the conditions and experience of dramatic performance in antiquity. Taplin’s classic studies Stagecraft of Aeschylus (1977) and Greek Tragedy in Action (1978) began by extracting clues to staging from the playtexts, but his research turned increasingly towards the material evidence, and in particular towards vase iconography. Comic Angels (1993) persuasively demonstrated the direct relevance of vases manufactured and painted in South Italy and Sicily to the comic drama produced in fifth- (and presumably fourth-) century Athens. Pots and Plays (2007) did the same for tragic drama. This spawned a new interest in fourth-century production and reception precisely because almost all of the relevant West Greek pottery was manufactured from ca. 400 to ca. 330. J. R. Green, by contrast, began with archaeology and iconography. Green developed his interest in theatrical performance by working with the archives begun by T. B. L. Webster, producing a revised Monuments Illustrating Old and Middle Comedy (MMC) in 1978 and, with Axel Seeberg, a greatly revised Monuments Illustrating New Comedy (MNC) in 1995. For most of the twentieth century scholarly interest in theatre-related imagery, mainly in vase-painting, remained marginal to theatre studies and was mainly focussed on extracting information for reconstructing the plots of fragmentary plays29. T. B. L. Webster contributed greatly to this enterprise, but his wide-ranging interests generated many pioneering studies on nearly all aspects of theatre production and history. The main burden of collecting, classifying and interpreting the theatre-related artefacts was taken up by Green. His most influential work, Theatre in Ancient Greek Society, published in 1994, drew upon these empirical researches to produce what is effectively the first social history of the Greek theatre. Green demonstrated how the artefacts could be used as evidence for the geographical spread of theatre, the development of masks and costume, popular percep26

Easterling 1997c; Revermann 1999–2000; Allan 2001. The novelty of ‘ancient reception’ even at so recent a date is clear from the reviewer’s complaint that Revermann 1999– 2000, a study of the performance of Euripides in Macedon down to the third century, was not ‘reception’ “at all” (Craik 2001, 80). Cf. Gildenhard – Revermann 2010, 3: “reception in antiquity has only recently started to receive

27

28

29

sustained attention”. Particularly noteworthy contributions are: Roselli 2005; Nervegna 2007. Gentili 1984; Battezzato 2003a; Prauscello 2006. Wilson 1996; Vox 2006; Hanink 2010a; Hanink 2010b. E.g. Séchan 1926; Kossatz-Deissmann 1978.

8

Introduction

tions of theatre, and acting styles. For the fourth century Green used not only vase-iconography, but artefacts on all other media, including the generally ignored terracotta figurines and masks, which probably originated as an Athenian souvenir industry at the close of the fifth century but rapidly came to be copied and imitated throughout the Greek world. The material evidence, once exclusively of interest to art history or literary history30, came to be investigated in its social, material and institutional contexts31. The influence of Webster and then also of Taplin produced some initially isolated work on ‘stagecraft’ such as Dearden 1976, Seale 1982, Frost 1988, but it was only in the 1990s when Taplin had become much more of an archaeologist and Green much more of a dramatist, that Taplin’s and Green’s approaches more nearly joined to become a mainstream preoccupation in scholarship. Ancient acting and stagecraft are now widely studied using a combination of textual and material evidence (e.g. monographs by Wiles 1991; Neiiendam 1992; Rehm 1992; Scullion 1994; Wiles 1997; Wiles 2000; Rehm 2002; Revermann 2006; Marshall 2006; Wiles 2007; Piqueux 2009; Hughes 2012). Even ancient actors have suddenly became viable subjects after long, though not total neglect32: two books on the ancient actors’ unions, the first in over a century, appeared in 2001 (Le Guen) and 2003 (Aneziri); the first ever collective volume on Greek and Roman Actors appeared in 2002 (Easterling – Hall); these were followed by monographs on the sociology of actors by Duncan (2006) and Csapo (2010). The essentially new field of acting and actors is significant for the fourth century because, despite the dearth of plays, both the textual and material evidence for acting and actors is more abundant for the fourth than any other century in antiquity. Paradoxically, relatively little of the above mentioned scholarship on acting and actors deals with the fourth century (and most of that deals with Menander at the very end of the century). Most of the observations on pre-Menandrian fourth-century acting are to be found in articles by Green and Taplin themselves33. The discovery of the importance of the iconographic material to theatre engendered an entirely new branch of theatrical studies, and a branch that is possibly of greatest consequence for understanding the theatre in the fourth century: namely the spread of theatre culture throughout the Greek world. Taplin’s study of comic vases in West Greece and Green’s more general study of the spread of theatre artefacts around the Mediterranean made it clear that what had hitherto been considered Attic drama was not only known but performed elsewhere. Since 1994 a series of studies has mapped the spread of drama, not just in the fourth century, but in the fifth34. Athenocentricity is directly challenged by the title and several of the papers of a volume entitled Why Athens? A Reappraisal of Tragic Politics published in 2010 (Carter). Luigi Todisco is responsible for the first volume entirely dedicated to a regional Greek theatre outside of Athens (2002); this was soon followed by Kathryn Bosher’s dissertation on Sicilian theatre (2006). She has recently edited the first collective volume of essays on theatre in Sicily and South 30

31

32

33

And still, oddly, the subjects of territorial squabbles that use precisely these exclusive terms of reference: see e.g. Small 2003. Taplin – Wyles 2010 is paradigmatic of these new directions. O’Connor 1908; Garton 1972; Ghiron-Bistagne 1976, and the hugely important Stephanis 1988. Green 1997; Green 2002; Green 2003; Green 2006; Green 2012; Taplin 2012.

34

Easterling 1994; Green 1994, 64–70; Taplin 1999; Dearden 1999; Scodel 2001; Allan 2001; Moloney 2003; Zacharia 2003; Csapo 2004a; Ceccarelli–Milanezi 2007; Hall 2007b; Kowalzig 2008; Csapo 2010, 83–116. New studies challenge not just Athenocentric but also Hellenocentric assumptions: Carpenter 2003; Robinson 2004.

Introduction

9

Italy (2012). It is now obvious that from an early date, drama had many opportunities for reperformance. An important factor in gauging the spread of theatre throughout the Greek world is the discovery and excavation of new theatre buildings. The existence of a theatre building does not necessarily entail dramatic performance, but it is very likely to do so. The discovery of several demonstrably early theatres contributed to the new interest in study of the dissemination of drama: in particular in Attica, at Thorikos, Euonymon, Halimous, Acharnae, whose results were mainly published in the 1990s and after35, and in locations as widespread as Hephaestia in Lemnos (Archontidou 2004), Elea (see Green 2008, nos. 414–419), Aegae (infra ch. 8), and Neandria (Trunk 1994). The architectural history of the theatre has always of course been necessarily focussed on the fourth-century remains, even if a primary agenda was to find evidence in it for reconstructing the fifth-century theatre building. Not until the 1990s, however, did scholars generally begin to take an interest in the diachronic development of theatre buildings and their importance for social and theatre history. It was only then that most architectural historians first came to terms with the vast difference in shape, scale and construction of the fifth-century theatre and hence also to gain a full sense of the originality and enterprise that went into the building of the fourth-century theatre36. Critically important for understanding the history of theatre construction in Greece were a series of surveys: by Green (1989, 14–23. 2008, 30–75); by Moretti (1991. 1992a–b. 1993. 1997. 2001); by Goette (esp. 1995a. 2011); by Lohmann 1998; by Frederiksen 2002; by Junker 2004; and the complete multivolume survey of all Greco-Roman theatres by Ciancio Rossetto and Pisani Sartorio, Teatri greci e romani alle origini del linguaggio rappresentato (TGR), published in 1994. Most important of all has been continued work in the Theatre of Dionysus, although accurate information has only become available in the last few years37. Most interdisciplinary of all is the institutional history of the theatre, by which we mean primarily its organisation and finance, and the manner in which its organisation and finance were integrated into the political and social structure of the polis or state. Though Pickard-Cambridge’s Dramatic Festivals of Athens (21968) was entirely concerned with theatre organisation, interest in finance and the social infrastructure of theatre are almost entirely absent. The first such institutional history of Classical theatre came only in 2000, with Peter Wilson’s The Athenian Institution of the Khoregia. Coming in the train of the New Historicism it examined the social relations of the men who funded drama, and how their motives were constructed and integrated into the broadest framework of Athenian society to serve the cultural, economic and political needs of sponsors, choreuts, and the theatre-going public38. Important advances were made in understanding the importance of the Dionysia to the government, finance and social structure of the demes, notably with the books by Whitehead 1986 and Jones 2004. Richard Seaford has studied the effects of 35

36

37

Thorikos: Mussche 1990; Mussche 1998; van Looy 1994; Palyvou 2001. Euonymon: Tzachou-Alexandri 1999; Tzachou-Alexandri 2007; Halimous: Kaza-Papageorgiou 1993. Crucial in addition to the publications of the theatres at Thorikos and Euonymon, were Gebhard 1974; Pöhlmann 1981; Goette 1995a; Moretti 2001, 121–136; Goette, in: Csapo 2007. Esp. Papastamati-von Moock 2007. 2012.

38

For major contributions to what we call ‘institutional history’ relating to fourth-century theatre, see: Makres 1994; Chaniotis 1997; Slater 1997; Scholl 2002; Vierneisel – Scholl 2002; Csapo 2003; Latini 2003; Summa 2003; Csapo 2004; Milanezi 2004; Chaniotis 2007; Wilson 2008; Agelidis 2009; Wilson 2010; Ceccarelli 2010; Paga 2010; Moretti 2010; Wilson 2011b; Slater 2011; Wilson – Csapo 2012.

10

Introduction

monetisation upon theatre and especially tragedy in several far-reaching studies (2003. 2004a. 2004b. 2012). Zachary Biles’ Aristophanes and the Poetics of Competition (2011) studies the full impact of the competitive festival setting upon the form and contents of Old Comedy. In the same year (2011) David Roselli wrote the first monograph dedicated to the theatre audience. In addition to the ancient authors, the archaeology and the iconography, the institutional history of the theatre relies heavily on epigraphic material, and here again, the bulk of the surviving evidence favours the fourth century. Very recent advances in the editing and reconstruction of the epigraphic material, such as Stephen Lambert’s new edition of the decrees from 353–321 in IG II3 1, fascicle 2 (2012) with a series of related studies39, and Ben Millis and Douglas Olson’s Inscriptional Records for the Dramatic Festivals in Athens (2010), will make this material much more accessible for future studies. The present volume, Greek Theatre in the Fourth Century B. C., collects new studies by the leading experts in fourth-century theatre. It differs from all other studies in offering a complete overview of all aspects of the fourth-century theatre: the new locations, the new buildings, the new dramas, the new attitudes to theatre, the new uses for theatre and the new ways of organising, funding and memorialising theatrical production. Some of the topics are old, but even these contain new evidence and new perspectives. Above all this volume offers the multidisciplinary approach that we think indispensible for the study of fourth-century theatre. The first section (A) deals with theatre venues and theatre buildings, one of the few areas of indisputable expansion and creativity within the fourth-century theatre industry. In Chapter 1, Christina Papastamati von-Moock makes public for the first time new and often unexpected discoveries brought to light over the last sixteen years of excavation, study and reconstruction in the Theatre of Dionysus at Athens in which she played a major role. In Chapter 2, Hans R. Goette, a foremost expert on Attic topography, studies the evidence for theatre at the Rural Dionysia in Attica and asks new questions about its organisation and in particular about the sharing of resources between demes. In Chapter 3, JeanCharles Moretti, the leading expert on Greek theatre architecture, looks at developments beyond Attica to offer a magisterial survey of the spread of theatre buildings and their development into a monumental form in the fourth century, identifying regional variations and regional contributions to the common architectural vernacular. Section B examines fourth-century drama. Oliver Taplin, in Chapter 4, asks the recklessly unorthodox and intelligent question ‘might fourth-century tragedy have been creative, innovative and even great drama?’ and then from an examination of largely neglected papyrus texts and fourth-century vase paintings skilfully demonstrates that the answer may, contrary to all the most cherished assumptions of the last two hundred years of theatre history, be ‘yes’. Sebastiana Nervegna, Chapter 5, for the first time, examines all the available evidence for the early canonisation of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides, uncovering its causes and variations, such as the anomalously different reception of Aeschylus and Sophocles in the Greek East and West. Far from being proof of the inferiority of fourth-century tragedy, the canonisation of the fifth-century tragedians appears to emerge from the vitality, diversity and expansiveness of theatre in the fourth-century and Early Hellenistic period. Johanna Hanink, Chapter 6, similarly views the classicism of the fourth century as an index of the vitality of fourth-century tragedy. Classicism and the canonisation of the three fifth-century tragedians is a sign of the growing independence of 39

Lambert 1997. 2000. 2005. 2006. 2008. 2010. 2011. 2012.

Introduction

11

theatre as an institution, of the growing centrality of tragedy in social discourse, and of the international success of the theatre industry. Finally, Andrew Hartwig in Chapter 7, focuses on fourth-century comedy, taking issue with the general view that it is a period of decline, and gathers the evidence to show that it was a fertile and innovative period that set the comic agenda for centuries to come. What are usually identified as symptoms of collapse are more convincingly interpreted as a product of the comic theatre’s expansion, growing internationalisation and pan-Hellenic values. Section C explores aspects of theatre’s expansion throughout the Greek world and indeed beyond. There has been much fruitful discussion in the past two decades about fifthand fourth-century theatre in the Greek West40. We turn our attention instead to six largely unexplored areas of fourth-century expansion. Indeed the performance of Greek theatre in non-Greek realms has scarcely been studied as a phenomenon, and yet one non-Greek nation arguably had as great an impact upon fourth-century theatre history as Athens itself. Macedonian theatre can no longer be viewed as cultural transfer from an active Athenian centre to a passive semi-barbarian periphery. Eoghan Moloney in Chapter 8 explores the way that Archelaus and Philip II reconfigured theatre to suit their need to organise and maintain power in the Macedonian state; and many of these transformations changed Greek theatre even sooner than Macedonian power could change the general configuration of the Greek world. Brigitte Le Guen, in Chapter 9, explores the crucial role played by Alexander in spreading theatre to other non-Greek cities throughout the Middle East, West Asia and Egypt. This was doubtless the most significant event in fourth-century theatre history, as it made theatre the main vehicle for linguistic and cultural Hellenisation (and hence a core element within the cultural education of the administrative and ruling classes of the Hellenistic kingdoms), with the result that the demand for theatre, in the years following Alexander, increased possibly a hundredfold by the end of the century. And yet, contrary to the long-standing bias of decay theorists that fourth-century theatre had become secularised (and Hellenistic theatre still more so), Le Guen shows that Alexander maintained theatre’s traditional religious and festival structures. Vayos Liapis’ Chapter 10 studies the peculiarities of the one surviving fourth-century tragedy, the Rhesus, a tragedy that has long stood as a proof of the inferiority of post-Euripidean tragic production. He makes a case for supposing the Rhesus atypical of mainstream fourth-century production, and argues that it may have been composed with a Macedonian audience in mind. In Chapter 11, Zachary Biles and Jed Thorn take a close look at the reception of theatre-iconography among the non-Greek communities of Southern Italy, especially the Italic people who inhabited the region of Peucetia. They were the main consumers of the Apulian-made red-figured pottery that is so rich in theatrical motifs, and also importers of much of the finest theatre-related Attic pottery to survive till the present. Theirs is the first fully contextual study of the theatre-related pottery in native Italy and their observations indicate that the funerary symbolism of Dionysian iconography was a more important factor in its reception than the theatrical subjects. Even if the non-Greek populations of South Italy were primarily attracted to the funerary symbolism of what we have come to think of as ‘theatre-related’ vase-paintings, Edward G. D. Robinson in Chapter 12 gives strong arguments for concluding that the theatrical motifs on West Greek pottery were appreciated 40

See esp. Taplin 1993; Bosher 2006; Taplin 2006; Wilson 2007d; Kowalzig 2008; Bosher 2012.

12

Introduction

for more than just generic Dionysian content. Robinson challenges the presupposition that the native populations in the hinterland of Taras were necessarily alien to Greek culture and ignorant of theatre. We have, after all, incontrovertible evidence that non-Greek inhabitants of the Italian peninsula were watching (and even adapting and performing) Greek drama in the third century, and that non-Greek populations elsewhere (especially Macedon) were avid consumers of Greek theatre already in the fifth century. Robinson offers the very first serious attempt to throw light upon the spread of theatre culture through non-Greek Italy in the century and a half before history can verify that Greek drama reached Rome. J. Richard Green, in Chapter 13, takes a first look at what the iconographic evidence can tell us about Greek regional theatre. This has been well studied for Sicily, particularly in Bosher 2012, but Green’s is the very first consideration of regional styles in Boeotia, Corinth, and Cyprus. Another first is Chapter 14 by Edith Hall and David Braund. From the Black Sea comes one of our most startling early testimonia for the spread of literary culture. On the very eve of the fourth century (400) Xenophon tells us that among the wreckage of ships on the Thracian Pontus he saw “couches, boxes, written books” (An. 7, 5, 14). It has long been supposed that drama was one of the staples of the early book trade and it has startled many scholars to think that it was one of the cargoes traded in the Black Sea. To date no scholar has researched the question of the fourth-century reception of theatre and theatre culture in this area. This is partly due to the difficulty of accessing information about the material remains, both because they are published in eastern European or Asian languages, and because much of the research was done in former East Block countries with poor communication with outside scholarship. Hall and Braund offer the first general survey of theatre around the Black Sea. Section D contains two contributions to the institutional history of the theatre. In Chapter 15 Eric Csapo and Peter Wilson study the financial innovations of Eubulus and Lycurgus in the third quarter of the fourth century, to show how versatile, subtle, but also theatrocentric they were. In Chapter 16 Benjamin Millis studies the different characters and functions of the enormously important series of inscribed public records for the Athenian dramatic contests: the Fasti, Didascaliae and Victors Lists. Although some of these were created in the third century, the first, the Fasti, and with it the very idea of a public commemoration of civic victors, is a product of the Eubulan era. The Greek Theatre in the Fourth Century B. C. brings together the various strands of contemporary scholarship that permit, for the first time, a holistic image of the Greek theatre in the age of its greatest growth and maturity. It attempts to regard fourth-century theatre in its own light, not overshadowed by the grandeur of the fifth-century theatre. Indeed it could be said with some justice that fourth-century theatre was the parent of its parent. It selected, shaped and cultivated ‘fifth-century theatre’ precisely to serve as the greatest cultural bloom of the Classical era, and so we have received it. That it could do so is testimony to the immense power and importance of theatre in t h e f o u rt h cen t u ry. The way it did so is testimony to the ideals and values of fourth-century theatre, for fifth-century theatre is in an important sense, an artefact of the fourth century and cannot properly be understood unless we moderns acknowledge that, at least from our perspective, the shadow falls the other way.

Introduction

Section A: Theatre Sites

13

14

Introduction

The Theatre of Dionysus Eleuthereus in Athens

15

The Theatre of Dionysus Eleuthereus in Athens: New Data and Observations on its ‘Lycurgan’ Phase* Christina Papastamati-von Moock

Despite the one and a half centuries that have passed since the discovery of Athens’ theatre in 18621 and despite the large number of studies that deal, either directly or indi* My warmest thanks are due to the President of the Scientific Committee and former Director of the Acropolis Ephorate, Dr A. Mantis, for his support and trust over the years, and the Honorary Ephor P. Kalligas, the President of the Committee until 2002, as well as to the Directorate of the A' Ephorate of Prehistoric and Classical Antiquities for the relevant study and publication permits. I would, furthermore, like to express my warm thanks and gratitude to Prof. M. Korres of the Faculty of Architecture (NTUA) who, as a member of the Committee, always generously gave his time and shared his valuable knowledge concerning new investigations and observations. I also owe warm thanks to A. Samara, the architect responsible for the restoration programme of the theatre’s retaining walls, and the draftsman D. Kouliadis for our long-standing and constructive cooperation and friendship; similarly to N. Kourelis, the head of the team of stonemasons. I owe special thanks to the architect G. Antoniou for the reconstruction drawings and for all his valuable help, to Prof. S. Rotroff, Dr C. Schauer and Dr N. Vogeikoff-Brogan for discussing matters related to the pottery finds with me, to the former Director of the Numismatic Museum Dr D. Evgenidou, the numismatists E. Apostolou and E. Ralli, and the conservator E. Kontou for the conservation and identification of the excavation coins, as well as to the photographer of the Ministry of Culture and Tourism, S. Gesaphidis, for the aerial photographs. I owe thanks and gratitude to Profs. P. Wilson, E. Csapo and J. R. Green, for the invitation to participate in the conference, as well as for constructive conversations and their warm hospitality in Sydney. Furthermore, for all their help I must express my gratitude to the Director of the Australian Archaeological Institute at Athens,

1

Prof. A. Cambitoglou, as well as to the Deputy Director Dr St. Paspalas, who also kindly translated my text into English. The editors have also helped improving my text. Finally, I warmly thank the Sydney Friends of the Australian Institute and their President, Mr A. Hatsatouris, for their support and warm hospitality, as well as Dr W. Mullen for his expert organisation. I had presented preliminary thoughts and conclusions on the Classical phases of the theatre in a lecture I delivered at the NTUA in 2004 at the invitation of Prof. M. Korres. These thoughts and conclusions are continually being supplemented by the results of new investigations and observations over recent years. While this paper was being written, excavations were in progress in the theatron by the author as part of the restoration programme; these excavations provide supplementary details both for the Lycurgan as well as for the Classical wooden theatre. Within the framework of a paper such as this it has not been possible to examine, or even touch upon, all the issues that pertain to the Theatre’s ‘Lycurgan’ phase. Rhousopoulos 1862, 37 f. 64. 94–102. 114–120. 128–147. 154–184. 209–220. 224. 278–294; Julius 1878 (with drawings by E. Ziller, who was responsible for the first, and indispensable, plan of the remains revealed in the 1862 excavations of the Theatre of Dionysus). Until recently researchers had believed that the first – unsuccessful – attempts to locate the Theatre were conducted at the end of 1840, see Neroulos 1840, 66–68; Ragkavis 1841, 120–122. New and important data on the Theatre of Dionysus, the choregic monuments of Thrasyllos and Lysikrates, as well as other monuments of the Acropolis have come to light thanks to L. Gallo’s recently published important study of the architectural drawings and other docu-

16

Christina Papastamati-von Moock

rectly2, with the theatre, many crucial issues remain unresolved. Consequently, many divergent views hinder our efforts to understand the monument as an active component in the history of dramatic production in Athens. This situation is attributable in large part to the fragmentary preservation of the theatre’s remains (fig. 1.1; pl. 1), a result of the numerous changes to its architectural design over the millennium or so of its use; to catastrophic invasions during antiquity3; and to the extensive dismantling the theatre underwent owing to the changes in its use from the Early Christian period onwards4. To all this one must add the fact that study of the monument, even by distinguished researchers, was not always accompanied by the kind of systematic excavations or careful

2

ments in the Elgin Collection housed in the British Museum, specifically those of Sebastiano Ittar dating to 1800–1801 (see Gallo 2009). On a map of Athens with the plan of the Acropolis monuments (Gallo 2009, 69 fig. 64) the site of the Theatre of Dionysus (Theatre of Bacchus) is correctly marked, where it had originally been identified by R. Chandler (1765) (Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, 1); the site of the theatre is also correctly given on a plan of the city of Athens of the end of the eighteenth century by Fauvel: Meletopoulos 1979, pl. 53. In contrast Stuart – Revett 1762, II, p. V [2008, 23–27] placed the theatre at the site of the Odeion of Herodes Atticus, but did not reproduce correctly the layout of the Theatre. Indeed, we are informed by Balestra’s notes (Gallo 2009, 60. 67. 292) that an excavation conducted over a few days was undertaken at the Theatre of Dionysus, among other monuments, in the period from November 1, 1800 to March 16, 1801, with six workers, in order to ascertain the original layout of the monument through inspection of its foundations. On a plan of the theatre (Gallo 2009, 115 fig. 115) are presented sections of its outer retaining walls, the Monument of Thrasyllos (for other important drawings of this monument: Gallo 2009, 46 fig. 35; 113 fig. 111; 114 fig. 113), the two choregic columns above it, for the first time the foundation cutting for the krepidoma of a third column, and in construction the stepped cuttings in front of Thrasyllos’ monument and those to the west of it; the latter seem more hypothetical and they cannot be verified on the monument. Represented on this plan also is a long excavation trench which cuts the Epitheatron along a N-S axis from the area in front of the Monument of Thrasyllos down to the Peripatos. These documents were clearly not known to the Archaeological Society at Athens in 1840 (see supra) when it undertook its first trial excavations which also started at the Epitheatron. Basic bibliography: Rhousopoulos 1862; Julius 1878; Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896; Haigh 1898;

3

4

Dörpfeld 1925; Bulle 1928; Fensterbusch 1930; Fiechter 1935; Fiechter 1936; Schleif 1937; Pickard-Cambridge 1946; Anti 1947; Fiechter 1950; Dinsmoor 1951–1953; PickardCambridge 1953; Bieber 1939, 99–126. 133–146; Bieber 1961, 54–71. 74–79. 123f. 213–216; Travlos 1971, 537–552; Maass 1972; Taplin 1977, 434–459; Wurster 1979; Korres 1980; Korres 1982; Winter 1983; Tsakos 1985; Townsend 1986; Makri et al. 1987/1988; Papathanasopoulos 1987; Polacco 1990; Wurster 1993; Isler 1994, 87–107; Csapo – Slater 1994, 79; Scullion 1994; Goette 1995a, 22–35 pls. 5–8. 13; Goette 2011, 474–484; Bees 1995; Wiles 1997, 23–62; Lohmann 1998; Gogos 1998, 84–105; Knell 2000, 126–147; Moretti 2000; Froning 2002, 31–53; Isler 2002; Gogos 2005; Valavanis 2007; Valavanis 2009; Beacham 2007; Lambert 2008; Bressan 2009, I 102–118. II 401–407 plans I–VII; Green 1989; Green 1995a; Green 2008 where, very valuably, the relevant bibliography is collected and commented upon as well as related matters. For the results of recent research see: Samara – Papastamati-von Moock 2006; Papastamati-von Moock 2007; Papastamati-von Moock 2012; Papastamati-von Moock forthcoming a and forthcoming b. For the restoration programmes, see: Korres 1980, 1982; Makri 1987; Samara 2004; Committee – Theater of Dionysus 2006, 2–20. 33–36; Aslanidis – Boletis 2006; Samara – Papastamati-von Moock 2006; Boletis 2006; Mantis 2006, 100–106 figs. 1–15; 2007. Two invasions were definitive for the course of Athenian history, that of the Roman general Sulla in 86 (Hoff 1997; Burden 1999, 8–16; most recently Mango 2010, 119–124) and that of the Herulians of A. D. 267 (Thompson 1956; Frantz 1988; Millar et. al. 2004, 292f.). Many effects of these invasions may be identified in the remains of the theatre; for new observations see Samara-Papastamati-von Moock 2006, 6. 15; Papastamati-von Moock 2012, 136 n. 36. Generally see infra. Travlos 1951; Travlos 1953/1954.

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Fig. 1.1. Athens, Theatre and Sanctuary of Dionysus Eleuthereus: General view from N, early twentieth century.

stratigraphic observations that would have contributed to the chronological documentation of the theatre’s construction phases5. W. Dörpfeld was the first to address the issue of the monument’s various phases. He dated the rebuilding of the theatre in stone to the third quarter of the fourth century, and – on the basis of the written sources – linked its completion with Lycurgus6, the administrator of financial matters during the period 336–3247. A crucial topic in the consideration of the Classical phases of the theatre has been the dating of the first use of conglomerate stone (breccia) in the hidden parts of the 5

For some general stratigraphic observations from Dörpfeld’s 1889 excavation of the theatron, Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, 30f. fig. 7 pl. 1. The results of this important excavation were never fully published. Only preliminary reports by A. Schneider appeared in which some pottery finds are discussed and the first chronological indications for the fill of the theatron are given: Schneider 1889, 329–348; cf. Bulle 1928, 72. For some references to the pottery finds and stratigraphic observations from the investigations of the stage-building and the western parodos: Bulle 1928, 15. 20–24. 49f. 53–55. 57. 65f. 72. 76 pl. 4. For those from some localised sondages by E. Fiechter in the

6 7

area of the stage-building, the orchestra and the lower rows of the theatron, Fiechter 1935, 9; Fiechter 1936, 43–49 (the commentary on the pottery by K. Kübler). For the 1985 archaeological documentation prior to the commencement of the restoration programme of the eastern parodos’ retaining wall, see the preliminary presentation (mainly with results pertaining to the Medieval remains): Tsakos 1985, 9–11 pls. 5 #-; 6–8; Makri et al. 1987/1988. Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, 36–40. On the dating of the Lycurgan period to ca. 336–324 rather than 338–326: Lewis 1997, 212–229.

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structure. Excavations conducted by H. Bulle in the area of the stage-building in 1923 indicated use from the fifth century – probably its second half8 – and led a number of scholars at that time, Dörpfeld among them, to attribute to the fifth century the inner western retaining wall of the seating area along with the back wall of the stage-building or even its entire foundations9 (figs. 1.2–3). Despite the lack of evidence, some scholars dated the stage-building’s rear wall to the late sixth century10, a wall which also served as the back wall of the sanctuary’s stoa and at the same time defined the architectural boundary between the theatrical and cultic area. Recent research, which has sought definitive evidence for the dating of the phases of the Classical theatre, and used as a starting point P. Kalligas’ problematic dating of the conglomerate foundation of the New Temple of Dionysus to the Lycurgan period11, revisited Dörpfeld’s old view and adopted the Lycurgan date for all the stone rebuilding of the theatre12. The attribution of the New Temple of Dionysus to the Lycurgan period does not, however, correspond with the information provided by the written sources that attribute the chryselephantine cult statue to Alkamenes (i. e. late fifth century)13, and it is difficult to believe that a cult statue, and indeed one of such delicate technique, could, as Kalligas suggested, have been placed elsewhere and only transferred to the new temple when it was built sixty years later14. The lack of a permanent stage-building to provide the technical infrastructure for the 8 9

10

11

12

Bulle 1928, 53–55. 73. 79f. For Dörpfeld’s initial view regarding the date of the first use of conglomerate stone at Athens in the fourth century: Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, 12. 21. 36f. For its use already in the second half or late fifth century, but with different views for the dating of the structural parts of the theatre and the sanctuary of Dionysus – which cannot be discussed here in detail – see Furtwängler 1901, 411–416; Puchstein, 1901, 137–139; Dörpfeld 1925; Bulle 1928 (supra n. 8); Fiechter 1936, 69–74; Pickard-Cambridge 1946, 17; Dinsmoor 1951–1953, 317f.; with a discussion of all the earlier opinions; Wurster 1993, 25–27 fig. 8; Scullion 1994, 11–13; Bees 1995, 73–80. The issue of the dating of the first use of conglomerate stone is discussed in greater detail in Papastamati-von Moock forthcoming b. For the dating and interpretation of the much-discussed ‘aA’ foundation: infra, after n. 148. Fiechter 1936, 47. 68f. pl. 17 figs. 30f.; Anti 1947, 65–72 and Polacco 1990, 160–166 fig. 39 suggest, though without any specific archaeological evidence, a date in the first half of the fifth century for the stoa and the rear wall of the stage-building. Kalligas 1963, 14f.; Dontas 1960, 53 n. 1 fig. 3. A final publication of the excavation with stratigraphic information has not appeared. Travlos 1971, 537; Froning 2002, 50f.; for doubts on these preliminary results and for the dating of the theatre’s remains, see Newiger 1976, 88f.; cf. Green 1989, 19f. For the ac-

13

14

ceptance of this dating, see Korres 1980, 18; Townsend 1986, 423 n. 5; Goette 1995a, 22 n. 53–54. 27; Hintzen-Bohlen 1997, 21–28; Moretti 1999/2000, 381; Moretti 2000, 284–286 figs. 10–11; Moretti 2011, 122–127; Knell 2000, 128. 133. figs. 92. 100 (does not take into consideration recent research on the existence of only one passage [diazoma] in the theatron, cf. Korres 1980, 12 Drawing 1); Junker 2004, 11; Gogos 2003, 108–113; Goette 2007a, 118; Goette 2011, 483; Korres 2009, 78–80 figs. 4.3 (1985–1987 model) with the old view that the orchestra of the first theatrical installation was circular, though in a recent sketch (Korres 2009, fig. 4.5) he follows the trend apparent in more recent scholarship which argues that the wooden theatron had a P-shaped plan. Cf. Papastamati-von Moock forthcoming b. Paus. 1, 20, 3. Cf. Reisch 1893, 1–23; ImhoofBlumer – Gardner 1964, 142 pls. 201–205; Ridgway 1981, 174. Kalligas 1963, 14f. The same view is followed by: Hurwit 1999, 256; Gogos 2005, 112. Gogos’ view that the statue had probably been erected temporarily in the old Temple of Dionysus until the new temple was built, approximately sixty years later, cannot stand because of, among other points, the great size of this chryselephantine statue as evidenced by the very impressive dimensions of its base’s foundations (5 m × 5 m), see Reisch 1893; Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, 13–19 fig. 1 (older temple), 19–23 figs. 4–5 (later temple).

The Theatre of Dionysus Eleuthereus in Athens

Fig. 1.2. Remains of the stage building from NE. Rear wall H-H, foundation T.

Fig. 1.3. Outer and inner western retaining walls from SW.

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Fig. 1.4. SW corner of the auditorium, north of the remains of the medieval wall of the Acropolis (Rizokastro) and east of the lateral inner wall. Trench with the negative imprints of two ikria of the Classical wooden theatron.

staging of drama from the second half of the fifth century (theatrical mechane, etc.)15, implicit in these recent studies, is solved by positing the existence of a simple wooden stage without stone foundations to the south of the terrace of the old orchestra16. As part of a project of the Scientific Committee, Research Consolidation, Restoration and Enhancement of the Monuments on the Acropolis South Slope of Athens, it was possible to open some small trenches during the restoration of the outer retaining walls of the theatron. The results of the investigation, together with new observations on the theatre’s remains, provide information on critical matters and a better understanding of the monument’s various phases, including the ‘Lycurgan’ phase. This information is constantly being supplemented with new data17. One of the trial trenches dug in the inner south-western corner of the theatron provided our first certain evidence of the existence of the much-discussed ikria of the wooden Classical theatre known from the written sources (fig. 1.4)18. The trenches also provided 15

16

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Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, 219–234; Arnott 1962, 72–78; Newiger 1976; and infra, after n. 204. Goette 1995a, pl. 13,1; Goette 2007a, 117 fig. 1 no. 11; Moretti 2000, 296f. figs. 10–11; Froning 2002, 27 fig. 22; 41. 46 figs. 44–45. 50. For these new conclusions, see also Papastamati-von Moock forthcoming b.

18

On the famous ikria and the wooden theatre, see Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, 28–32; Bulle 1928, 61–63; Pickard-Cambridge 1946, 10–14; Anti 1947, 55–72; Gebhard 1974; Kolb 1981, 5–61; Polacco 1990, 23–32. 160. 164–174; Scullion 1994, 52–65; Goette 1995a, 40; Moretti 2000, 284–298; Froning 2002, 33. 38f. 41–43 figs. 22. 44–47. 50–52.; Junker

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stratigraphical evidence for the first use of conglomerate stone. This material, together with corresponding evidence from the lateral eastern retaining wall (also of conglomerate) provides the first chronological evidence for the construction of the lateral inner walls, and by extension, evidence for the initial use of conglomerate for the theatre in the Periclean phase19. This evidence clearly suggests that the renewal and redesign of the religious and cultural area of the South Slope was a part of the major Periclean building programme, including the construction of the Odeion20, and the remodelling of the sanctuary and the old wooden theatre in stone. This rebuilding began with the lateral inner retaining walls21 and – evidently, in the light of the overall results of Bulle’s exploration of the rear wall of the stage-building22 – the new southern boundary between the theatre and the sanctuary. This half-finished execution of the Periclean programme saw only the remodelling of the wooden theatre’s prohedria with aligned and inscribed stone seats. It proved impossible to complete due, as some earlier scholars suggested, to the financial demands of the Peloponnesian War24. If, as seems likely, the western inner retaining wall with its curved northern section (fig. 1.3) belongs to the same scheme25, then there are good grounds to suggest that architectural conception of the semicircular theatron belongs to the Periclean period, characterised as it was by such exceptional historical circumstances as the unprecedented

19

20

21

2004, 13–17. 28–32; Csapo 2007, 96–108. For comments on the sources and the views expressed by scholars on the wooden Theatre of Dionysus Eleuthereus based on recent research Papastamati-von Moock forthcoming b. On the basis of a preliminary study of the pottery that was found in sections of the foundation trench of the lateral inner retaining walls of the theatron, excavated in small trial trenches opened for the purpose of documenting and compiling the restoration proposal for the retaining wall of the western parodos and the eastern lateral retaining wall: Papastamativon Moock forthcoming b. For the date of the Odeion: Meinel 1980, 150; Robkin 1976; Miller 1997, 218–242 with discussion of earlier research. For the older opinions that attributed the western inner retaining wall to, in all probability, the ‘Periclean’ phase, see Dörpfeld 1925. In contrast the views hitherto expressed on the chronology of the eastern lateral retaining wall, whether to the ‘Periclean’ or ‘Lycurgan’ phase, have created greater confusion and led to odd reconstructions of the Classical theatre’s layout, specifically: Furtwängler 1901, 415f.; Pickard-Cambridge 1946, 16f. fig. 7; Dinsmoor 1951–1953, 323 fig. 2; Korres 1980, 18; Robkin 1976, 65f. fig. 1; Polacco 1990, 164–167. 169f. fig. 40; Wurster 1993, 23 figs. 8–9; Bees 1995, 79 fig. 14 with discussion of earlier opinions. The discussion regarding the date of the retaining walls of the theatron has generally been linked with the interpretation and dating of the ‘aA’ foundation in the western parodos. For issues regarding ‘aA’: infra, after n. 148. For new ob-

22 23

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servations and data regarding the lateral retaining walls of the theatron: Papastamati-von Moock forthcoming b. Bulle 1928, 53–55. 73. 79f. Bulle 1928, 55f. 60 (W. Wrede) 61–63 (K. Lehmann-Hartleben); Anti 1947; Anti – Polacco 1969; Gebhard 1974; Pöhlmann 1981; Pöhlmann 1995b. Because of the link between the cult statue of the new Temple of Dionysus and Alkamenes (Paus. 1, 20, 3; see Reisch 1893; and most recently Ridgway 2009, 113), many earlier scholars dated the first use of conglomerate stone in the theatre to the time of Nikias (421–415): Furtwängler 1901, 412f.; Fiechter 1914, 11; Dinsmoor 1951–1953, 317 with a discussion of previous views. Dörpfeld 1925, 30–32 believed that this renovation programme of the theatre and the sanctuary of Dionysus must have already started under Pericles. For the new data and observations regarding the wooden theatre and the possible changes to the theatre and the sanctuary of Dionysus: Papastamati-von Moock forthcoming b. This retaining wall consists of a southern straight section and a northern curved one (see the plan Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, pl. 1). The manner in which these sections bond argues that the two are a unitary construction. By contrast the outer retaining wall of limestone blocks with breccia in its foundations bonds at the corner with the Late-Classical retaining wall of the parodos. Differences in the way that the stones have been worked may indicate that it is slightly later than that of the parodos.

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circulation of ideas, creative dynamism, and unique architectural achievements26. As a result of the economic difficulties that followed, the remodelling plan remained largely unfinished, with the result that the wooden theatron was retained27 until the necessary funds were secured by the reorganisation of Athens’ public finances in the mid-fourth century, when the complete stone remodelling of the theatre was undertaken28. On the basis of this new evidence it appears that the tripartite spatial organisation of the Late-Classical theatre generally followed that of the fifth century which, in its turn, was determined by the functional requirements and development of the sanctuary and the first theatrical installation directly linked to it, and secondly by the situation of the sanctuary and theatre within the pre-existing road network on this side of the Acropolis29. During the expansion of the Late-Classical stone theatre towards the rock of the Acropolis, this road network determined not only the western boundary of the theatron and the inclusion of the Peripatos as the sole wide diazoma30, but also the irregular layout of the theatron to the east (fig. 1.43). The apparent intrusion of the Odeion into the eastern section of the theatron was primarily a result, in my opinion, of the need to preserve the age-old road ascending immediately to the east of the Odeion31. This resulted in the two monuments being placed so close together, and apparently in the alignment of the Odeion with the straight eastern side of the wooden theatre which was in all probability P-shaped in plan32. This conclusion is based not only on the irregular line of the eastern retaining wall, 26

27

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Pollitt 1972, 64–70, passim; Corso 1986, 189–191; on the historical background: Hurwit 2004, 87–105. For the lower chronological limit for the operation of the wooden theatre: infra. Humphreys 2004, 77–88; Amemiya 2007, 91f.; Wilson 2008, 121f.; Burke 2010, 408–416 with a relevant discussion of the earlier bibliography. Korres 2002, 8–12; Korres 2009, 74–81 fig. 4.1. The view that there were two passageways (diazomata) as they appear in the reconstructed plan of the Late-Classical theatre from Dörpfeld’s time (Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, pl. 2), which has been followed until recently by some scholars (see Knell 2000, fig. 101; Beacham 2007, 209 fig. 14; and then Walton 2010, 130 figs. 3. 8.) had been revised from the 1980s (see Korres 1980, 12 Drawing. 1; Papathanasopoulos 1987, 37–58 fig. 47). This particular feature of the Athenian theatre’s design is compatible with the schematic rendering of the theatron on an Athenian coin of the Hadrianic period in the British Museum (for the date of the coin: Shear 1936, 323–325), on the basis of which the identification of the site of the theatre was confirmed in the eighteenth century: see Leake 1841, 184–188; Rhousopoulos 1862, 64. For the existence of an older road in the same area, but slightly to the south of the Late-Classical diazoma, see Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, 30 fig. 7; Polacco 1990, 147; Goette

31

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1995a, 28; Korres 2002, 8–12 pl. 1; cf. Papastamati-von Moock forthcoming b. On all this: Papastamati-von Moock, forthcoming b. The adjustment of the Odeion to the pre-existing local road system is also evidenced by the position of its eastern monumental entrance which diverges from the central axis of the monument and from the proposed position of its western entrance towards the theatre. The off-centre position of the eastern entrance is shown by the remains of its monumental propylon (see Kastriotis 1919, 13 fig. 15; 14 [publication of a letter by W. Dörpfeld in which the positions of the entrances are first identified]; Kastriotis 1922, 27f. figs. 2. 4; Travlos 1971, 389 fig. 502), and confirms the perceived need to retain access to both the Odeion and the theatre from the east by means of the ascending roadway which also offered access to the Acropolis from this side of the city as well as to the sanctuaries around it. Later this road clearly linked the Street of the Tripods with the Peripatos, the upper parts of the Late-Classical theatre, the Odeion and the other sanctuaries around the Acropolis. A comparable adjustment of a large public building within a pre-existing road system, evidenced by the divergent positioning of its two propyla in relation to its axis, is the Roman Agora: most recently Korres 2002, 21–29; Korres 2009, 87–93 fig. 4.13. Supra n. 23.

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Fig. 1.5. (left) One of the two block (inv. NK 302) of the inscribed pedestal of the honorary statue of Astydamas, front face preserving half of the inscription. Fig. 1.6. (right) Block of the inscribed pedestal of the honorary statue of Astydamas: inner face with anathyrosis and characteristic cuttings.

which is adjusted to the plan of the Odeion, but mainly on its Periclean date33. The extension of the semicircular theatron towards the Acropolis rock was executed in accordance with these pre-existing topographic and spatial conditions. The mathematical and conceptual centre of this extension was the circle of the orchestra and its abutting stage-building. It served the continuously increasing number of spectators34 and aimed at achieving the optimal optical and acoustic results. Although our written sources link the completion of the stone reconstruction of the theatre with Lycurgus (ca. 336–324), there has hitherto been no agreement as to the beginning, or – on the basis of the new evidence – re-commencement of this enormous undertaking on the South Slope of the Acropolis. One monument in the theatre which scholars have linked to the question of the dating of the stone theatron is the statue base of Astydamas the Younger35. The surviving one of two blocks of the base pedestal of the honorary statue is inscribed with half of the name of A8TY[:AMA8]36 and has a cutting, in negative, characteristic of the crowning moulding of the coping blocks of the retaining wall (figs. 1.5–7). Dörpfeld correctly attributed it, on the basis of the direction of this cut33

34

For all these issues: Papastamati-von Moock forthcoming b. For the question of the number of spectators the Athenian theatre could have held and for the excessively large, clearly rhetorical, number of thirty thousand given by Plato (Pl. Smp. 175e): Csapo – Slater 1994, 123. 135. It is estimated that the stone theatre could have held approximately seventeen thousand: see Gallo 1981, 271–289; Goldhill 1997, 57f.; Roselli 2011, 64f. On the population of Athens in the fourth century: Hansen 1991, 86–94.

35

36

IG II2 3775; Inv. no. NK 302; Köhler 1878, 115; Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, 38. 72 fig. 23; Fiechter 1935, 87 figs. 77–78; Polacco 1990, 125 fig. 78; Fittschen 1995, 65 n. 109–111 figs. 17–19; Goette 1995a, 31 pl. 8,1; Goette 1999, 21–25 fig. 1. pl. 5; Samara – Papastamati-von Moock 2006, 2–12 figs. 5–26; Papastamati-von Moock forthcoming a. For testimonia on Astydamas: TrGF 60 T 1–9. IG II2 3775. The left stroke of the letter : survives at the right edge of the preserved block.

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Fig. 1.7. Preserved block of the inscribed pedestal of the honorary statue of Astydamas and graphic reconstruction of the inscription.

ting’s inclination, to the eastern end of the western parodos’ retaining wall37. Written sources link the erection of the bronze statue of the poet with his victory with the Parthenopaios in 34038. This led Dörpfeld to conclude that the construction of the new stone theatre must have begun before the erection of this unique base and, consequently, before Lycurgus undertook his duties in 33639. E. Fiechter would later question the use of this monument as a firm chronological indicator for the stone theatron on the grounds that it could have been transferred there at a later date from a different, original, position which would explain why its pedestal was recut to fit onto the coping stone of the retaining wall40. Later approaches, primarily those of K. Fittschen and H. R. Goette have revived 37 38

Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, 38. 72 fig. 23. IG II2 2320; on the fragment from the Didaskaliai where this specific victory of Astydamas in 340 is referred to, see Pickard-Cambridge 1953, 111; Ghiron-Bistagne 1976, 36 fig. 6;

39 40

Csapo – Slater 1994, 228 IV 16. See too TrGF 60 T 2a. b; T6; T8a. As supra Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896 (n. 35). Fiechter 1935, 87 figs. 77f.

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this old dispute. Fittschen accepts Dörpfeld’s view but assumes that an epigram must have been inscribed on the now lost crowning block of the base even though the written sources clearly state that its incision was not approved41. Goette follows Fiechter’s view and suggests that this may not have been the original position of the honorary monument as the base’s pedestal consists of two parts or, alternatively, that its erection should be associated with some other victory of Astydamas’, or again that the statue was erected later as a posthumous honour42. This leaves aside the fact that the detailed information provided by the written sources speaks clearly and exclusively of the obviously notorious erection of the poet’s statue as a result of his dramatic victory of 340 with his play Parthenopaios43. Goette dismisses the Astydamas base as a terminus ante quem for the beginning of the stone construction of the theatron on the basis of various observations by which he dates the Megalopolis theatre to the 360s. As a result he is obliged to raise the date of the remodelling of the Athenian theatre to approximately 37044 since, as he rightly suggests, the new architectural design of the semicircular theatron must have been adopted by the Athenian metropolis before its use in provincial Megalopolis. The high date of the Megalopolis theatre has however been contested with sound arguments by Hans and Heide Lauter. They date its construction to the last quarter or to the end of the fourth century45, i.e. postLycurgan, so it can no longer be used as evidence for the date of the Athenian stone theatre, nor, by extension, for rejecting the Astydamas base as evidence for the Athenian theatre’s date. Of course, the unique and clearly expensive solution adopted for the incorporation of the base to the coping of the retaining wall requires further interpretation. In my opinion it will emerge from a better understanding of the historical context in which Astydamas’ statue was erected. After the partial restoration of the retaining walls of the parodoi, our plans to restore this monument to its original position46 were advanced, and our initial calculations as to its exact position confirmed, by the discovery in the foundation of the western end of the Late Roman Phaidros Bema of the final coping block of the western parodos’ retaining wall towards the orchestra (figs. 1.8–10)47. This is not just any coping stone48, but the stone that fitted Astydamas’ base onto carefully carved cuttings49. The dismounting, supplementation and restoration of this architectural member to its original position50 has confirmed the initial position of the base and solved several serious issues relating to the 41 42

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44 45 46

Fittschen 1995, 65 n. 110f.; cf. Goette 1999, 24. Goette 1995a, 30. 45 n. 72; Goette 1999, 24 n. 11. The possibility that two different honorary statues were erected in the same public space, i.e. one in 340 and another after the death of the poet, must be rejected. Goette 1995a, 34f. Lauter – Lauter-Bufe 2004, 147–159. These restoration programmes were conducted under the supervision of A. Samara (architect) and the author with the continual support of the draughtsman D. Kouliadis. The study of these, now completed, restoration programmes is in progress. For the retaining walls of the parodoi, see Tsakos 1985; Makri 1987; Makri et al. 1987/1988; Samara 2004, 60–73; Samara – Papastamati-von Moock 2006, 1f. figs. 3–4; Mantis 2006, 100–104 figs. 4–11.

47

48

49

50

For the proposal for the monument’s restoration, which was completed with the approval of the Central Archaeological Council in early 2007: Samara – Papastamati-von Moock 2006, 1–15; Papastamati-von Moock – Samara, forthcoming a (for issues related to the dating of the ‘Lycurgan’ phase). Cf. Fiechter 1935, 42 pl. 8 vertical section 19; 87; Fiechter 1936, 21 VI 1 figs. 3–4: the section drawing as printed is mirror-reversed, and so gives the impression that it illustrates a coping stone of the retaining wall of the eastern, not the western parodos. Samara – Papastamati-von Moock 2006, 5–10 figs. 15–17. 19f. 23; Papastamati-von Moock – Samara, forthcoming a. With the approval of the Central Archaeological Council of the Ministry of Culture and Tourism.

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Fig. 1.8. The Late Roman ‘Phaidros Bema’, western relief orthostat with the terminal crowning block of the western parodos retaining wall in its foundation.

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Fig. 1.9. ‘Phaidros Bema’, western end with the terminal crowning block of the western parodos retaining wall in its foundation, prior to its dismounting and its replacement with a new stone, from NW.

Fig. 1.10. Terminal coping stone of the retaining wall of the western parodos with traces of the Late Roman reuse and curved cuttings for the fitting of the two stones of the Astydamas statue-base.

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history of the theatre. Thus we now know, first, that the dismantling of the theatre’s retaining walls had begun before the construction of the Phaidros Bema in the fourth century A. D.51; this must be linked to the destruction inflicted on Athens by the Herulians in A. D. 26752. Second, we now know the form of the final coping stones at the orchestra end53. Third, we know that the base and coping stone of the retaining wall were constructed at the same time. The last point is clear not only from the particularly complex, unique and obviously costly technical solution adopted, as will be explained below, but mainly on the basis of the similarity of the techniques used for the junction of the base’s pedestal with the underlying coping stone of the retaining wall to those of the join of the coping stones with the lower stones of the retaining wall. In both cases the jointing technique using laminashaped dowels of the same dimensions has been applied; this can be determined from the small, elongated dowel-holes that have been preserved (figs. 1.11–13)54. The fact that the coping of the retaining wall was built at the same time as the erection of the base of the (probably seated) bronze statue of Astydamas55 confirms that work began on the construction of the stone theatron before 340; it corroborates Dörpfeld’s view. What, though, was the reason for the unique and obviously expensive technical solution which was adopted for this specific base (figs. 1.11–13), a solution that has caused dismay among scholars and led to a variety of interpretations? The prolific Astydamas the Younger56, a member of the great theatrical family of Aeschylus, was particularly popular in the fourth century and won an unusually high number of dramatic victories57. His arrogance was proverbial. He himself composed a self-complimentary epigram for the honorary bronze statue that the Athenians raised for his victory in 340 with Parthenopaios. In it he directly compared himself with the great tragedians58. And al-

51

52

53

54 55

Frantz 1982, 34–39 with the relevant discussion and bibliography. For the Herulian raid on Athens and the great destruction it caused: supra n. 3. Serious destruction has also been documented in the remains of the Roman stage-building: Papastamati-von Moock 2012, 136 n. 36. These issues will be examined in greater detail in future studies on the Roman phases of the theatre. A preliminary suggestion of its reconstruction may be seen in an unpublished drawing by M. Korres (1981): see Samara – Papastamativon Moock 2006, 5 fig. 11 (a detail of the drawing was published with the kind permission of Professor M. Korres). With a length 0.06 m and a width of 0.02 m. TrGF 60 T 8a (D. L. 2, 43), see infra after n. 62. The restored dimensions of the lost crowning plinth of the base’s pedestal (ca. 1.25 m × 0.70 m) and the position of the base at the terminal of the retaining wall argue that the lost bronze statue was of the seated type; likewise see Fittschen 1995, 65 n. 111 figs. 17–19. Furthermore, it is of interest that the seated type was chosen for the honorary statue of a poet in this period as it can be compared with contemporary statues of philosophers: Papastamati-

56

57

58

von Moock 2007, 294–298 n. 94. It foreshadows the type used for the statue of Menander. Welcker 1841, 1054–1060; RE 2, 2, 1867 s. v. Astydamas (Dietrich); Webster 1956a, 63f.; Ghiron-Bistagne 1974, 1344f.; Peparo 1986/1987; Summa 2010, 124. He was one of the few tragedians referred to by Aristotle (Poetics 14) and in the Marmor Parium (FrGrHist 239): Mette 1977, 34f. 89–92. 150. 162. 182. Even if the number of 240 works recorded in later sources is considered an exaggeration. This number along with his attested victories (12 or 15) indicates Astydamas’ great fame and the important role he played in theatrical affairs during the fourth century in Athens: Welcker 1841, 1053; Easterling 1997c, 212 n. 6. 214–216. See Taplin, this volume. TrGF 60 T 2a (Phot. 502, 21; Apostol. 15, 36 = Anthologia Lyrica Greca, ed. E. Diehl 3[1949] I 113): “Would I had lived in their day or they in mine, who bear the palm for a happy tongue: then should I have been truly judged if I had come off first; but alas! the competitors beyond cavil were before my day”, trans. Edmonds 1931, 38f.

29

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a

b

Fig. 1.11. Drawings for the partial restoration of the crown of the western parodos retaining wall, of part of the orchestra’s peripheral corridor and of the Astydamas statue-base with a graphic representation of the probable statue type.

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Fig. 1.12. Western parodos retaining wall after the partial restoration of its crown and the inscribed pedestal of the statue of Astydamas, from SE.

though the inscription of the epigram was rejected by the Council59, Astydamas’ boastfulness remained proverbial thanks to ridicule by contemporary comic writers such as Philemon60. Parallel and supplementary to the unusually detailed information that the written sources preserve for this specific public monument, our archaeological data make it clear that although the statue-base was, in accordance with the Council’s decision, only inscribed with the name of the honoured poet, the position that was chosen for it was very likely the most prominent possible: it was visible from practically the whole of the theatre (fig. 1.14)61. The fact that the base and the coping of the retaining wall are contemporary combined with the fact that a complicated and clearly expensive technical solution was used to incorporate the base into the coping indicates an apparent compromise between the poet’s need for selfpromotion, which led to the choice of this specific position for the statue’s erection, and the retention of a distinguished morphological element of the theatre62 which was under recon59

60

TrGF 60 T 2a (Phot. 502, 21; Apostol. 15, 36). 2b (Zen. 5, 100); Goette 1999, 24. From this it is concluded that the provocative epigram was rejected by the Council and so did not reach the Assembly and thus was not discussed and voted upon by it. For the approval process: Hansen 1991, 256f.; Tanner 2006, 110f. TrGF 60 T 2a (Phot. 502, 21; Apostol. 15, 36); PCG adesp. F 160.

61

62

Both during the course of theatrical festivals and during meetings of the Assembly, the statue was in a more prominent position than even those of the Three Tragedians, which one saw on entering the theatre from the main eastern entrance: Papastamati-von Moock 2007, 308 fig. 7 and infra. For the coping stones of the retaining walls: infra.

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Fig. 1.13. Axonometric representation of the restored pedestal of the Astydamas statue showing the clamp system used.

struction. This complicated solution not only aimed at a result of high aesthetic quality in keeping with the innovative architecture of the Athenian theatre and the poet’s need for selfpromotion, but led, as the recent restoration indicates (figs. 1.11–12), to the independent coexistence of the theatre’s architecture and the base at this focal position. Archaeology attests to the high honour Astydamas received by the prominent placement of his statue within the new monumental theatre (figs. 1.11–12. 14). But the written sources provide further interesting details. The reference “… #A  - -  λ A')  '  ) 9 ”63 (they honoured Astydamas with a bronze statue before Aeschylus and his peers) highlights the fact that he was the first in his field to receive such a great honour; the great tragedian Aeschylus only received an honorary statue many decades after his death in the time of Lycurgus64. Indeed, from the scandal evoked by the self-congratulatory epigram it is obvious that the honour was conferred during Astydamas’ lifetime. The erection of an honorary portrait statue probably caused upset in more 63

TrGF 60 T 8a (D. L. 2, 43); Welcker 1841, 891.

64

For the honorary monument of the Three Tragedians: infra.

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Fig. 1.14. General view of the Theatre of Dionysus Eleuthereus from NE with the partially restored base of Astydamas’ statue in its initial position (see arrow).

traditional circles, but it was not of course a unique occurrence in fourth-century Athens. It recalls the much-discussed erection of honorary statues of Conon and Evagoras, also during their lifetimes, in a prominent site in the ancient Agora in 39365. These, in addition to other similar examples66 bear witness to the crisis facing the traditional values of Classical Athens, and to ruptures in the ideology of isonomia brought about by new paradigms, social morals and cultural norms. Of course, the Council’s rejection of Astydamas’ provocative epigram evinces a clear wish to counter these tendencies in the middle of the fourth century; Lycurgus, an exponent of traditional values, was to put a temporary end to the awarding of honorary statues to living individuals, despite his erection of those to the Tragedians in the theatre67. Nonetheless, the public erection of Astydamas’ statue, in a 65

66

Paus. 1, 3, 2: near the Royal Stoa, see Gauer 1968, 118–124; Lewis – Stroud 1979, 187f. 192f.; Stewart 1979, 120–124; Krumeich 1997, 207f.; Knell 2000, 70–73; Shear 2011, 275–280. It is apparent from the arguments of Demosthenes and Isocrates that its erection too was accompanied by objections and dispute: D. 11, 62; 20, 68–72; Isoc. 9, 56f. Euagoras was of course a foreigner. Stewart 1979, 122f.; Krumeich 1997, 207–211; Dillon 2006, 107–110; Shear 2011, 280–285.

67

Ghiron-Bistagne 1974, 1355f. and infra. The erection of choregic monuments – particularly those of Nikias and Thrasyllos of 320/319, i.e. after Lycurgus’ death – in the area of the theatre indicates decisive changes were taking place and that the projection of private individuals was increasingly intruding into the public space. As stressed by P. Wilson (Wilson 2000, 225–227), the erection of monuments in such areas surely would not have occurred without friction.

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manner comparable to that of distinguished generals erected in the ancient Agora in the first half of the fourth century68, reflects the attempts of the new tragedians to establish themselves in a specific social and theatrical milieu where, from 38669, the Classical tradition was officially recognised as a continuing basis for comparison70. In so doing the new tragedians also declared their central role in the cultural affairs of Athens which, now more than ever, acted as a balance to the loss of her political hegemony. Astydamas’ base, Xenophon’s71 and Demosthenes’ references to the wooden theatre72 and an inscription of 343/2 from the Athenian Agora which links Eubulus with the construction of a stage-building73, place the beginning of the stone-built theatre construction ca. 350. A comparison of the elaborate profile of the crowning moulding of the retaining wall with the crowning blocks of the base of the Eponymous Heroes (dated to slightly after the mid-fourth century)74 as well as those of the podium of the Lysikrates Monument (335/4)75 directs us to the period between 350 and 335/4 (fig. 1.15). On the basis of all the above data we may conclude that already from the mid-fourth century, an old Periclean vision for the city of Athens, a stone-built theatre, was finally set in motion. This is the point at which Eubulus was the administrator of financial matters and public finances saw an initial improvement76. The undertaking of this technically-demanding project included the necessary excavation of the bedrock77 and a remarkable amount of artificial filling, especially at the edges of the theatron, the impressive and very demanding carving of the hard Acropolis rock for the shaping of the vertical face (Katatome; see pl. 1.2)78, and the 68 69

70

71

72

73

74

Krumeich 1997, 207f.; Dillon 2006, 107–110. IG II2 2318 col. VIII: in the archonship of Theodotos (387/6) the tragedians first added a production of an old drama to the festival of Great Dionysia; Pickard-Cambridge 1953, 100. 107; Wilson 2000, 23; Summa 2010, 123f. This spirit, furthermore, is reflected in the provocative epigram composed by Astydamas: supra n. 58. X. Cyr. 6, 1, 54 (written between 360 and 355). In this passage Xenophon compares the great thickness of the timber beams of Cyrus’ siege towers with those of the tragic skene – clearly the Athenian theatre, i. e. before the construction of the stone stage-building. See Froning 2002, 52. D. 21, 17, where the nailing of the stage-building’s paraskenia is referred to, i. e. the wooden ones (352), cf. Wilson 2008, 94 n. 26. Furthermore, Ulp. on D. 1, 1 (before 349) refers to the theorika and to the architekton, at a time when the Athenian theatre had not been built in stone, i. e. the wooden theatre still existed: see Csapo – Slater 1994, 288. 295 no. 137; Wilson 1997, 98; Moretti 2001, 221f.; Csapo 2007, 87. 108–115 (for the duties of the architekton); Roselli 2011, 98 (dates the stone theatre post 346). For the wooden theatre, see Papastamati-von Moock forthcoming b. Walbank 1983, 108 Col. III l. 15–17. 133; Faraguna 1992, 259; see Csapo – Wilson, this volume. For a detailed examination of the form of the

75

76

77

78

coping stones: Shear 1970, 168f. 192f. n. 62 (with parallels of the second and third quarter of the fourth century, among which the Theatre of Dionysus is not included) fig. 14. pls. 49 d; 52. Shear 1970, 168f. 193–196 fig. 15. Architectural analysis of the Lysikrates monument by Bauer 1977, 199 f. fig. 1; Wilson 2000, 219–226 figs. 11–13. Hornblower 1983, 271–273; Leppin 1995, 557–571; Hintzen-Bohlen 1997, 95–105; Amemiya 2007, 91f.; Burke 2010, 409–411. See Csapo-Wilson, this volume. Limited excavation in dismantled parts of the seat rows (5th-7th and 19th-25th) of the VIIIth tier that were conducted by the author in 2011 and 2012 for the archaeological documentation before the restoration yielded new information about the systematic rough preparation of the bedrock into steps for the placement of the seat-rows. The discovery of large lever-holes cut into the bedrock are evidence of the use of large wooden levers (diam. ca. 0.10 m.) for the moving and final placing of both the seats and the steps of the staircase. The position of the lever-holes provides evidence for the length and the location of the lost seats. The topic is under study. FGrHist 328 F 58 (Harpocration s. v. " = Suda s. v. "); Pollux 4, 123; Phot. s. v. "; cf. Polacco 1990, 150– 155, whose views I do not share; Harding 2007, 185 no. 289. See infra, at n. 235

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Fig. 1.15. Profiles a) of the crown of the western parodos wall of the Theatre of Dionysus (ca 350–340), b) of the pedestal of the Monument of the Eponymous Heroes in the Agora (after 350), and c) of the podium of the Lysikrates Monument (335/4).

transport and carving of great amounts of stone79. It was designed to accommodate an ever-increasing number of spectators as well as secure the optimum optical-acoustic results by means of a semicircular cavea. It also aimed at emphasising the role of the theatre in the preservation of Athens’ cultural preeminence. So, at the time of the erection of Astydamas’ base in 340, the orchestra with its drainage channel and perimeter passage must have been completed, while the construction of the theatron along with the retaining walls of the parodoi must have been at an advanced stage. The simultaneous construction of the stone tiers and the retaining walls of the parodoi is indicated not only by the bonding of the edgestones of the perimeter passage with the retaining walls, but also by the bonding of the steps both with the seats and the sloping stones of the retaining walls (fig. 1.16)80. This huge construction programme included from the very start the construction of a stone stage-building as one sees from the inscription of 343/342 mentioned above81. Of course it is not surprising that the newly reconstructed theatre was linked in the written sources with the political figure of Lycurgus82, the leading financial official in the 79

80

81

The seating capacity of the stone theatron is estimated to have been approximately seventeen thousand. Allowing 0.41 m for the width of each seat (cf. Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, 49f.; Wurster 1993, 28) and the calculated weight of the necessary stone for this width of ca. 400 kg, then the construction of the stone seats would have required the transfer of more than 6,800 tonnes of Piraeus limestone (aktites). To this figure must be added the stone required for the perimeter retaining walls and the stage-building, i. e. more than 10,000 tonnes of stone. See Committee – Theater of Dionysus 2006, 11 with photo below. That the building of the new stone skene was in progress under Lycurgus is evidenced epigraphically: Lambert 2008, 77f. no. 6 (ca. 330).

82

On the Lycurgan building programme of the theatre: Hyp. fr. 118 (K); IG II2 351, 16–18; 457, 6–7; [Plu.] Moralia 852c. 841c–d; Paus. 1, 29, 16. Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, 36–40; Pickard-Cambridge 1946, 134–138. 156–160; Romano 1985, 450f.; Heisserer – Moysey 1986; Goette 1995a, 22–32; Wilson 1996, 310–331; Hintzen-Bohlen 1997, 21–29. 105–140. On the Lycurgan age: DNP 7 (1999) 581 s. v. Lykurgos [9] (Weißenberger); Froning 2002, 50–53; Hurwit 1999, 253–259; Humphreys 2004, 77–129; Samara – Papastamati-von Moock 2006; Papastamati-von Moock 2007 and forthcoming a; Lambert 2008; Csapo – Wilson 2010, 91–101; Moretti 2010, 156. 167 Tab. 1,4 (IG II2 457, 7–8), 5 (SEG 36, 149, 3).

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Fig. 1.16. Theatre of Dionysus Eleuthereus during the restoration of the western parodos wall showing the bonding of the retaining wall’s inclined parapet with a step of the staircase.

period after Eubulus, ca. 336–32483. To Lycurgus have been attributed the completion of the expensive construction of the new monumental theatre, the first official copy of the dramatic works of the Three Tragedians, and the erection of posthumous bronze statues in their honour. A comparison of the monument of the Tragedians84 with that of Astydamas sheds light on interesting aspects both of the clash between nostalgic conservative and new oligarchic ideologies in Athens during the fourth century. It illustrates the ideological shift towards conservatism inherent in the cultural renewal policies championed by Lycurgus, who, taking the glorious age of Pericles as his model85, made an effort, in this time of crisis and of definitive changes in traditional values, to establish a clear link between the dramatic production of his era and the golden age of Athenian theatre. Let us, though, examine some of the new archaeological data. Before restoring the base of the Menander statue86, two small trenches were excavated in the area where it and the Tragedians’ monument had stood (the steps of their bases had been dismantled in 187887). 83

84

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86

Conomis 1961; Lewis 1997, 212–229; Burke 2010 with further bibliography. Papastamati-von Moock 2007, 312–326 figs. 7–8. Clearly following a policy that must have been initiated during Eubulus’ time: Hintzen-Bohlen 1997, 137; Humphreys 2004, 77. 80 n. 24–26, 104f.; Hurwit 1999, 253–259; Burke 2010. On a request and under the continual supervision of the President of the Committee, Dr A. Mantis, and on the basis of the didactic resto-

87

ration proposal approved by the Central Archaeological Council. The reconstruction was completed in early 2012. Koumanoudis 1877a, 376f.; 1878/1879, 8f.; cf. Papastamati-von Moock 2007, 300 n. 106 figs. 3–4 pl. 41, 1. The dismantling and removal of remains which were taken as not belonging to the ‘Classical’ theatre seem to have been an issue for discussion by the first excavators: Koumanoudis 1877c, 27f. with n.

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Fig. 1.17. Eastern parodos, excavation trenches 1 and 2 showing the positions of the bases-foundations of the honorary statues of the Tragedians and of Menander and the cuttings and imprints of two wooden structures beneath their foundation level.

The aim was to establish the surfaces on which the bases had rested (figs. 1.17–19). These excavations supplied unexpected new information regarding the historical phases of the Athenian theatre, including the ‘Lycurgan’ phase examined here. This paper is a preliminary synoptic account of the conclusions. The surface fill contained material associated both with the removal of the steps of these bases in 187888 as well as Fiechter’s small-scale excavation of 1927 in the area of the Menander base89. Its removal revealed (despite contemporary intrusions along the full length of the trench) undisturbed levels of the ancient fill which had been placed for the erection of the two bases (figs. 1.17. 19). The level of the bases as well as of the excavated natural bedrock in association with cuttings and traces of weathering on the face of stones of the retaining wall, confirmed this as the site of the two bases as well as their foundation surface90. Furthermore, the excavation of the fill below 88

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Trench 2: the upper loose layer contained nineteenth-century finds, and for much of its length its excavation reached the undisturbed foundation level of the base. Only at the western end had the original level been disturbed, probably because the dismantling of its krepidoma in 1878 would have started from the west resulting in the partial excavation of the underlying ancient fill below the base’s euthynteria. Fiechter 1935, 76; see further Papastamati-von Moock 2007, 303 n. 118.

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Trench 1: the foundation level of the base of Menander’s euthynteria stone was disturbed by Fiechter’s excavation of 1927. The initial resting level of the euthynteria stone of the base could be detected through the preserved levelled bedrock (level ± 91.25) in the NE part of the trench and at its southern end (level ± 91.21). A slot cut in one of the stones of the retaining wall’s first course, onto which the stone of the base’s euthynteria abutted, provided further evidence for its eastern end which

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Fig. 1.18. Eastern parodos, reconstruction plan of the retaining wall showing the preserved part and the partial restoration proposal, together with the preserved remains of the marble propylon and excavation trenches 1 and 2.

Fig. 1.19. Eastern parodos, excavation trenches 1 and 2 with cuttings and imprints of two wooden structures beneath the foundation level of the statue-bases.

the resting surface revealed, a few centimetres deeper, the perfectly preserved negative imprints and cuttings of two wooden structures (fig. 1.19). Specifically, in the western part of the area of the base of the Tragedians, just a few centimetres below the foundation level of the retaining wall, cuttings of various forms and depths in the soft rock indicate the position of the northern section of a monumental, heavy wooden structure at this part of the parodos, at something of an angle opposite the south-eastern end of the ‘Lycurgan’ stagebuilding. On a south-north axis and only 0.16 m from the ‘Lycurgan’ retaining wall of the parodos was located a ditch with cuttings of different shapes and levels, the southernmost coincided with the eastern end of the base Z 40 presented in E. Ziller’s plan of 1862/1863: Papastamati-von Moock 2007, 281 fig. 3; 283 fig. 4; 299–304 fig. 6. Trench 2: the undis-

turbed original foundation level of the base of the Three Tragedians’ monument could be detected along much of the trench at the level of ± 91.10/91.13.

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Fig. 1.20. Eastern parodos, western part of trench 2 with the cuttings for the foundation of the north sector of the wooden Doric pylon.

of which appears to have continued beyond the limits of the excavation trench and so crossed the width of the parodos at this point (figs. 1.19–20). The deepest cutting is located at the northern section of the ditch; it is conical in form, with a greatest depth of 0.82 m, and a diameter of 0.20 m at its bottom and of 0.56 m at its top. The southern perimeter of this cutting is circumscribed by a shallower half-square cutting, the sides of which originally measured 0.42 m × 0.42 m. This square cutting is linked by a small opening to the south, only 0.06 m wide, with a shallower elongated cutting which has a stepped eastern bank and apparently continues in the bedrock under the parodos floor. In contact and perpendicular to this series of cuttings, there is towards the east an elongated and wide levelled surface around a somewhat shallower ditch with a square cutting in its floor for a large wooden post, square in section (0.42 m × 0.42 m). Although this is a unique find, the forms of these excellently preserved cuttings, their orientation and their specific location in the parodos, together with their dimensions and their spatial relationship to one other, clearly point to elements of a support system and components for the functioning of wooden Doric doors91, the basic features of which persisted throughout antiquity from the Archaic period onwards92. The levelled rectangular surface with the large square socket reflects the fixture and support system for a wooden 91

On Doric doors: Büsing-Kolbe 1978, 142–174; 151–154 (on wooden thresholds in Archaic and Classical temples). For comparative examples from Eleusis: Giraud 1991, 28–30 fig. 12; 49–55 figs. 23–26. On the Parthenon’s Doric doors (which had, though, a different swinging door mechanism), see the very important study and reconstruction drawings: Korres 1994, 41–62 figs. 21–23. The marble doors of Macedonian Tombs which imitate wooden prototypes greatly aid our understanding of now lost wooden doors see especially the important dissertation Haddad 1995, 10. 15–23. 86–88 (for the proportions of various elements of the doors), 93–95 pls. 5.

92

9. 46a. 86. 89. 101 (for the construction of the thresholds and the support system of the door leaves). Regarding the wooden entrance gateway of the Classical period in the neighbouring sanctuary of Asclepius (xylopylion) there is important information from the inscription from Telemachos’ dedicatory relief (which dates the construction of the xylopylion to 414/413) and from the schematic, but lucid, representation of the gateway on the relief itself: Beschi 1967/1968, 412f.; Beschi 1982, 40–42 figs. 2. 5. 9. Büsing 1988, 107–114 figs. 3–5; Haddad 1995, 16.

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door-jamb with a vertical post and wooden planks93. The conical form of the deep cutting enclosed in a shallower rectangular cutting which is linked by a elongated cutting towards the interior of the parodos, must be related to the wedging of a wooden element of similar shape, on the upper surface of which there was clearly a metal socket94 to receive the iron pivot (choinikis) of the wooden hinge of the heavy door95. The fact that the horizontal element of the doorway was embedded into the connected cuttings leads to the conclusion that the threshold was wooden and that it comprised structural elements joined together by wooden clamps of swallow-tail type96 – as is evident from the small linking opening preserved between two of these cuttings. Analogous cuttings of similar dimensions must have existed on the southern side at this point of the parodos where it coincides with the north-eastern end of the ‘Lycurgan’ stage-building and which would, in part, have been covered by the monumental base of the Hadrianic period97. These cuttings received the wooden threshold which crossed the parodos. Indeed it is the spatial relationship of the cuttings for the jamb with those that supported the door’s hinge that allows us to recognise the characteristic features of the Doric door system, i. e. the extension of the threshold beyond the point where the jamb meets it98. All these features, which will be dealt with in greater detail in the final publication of the excavation, clearly indicate the existence of a monumental Doric gateway99 in this area of the parodos (figs. 1.18. 22). Bearing in mind the prevailing view that the marble propylon should be attributed to the Lycurgan period100, 93

94

95

Giraud 1991, 75 fig. 31 (Eleusis, South Pylon, fourth century); Haddad 1995, pls. 43. 46–47. The study and the reconstruction drawings of the western door of the Parthenon by M. Korres are particularly instructive: supra n. 91. Orlandos – Travlos 1986, 191 s. v. Ρ«. Originally the Ρ« was a bulky block the upper surface of which carried a depression that received the pivot. Examples in stone: from Mesopotamia, for a Geometric-period building in Greece as well as various examples from the Hellenistic and Roman periods: Haddad 1995, 93–95 figs. 43. 84 a. The use of this sort of holmos is characteristic for large doors and gateways such as the Periclean South Pylon at the Sanctuary of Eleusis, as they allowed the passage of carriages through them: Giraud 1991, 47. 55. 75 fig. 31. Although the use of the wooden threshold for the gateway in the Theatre of Dionysus seems problematic, the forms of the cuttings do not allow any possibility that it was of stone (on wooden thresholds: Robinson – Graham 1938, 250f.). On the possibility of protective coatings being applied to the ikria of the wooden Classical theatre: Papastamativon Moock forthcoming b. Haddad 1995, 96f. 181f. 184 pls. 91, 1; 93; 97 c; 101. For an analytical discussion of the ancient terminology and the earlier bibliography, see too Korres 1994, 58. For a preserved iron pivot from the large door of the Dipylon Gate: Thompson – Scranton 1943, 355 figs. 55–58; Haddad 1995, pls. 84 a. b.

96

97

98 99

100

Orlandos 1994, 62; on joinery in woodworking: Ulrich 2008, 450–453 fig. 17.5. This base is one of the alterations and additions undertaken as part of the early Hadrianic decorative programme of the Neronian stagebuilding: Papastamati-von Moock 2012, 136f. Drawing 1 (identified as the base of the statue of the personification of Tragodia). Büsing-Kolbe 1978, 142; Haddad 1995, 15. Pylon, prothyron or thyroma: Orlandos – Travlos 1986, 131f. 219. 226. For the terminology, see Carpenter 1970, 1–4; Ortaç 2001, 1–7 with further bibliography. For the term propylaia in a decree of the mid-fourth century from Eleusis: IG II2 1187, 25; Giraud 1991, 57–59. For P : Arist., Ath. 15, 4. For the adoption of the term thyromata for the propyla of the parodoi: Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, 108f.; Moretti 1997, 36f.; Moretti 2010, 163 cat. nos. 2. 29. 117 (with regard to the theatres of Oropos, Boeotian Orchomenos and Pergamon). The identification of the position and type of the marble propyla of the parodoi is due to the research of M. Korres: Korres 1980, 11–14 drawings 1–2 pl. 9; Korres 1982, 16 pls. 12 b. 13 a drawing =2, where they were attributed to the ‘Classical’, i. e. the Lycurgan, phase of the theatre, as is deduced from his following publications; cf. the model of the Lycurgan theatre (1985–1987): Heilmeyer – Maischberger 2002, 540f. no. 407 (M. Korres); Froning 2002, 46f. figs. 54–55, and most recently

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Fig. 1.21. Eastern parodos, trench 1 and eastern part of trench 2 with imprints of a dismantled wooden lifting machine.

the initial reaction is that the dismantled Doric gateway should belong to the wooden theatre of the fifth and first half of the fourth century. On the other hand, further consideration of the excavation data, but primarily the examination of the finds, has led to the rejection of this initial idea and the dismissal of some opinions expressed by other scholars regarding elements of other phases of the theatre. During the removal of the layer of ancient fill which formed the resting surface for the base of the Tragedians’ monument it was determined that the eastern end of the resting surface of the wooden jamb of the Doric gateway had been destroyed by the opening of an elongated deep ditch which ran eastwards and had a depth of approximately 0.90 m (figs. 1.18. 20–21). This ditch continued under the resting surface of the base of Menander’s statue, and its terminal point must have been slightly more to the east, close to the north wall of the parodos’ marble propylon. Within this ditch and below the upper layer of the hard ancient fill, which was the resting surface of the bases, were preserved the Korres 2009, 80f. 4.5–7. On earlier scholars’ opinions about the propyla, see Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, 70. 94 pl. II, where, though, he did not identify the full length of the abutment of the marble propylon with the retaining wall of the western parodos and therefore assumed that the Lycurgan propyla were of the same type as those of the Theatre of Epidaurus, with possible alterations in the Roman period (though it remains unclear to the reader what was actually meant). Dörpfeld’s proposal regarding the propyla of the Lycurgan phase was followed by R. C. Beacham (Beacham 2007, 209 fig. 14; 210 fig. 15; Walton 2010, 130 fig. 3.8) in a new digital three-dimensional re-

construction of the Lycurgan theatre, with a strange reconstruction of the stage-building’s entablature and with the out-dated view of the existence of two diazomata in the theatron (see n. 30). For the view that traces of abutment of the propylon on the retaining wall of the western parodos is a result of possible Roman interventions, see Puchstein 1901, 105, who is followed by Gogos 2005, 159–165 fig. 32. Gogos not only doubts, despite the dating, the type, position and existence of twin propyla at the theatre’s parodoi as suggested by Korres but also the very existence of propyla in the Lycurgan theatre.

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negative imprints of a second wooden structure. Its structural elements rested on a similar fill 0.50 m in depth that had been laid in the lowest part of the ditch. The following postholes were found (figs. 1.19. 21): 1. in the east, in the area on which the base of Menander’s statue rested, was the partly-destroyed trace of a sloping beam (ca. 0.30 m in diameter), slightly inclined eastwards101; 2. to the north of this and at 0.47 m from the retaining wall, an impression of a smaller beam, rectangular in section102; 3. and further west, below the east section on which the monument of the Tragedians rested, were the remains of two upright beams diagonally opposite each other, circular in section with smaller diameters103. The slope and the proximity of the large beam to the north wall of the parodos’ marble propylon, its location on the same axis as this wall (figs. 1.17–18), the dimensions and the characteristics of the other three imprints, all lead to the conclusion that they are the remains of a dismantled lifting machine or crane104 that had been installed for the construction of the marble propylon. After the crane’s purpose had been served and it had been dismantled, the area was immediately levelled with fill so that the two bases could be erected. The rectangular imprint (no. 2), 0.16 m × 0.20 m, must be that of the westernmost beam of the scaffolding required for the construction of the northern wall of the propylon, given that imprints of a corresponding form and dimensions had been found during the excavation of the resting surface of the dismantled south wall of the twin propylon of the western parodos immediately to the south of it105. The two imprints of smaller diameter to the west (nos. 3 and 4) must be linked with the short and thinner stakes used to hold the ropes supporting the crane’s sloping beam106. The similarity between the layers of ancient fill below the two bases in association with the excellent preservation of the negative imprints of the two wooden structures (figs. 1.19. 23) leads to the conclusion that the dismantling of the wooden Doric gateway, the construction of the new marble propylon to the east of the former, and the erection of the honorary monument of the Tragedians were successive stages of a single phase separated from one another only by brief spans of time. The excavation data support the view 101 102

103

104

Figs. 1.17. 21 (no. 1). Figs. 1.17. 21 (no. 2: dimensions 0.16 m × 0.20 m.). Figs. 1.17. 21 (nos. 3 and 4). No. 3: round cross-section 0.15–0.16 m in diam; no. 4: with a somewhat oval cross-section, 0.21 m in diam. It is very likely that it was a one-mast machine (monokolos). One cannot exclude the possibility that the scaffolding which was erected for the construction of the walls of the propylon also functioned as a four-mast machine (tetrakolos) and that it was used in combination with the one-mast device. For details of various types of lifting devices based on the information provided by Heron of Alexandria along with drawings by Nix – Schmidt 1900 see Drachmann 1963, 94–116; for the one-mast machine: 97–99 fig. 35; Orlandos 1994, 101–116, for the one-mast machine: 107f. fig. 40; for the four-mast machine (tetrakolos): 109 fig. 43; Fleury 1993, 112–138; WurchKozelj 1988, 57f. fig. 5 (with reconstruction drawings of the devices by Zabaglia 1743,

105

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pls. 19–20). Supplementary excavation in the wider area of the propylon is required in order to obtain further data. Committee – Theater of Dionysus 2006, 10 with fig. This is concluded on the basis of the smaller diameter of the holes, the fact that the posts would not have any inclination, and the position of these postholes in relation to each other and to the sloping beam. Their arrangement and their distance from the large sloping beam suggest that there must have been a third support further to the south, beyond the excavation area, at a position and distance corresponding to those of posthole no. 3 from the large sloping beam. The supports would have been placed at the corners of a notional isosceles triangle behind the sloping beam and would have functioned as stable points in the countersupport of the sloping beam: Fleury 1993, 112–121 figs. 16. 18 I; Orlandos 1994, 107 fig. 40; Irby-Massie – Keyser 2002, 171 fig. 6.9.

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Fig. 1.22. Plan of excavated parts of the eastern parodos in 2000 and 2008. The identified position of the Lycurgan Doric pylon and of the honorary monument of the Tragedians in the Lycurgan phase are indicated by dashed lines.

that the wooden gateway107 (fig. 1.22) must have abutted the retaining wall of the parodos to the north, and the north-eastern end of the ‘Lycurgan’ stage-building to the south. On first impression, its functional relationship and its link with the structural elements of the Late-Classical stone theatre exclude any connection with the wooden Classical theatron, as the wooden gateway must have been built at the earliest immediately after the completion of the ‘Lycurgan’ retaining wall and the new stone stage-building. Its end-date is fixed by the time of its dismantling and the contemporary construction of the new marble propylon. These observations dissociate the marble propylon from the construction of the stone theatre in the third quarter of the fourth century. What, then, is the date of the marble propylon? And how can we explain the positioning of the two honorary monuments, and especially the Lycurgan monument to the Three Tragedians, on fill that is clearly linked to the construction of the later propylon? These crucial questions about the eastern parodos’ monuments108 may be answered thanks to the recent study of the excavated pottery and the identification of two coins found in the excavations. The study of these finds led to the re-examination of details of the eastern parodos which had not hitherto been satisfactorily interpreted. Apart from a series of iron nails that were found at various points in the layers of the ancient fill, confirming that the dismantled structures were made of wood109, a small 107

Only the cuttings for the construction elements of the wooden propylon are preserved in the bedrock, and only those elements that correspond to its northern part have been revealed, so the propylon’s restored dimensions can only be approximated. Nonetheless the known details are sufficient to propose a reconstruction keeping in mind the 1:2 proportional relationship between the lower width and the height of the opening of the doors which is characteristic of most Classical and Hellenistic Doric doorways (Korres 1994, 54; Haddad 1995, 79–92, esp. 86–88 and pl. I). The lower width of the opening of the door is estimated at approxi-

108

109

mately 3 m, and its height possibly somewhat more that 6 m. A more detailed examination of these issues will appear in the excavation’s final publication. On the opinions expressed on the marble propylon: supra n. 100. On the honorary monuments of the Three Tragedians and of Menander most recently Papastamati-von Moock 2007. From the two trenches nine fragmentary iron nails were found in the two layers of the ancient fill as well as two bronze sheet fragments. All are clearly debris from the removal of the wooden propylon.

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Fig. 1.23. Eastern parodos, trenches 1 and 2, south side stratigraphy.

number of pottery sherds were also found along with two worn bronze coins. Although the small sherds cover a wide chronological range, from Middle Helladic to the Hellenistic period, the more recent provide some indications for the dating of the various activities in this area. The fill that formed the surface on which the bases stood and that served as packing in the holes left by the dismantled wooden structures, as well as from the foundation of the crane (fig. 1.23), contained a series of body-fragments of white lagynoi (fig. 1.24 a–b) (second-first century)110, a ‘type 3’ lopas rim fragment (fig. 1.25) according to S. I. Rotroff’s classification (ca. 285–110)111, and an ivy-decorated mouldmade body-fragment of a lamp with a brown-red to orange-ochre fugitive slip around the filling hole (fig. 1.26). This lamp finds parallels in the Kerameikos, and belongs to 110

Only a few representative pieces of the pottery found are mentioned here. A comprehensive presentation will appear in the final publication of the excavation: 1. base fragment of a white-ground lagynos from Trench 2 Layer 3 (fill in the cuttings that received the elements of the wooden propylon, and the foundation layer of the base of the Three Tragedians’ monument); 2. three small body fragments of a white-ground lagynos from Trench 2 Layer 3 (context as 1.); 3. shoulder fragment with orange-brown horizontal bands from Trench 2 Layer 4 (levelling fill for the wooden elements of the lifting device). See Rotroff 1997a, 226–229 nos. 1503–1532 pls. 115–117 (dated generally to ca. 150 to 50 and common in pure Sullan destruction debris and in post-Sullan

111

clean-up deposits). On Sullan deposits in the Athenian Agora and from South Slope of the Acropolis with lagynoi: Rotroff 1997b, 104f. fig. 5, 3; Vogeikoff-Brogan 2000, 302. 304f. fig. 8 (lagynoi from a not ‘pure’ Sullan deposit/ South Slope cistern, near to Odeion of Herodes Atticus). From Trench 1 Layer 3 (fill below the base of the Menander monument; [Layer 1: post-excavation fill of 1878 that resulted after the dismantling of the steps of the base. Layer 2: postexcavation fill from E. Fiechter’s excavation of 1927]). For parallels Rotroff 2006, 180–182 Lopas form 3 figs. 82–84. 312f. nos. 641–653 figs. 82–83 pls. 68–69, possibly close to the small example no. 653 (from context dating ca. 115 to A. D. 20).

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Fig. 1.24a. Body fragments of white lagynoi.

Fig. 1.24b. Base fragment of white lagynos.

Fig. 1.25. Fragment of lopas (rim with part of horizontal handle).

the Howland type 54C which is dated from after the Sullan destruction until the end of the first century112, that is until the Augustan period. The dating of the two Athenian bronze coins found in the fill for the resting surface of the Three Tragedians’ base also points to the period following the Sullan destruction113 as one of them is of the type 112

From Trench 2 Layer 3. For parallels Scheibler 1976, 82f. no. 499 pl. 77 = Howland 1958, 198 type 54C (for the type he suggests a date from 70 until the end of the first century). For the redating of the types of Howland’s groups after Rotroff: Rotroff 1997a, 514f. (type 54C dated after 60); Rotroff 1997b, 100f. (for postSullan lamps).

113

For the extent of the Sullan destruction at Athens and the divergent views expressed: Hoff 1997, 37–43 and most recently Mango 2010, 119–124, with a discussion of the earlier bibliography.

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Fig. 1.26. Body fragment of an ivy-decorated mould-made lamp (type of Howland 54C).

Fig. 1.27. Athenian bronze coin of type Agora XXVI, 100.

Agora 26, 50–54, dated to 307–270114, while the second (fig. 1.27) is of type Agora 26, 100, dated to 130–90115. These finds provide a terminus post quem. We can conclude therefore that the marble propylon which until now had been thought to date to the ‘Lycurgan’ phase was actually built after the sack of Athens by Sulla (86) and should be dated to the time of Augustus. In this period a new building programme was instituted with the aim of embellishing the city and the Acropolis116, including a monumental remodelling of the neighbouring sanctuary of Asclepius117. The dating of the propylon 114

115

Inv. no. 498 from Trench 2 layer 3 (below the base of the Three Tragedians monument): see Kroll 1993, 32f. 44f. no. 50–54 pl. 5. The coins were identified by E. Ralli (Numismatic Museum of Athens). Inv. no. 499 from Trench 2 Layer 3 (fill below the base of the Three Tragedians monument and simultaneous fill of the bedrock cuttings after the dismantling of the structural elements of the wooden pylon): see Kroll 1993, 68. 76 no. 100 pl. 10.

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Hoff 1989; Walker 1997; Habicht 1999, 335; Burden 1999, 31–75. 210–225; StefanidouTiveriou 2008; Schmalz 2009, 80–82; Mango 2010, 130–144; Rödel 2010, 102–111. The monumental remodelling and renewal of the Sanctuary of Asclepius seems, on the basis of the epigraphic evidence and recent research, to have been undertaken gradually during the first century, mainly after the Sullan destruction (86) and through to the Augustan period. The identification of the inscribed marble door

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of the eastern parodos to the Augustan period, and probably to its middle phase (last quarter of the first century)118, agrees with the testimony provided by a coin found in a previous examination of the area of the dismantled foundations of the south wall of the corresponding propylon of the western parodos119. This find had caused some concern as it too was dated to 130–90 (type Agora 26, 99)120, and so provided a postSullan destruction terminus post quem for the construction of the western parodos’ propylon. I shall examine the interesting topic of these propyla, which can now be dated on the basis of the archaeological data, to a new, i. e. Augustan, phase of the theatre elsewhere. The revised dating of the marble propylon of the eastern parodos, the construction of which is linked with the dismantling of the wooden gateway, also provides a terminus ante quem for the latter’s use on the basis of stratigraphical evidence. The existence of a similar gateway in the western parodos, and in all likelihood in the same position as the Augustan propylon, must be considered certain: they not only marked the two major entrances to the theatre (as is also the case at other late-fourth century and later theatres121), but at the same time protected the interior of the theatre when it was not in use. The question of the position of the wooden gateway of the western parodos will be looked at briefly below in regard to the foundation ‘aA’ which has played such a major role in research on the theatre. The latest date for the existence and use of the two gateways must be the Augustan period of the later first century, or immediately before it, when the marble propylon was built, or – more likely – 86, the year of the Sullan destruction in

frame of the Ionic Temple of Asclepius by M. Korres and the architect R. Christodoulopoulou (the piece has been reconstructed in plaster in the Weiler Building, offices of the A' Ephorate of Prehistoric and Classical Antiquities) has shown that this door imitated the north door of the Erechtheum, see preliminary reports: Mantis 2009, 74–77 fig. 28 and Papaefthimiou 2009, 83–88 (suggested dating on the basis of the inscription on the lintel, to the beginning of the first century, even though its decoration can be compared to that of the Temple of Roma and Augustus: cf. Baldassarri 1998, 46 pls. 2–3). For the gradual renovation of the sanctuary after the Sullan destruction and into the Augustan period and for those buildings that were repaired or built anew in the Augustan period: Travlos 1971, 127f.; Aleshire 1989, 16; Schmalz 1994, 2004; Baldassarri 1998, 64–74; Schmalz 2009, 82f.; Papaefthimiou 2009, 82–88; Mango 2010, 129; Rödel 2010, 105. The architectural accentuation of public buildings by the addition of propyla is characteristic of the second half of the first century, and principally of the Augustan period in Athens. Their architecture assimilated elements of Classical Attic architecture as well as inspiration from the Hellenistic period such as, for example, the

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Doric and Ionic propylon of the Roman Agora of Caesar and Augustus (Hoff 1989, 1–7; Burden 1999, 169–209, esp. pp. 179–186. 197–204; Sourlas 2008, 99–114, esp. 110 [with recent archaeological data demonstrating that the Roman Agora was built in a single phase in the second half of the first century]), the propylon of the Tholos (Burden 1999, 153–162; Baldassarri 1998, 223–241), the propylon of the Strategeion (Baldassarri 1998, 225f.). A time during which new building programmes were undertaken in Athens: Stefanidou-Tiveriou 2008; Rödel 2010, 102–111. Material under study: see Committee – Theater of Dionysus 2006, 10. Cf. Kroll 1993, 57. 68. 75f. no. 99 pl. 9. For the same type of coins in a Sullan destruction deposit: Rotroff 2000, 376 n. 4–5. For the theatre of Epidaurus: von Gerkan – Müller-Wiener 1961, 64–67 figs. 12–13 pls. 1. 16. 24–25 (where attributed to the first phase of the theatre; for dating: von Gerkan – MüllerWiener 1961, 77–80). Käppel 1989 (for the plan of the theatre, ca. 300, as a single unified project); Froning 2002, 54–59 figs. 65–66. 68. At the theatre of Delos: Fraisse – Moretti 2007, 69–72 pl. 36 fig. 136; 37–38. 39 figs. 148–149; pls. 99–101. 111.

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which the wooden gateways of the parodoi probably also suffered damage122. Any association with the Classical wooden theatre is not only excluded by the date of their dismantling in the Augustan period. The construction of the stone theatre in the third quarter of the fourth century would not have allowed their preservation until the first century; it would have been necessary to dismantle any structure in this area as it was used as a worksite for the transport of stones and the construction of the retaining walls. Although the limited excavations did not provide chronological indicators for the construction of the wooden gateways, given that the uncovered northern part of that in the eastern parodos rested directly on cuttings in the bedrock, its obvious constructional and functional relationship both with the retaining wall of the parodos as well as with the north-eastern end of the ‘Lycurgan’ stage-building renders most likely its attribution to the major building programme of the third quarter of the fourth century (figs. 1.41–43). Obviously the exemplary design and construction of the Late-Classical Athenian theatre ca. 350 also functioned as a prototype for the gateways of other theatres in the late fourth and early third century123. The emphasis given to the main entrances (parodoi) with gateways (thyromata according to Moretti)124 is not just an attempt to organise space rationally on the basis of new principles which involve rectangular architectural compositions, symmetry, and the axial placing of propyla, which characterise the fourth century125. This emphasis is also to be related to the protection of the theatre’s interior and that of the valuable equipment stored there during periods in which the theatre was not in use. The analysis of these excavation data also provides new information about the Lycurgan honorary monuments to the Three Tragedians and to Menander, the positions of which have now been identified126. Both bases were erected in their current position as a unit immediately after the completion of the construction of the marble propylon, i. e. during the middle Augustan period (last quarter of the first century). This conclusion is based on the homogeneity of the fill which covered the traces associated with the dismantled crane and which was laid to prepare the resting surface of the two bases, but primarily on the dating of finds from the fill. The dating of these lost bronze statues themselves is accepted as the communis opinio and cannot be doubted127. In particular that of the Three Tragedians, which concerns us here, is linked to the Lycurgan programme not only on the basis of the ancient sources, but primarily on the grounds of the dating of the typological characteristics of the preserved Roman copies that refer back to the originals of

122

The destruction that the Athenian theatre suffered in 86 has not been sufficiently documented and evaluated. Indeed it is not certain which of the observable traces of destruction on the preserved remains are to be attributed to the Sullan destruction and which to that brought about by the Herulians in A. D. 267. Many scholars have associated the vandalism on the thrones of the marble proedria to the Sullan destruction, while others believe that alterations to the façade of the stage-building should be dated to after this destruction: Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, 81f.; Bulle 1928, 80; Fiechter 1935, 72; Fiechter 1936, 77f.; Travlos 1971, 538 (Travlos, following Fiechter’s view, associated the post-Sullan rep-

123 124 125

126 127

airs with Ariobarzanes who also funded the rebuilding of the Odeion of Pericles that had been burnt by Aristion); Hoff 1997, 41; Froning 2002, 59. For the Sullan destruction most recently Mango 2010, 119–124. Supra n. 121. Moretti 1997, 35–37. For a concise summary of the principles of Hellenistic architecture, which developed from the fourth century: Lauter 1986, 4. 32–48, for propyla 38f. Papastamati-von Moock 2007. Papastamati-von Moock 2007, 312–318 with further bibliography; also Vorster 2004, 415–418 figs. 389–392.

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ca. 330128. A number of questions arise in relation to the siting of the two monuments (where Pausanias saw them)129 and to the newly-established discrepancies between the dating of the original statues and the dating of the placement of their bases together on this particular spot. These questions are: 1. How could two honorary monuments that were erected approximately forty years apart have been placed together on a fill of Augustan date? 2. Could the dating of this fill indicate that there were two sets of honorary monuments, one Late Classical or early Hellenistic and the other Augustan? 3. Could the monuments have been relocated from another site or sites to the present one in the Augustan period once the marble propylon had been built, and, if so, what was the reason and where was/were their original position(s)? Without repeating all the details that argue for the identification of the position and form of these monuments, it is apparent that only the third question offers a practicable solution. The line of argument that question presupposes would also offer an explanation for the chronological discrepancy between the stylistic form of the statues and the excavation details relating to the bases on which they stood. Nonetheless, the conclusion suggested in option three requires further evidence to support it. Among the many unsolved problems relating to the theatre, no researcher has explained why in the eastern parodos the header-stones of the eastern half of the foundations of the retaining wall (which rests on bedrock from the point exactly behind the northern wall of the marble propylon as far as the eastern corner) become considerably wider than the rows of stones above, wider in fact than in the western half of the same row (fig. 1.28)130. The widening of this row of stones, typical of foundations, may be interpreted as a footing intended to ensure an increase in the static load-bearing capacity of the retaining wall: in this area it received the major horizontal thrust from the soil filling of the theatron in addition to the vertical weight of its increasing height towards the corner as it followed the steep gradient of the theatron. This detail clearly demonstrates that during the ‘Lycurgan’ construction of this retaining wall, this section was intended to be covered by fill, and so the surface of the parodos must have risen from the point behind the propylon towards the corner (fig. 1.29)131. Not only did this observation raise various questions, it also highlighted a discrepancy between the level of the euthynteria of the marble propylon and that of the starting point of the widened foundations which is higher132. This change coincides with cuttings and traces of weathering on the surface of the stones which defined the eastern end of a large stepped base133 that extended westwards and behind the Augustan position of the base of Menander. The relationship does not appear to be accidental and should 128

Supra n. 127. I thank Professor P. Wilson for the reference Harpocration s. v. theorika (FGrHist 328 F 33; see Csapo – Slater 1994, 293; Roselli 2009, 11f. 19 with the Greek text). The passage is a fragment from the third book of Philochorus’ Atthis which was preserved by Harpocration; it refers to the speech by Philinus “Against the Statues of Sophocles and Euripides”, in which Philinus speaks of the theorikon with reference to Eubulus and the possibility of participation by all, not only citizens, in the celebrations and spectacles during the Dionysia. Philinus’ reference to two of the three statues of the Tragedians is noteworthy. Could it possibly imply that a discussion had taken

129

130

131

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place as to which tragedians would be honoured with a statue in the theatre? Paus. 1, 21, 1; cf. Papastamati-von Moock 2007, 318–324 figs. 6–8. Fiechter 1935, 80f. pls. 1.10; Makri et al. 1987/1988, 340f. figs. 16–17; Samara 2004, 67 fig. 23; Papastamati-von Moock 2007, pl. 41,1. Cf. Korres 1980, 11–14 Drawing 2 (with a rise in the level of the eastern parodos eastwards of the marble propylon). In this area the difference is estimated at approximately 0.30 m. Fiechter 1935, pl. 10; Makri et al. 1987/1988, 340f. figs. 16–17; Samara 2004, 67 fig. 23.

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Fig. 1.28. Eastern parodos, retaining wall with the widening foundation course after its partial restoration and the recently restored honorary monument of Menander, from SE.

indicate that the construction of the retaining wall and the erection of this particular base belong to the same building programme, that is to the same ‘Lycurgan’ phase. Immediately to the east of these cuttings and at a distance of ±1.40 m from the last of them, other cuttings define the area of a second, narrower base which seems to have been erected there later than the elongated one as it disturbed the header-stones of the foundation. These cuttings which clearly indicate the presence of two bases, one elongated to the west134 and a narrower one to its east, remained unexplained not only because there was a discrepancy between their resting levels and that of the euthynteria of the purportedly Lycurgan marble propylon, but also because of the serious question of how two honorary bases could have been erected at this point of the parodos if the retaining wall and the marble propylon belonged to the same ‘Lycurgan’ phase. This question could not be examined in my recent study of the honorary monuments because there was as yet no reason to question the Lycurgan dating of the marble propylon. As a result of its new Augustan dating, however, the other issues of this area of the parodos can be explained. The cuttings are evidence for the existence of two bases, an elongated one to the west and a narrower one to the east. Not only do these, as an ensemble, remind one of the corresponding unit of the Three Tragedians and Menander bases, but the width of the narrower of the two to the east corresponds to the combined width of the base of Menander and that of the base of the in134

Owing to the preservation of the two lowest courses of the retaining wall in this sector it can be determined from the traces of weathering that the two lowest steps of the base had a

height of ± 0.40 m, i. e. the same as that of the steps of the base of the Three Tragedians monument: Papastamati-von Moock 2007, 320.

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Fig. 1.29. Eastern parodos, area behind the marble propylon where the eastern part of the lower stone course changes from stretchers to headers, and with cuttings for the placement of two bases.

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scribed stele that accompanied the monument135. Furthermore, the height of the steps for the elongated base behind the propylon, 0.40 m, corresponds with that of the base of the Three Tragedians136. Furthermore the repair of the inscribed base of Menander, dated on the basis of the inscription to the early third century, which I had argued should date to the initial phase of its erection137 should, on the basis of the new data, be associated with problems which resulted during the dismantling of the monument from its original position, and with repairs undertaken during its relocation further to the west in the Augustan period. Consequently, the foundation cuttings for two bases behind the Augustan propylon must represent the remains of the initial position of the two famous honorary monuments (approximately in the middle of the parodos, outside the wooden gateway). The position of the Three Tragedians monument outside the gateway as well as the subsequent erection of the base of Menander to its east is not just a feature of the Augustan period138, it provides another indication that already in the ‘Lycurgan’ phase the wooden gateway defined to the west the area that had been chosen for the erection of the monument of the Three Tragedians (fig. 1.22). Consequently, the gateway and the honorary monument belong to the same ‘Lycurgan’ phase which saw the completion of the works in these main entranceways. In the middle Augustan period, following the Sullan destruction, a decision was made to replace the old, and probably in part destroyed, gateway with a new classicising Ionic propylon of a high aesthetic standard139 at a new position in the middle of the parodos. The positioning of the gate was surely influenced by a desire to place the major monuments of the Classical tradition in a position of greater security. Thanks to this small-scale excavation we can now see that Pausanias saw the two monuments in the place where they had been relocated in the Augustan period, a little to the west of their initial position140. A further question arises: We can ask if these honorary 135 136 137

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Papastamati-von Moock 2007, 301f. figs. 6–8. Papastamati-von Moock 2007 (n. 134). Papastamati-von Moock 2007, 279f. fig. 1 pls. 37. 38, 2. On the bottom and rear face of the inscribed base, cuttings for pedestal clamps are preserved; these would have assured the structural cohesion of the marble as there was here an oblique line of decomposition. At exactly this point the pedestal had broken, clearly during its dismantling from its position in the Early Christian period, and this part was lost. The slightly lower level of the western part of the parodos in relation to that of the eastern half led to the slightly lower footing of the monuments in their new Augustan position. On the basis of the construction characteristics of the preserved lower part of the northern wall of the propylon in the eastern parodos, it is concluded that it is a construction of the Augustan period without any indications of re-use of older architectural members or of the transfer of an older construction to a new position. It is a new eclectic classicising construction as, for example, is the eastern Ionic propylon of the Roman Agora of Caesar and Augustus: Baldassarri 1998, 113; Burden 1999, 179–186; Sourlas 2008. This topic will be examined further in another study.

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The choice of the new position east of the LateClassical gateway, at a different point from that of the corresponding gateway in the western parodos, was surely dictated by various reasons, such as the wish to ensure the monumentality of the main entrance of the theatre and its accentuation by placing it in the middle of the parodos’ length – which was greater than that of the western parodos. This propylon must have been closed with a large monumental door: this is evident from the large preserved pivot-hole as well as from the great depth of abrasion that can be seen on the inner face of one of the propylon’s orthostates and the euthynteria, which must be due to a metal bolt that would have secured the door. The rear part of the northern wall was damaged by fire: this is evidence for the existence of a section of wall built of a combination of bricks and wood that closed the gap between the retaining wall and the propylon. To the south there must have been a corresponding wall, which closed the gap between the end of the stage-building and the propylon. The damage caused by fire on the rear surface of the orthostates should, in all probability, be associated with the destruction caused by the Herulians (A. D. 267).

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monuments survived the Sullan destruction, and if so, in what condition. I believe that the monuments that were relocated in the Augustan period were the original ones, even if with some repairs141, and for the following reasons: 1. The Roman copies, especially those of better quality, incorporate characteristics typical of the period in which the originals were created142. 2. Copying of these statues appears to have begun in the Augustan period143, and the transfer of the originals would have surely provided better conditions under which copies could be made. 3. Plutarch refers144 to the bronze statues of the Tragedians in the first century A. D. as Lycurgan (i. e. after the monument’s relocation). 4. The relocation of these two monuments as a unit is a symbolic act of the moral renewal that Augustan classicism embodied145. These conclusions are supported by what we can learn from the written sources about the respect for – and the repairs undertaken on – the Classical monuments of Athens from the time of Julius Caesar, but even more so under Augustus, when the city enjoyed a new wave of planning and architectural embellishments146 with refined forms that bear the stamp of the ‘Classical’. As has been noted regarding the Roman Agora of Caesar and Augustus, this classicism even reached the extent of reviving the Classical clamp types147; this can also be seen in the preserved part of one of the two Augustan propyla of the theatre. Consequently we not only gain an insight into an interesting historical phase of the theatre, but also details of its Lycurgan remodelling that were hitherto unknown. Before we move onto some crucial issues of the late-Classical stage-building it is worth looking at the much-discussed foundation ‘aA’ (Fiechter’s ‘altes Analemma’)148 of the west-

141

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A comparison with the Monument of the Eponymous Heroes in the Agora is instructive. Its peribolos too would have suffered damage in the Sullan destruction; it was repaired thereafter but it is not possible to determine the date of the repairs precisely: Shear 1970, 201 (Period IV). Clearly, though, the repairs date to the Augustan period at the very latest. Both the monument of the Eponymous Heroes and the monument of the Three Tragedians in the Theatre of Dionysus were important symbolically in terms of the history and identity of Athens: Papastamati-von Moock 2007, 321f. The loss of the steps of the bases of the monuments of the Three Tragedians and of Menander in the first, difficult, years of the newly-established state deprives us of evidence related to the alterations and repairs to which these monuments may have been subjected. This loss, however, allowed the excavation of the layers on which these monuments stood and that provided new data regarding the history of the theatre, data which otherwise would have been inaccessible if the steps had survived. Papastamati-von Moock 2007, 312–318 with the earlier bibliography; Vorster 2004, 415–418 figs. 389–392. Zanker 1995, 49–61 figs. 25. 28. 30.; Voutiras 1994, 177 n. 5.; Heilmeyer – Maischberger 2002, 542–546 (R. Krumeich); Vorster 2004, 415–418 figs. 389–392.

144 145

146

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[Plu.] Moralia 841f. The theatre, as a public political and cultural space, played a central role in Augustan classicism: Zanker 1987, 153–157. Most recently Stefanidou-Tiveriou 2008; Mango 2010, 124–144. Double T-clamps are documented in quite a number of Augustan monuments other than Classical monuments that were moved to new locations in this period such as the Temple of Ares (MacAllister 1959, 9 fig. 3 and passim) and which certainly served as prototypes for the study of the technology of the Classical period. For monuments of the Augustan period, see the krepidoma of the Temple of Roma and Augustus (Baldassarri 1998, 46 and more generally 267. 269f.), and the two propyla of the Roman Agora (Baldassarri 1998, 113 n. 49 where she only mentions the use of clamps of this type in the Doric propylon of Athena Archegetis although such clamps also exist in the Ionic propylon). Dörpfeld 1925, 25–32 fig. 1 pl. 3 (C-C); Bulle 1928, 65–68 fig. 4; 79 pls. 3. 4 II (C-C1); Fiechter 1935, 76–78 figs. 64–65 pls. 1. 10 (‘aA’); Dinsmoor 1951–1953, 318 (C = ‘aA’); Anti – Polacco 1969, 133f.; Lauter-Bufe – Lauter 1988 (‘aA’); Polacco 1990, 167f. figs. 1. 40 (AA); Wurster 1993, 23 fig. 8; Goette 1995a, 31f. (‘aA’); Bees 1995, 77f. (‘aA’); Moretti 1999/2000, 382 n. 22.

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ern parodos. This breccia foundation, one stone wide and 22.4 m in length, runs along the middle of the parodos below its calculated level and ends in an acute angle near its eastern end (figs. 1.30–32)149. At about the middle of the parodos’ length there is a gap of approximately 7 m. It was laid so as to fit the underlying bedrock: in its eastern part it comprises only one course of stones, while to the west, where the bedrock slopes steeply to the southsouthwest, it gradually reaches four courses150. At this end it turns to the north and bonds with the foundation of the corner of the parodos’ retaining wall where it joins the western exterior retaining wall of the theatron (fig. 1.30)151. On the basis of this detail the foundation ‘aA’ must have been constructed either at the same time as the parodos’ retaining wall or earlier than it. The interpretation and dating of ‘aA’ have received a great deal of attention. Many identify it as the remains of a dismantled retaining wall of the ‘Periclean’ phase152. Its proximity to the western part of the stone stage-building has, however, in my view, led to problematic reconstructions both of the plan of the Classical theatron as well as that of the Classical skene153. In a brief study, H. Lauter-Bufe and H. Lauter154 made an alternative suggestion, in part – and correctly – following Fiechter and Bulle155 in the view that the limited width of the ‘aA’ foundation is not adequate for a retaining wall intended to hold the great volume of the fill of the theatron156. Primarily on the basis of the existence of the rubble fill between the two foundations (‘aA’ and that of the parodos’ retaining wall) which abuts these foundations without any indication of a foundation trench157 Lauter-Bufe and Lauter argued that these foundations were built at the same time. They noted that the rubble fill is typical of that used for the substratum of roads, and on the basis of this observation and that of the steep slope of the bedrock at this point they in-

149

150

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At its western end it is at a distance of 3.40 m from the retaining wall of the parodos and at the eastern end 2.20 m. Fiechter 1935, 77 fig. 65 pl. 10; Lauter-Bufe – Lauter 1988, 291 fig. 3; 295 fig. 6. I. e. the corner of the retaining wall sits on the top stone of the northern terminal of the western arm of ‘aA’ and indeed in an especially formed cutting: Fiechter 1935 (supra n. 150). The stones of the western outer retaining wall show different workmanship from those of the parodos, and it is probable that they belong to a slightly later construction phase, or that they were worked by another team; perhaps the observed difference was the result of hasty work due to either a lack of funds or the fact that this part of the theatron was not meant to be seen. Nonetheless, the construction was a single project. The possibility of any difference of date can only be addressed by excavation. Cf. Lauter-Bufe – Lauter 1988, 292 figs. 3–5. Dörpfeld 1925, 25–32 fig. 1; Bulle 1928, 65–68 fig. 4; 79 pls. 3. 4 II; Fiechter 1936, 71 (he associated the need to construct the old retaining wall with the preceding, first collapse of the ikria ca. 500–497); later, however, in reaction to the criticism of the high date he sug-

153

154 155

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gested for the use of conglomerate stone, Fiechter dated the old retaining wall ‘aA’ along with the rear wall of the stage-building and the stoa to 460–450; Bieber 1939, 110 fig. 155; Anti – Polacco 1969, 133f.; Pickard-Cambridge 1946, 16–18 fig. 7; Dinsmoor 1951– 1953, 318f. (post 430); Polacco 1990, 167f. figs. 1. 40; Wurster 1993, 23 fig. 8; 25 (late fifth century); Goette 1995a, 31f.; Bees 1995, 74. 76–79 fig. 14; 80 (last quarter of the fifth century); Gogos 2005, 89–94 (450–400/ 390); Bressan 2009, 108f. For a more detailed examination of this topic: Papastamati-von Moock, forthcoming b. Lauter-Bufe – Lauter 1988, 287–299. Bulle 1928, 65–68 fig. 4; 79 pls. 3. 4 II; Fiechter 1935, 76–78. For the new evidence that resulted from the excavation in the inner SW corner of the LateClassical theatron documenting the existence, and location, of an older perimeter retaining wall to retain the fill on which the ikria of the wooden theatre stood: Papastamati-von Moock, forthcoming b. Bulle 1928, 65f. pls. 4 II; 6 fig. 7 (the construction method is particularly clearly revealed in this vertical section).

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Fig. 1.30. Plan of the southwestern part of the theatre with the western parodos and the foundation aA. Detail of the bonding of aA with the western corner of the parodos’ retaining wall (WA).

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Fig. 1.31. Western parodos with the retaining walls of the SW area of the auditorium, the foundation aA and the foundation b1 after the archaeological investigation of 1998, from SW.

terpreted ‘aA’ as the remains of a wall, that originally would not have been visible, which supported the sloping natural surface and that would have ensured easy access to the much-used ‘Lycurgan’ parodos. The bonding of ‘aA’ with the corner of the parodos’ retaining wall (see fig. 1.30) in my opinion confirms the contemporaneity of all these elements and consequently their attribution to the Late-Classical phase. This conclusion is corroborated by an observation made during recent investigation158: the internal rubble fill makes undisturbed contact with ‘aA’ and the corner of the parodos’ retaining wall (fig. 1.31). A further small-scale investigation (undertaken for the requirements of a contemporary worksite)159 of the foundation area of the destroyed south wall of the marble propylon of the same parodos showed that the gap in the middle of ‘aA’ corresponds with the site identified by M. Korres as that of the marble propylon. Korres arrived at this conclusion on the

158

This investigation was undertaken in the context of the archaeological and architectural documentation programme of the remains of the western parodos for the purposes of the study relating to the restoration of its retaining wall. The partial restoration of the retaining wall was completed in 2005 under the super-

159

vision of the architect A. Samara and the author: Samara – Papastamati-von Moock 2006, 1f.; Mantis 2006, 104; Mantis 2007, 167 figs. 7–10. In the framework of the restoration programme for the retaining wall of the western parodos.

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Fig. 1.32. Western parodos with the foundation aA, from NE (2001).

grounds of the traces of contact between the north wall of the propylon and the retaining wall160. Given that the propylon dates to the middle Augustan phase, it is clear that during the setting of the foundations of its north wall, part of ‘aA’ was dismantled so that the foundations could be laid and the level of the approach to the marble propylon could be 160

Korres 1982, 16 pls. 12 #; 13 ; Drawing A'. Cf. too Korres 1980, 11–14 Drawing 1–2 pl. 9 (for the propylon of the eastern parodos), and Korres 2009, 80f. fig. 4. 6–7 (model of the ‘Lycurgan’ theatre with the marble propyla). As a result of this sondage, traces of the resting

surface of the foundations of the destroyed south wall of the western parodos’ propylon were identified: see Committee – Theater of Dionysus 2006, 10 with fig. The finds of this limited excavation are under study.

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accommodated to that of the ‘Lycurgan’ phase161. The position of the Lycurgan wooden gateway of this parodos has not been identified by excavation162. Nonetheless, the Augustan propylon abuts the parodos’ retaining wall on its north and the western end of the ‘Lycurgan’ stage-building on the south, in much the same way as does the Doric wooden gateway of the eastern parodos (figs. 1.41–42). Thus the Augustan propylon of the western parodos was built in the same position as the wooden gateway, unlike the situation in the eastern parodos163. Consequently, the Late-Classical foundation ‘aA’ may have helped partly to support the steep slope and to create an access way to the wooden gateway. All these observations, however, do not explain its form, its position along the middle of the parodos, its proximity to the Late-Classical retaining wall of the parodos, or its bonding with the latter. If, as the Lauters interpret it, ‘aA’ were an invisible supporting wall of the level access area to the ‘Lycurgan’ parodos, one might have expected it to be placed closer to the southern edge of the parodos164. Their less than satisfactory interpretation is the reason why their proposed Late-Classical date for ‘aA’ has not been accepted by most recent scholars, who have preferred to retain the pre-Lycurgan date and the feature’s associations with interventions related to the wooden theatron165. The date and interpretation of wall ‘aA’ are clarified by a consideration of the planning, the execution, and the accommodation of the Late-Classical retaining walls of the parodoi in relation to the pre-existing elements of the Periclean phase of the monument. As mentioned above, the lateral breccia inner retaining walls of the theatron must, on the basis of recent research, be linked to the unfinished Periclean programme for a total remodelling of the theatre and sanctuary of Dionysus166. If we compare the positioning of these retaining walls, the morphological and constructional characteristics of their southern ends where the Late-Classical retaining walls of the parodoi were abutted167, and take 161

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Korres 1982, 16 Drawing A' (showing the inclining line of the parodos from west to east [Fiechter 1935, 78]. The level access way to the ‘Lycurgan’ parodos was at a similar height as can be concluded from the level of the foundation of conglomerate stones of the retaining wall of the parodos: Fiechter 1935, pl. 10; Korres 1982, pl. 12 b Drawing A'; Mantis 2006, 102–104 figs. 9–11 with the new drawing of the retaining wall.). As it was decided to preserve the uncovered resting surface of the south wall of the marble propylon of the western parodos. A probe for the northern wall has not been undertaken to date. Heilmeyer – Maischberger 2002, 540f. no. 407 (M. Korres). This also occurred because of the different lengths of the two parodoi. The irregularities of the Late-Classical theatre’s plan were a result of features inherited from its Classical phase: Papastamati-von Moock, forthcoming b. This is noted by Goette 1995a, 31, though he thought, as did earlier researchers, that this foundation is a remnant of an older retaining wall which went out of use when the LateClassical stage-building was constructed.

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Such as Scullion 1994, 8, who appears to follow the view of the Lauters; Moretti 1999/2000, 382 n. 22; Froning 2002, 47. Supra, at notes 19–23. For this topic in greater detail: Papastamati-von Moock, forthcoming b. Not only do the retaining walls of the parodoi abut, rather than bond with the southern end of the lateral inner retaining walls, but their courses do not correspond with those of the Late-Classical retaining walls of the parodoi: Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, pl. 1 (the southernmost buttress of the inner western retaining wall does not continue eastwards as drawn by Dörpfeld); Fiechter 1935, pl. 10; Lauter-Bufe – Lauter 1988, 289 fig. 1 and figs. 2–4 (for the retaining wall of the western parodos). For the retaining wall of the eastern parodos: Makri et al. 1987/1988, 340f. fig. 16; Samara 2004, 63 figs. 9–10; 66f. figs. 22–23 with a detailed drawing of the construction of the SE corner of the theatron. These observations were presented for the first time by the author in a lecture at the NTUA in 2004: in greater detail Papastamati-von Moock, forthcoming b.

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Fig. 1.33. Cross-sections of the retaining wall of the eastern parodos (OA) and of the western parodos (WA) with the foundation aA, at the area where they meet the south end of the inner lateral walls of the auditorium.

into consideration the peculiarities in their construction, the foundation levels, the minor deviation of the parodos walls from the notional axis of the theatre168, and the bedrock morphology on both sides of the theatre169, we can reach the following conclusions: The foundations of the retaining wall of the eastern parodos – which is longer than that of its western counterpart170 – were for the greater part laid in a trench especially cut in the slatey semi-rock since the slope on this side was much higher than the required access level to the ‘Lycurgan’ parodos (figs. 1.31. 33)171. Although the builder had at his disposal a foundation surface of cohesive ground, he had to solve issues of load-bearing capacity, particularly in the eastern section of the retaining wall: the wall’s height increased steadily as it followed the steep gradient of the theatron. The solution that was adopted included the 168 169

170

Fiechter 1935, 76; Polacco 1990, 122. Fiechter 1935, 77 fig. 65; 80 pl. 10; this has also been determined as a result of a small investigation, undertaken as part of the restoration programmes, of the external corners of the retaining walls of the parodoi. The results are under study. As a result of the investigation of the western part of the parodos – which had already been excavated in Dörpfeld’s days (Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, 27 pl. 1 [V]) – it was ascertained that the western end of the retaining wall of the parodos had in this area foundations that consisted of one or two courses of conglomerate stones. This was necessary owing to the gradient of the bedrock, but even more so because of the earlier interventions made to the bedrock which resulted in a lower level (the lowest point is approximately ± 90.22). These topics are under study by the architect responsible, A. Samara, and the author who will prepare

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analytical documentation for the purposes of the restoration of the retaining wall. For the bedrock alterations which are associated with the Classical theatre, Moretti 2000, 295; Papastamati-von Moock, forthcoming b. The eastern parodos level is ± 91.31 (inside the marble propylon) and ± 91.80 (towards the corner). Indicatively, I mention that behind the retaining wall of the parodos, the level of the bedrock has been determined at ± 93.40 (Makri et al. 1987/1988, 342 figs. 16. 19 [vertical section 3–3]), while within the eastern retaining wall (approximately at its midpoint) its level was ascertained (during the most recent excavation undertaken to reveal the upper surface of its remains) at ± 96.85. By way of comparison it may be noted that the bedrock resting surface of the SW corner of the retaining wall of the western parodos was at a level of ± 90.43, while that of ‘aA’ was at ± 89.25.

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gradual increase in the thickness of the retaining wall towards the corner (from two blocks to three, and in the corner four blocks)172, as well as the widening of its foundation footing, with the header-blocks of this section of the foundations extending beyond the line of the wall as a sort of footing (as noted above)173. These solutions were not only dictated by the nature of the foundation surface, but also by the line of the parodos’ retaining wall in relation to the monument’s notional axis and the position of the southern end of the preexisting retaining wall on the eastern side which takes the form of a massive buttress much further to the north from that of the corresponding section of the western inner retaining wall174. By contrast different circumstances led to different technical solutions in the western parodos. Here the Late-Classical retaining wall, which follows a line corresponding to that of the eastern parodos, not only had to rest on steeply sloping ground175. It also had to be constructed in terms of the position of the southern terminal point of the pre-existing inner western retaining wall, which was of far smaller dimensions than that of the lateral eastern retaining wall and lay further to the south (fig. 1.33)176. Without commenting here on the probable reasons for these differences between the lateral inner retaining walls, we consider that the need to position the southern end of the inner western retaining wall in line with the Late-Classical retaining wall of the parodos, and at the same angle to the notional central axis of the theatre and that of the eastern parodos, necessarily led to the solution of using a double-stone construction for its full length177. This technical solution, however, rendered the western half of the retaining wall particularly unsafe so far as its bearing capacity was concerned, given the steeply sloping ground and the volume of the theatron fill and the way that its height rose constantly as it approached the corner. With all these points in mind, I believe that the main reason for the construction of the supporting wall ‘aA’ within the parodos, not only at a slightly acute angle and close to the parodos’ retaining wall but also bonding with the foundation of its corner, was the reinforcement of the sloping ground and that of the foundations of the retaining wall that rested on it. It was the western part of the retaining wall that received the major lateral thrust both from the theatron fill as well as from its height and therefore the weight of the wall itself. So the foundations of the retaining wall along with wall ‘aA’ formed a widened foundation surface, a sort of broad footing, that resulted in better load-distribution and the prevention of the possibility of the wall slipping. Indeed, the rubble-stone filling178 of the interior of the footing not only formed the substratum of the parodos in this sector but its probable main function was that of a layer that facilitated the drainage of water that collected here. On the basis of all these observations the view that ‘aA’ was not meant to be visible is strengthened. Consequently, it never functioned as the foundation of an early parodos retaining wall. Its contribution to the increase of the static structural capability and the bearing capacity of the parodos’ retaining wall supports the view that ‘aA’ only constituted one element of the foundation and construction of the southern face of the Late-Classical theatron on this side of the theatre. On the basis of the new evidence re172 173

174 175

Makri et al. 1987/1988, 6f.; Samara 2004, 64. Fiechter 1935 pl. 10; Makri et al. 1987/1988, 340f. figs. 16–17; Samara 2004, 63 figs. 8. 10; 67 fig. 23. Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, pl. 1. For the differences in height levels: n. 171. The level of the resting surface of the SW corner of the retaining wall of the parodos is at ± 90.43

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and rises towards the north, while that of the ‘aA’ foundation is at ± 89.25. Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, pl. 1; Fiechter 1935, pls. 1. 10; Samara 2004, 61–63 figs. 3. 8–10; 67 fig. 23. Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, pl. 1; Fiechter 1935, 80 pl. 10. Bulle 1928, 65–66 pls 4 II; 6 fig. 7.

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Fig. 1.34. Plan of the stage-building and the Doric stoa, breccia foundation.

garding the base of Astydamas, ‘aA’ must be dated together with the retaining wall to the decade 350–340. In the context of this study, I should like to touch quickly on just two of the many issues which remain unresolved in relation to the Late-Classical stone stage-building (fig. 1.34). Dörpfeld proposed a reconstruction with a central wall, required for the three entrances179, fronted by a colonnade180 and flanked by paraskenia, each formed by colonnades alone. Later scholars however have widely different opinions on the existence of a colonnade across the wall of the central section181. This element is both paradoxical

179 180 181

Infra n. 191. Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, 59–70 pls. 1–2. For objections to Dörpfeld’s view: Bethe 1897, 721f.; Puchstein 1901, 131–134; Allen 1919, 12; Fiechter 1936, 16–19. 75 pl. 20; Fiechter 1950, 27f. fig. 9; von Gerkan 1938, 240f.; Pickard-Cambridge 1946, 149f.; Travlos 1971, 548 fig. 685, IV. For the 1985–1987 model of the ‘Lycurgan’ theatre by M. Korres: Heilmeyer – Maischberger 2002, 540f. n. 407 (M. Korres); Korres 2009, 80f. 4.5–7. In support of Dörpfeld’s interpretation, but with some variations, Winter 1983, 42–44 with fig. (with a colonnade but without a wall, and colonnades only on the inner sides of the paraskenia); Townsend 1986, 421–438 fig. 7 (with wall and colonnade); Lauter 1986, 168f. fig. 55 b; Papathanasopoulos 1987, 59 fig. 47; Goette 1995a, 30f. pl. 13, 2; Moretti 1997,

15f. fig. 1; Froning 2002, 47f. figs. 60. 62 (with a colonnade, without a wall but with pinakes between the columns). This proposal creates severe problems for the three doors necessary in the central section of the stage-building’s façade which, in my view, could not be met by simple openings between the pinakes. S. Gogos’ proposal (Gogos 1998, 95–105 fig. I; Gogos 2005, 142–159 Drawing 55) on the Lycurgan stage-building, which he dates no later than 323 (?), does not depend on any archaeological remains of the monument itself but on a foundation that dates to the Early Christian period: Travlos 1953/1954, 305f. fig. 2; Papastamativon Moock 2007, 280 n. 21 fig. 3. R. C. Beacham’s reconstruction is equally unfounded in regard to the entablature of the stage-building’s façade: Beacham 2007, 209 fig. 14; Walton 2010, 130 fig. 3.8.

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Fig. 1.35 a–b. Partially preserved Doric architrave-frieze block from the Late Classical stage-building (inv. NK 2335).

and unprecedented in ancient architecture182. Dörpfeld’s reconstruction was re-examined in 1986 by R. Townsend in a study of the stage-building183. He re-studied the surviving Doric architrave-frieze blocks which had been reworked so as to be re-used in the later alterations to the stage-building’s façade. Specifically, the architrave-frieze block inv. no. NK 2335184 preserves on its recut and reworked right side traces relating to its original use in the Late-Classical stage-building (figs. 1.35a–b): part of its original inner joint surface with two vertical smoothed contact bands, a small rectangular dowel-hole at its right re-cut corner, and a resting surface carefully worked with a toothed chisel. On the basis of these characteristics Townsend identified two possible positions for the stone in the re-entrant angles of the façade of the central section with the paraskenia (position nos. 3 and 4 in his version185). According to him, there must have existed columns at this point given that both the dowel-hole and the preserved resting surface indicate that the stone may belong over an abacus of a column capital. After Townsend’s publication, Dörpfeld’s view has regained ground186. On the other hand, as inv. no. NK 2335 is worked on both faces it could not have been in contact with the back wall of the façade, 182

The two parallels that Townsend (Townsend 1986, 437f.) offers in support of Dörpfeld’s proposal, i. e. the Doric stoa of the sanctuary of Asclepius and Lysikrates’ monument, differ fundamentally as regards the technical, morphological and functional solution to the problem from that suggested by Dörpfeld for the stage-building. In both cases the intercolumnar spaces are closed by marble panels which abut the columns (only in the western part of the ground level of the Doric stoa of the sanctuary

183 184

185 186

of Asclepius so as to hide the stairway behind it); the columns are not placed in front of, and in contact with, the actual wall as has been proposed for the central section of the stagebuilding’s façade. Townsend 1986. Townsend 1986, 424–426 fig. 3 pls. 91 b-d. Cf. Bulle 1928, 38f. IX pl. 10 b. Townsend 1986, 426f. fig. 4. Supra n. 180.

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as Townsend had proposed, and so it cannot be identified as the terminal western stone of the central section’s entablature (his no. 4). The feature of its having been worked on two faces along with other details relating to its initial use in the late-Classical stagebuilding support its identification as a corner stone at the re-entrant angle of the western side of the eastern paraskenion and the central section of the stage-building (Townsend’s no. 3187), where the architrave frieze-block above the series of free Doric columns was visible from both sides. The original resting surface and dowel-hole may indicate that it belonged either over the abacus of a column capital or over an anta capital. This means that the attribution of this stone to such a position does not necessarily amount to support of Dörpfeld’s suggestion. There is a further detail which, in my opinion, argues against Dörpfeld’s proposal. Although the dismantling to the level of the foundations in the central section of the façade deprives us of valuable information, there is a further point that raises questions about Dörpfeld’s strange proposal: During the later alterations and addition of the new proskenion, to the north of the central section of the Late-Classical stage-building188, new stylobate blocks and new columns a little smaller in diameter than those of the ‘Lycurgan’ paraskenia189 were used. One might have expected that those of the central section would have been re-used – as was the case for the paraskenia – had they existed190. For these reasons I consider it far more likely that columns were not present in the central section and that the late-Classical façade comprised only a wall with the three necessary doorways191. The transition and linkage of the façade to the paraskenia with their series of Doric colonnades

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188

Townsend 1986, 427 fig. 4. See already Bulle 1928, 38f. IX pl. 10 b. Views relating to the alterations made to the stage-building after the ‘Lycurgan’ phase and to the addition of the marble proskenion and logeion differ greatly. Most scholars today accept a second-century date on the basis that the Athenian proskenion was probably copied in the Theatre of Zea in the Piraeus (Fiechter 1936, 76f.; Pickard-Cambridge 1946, 151f. fig. 47; 175–198, esp. 178–182 figs. 59–60; Blume 1978, 49f.; Goette 1995a, 33; Isler 2002, 537), while researchers of the Theatre of Dionysus in the past thought that these changes and additions should very probably be dated after the Sullan destruction (Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, 81f. [first half of the first century, possibly financed by Ariobarzanes]; Versakis 1909, 194f. (as part of a Neronian programme); Bulle 1928, 80; Travlos 1971, 538 fig. 685 V [with the length of wall H to the west incorrectly represented]; though the same possible, Froning 2002, 58f. figs. 70–71). Petersen 1908, 36–42; Gogos 2005, 187–189: the latter’s suggestion that the new proskenion dates to the last decade of the fourth century is unfounded. Valavanis 2007, 129f., associates the changes to the stage-building’s façade with the building programme of Eumenes II on the

189

190

191

South Slope; cf. Pickard-Cambridge 1946, 182. The study of this phase of the stage-building requires more research, and I shall return to it in a future study. Bulle 1928, 27–35 pl. 8; Fiechter 1935, 26–30 pls. 5–7; Fiechter 1936, 12f. II pl. 2; PickardCambridge 1946, 151f. fig. 47; 175–178 figs. 59. 60. The necessity of three doors for dramatic purposes (infra n. 191), as well as for the security of the theatrical equipment stored here, leads to the conclusion that the Lycurgan wall of the central section of the stage-building must have been preserved even after the addition of the new proskenion as there are no archaeological indications for three doors in the stylobate of the latter. This is a further reason that excludes the possibility of columns in the central section of the late-Classical Stage-building as they would either have had to be dismantled during the addition of the new proskenion – and this could not have been achieved without impact on the wall behind them and, subsequently, on the stage-building’s entrances – or, alternatively, an absurd situation would have resulted with two colonnades, one behind the other. For the entrances: Müller 1886, 119–121; Chourmouziadis 1965, 14–25. esp. 25. 34; Taplin 1977, 438–440; Moretti 1992a, 82–88.

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would have been logically effected with the use of pilasters and the block inv. no. NK 2335 would have rested on the capital of the eastern pilaster. We turn to a final decisive issue regarding the stage-building which is linked to the current view that the ‘Lycurgan’ stage-building had a flat roof192, while some scholars (from Dörpfeld’s time on) have also proposed the existence of a wooden episkenion193. The key to answering these questions in my opinion lies in the interpretation of the much-discussed foundation known as T (fig. 1.2 and fig. 1.34)194. The back wall of the stage-building is dated to the Periclean phase, as is the foundation T which is tied to it structurally. Both of them also formed part of the ‘Lycurgan’ stage-building. This leads us to search for answers regarding the core features in its Periclean form, features that served the greatest moments of Classical drama. The fact that one old tragedy was performed in the dramatic competitions from 386 onwards195, as well as the popularity of Euripides’ tragedies in the fourth century196 with their frequent use of the  )« 6«197, would surely have figured centrally in the design of the new stage-building made of stone. 192

193

194

As represented in most of the reconstruction proposals, see n. 174. For a discussion on the views of earlier researchers: Pickard-Cambridge 1946, 154. 159. 184–187; Chourmouziadis 1965, 29. 34. esp. 34. 58–74; see as well the important study Mastronarde 1990, 247–294. For the suggested location of the theatrical mechane behind the stage-building: infra, after n. 204. Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, 78 fig. 25; contra: Pickard-Cambridge 1946, 184–187. See as well Winter 1983, 38–47; Csapo – Slater, 1994, 81. 419; cf. Dinsmoor 1950, 210 n. 1; Rehm 1988, 278–282. 307; Arnott 1962, 1–42. esp. 40f.; Allen 1919, 59–68; Taplin 1977, 440–442 (leaves the subject open). Foundation T was erected simultaneously with the rear wall H-H of the stage-building as is shown by the bonding of their foundations: Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, 59. 61 pl. 1 (Lycurgan phase; they leave open its identification – either a supporting element for the upper storey or for a staircase or – finally – for the theatrical mechane); Versakis 1909, 223 (Lycurgan; identified as a strengthening element for the back wall of the stage-building which was very thin); Allen 1919, 20–42 fig. 14; Dörpfeld 1925, 25–32 (Periclean); Bulle 1928, 49 pls. 4 III. 6 figs. 4–6 (second half of the fifth century; identified as a massive construction which reached the first floor); Fiechter 1935, 15–18 fig. 7 pls. 1. 4; Fiechter 1936, 68f. pl. 17 (later sixth century; identified as the foundation of a gateway); Bieber 1939, 125 (Classical; used as the base of a crane in the Lycurgan phase); Pickard-Cambridge 1946, 21f. figs. 7. 52 (Periclean; some sort of substructure for scenery); Dinsmoor 1951–1953, 326 (late fifth century; identified as the base either for a stair-

195

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197

case, a propylon or the ekkyklema); Anti – Polacco 1969, 134–150 figs. 70–77; Robkin 1979, 1–6 figs. 1. 4–6 (fifth century; configured to form a propylon that incorporated the mechane. Although the proposed reconstruction is very simplified and apparently does not take into account the technical achievements in fifth-century Athens, this is the only reconstruction that relates the two large structural openings of foundation T with the mechane); Polacco 1990, 65–73 figs. 30–31 fig. XXXIX (Classical period; interpreted as a base for a mechanism with ropes that was used for the scenery); Wurster 1993, 25 fig. 8 (later fifth century; the base of the ekkyklema); Goette 1995a, 22–25; Goette 2011, 482 (Lycurgan; possibly the base of a gateway and for a crane possibly with one mast to the west); Bees 1995, 74–80 (with a discussion on the various views, supports the Lycurgan date but does not offer an identification for foundation T); Froning 2002, 48f. 54 fig. 60 (Lycurgan; the base of a crane with one mast to the west); Isler 2002, 537 (Lycurgan; considers that foundation T has not yet been definitively interpreted). Wilhelm 1906a, 23 ( μ  », 387/386); Easterling 1997c, 213; Heilmeyer – Maischberger 2002, 526–529 (B. Seidensticker). Katsouris 1974; Kuch 1978, 191–202; Green 1994, 50; Green – Handley 1995, 70; Pöhlmann 1995c, 157f.; Wilson 1996, 310–331; Heilmeyer – Maischberger 2002, 526–529 (B. Seidensticker); 531f. (A. Wessels); Green – Handley 1995, 114; Bernabò Brea – Cavalier 2000; Vinagre 2001, 81–95; Xanthakis-Karamanos 1991, 23. 42; Xanthakis-Karamanos 2002, 86; Summa 2010, 124. For the situation beyond Athens, see Moretti in this volume. Spira 1960, 85–155.

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The interpretations of the massive foundation T which lies on the central axis of the theatre (fig. 1.2) are directly related to the various datings proposed for it, and they cover a wide range198. Leaving to one side O. Broneer’s imaginative interpretation relating to Xerxes’ tent199, it has been interpreted as a base for the skenographia or for a wooden propylon integrated into it, as the foundations of a staircase or massive underpinnings for a second storey, or as a base for the stage machinery or the ekkyklema200. No staircase would have required such a massive construction, while support for a second storey at this point – if such existed from the later fifth century – lacks a logical explanation. The continuous cutting on the outer southern edge of the conglomerate stones, which runs for a length of 4.75 m, indicates the existence of a structural opening of great width. This has been interpreted by some scholars as an off-centre door between the stage-building and the Stoa, with steps leading down into the Stoa201. Others accept the suggestion that the width of the doorway was equal to that of foundation T, i. e. ca. 7 m202. The existence of an opening communicating between the two structures must be considered certain. An interior door opening of this great size, however, raises more questions than it answers. It is also worth mentioning that at the two back corners of the massive foundation there are two large rectangular holes from the second course and upwards; the eastern one has the appearance of being much larger because of the extensive damage to its perimeter203. 198 199

200 201

Supra n. 194. Broneer 1944, 305–312; cf. Melchinger 1974, 138–143; Anti – Polacco 1969, 140f. figs. 77–78; Polacco 1990, 66–68. 72–74 figs. XVII. XXI; Gogos 2005, 21f. n. 34. Supra n. 194. The off-centre position of this particular cutting, which was probably intended to receive a wooden threshold, is defined at the west by a wall built of conglomerate stones (1.15 m in length) which closes the western end of foundation T’s opening towards the stoa: Fiechter 1935, 15–18 fig. 7 pl. 1. This feature, along with a series of small stone repairs to the rear wall of the stage-building, was considered by Fiechter a ‘later’, probably Roman, intervention, while the original opening between the stage-building and the stoa must have had approximately the length as that of the foundation, i. e. 7.10 m, with a door opening approximately 5 m wide (Fiechter 1936, 68 Taf. 17–19); alternatively, Dinsmoor 1951–1953, 326 (door opening 6.53 m wide). Others believe that the off-centre opening of the ‘Roman’ period follows the plan of the original stagebuilding: Goette 1995a, 25 fig. 8b. I consider that the closing of the western end of the opening along with the off-centre cutting for the reception of a wooden threshold are to be associated with the final alteration the stage-building underwent during the Early Christian period (Travlos 1953/1954, 305f. fig. 2). This can be argued (1) on the basis of the digital enlargement of Henry Beck’s historic photograph

202 203

(Beck 1868, pl. 46; for a republished section of the photograph: Fiechter 1936, 87 fig. 46), in which are recognisable at the southern end of foundation T the jambs of a door opening that is of the same length as the preserved off-centre threshold cutting, constructed of a re-used ancient member; and (2) the preserved upper stones at the northern limit of foundation T carry on their upper surface lever holes which indicates that originally there was another course above them. The restored original level of the foundation T is two courses higher than the off-centre threshold cutting and so the cutting cannot be associated with the earlier phases of the stage-building. The remains of the jambs must have been considered by the first excavators, on the basis of the re-used ancient material from which they were constructed, as later additions that did not belong to the ancient stage-building, and so were dismantled between 1868 and 1896 (see Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, pl. 11 where they do not appear). These new results yield information regarding the incorporation of remains of the stage-building, and possibly those from the stoa of the sanctuary of Dionysus, in the building complex of the Early Christian basilica, while it can also be deduced that the closing of the western end of the opening visible today is all that remains after the dismantling of the ruins of the Early Christian alteration. Fiechter 1935; Fiechter 1936 supra n. 201. Bulle 1928, pls. 4, III. 6 figs. 4–6; Fiechter 1936, pl. 17.

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Fig. 1.36. Squared block with a rectangular hole through it (inv. NK 4755).

Opinions regarding the famous theatrical mechane which was associated with the stage-building vary greatly. Most recent studies have placed it either in the fifth century, behind the simple wooden skene204, or, alternatively, on foundation T during the ‘Lycurgan’ phase with one mast to the west205, but admitting serious functional difficulties206. 204

For the fifth-century theatrical mechane with suggestions as to its form and location: a) behind the stage-building: Melchinger 1974, 194–200; Mastronarde 1990, 260; Lendle 1995, 165–172 fig. 20; Dimarogonas – Chondros 1997, 473– 478 fig. 3 (with a strange reconstruction of the Classical stage-building that does not take into account the data of the building); Moretti 2000, 296f. fig. 11; Moretti 2001, 138–140 fig. 6 pl. V; Froning 2002, 41 fig. 51; b) in the stagebuilding and close to the eastern paraskenion: Bulle – Wirsing 1950, 22–25. 47–53 pls. 10–12. For the possibility that foundation T was used in the temporary wooden stage-building as a base for the mechane or for the ekkyklema: Pickard-Cambridge 1946, 23; Robkin 1979, 1–6 figs. 1. 4–6 (with the configuration of foundation T as a propylon with the mechane embedded). For the view, based on the written sources, that the mechane existed in the fifth century: Chourmouziades 1965, 146–169. esp. 164. 169; Melchinger 1974, 194–200; Newiger 1985, 405; Newiger 1990, 33–42; Mastronarde 1990, esp. 286f.; Csapo – Slater 1994, 258–273; Marshall 1999/2000, 336f. For the opposing view: Barrett 1964, 359f.; Taplin

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1977, 443–447. For the Classical stage-building: Papastamati-von Moock forthcoming b. Bieber 1939, 125; Bieber 1961, 76–78 figs. 281–282 (dating the rear wall of the stage-building and the foundation T to the fifth century, she considers that the latter was originally used as a foundation for the propylon and later, in Euripides’ time or in the fourth century, as the base of the mechane with one mast). Goette 1995a, 22–24 n. 57 (rejecting any relationship between foundation T and the ekkyklema or mechane in the early stage-building, the date of which remains imprecise; he associates, as do others, the foundation with some sort of propylon); Goette 1995a, 25 pl. 13 (foundation T from the first half of the fourth century must have supported some sort of mechane with one mast to the west in addition to the propylon); Froning 2002, 49f. fig. 60. As well supra n. 194. Froning 2002, 54 fig. 60, a model of the Lycurgan stage-building in the German Theatre Museum in Munich. In this particular reconstruction proposal, the movement of the ‘finger’ of the mechane with its required counterweight at its rear end remains problematic given the existence of the rear wall of the Stoa.

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Fig. 1.37. Squared block with a rectangular hole through it (inv. NK 4754).

The research of H.-J. Newiger and E. Pöhlmann leaves no doubt that the mechane was used in the late fifth century and into the fourth207. Very eloquent evidence for this is provided by the scene of Trygaios in Aristophanes’ Peace of the Late fifth century208, as well by Plato’s and Aristotle’s references to its use209. Two noteworthy blocks were presented by Bulle in 1928. The first, a large cubic stone with a rectangular hole all the way through it (fig. 1.36) has been interpreted as a base for a mast to counterbalance the ikria210. The second block, with traces of a pivot (fig. 1.38), has been linked to the mechane’s revolving 207

208

Newiger 1990, 33–39; Pöhlmann 1995c, 155– 159. 162. Further, Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, 226–234; Arnott 1962, 72–78; Melchinger 1974, 194–200; Taplin 1977, 443–447; Mastronarde 1990; Csapo – Slater 1994, 258. 268–273. Ar. Peace 173–178 (421) Trygaios flies to heaven on a dung beetle and appeals to the mechanic (mechanopoios) not to let him fall. The fact that the builder of the theatrical mechane was also responsible for its handling – obviously with the aid of an assistant – demonstrates the complicated nature of its functioning and the specialised knowledge required to operate it. In this comedy as in the Thesmophoriazusae, the use of the deus ex machina in the lost tragedies of Euripides’ Bellerophon (ca. 430) and Andromeda (412) is parodied in Pollux 4, 128: Melchinger 1974, 194; Pöhlmann 1995c, 155f.

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Pl. Cra. 425d; Arist. Metaph. 985a 18; Po. 54b 1–6 (reference to the use of the mechane in E. Med. [431]). The representations of scenes of this tragedy on South Italian red-figure vases of the late fifth century with visual reference to the use of the mechane are of interest: most recently Hart 2010, 58. 72–74 pls. 27f. Bulle 1928, 78 (stone B, pl. 6 figs. 18f. = inv. no. NK 4755); Fiechter 1936, 23 n. 13 identified it along with another block of limestone (ibid. no. 12 fig. 12) as the bases of a lifting device. Stone no. 12 is not a base for a mast, as it was interpreted by Fiechter and accepted by Bieber (Bieber 1961, 75 fig. 279: links them with the periaktoi), but an ancient stone reused as a base for a well-head (Korres 1980, 14); here fig. 1.36.

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Fig. 1.38. Block with traces of rotating windlass (inv. NK 4756).

mast211. While re-examining the various stones found in the vicinity of the Theatre and Sanctuary of Dionysus, I was able to identify inter alia two stray stones with the same features as those described by Bulle (figs. 1.37. 39). Both pairs of blocks are carved from a particularly hard stone – Acropolis or Kara limestone212 – and were found in the immediate vicinity of the stage-building. Each of the two cubic blocks (figs. 1.36–37) is pierced by a large hole of rectangular section set at a slight angle and with slots on each side of the hole’s opening in the blocks’ upper face that were presumably cut for the insertion of wooden wedges for the vertical beams. The other two blocks, cylindrical in form, preserve on their upper faces rectangular cuttings of similar dimensions (figs. 1.38–39). The interior surfaces of these cuttings bear traces of a pivot which indicate that revolving elements of a significant width had once occupied them213. Although 211

212

213

Bulle 1928, 77 (stone A, pl. 6 figs. 12–14 = inv. n. NK 4756). Similarly Goette 1995a, 24. 45 n. 58. Here n. 210 and fig. 1.38. None of the four stones bears traces of later use. This sort of hard stone had been used in sixth- and fifth-century monuments along the South Slope, on the Acropolis, and elsewhere in Athens: Judeich 1931, 1f.; Dörpfeld 1896, 15. 26; Moretti 2000, 293f. with further bibliography. Bulle 1928, 77 (stone A) pl. 6, figs. 12–14; Fiechter 1936, 24 n. 14 (= inv. n. NK 4756), of Acropolis limestone, 0.72 m × 0.75 m, height 0.445 m. Roughly worked on all sides,

on its upper face it carries a square depression 0.24 m × 0.24 m, 0.133 m deep and the traces of a hinge (diam. 0.165 m, 0.058 m deep) within it. The second stone (inv. no. NK 5066) is circular in form (diam. 0.75 m, 0.30 m in height). It is roughly worked on all sides, and bears on its top face a square depression, 0.29 m × 0.30 m, 0.09 m deep, with traces (diam. 0.12 m) of a hinge on the depression’s floor. The differences in the shape of these stones is clearly a result of the bulk of each stone with which the builder had to work. That they served a similar purpose is indicated by the technical elements on their upper faces.

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Fig. 1.39. Block with traces of rotating windlass (inv. NK 5066).

research on this issue is still in progress, I shall mention here that the two large rectangular openings at the rear corners of foundation T (fig. 1.34)214 suggest the installation of strong vertical elements at these points, while the two pierced cubic stones seem to have received large wooden masts (square in section, ca. 0.25 m × 0.25 m) the ends of which were embedded at a deeper level, presumably to enhance their stability. My initial thought that the pair of pierced cubic blocks intended to support the wooden beams which must have been embedded in a deeper level, should be associated with the large openings of foundation T was confirmed by the recent identification of the initial position of a stray conglomerate block from the area of foundation T. This block has been cut in the form of a slanting = (fig. 1.40)215. It is to be assigned to the northern end of the westernmost of the two large openings at the height of the second highest course of the foundation216, so forming at this 214

215

Bulle 1928, 50 pls. 3. 4 III; 6 figs. 4–6; vertical section I, l. The structural gaps in the two rear corners are observable in the fourth course and upwards. Bulle seems to have attributed them to an attempt to economise on the amount of stone used. This stone was found discarded by the NW corner of foundation T (Polacco 1990, 64f. figs. 30–31, the NW corner is visible); its surfaces are slightly worn. Full length: 1.31 m; greatest height 0.49 m; max. width 0.46 m, min. width 0.30 m. Carving is also observable on the upper surface of the narrow edge of the stone, which may have been worked to receive a wooden element which possibly covered foundation T.

216

A further course must have existed above the preserved five courses of the foundation (Bulle 1928 pl. 6 fig. 6; Fiechter 1935, 17 pl. 4) as can be seen from the preserved lever holes on the upper face of the remaining stones of the northern section of foundation T (supra n. 201). The level of foundation T and that of its access way from the stoa can be restored to that of the level of foundation V–V (i. e. the toichobate of the central section of the stagebuilding of ‘Lycurgan’ phase) and, consequently, with the approximate level of the orchestra: Fiechter 1935, 17 pl. 4.

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Fig. 1.40. Remains of the stage-building: foundation T and the SW area with the structural opening, after the identification of the stone defining the northern limit of the opening.

level217 an opening that corresponds to the dimensions of one of the two cubic stones218. The determination of the resting width of one of the two leaves no doubt that these stones were integrated into foundation T, and were positioned over its openings to serve as strong bases for a bipod219 mechane into whose upper crossbeam its jocularly-termed ‘finger’ was 217

218

219

Owing to the cuttings on its upper surface the possibility cannot be excluded that it belongs to the now missing sixth course of the foundation: cf. Bulle 1928 pl. 6 figs. 4–6. On the basis of the dimensions of the structural gap, the block inv. no. NK 4754 (fig. 1.37) is attributed to the western rear corner. For the basic characteristics of the two-mast lifting device (dikolos): Heron of Alexandria (Nix – Schmidt 1900) 3 § 3 with fig. 48; Drachmann 1963, 99f. fig. 36; Orlandos 1994, 108 fig. 41. Heron describes here the type of dikolos mechane for lifting stones and for the construction of buildings. This machine has two masts which incline slightly towards the top (the rectangular holes on the blocks infer this slight in-

clination of the masts) and one erects it on a sort of a wooden threshold (oudos) (the cuttings in the stones of foundation T infer the existence of a wooden floor). The masts are fastened to the base (in part on the blocks and in part in smaller cuttings that are preserved in a conglomerate block to the west of the western hole in foundation T) and their upper ends are connected with a crossbeam, to which is fastened a block and tackle and another tackle is at the stone. The ropes are tightened either by hand or by a draught animal (or by windlasses: infra) to lift the load. This must have been a more developed and specialised lifting device as it had to raise and lower the actor as well to regulate the horizontal movement of the ‘daktylos’.

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Fig. 1.41. Theatre of Dionysus Eleuthereus. Stage-building and parodoi with the wooden pylones (Late Classical phase).

set. Consequently, the heavy and tall beams (or masts) of the dikolos mechane must have continued through the holes of these strong bases and have been embedded at a deeper point within a specially-formed hard fill in the openings in foundation T220. The determination of the position and the type of theatrical mechane on the strong T foundation (figs. 1.41–42) may provide an answer to the existence of the large opening towards the stoa. This, clearly, cannot have been meant to accommodate a large doorway between the stage-building and the stoa221 – what purpose would it have served? Rather, the reason was that this wide opening provided the required width in its upper part necessary for the movement of the boom of the mechane. The two stones with traces of rotating windlasses (figs. 1.38–39) for controlling the movement and rotation of the ‘finger’ using ropes should also be attributed to this mechanism222, while a system of multiple pulleys – worked by a mechanopoios as can be concluded from the Trygaios scene for example223 – would have been used to lower the actor by means of ropes. Consequently, the existence and incorporation of the mechane of the Periclean skene in Lycurgus’ new stone stage-building more or less determined the latter’s dimensions, if it did not reproduce those of its Periclean predecessor224, as well as necessitating the flat roof that allowed the movement of the ‘finger’. This flat roof, accessible from staircases behind the ends of the stage-building’s façade225 (figs. 1.41–42), could

220

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222

Bulle found a compact earth packing in these large openings: Bulle 1928, 50. For the use of similar packing techniques, as revealed by the most recent excavations, for the ikria of the wooden theatre as well Papastamati-von Moock forthcoming b. Up to a certain height the large opening between the two buildings must have been closed by a wooden or wood and brick structure, in which there certainly must have been a regular doorway. Topics related to the dating of the stoa are discussed briefly in Papastamati-von Moock forthcoming b. For the form and function of these windlasses: Drachmann 1963, 110 fig. 44; Orlandos 1994,

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225

107 fig. 40 (on the one-mast [monokolos] machine according to the reconstruction of Nix – Schmidt 1900). Supra n. 208. For the Classical skene and a discussion of the different opinions: Papastamati-von Moock forthcoming b. The view that the small wings at the ends of the stage-building were used for staircases has been supported by many scholars: e.g. PickardCambridge 1946, 156. Although he considers the suggestion uncertain, he includes staircases at the ends of the building in his plan (PickardCambridge 1946, fig. 52). Although the topic is not discussed here in detail it may be noted

Fig. 1.42. Theatre of Dionysus Eleuthereus. Stage-building and parodoi with the wooden pylones (Late Classical phase).

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serve the same role as the theologeion226 or later the logeion227, whenever the dramatic requirements of the works being performed demanded it228. In fact, the retention over time of the basic forms and functions of the Periclean skene, that was continued by the LateClassical stone remodelling of the theatre and on late into the Hellenistic period229, also confirms, in addition to other data, the central symbolic role played by palaia tragodia in Athenian theatre production230. Although the completion of the new Athenian theatre has been linked in the written sources with Lycurgus (336–324), the archaeological and epigraphic evidence indicates that this was only possible once Lycurgus’ term as administrator of financial matters had passed. Dörpfeld had already noted that the incorporation of the façade of Thrasyllos’ choregic monument – dated on epigraphical evidence to 320/319 – into the curved line of the Epitheatron’s vertical face determined 320/319 as the terminus ante quem for the completion of the theatre231. The form of the Epitheatron and the Peripatos on the basis of the geometrical conception of the semicircular theatron leaves no doubt that the Epitheatron too was part of a single Late-Classical plan (fig. 1.43)232. This plan required the adjustment of a section of the Peripatos so that it became the one broad diazoma of the the-

226

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228

that this identification is strengthened by evidence from the western, better preserved, part of the stage-building, specifically: 1. by the preserved traces of the small door at the western end of the stage-building’s façade; 2. by the widening of the marble toichobate at the location of this door, which defines the starting point of the stairway behind the marble wall; 3. by the Roman changes to the western side wall of the stage-building where it appears that the use of a doorway behind the marble wall was retained but with a much higher access level than the ‘Lycurgan’ one. It led by means of a staircase to the second storey (von Gerkan 1941b, 168 fig. 5, although I cannot agree on many points of his reconstruction); and 4. by the surface weathering (caused by rainwater) which is observable on the lower sections of the back sides of the marble wall’s orthostates, which implies the existence of a stone floor in this wing because of the open staircase to the flat roof. Poll. 4, 130; Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, 218f.; Pickard-Cambridge 1946, 48. 184; Melchinger 1974, 196f.; Mastronarde 1990, 277–280. 287–289. Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, 301f.; Chourmouziadis 1965, 58–74; Csapo – Slater 1994, 81. Moretti in this volume. Not only do the works of the  μ  » presuppose free communication between the chorus and the actors but so do those of Menander; none imply the need for a twostorey stage-building: for detailed discussion

229 230

231

232

see Pickard-Cambridge 1946, 156–168. Pickard-Cambridge’s view is followed by Blume 1978, 51; Csapo – Slater 1994, 419; Froning 2002, 59. The different opinions of Gogos 2005, 187–189 result from an attempt to date the later stone proskenion of the stage-building to the last decade of the fourth century. This does not, however, take into account basic archaeological data of the monument such as the foundation of the proskenion built of very mixed materials, mainly small stones and pieces of older architectural blocks. Equally problematic is Gogos’ suggested reconstruction proposal of the ‘Lycurgan’ stage-building (Gogos 2005, 142–158 Drawing 55), as well as its suggested date: supra n. 188. Supra n. 188. Wilhelm 1906a, 23 ( μ  », 387/6), 40. 45 ( » , 342/1, 312/1); Katsouris 1974; Csapo – Slater 1994, 40. 42; Summa 2010, 123f. 127. Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, 38f.; likewise Pickard-Cambridge 1946, 169 (it had been completed during Lycurgus’ term in office and before the construction of Thrasyllos’ monument); Travlos 1971, 562–565 figs. 704–708 with earlier references; Townsend 1985, 676–680; Wilson 2000, 229. Katatome: Harding 2007, 185 no. 289 (Philoch. F 58 = Harpocration, Lexikon s. v. Katatome). This is primarily determined by the section of the Katatome east of the choregic monument of Thrasyllos: Welter 1938, 34. Contra Polacco 1990, 150–155.

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Fig. 1.43. Plan of the Theatre of Dionysus Eleuthereus (Late Classical phase).

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atre233, at the ends of which were placed the two ano parodoi (‘upper parodoi’)234. The irregular curved line of the Katatome with its almost straight central section must primarily be related to the intended construction of Thrasyllos’ monument and its straight façade which matched that of the Katatome235. It is very likely that the very costly and impressive carving of the hard rock face on either side of the cave entrance, which was formed into the façade of the choregic monument, was financed by Thrasyllos himself in return for being granted the most prominent position for his victory monument. The fact that its unfinished architectural members were moved through the Epitheatron so that they could be finished on the spot and incorporated into the monument shows that the year 320/19 is the terminus ante quem for the beginning of the Epitheatron’s construction and the terminus post quem for its completion. Furthermore, in the final phase of the work on the Epitheatron, and clearly after the completion of Thrasyllos’ choregic monument, it was possible to form the stepped access to the monument (fig. 1.43), as is indicated by the alignment of the stepped cuttings in the rock in front of it236. This access, which may have been excluded from the rows of seats, accordingly emphasised the aesthetic and functional independence of the choregic monument. The idiosyncratic incorporation of its façade into the cliff face and the disruption this brought to the closed form of the theatre foreshadows a basic characteristic of the new Hellenistic period, the ever-increasing assertion of private individuals into public space237. The prominent position of Thrasyllos’ monument in the upper part of the theatre was very likely a source of inspiration for similar outcomes in Roman theatres which came to serve imperial ideology238.

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234

235

Korres 1980, Drawing 1; Papathanasopoulos 1987, 59 fig. 47. This term stems from Plutarch’s reference to the ‘dramatic’ appearance of Demetrios Poliorketes, the most theatrical king of the Hellenistic world (Chaniotis 2009, 111–128), in the theatre after his recapture of Athens in 291 (Plu. Demetr. 34: “… $μ« ξ #« — ¹  ) /λ   - Ν/  /, …”). The reference to “ano parodoi” in the same text, but in a different context, along with the term “logeion” led some scholars to associate the ano parodoi of the Athenian theatre with the existence of a two-storey stage-building in the beginning of the third century, and the view that Demetrios accessed it by means of some sort of wooden ramp from the main parodoi of the theatre (Gogos 2005, 189) even though the term “ano parodoi” clearly refers to the participle #«. For a differing view: PickardCambridge 1946, 159; Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, 346f.; the latter associated the ano parodoi with the stage-building of the Roman period. One could suggest that financial concerns restricted the curved execution of the full length of the Katatome because of the cost of carving the hard Acropolis rock. The straight line of its

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central section may be explained by its cutting during the beginning of the construction of the choregic monument. Polacco 1990, 149 figs. 111f.; 154f. fig. 118; Wilson 2000, 229f. The span of the radius at the uppermost seat rows of the Epitheatron, which tends towards a straight line, would not have been a particular problem for the incorporation of a stairway with straight steps in front of the monument. Of interest is the plan of the theatre of Dionysus and the restored front elevations of the choregic monument of Thrasyllos by Sebastiano Ittar and Feodor Ivanowitch (1800–1801) (supra n. 1; Gallo 2009, 46 fig. 35; 113 fig. 111; 115 fig. 115) with a reconstruction of the stairway in front. The stepped arrangement to the west of Thrasyllos’ monument, as restored in that plan, includes many hypothetical elements that cannot be verified. Pollitt 1986, 7–10. The topic of the possible prototypes of the first permanent stone theatre in Rome, the theatre of Pompey (55), whose central wedge of seats formed a monumental staircase leading to a temple of Venus above the theatron, has often been addressed though a convincing answer is still wanting: Manuwald 2011, 62f. n. 76; Sear 2006, 57; Gros 2009, 53–63. One could not ex-

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On the basis of all the above data and observations, fragmentary as they may be, it is evident that the spatial organisation and the crystallisation of the tripartite arrangement and concept of the theatre as it was evolved from the middle of the fourth century over a period of approximately three decades, in large part followed the line of the never-completed Periclean theatre, within a wider upgrading of the religious and cultural centre of the South Slope. Not only do the peculiarities and irregularities of the plan of the semicircular theatron have their origins in that phase, but basic morphological and functional features of the new all-stone stage-building with its monumental marble façade239 were adopted from the Classical skene which had served the greatest moments of tragedy. With the pre-existing situation as a starting point, but also with a new unified plan based on the circle of the orchestra240, the canonical elegant form of the ancient Greek theatre was constructed and established. This was a form that served a large number of spectators and that achieved the best possible optico-acoustic results both for the theatrical productions of the Dionysiac festivals241 and for the meetings of the Ekklesia of the Athenian Demos242. In closing I should like to stress that although the term ‘Lycurgan phase’, with or without quotation marks, does not cover the longer period over which the Late-Classical Athenian theatre was constructed, it has – reasonably – been adopted by scholars not only as a convention to facilitate academic understanding, but on account of the central role that tragic theatre played in Lycurgus’ policy of cultural renewal. In any case, this term, possibly in parallel to the classicising tone of the ancient sources, reflects the execution of a longstanding vision for the city of Athens to acquire a theatre worthy of the cultural symbolism of Classical drama and especially of tragedy as the peak art-forms and active components of the expression of the Athenian democratic polity243. In the framework of the new historical context of the fourth century, with its conflicting ideologies at home and the ascent of the new Macedonian power abroad, the city of Athens managed through the construction of a new and architecturally innovative monumental theatre and the modifications to its dramatic competitions244, informed initially by Eubulus’245 but primarily by Lycurgus’

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240 241

242

clude the possibility that this aspect of the Athenian theatre, regardless of the initial purpose of the choregic monument, was the inspiration for the corresponding feature of Pompey’s. With the alternation, characteristic of the fourth century, of Hymettan and Pentelic marble: Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, 59. Gebhard 2001, 389–394. After approximately the mid-fifth century, i. e. during the Periclean period, in addition to the dramatic contests of the Great Dionysia, those of the Lenaea took place here: Csapo – Slater 1994, 123. 133–135. On the transfer of the meetings of the Athenian Assembly from the Pnyx to the Theatre of Dionysus after the mid-fourth century: Kolb

243

244

245

1981, 92–96; Hansen 1991, 128; Lambert 2008, 53–55 and passim. Vernant – Vidal-Naquet 1988, 31; Meier 1988, 1–7; Connor 1990, 20–23; Hall 1997, 124–126; Cartledge 1997, 16–22. 33–35; Hurwit 1999, 249–259. Pickard-Cambridge 1946, 161; Pickard-Cambridge 1953, 94f. 100–102. 105; Csapo – Slater 1994, 42. 228f.; Wallace 1995, 199–217, and the interesting discussion of the participants at the associated conference, 218–224 (for the fourth century); Wilson 2000, 265–270. Andreades 1933, 354. 372–381; Rhodes 1980, 312f.; Burke 1984, 112 with further bibliography; Lewis 1997; Wirth 1997; HintzenBohlen 1997, 95–105; Burke 2010, 409–411.

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classicizing cultural vision246 and made possible by their skilful fiscal policies247, both to preserve a central element of its cultural identity and hegemony, as well as to create an elegant, well-functioning architectural model to which the Graeco-Roman world – and societies well beyond it – would return in the centuries to come.

246

Hintzen-Bohlen 1997, 105–135; Humphreys 2004, 77–129; Wilson 2008, 121f.; Burke 2010, 412–416.

247

See Csapo and Wilson in this volume.

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The Archaeology of the ‘Rural’ Dionysia in Attica* Hans Rupprecht Goette

In her article “Deme Theaters in Attica and the Trittys System” Jessica Paga1 discusses the architectural and epigraphical evidence for theatres in the Attic countryside and reaches the conclusion that there was a system of “one theatral area per trittys per phyle”. This theory depends on current knowledge of existing theatres and on the interpretation of archaeological and epigraphical evidence for theatres in the demes. In this way, if the list of Attic deme theatres or – generally speaking – if the list of places with archaeological and/or epigraphical evidence for kat’ agrous Dionysia (i. e. the ‘Rural’ Dionysia2) changes, then the so-called distribution system changes. Because there is at least one deme theatre, in Halimous (see below), excavated in 1993, that is not in Paga’s list, and because of another case, Sphettos (see below), where a theatre is quite probable, and because there are some cases where the existence of an ancient theatre may be doubtful it seems worth looking further into the discussion of the epigraphical evidence for the ‘Rural’ Dionysia – evidence which seems to “offer a relatively solid foundation for mapping drama’s spread through Attica”3. I will try to connect the epigraphical evidence with some archaeological data regarding dramatic performances in the Attic countryside (fig. 2.1) hoping that by connecting two kinds of data, we will be able to advance forward. First a brief overview of the architectural evidence for Attic deme theatres4. Stone theatres are known in Rhamnus (cat. no. 23; fig. 2.2; pl. 2.1), Ikarion (today Dionysos: cat. * My warm thanks to E. Csapo, J. R. Green, and P. Wilson for their invitation to the Sydney colloquium and for their hospitality during my stay as well for their comments and helpful discussion about matters of this paper. In addition I am grateful for valuable advice from O. Palagia, and A. Schwarzmaier. D. Ackermann (French School at Athens) shared her knowledge on the deme of Aixone with me, gave some advice about the find-spots of inscriptions, and let me read parts of her unpublished PhD thesis about the deme of Aixone. 1 Paga 2010. 2 Jones 2004, 125–127. 3 Csapo 2010a, 95. 4 See the respective bibliography collected in the catalogue at the end of this paper. – The theatre in the sanctuary of Amphiaraus at Oropos (Travlos 1988, 302; TGR 1994, II 227f.; Goette 1995a, 36–40; Burmeister 1996, 102–106; Nielsen 2002, 128–131; Bressan 69–75), first constructed out of wood around 420 (Goette 1995b), is an example which I will not discuss here because Oropos did not al-

ways belong to Athens, so it cannot be included in the Attic deme system. Close to Oropos, reused as a stone in the wall of a chapel at KakoSalesi, was found a cult table dedicated to Dionysus Auloneus (IG II2 4745; Solders 1939, 42 no. 32; Gill 1991, 45–47 no. 15; SEG 42, 1806); it remains uncertain if this was once a votive offering set up in the Amphiareion. Salamis enjoyed a special status and did not constitute a deme. It should be mentioned though that Dionysia with dithyrambs and dramatic contests were celebrated on Salamis in the 4th c.: IG II2 3093; SEG 45, 232; Arist. Ath. 54, 8. – For the Hellenistic period: a) IG II2 1227; SEG 40, 130; b) IG II2 1008; SEG 38, 114. 278; 40, 103. 130; 42, 108; c) IG II2 1011; SEG 38, 114. 278; 40, 103. 130; 42, 108. 246; 45, 115. 1060. 2309. – About theatre on Salamis: Möbius, in: Bulle 1928, 8; Solders 1939, 45 no. 52f.; Pickard-Cambridge 1968, 51 n. 4ff.; TGR II 282; Jones 2004, 136; Agelidis 2009, 193 no. 56; Paga 2010, 354 n. 8; Csapo 2010a, 94 with n. 84; Wilson 2010, 38 n. 6.

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Fig. 2.1. Map of Attica indicating the locations of deme theatres and places discussed in the context of ‘Rural’ Dionysia.

no. 13; fig. 2.3), Piraeus (cat. no. 19), Euonymon (today Trachones: cat. no. 8; fig. 2.4), and Thorikos (cat. no. 25; fig. 2.5); some of these were erected already in the fifth century and enlarged or refurbished with new seats or a more impressive stage building during the fourth century. In Piraeus even a second theatre was built in the second century. A recently

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Fig. 2.2a. Rhamnus: General view of the settlement from S; in the background below the top of the hill with the fortified military camp: the theatre.

found round theatron in Acharnae (cat. no. 1) seems to be a later structure and not the one known from literary and epigraphical sources4a. The most recently excavated theatre is in Halimous (cat. no. 12). It is situated in modern Alimos, only a short distance west of the theatre of Euonymon in Trachones. As in other deme theatres – Rhamnus, Ikarion, Euonymon (fig. 2.2–4) – a group of three rectangular double thrones, cut out of a single block of stone, was set up off-centre beside the orchestra, at the foot of a natural slope. That this theatre belonged to the ancient deme of Halimous can be surmised from the tradition of the modern toponym, as well as from inscriptions naming Halimousioi found in the area, and even a fragment of a deme decree found in the theatre itself. The list of Attic deme theatres known to scholarship in addition to the surviving theatres mentioned above, is based mostly on the information of Attic inscriptions and of a handful of literary references. In some cases, the epigraphical evidence is very clear: at some sites there is a large number of inscriptions mentioning dramatic competitions, choregoi5, and honours to be bestowed in the course of festival activities – like the public announcement 4a

During the process of printing these proceedings the excavator published a preliminary report of the theatre including a rough plan and a photograph. After the study of part of the ceramics found by the excavator the date of the architecture “should be the beginning of the fourth century”, but sherds from prehistoric times to the 13th c. A. D. have been excavated

5

as well: M. Platonos-Giota, O  ) «  " /  )/ A) (    @  6 , in: M. : -T – 8. O , A )  !« #!«. T« A: A ", M K  "« T!)« (Athens 2013) 135 fig. 16; 147–149 fig. 15. Whitehead 1986, 152; Wilson 2010, 43 n. 21.

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Fig. 2.2b+c. Athens, National Archaeological Museum inv. 231: Statue of Themis on an inscribed base (IG II2 3109).

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Fig. 2.3a. Ikarion (Dionysos): Theatre, general view from N.

Fig. 2.3b. Ikarion (Dionysos): Choregic monument of Ergasos and his two sons Phanomachos and Diognetos (IG II2 3095).

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Fig. 2.3c. Athens, National Archaeological Museum inv. 3072–3074+3897: Cult statue of Dionysus from Ikarion.

in the theatre right at the start of the agon and a man’s prohedria during the festival. In Ikarion (cat. no. 13), Thorikos (cat. no. 25), Rhamnus (cat. no. 23) and Piraeus (cat. no. 19), for example, we have ample epigraphical evidence in addition to the architecture. In Eleusis (cat. no. 7; fig. 2.6) the number of inscriptions with related information is large – so there is no doubt about kat’ agrous Dionysia with dramatic competitions in Eleusis although no theatre was ever found by modern excavations. The venue of the agones during the Dionysia could have been situated on the slopes of the hill with the Telesterion or of the neighbouring hill with the Pan sanctuary6; unfortunately the reports by 6

Travlos 1988, 91ff. s. v. Eleusis, esp. 104 fig. 105.

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Fig. 2.4a. Trachones: Theatre of Euonymon. General view from NE.

Fig. 2.4b. Piraeus, Archaeological Museum inv. 18214–15: Archaistic statue of Dionysus found in the theatre of Euonymon.

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Fig. 2.5. Thorikos: Theatre and (in the foreground) foundations of the temple of Dionysus.

early travellers from around 1800 who still saw remains of the architecture are not clear in regard to the topographical situation7. It is – in my view – even possible that there were two theatra since most inscriptions mention the “theatre of the Eleusinians”, while another one uses the term “μ 6!  λ μ  ”8. Both – Piraeus and Eleusis – of course are considered as demes with their own religious life, but they are also special cases in the Attic deme system as they have special ties to the City (asty) with their importance – concerning the harbour and the Telesterion respectively – for the whole state, not just the local community9. Let us next have a look at Acharnae (cat. no. 1). There are literary references in Aristophanes and Pausanias of ‘Rural’ Dionysia, as well as epigraphical evidence – four inscriptions – of dramatic performances in Acharnae. This is how we know of a theatre operating throughout the fourth century. A circular theatre partly excavated in 2007 seems – it is not published and cannot be observed after it was covered with soil – to be later than the epigraphical sources and not large enough to seat the expected audience of the most populous deme of Athens; so the circular building might be a second venue for the assembly of demesmen, perhaps associated with the sanctuary of Athena Hippia10 and Ares. 7 8

IE 2005, C 89. IG II2 1682 (IE 2005, A 131–133 no. 141; C 129–132. 429f.). Unlike Clinton (“seating of the stadium”, “earth used to build up the embankment for the seating area of the stadium”) I interpret this as a theatron not in, but next to the stadium; if the regulation that the soil taken from the foundations at the construction site of a stoa should be used for building up the sides

9

10

- ) / of the stadium, an expression like  ) might be expected. About the involvement of the city in the Piraeus Dionysia: Jones 2004, 154; Wilson 2010, 55 n. 61f.; 59 n. 73. SEG 54, 322, a Roman Imperial dedication related to Athena Hippia and Dionysus; Wilson 2010, 82 n. 132.

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Fig. 2.6. Eleusis, Archaeological Museum inv. E 946: Tripod base of a choregic monument of Gnathis and Anaxandrides (IG I3 970).

We are therefore still looking for the theatre serving the Acharnians for their agones during the kat’ agrous Dionysia (see above 79 n. 4a). Located on the east coast of Attica is the deme of Halai Araphenides (cat. no. 11); there are remains of the most important sanctuary of this deme, that of Artemis Tauropolos, on the waterfront in Loutsa11. From three inscriptions of the fourth century found in the area we know of agones at the Dionysia and of the honour of prohedria at all festivals of the deme, including the Tauropolia; one of the stelai – today exhibited in the museum of Brauron – was to be set up in the sanctuary of Dionysus (fig. 2.7), another one in that of Artemis Tauropolos. The search – mostly by conducting rescue excavations before modern construction works – for a theatre in Loutsa has still been unsuccessful, but we have archaeological evidence for this deme and its main deities: on a fine votive relief in Munich (fig. 2.8) we see the goddess Artemis together with Dionysus. In front of the deities there is a group of worshippers; the head of the clan, obviously the dedicant of the relief, is a bearded man greeting the gods. He holds the aulos in his left hand, and thus his depiction is connected to five masks hanging under the architrave of the relief. Since the votive relief seems to be the product of a workshop that was responsible for a series of similar reliefs dedicated to Artemis in the sanctuary of Brauron12, the relief in Munich has also been identified as a votive to Artemis in Brauron13. The other Artemis sanctuary, only a few kilometres north of Brauron, in Halai Araphenides, was closely connected to Brauron in myth and religion. The rare combination of the two deities – Artemis and Dionysus, the latter being the main god – on the relief in Munich, the close resemblance in terms of workmanship to votives in Brauron, and the connection between the dedicant with his pipe and the theatre props, the comedy masks above him, prompt me to suggest that the relief comes from Loutsa14. It should be added that we know of illegal excavations in the 1930s in the 11 12

13

Travlos 1988, 211–215 s. v. Loutsa. Travlos 1988, 55–80 s. v. Brauron, esp. 72f. figs. 77–80; Antoniou 1990, 172–225 (SEG 40, 288); Despinis 2004b; Goette 2005. Vierneisel – Scholl 2002. – The round altar with the depiction of several deities (Despinis 2004a [SEG 54, 330] with bibliography in n. 4) and the theatrical mask on the plinth (Viernei-

14

sel – Scholl 2002, 40 fig. 28) of an – unfortunately lost – statue (of a child?) in my view are not sufficient to argue for the importance of Dionysus and for reconstructing Dionysia at Brauron (see Despinis 2004a, 62f.). See already Despinis 2004a, 64; Despinis 2004b, 310–312.

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Fig. 2.7. Brauron, Archaeological Museum inv. BE 2925: Stele with a decree from Halai Araphenides (SEG 45, 123).

area, so the Munich relief would not be a rare case of the looting of a site in or around Loutsa, while the sanctuary of Artemis in Brauron was systematically excavated by archaeologists; from this point of view it is more likely that the relief fig. 2.8 comes from the deme of Halai Araphenides than from Brauron15. 15

Brauron did not constitute a deme but belonged to Philaïdai (cat. no. 20). Astonishingly later sources (schol. Ar. Peace 874; Strab. 9, 1, 21f., obviously taken from some periplous) mention Brauron as a deme, written at a time when the sanctuary of Artemis had already for centuries, due to the flooding of the Erasinos river, been reduced to a small area on the

higher ground on top of the rock-cut terrace (Goette 2005); about the supposed ‘Dionysia of Brauron’ see Möbius, in: Bulle 1928, 9; Solders 1939, 41 no. 22; Whitehead 1986, 11. 24. 32. 210. 370; H. Lohmann, DNP 9 (2000) 780f. s. v. Philaïdai; Jones 2004, 136; Paga 2010, 354 n. 6; Csapo 2010a, 95.

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Fig. 2.8. Munich, Glyptothek inv. 552: Votive relief with Dionysus and Artemis and a group of worshippers, probably from Halai Araphenides.

A few kilometres south of Halai and of the modern town Markopoulo, today the centre of the Mesogaia, the demes of Myrrhinous (modern Merenda) and Hagnous were located. In the first community (cat. no. 17) an inscription was found by Fourmont in the eighteenth century and finally seen and studied in the 1880s by Milchhöfer in Markopoulo, so without any ancient context. This inscription is now lost, maybe still built into the church of Ag. Thekla in Markopoulo but covered by stucco; its text gives information about the honour of prohedria at all the dramatic events of the Myrrhinousioi, but it does not say where these performances took place. – A second inscription came to light near Markopoulo; it was once attributed to Myrrhinous, but John Traill reassigned it to Hagnous (cat. no. 9) on the basis of grave markers with names of Hagnousioi said to have been found close to the decree at a location called Dardisti southwest of the village. But contrary to the communis opinio this topographical connection – and thus the assignment of the decree mentioning ‘Rural’ Dionysia – cannot be secured; most of the grave monuments have been found out of context or east of Markopoulo16. The inscription talks about kat’ agrous 16

There is some discussion about the find-spot and its attribution to a deme located in the broader area south of Markopoulo: see the recent bibliography in Wilson 2011a, 79 n. 1. The decree was found (according to Koumanoudis in IG II2 1183) “near” («) and “southwest” ( μ«    ) of Markopoulo “in the direction of the place Dardisti” (  κ 6!  : ), and that means:

not at Dardisti itself as mostly understood by scholars. Traill 1986, 132 did not exactly specify the find-spot of the decree, but he specified the “general location” where he thought that several grave markers of Hagnousioi were found (IG II2 5259. 5277. 5278. 5279. 5280); but see for the ‘find-spots’: Milchhöfer 1887, 278f. no. 161 (“in Markopoulo”); 280 no. 162 (“gefunden östlich” of Markopoulo);

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Dionysia and a deme assembly following the festival. Both inscriptions are the only and therefore very vague evidence for kat’ agrous Dionysia in the neighbour-communities of Myrrhinous and Hagnous and thus for the reconstruction of a theatre there; without more information and without any context this evidence is in my view not sufficient for an assignment of ‘Rural’ Dionysia to each of both demes. Only if we relate the deme-decree ‘of Hagnous’ (IG II2 1183) – maybe together with the Ρ « IG II2 2767 – to Myrrhinous might we find the epigraphical basis strong enough for the reconstruction of ‘Rural’ Dionysia (and maybe even a theatre) in that community. The same applies to two other demes in the Mesogaia: Paiania and Lamptrai. We begin with Paiania (cat. no. 18). Most scholars take this to be Lower Paiania because of its eleven councillors rather than Upper Paiania which elected only one. At any rate, Paiania is supposed to have celebrated the Dionysia in a theatre because of an inscription found at Kokla near Liopesi (i. e. modern Paiania) mentioning a victorious choregos. But the inscription – and we are dealing only with one single piece of evidence! – does not say that Demosthenes Demainetou Paianieus sponsored a choral dance in his community; he may have done so in Athens – he, his father and his brother were active in Athens as phylarchs and won a contest of the anthippasia celebrating this victory by a tripod set up on the so-called Bryaxis base (below s. v. cat. 18; fig. 2.9) – and commemorated his success in his home deme. – The second example concerns Lamptrai (cat. no. 15), and again we do not have good evidence for either a deme theatre or ‘Rural’ Dionysia: A fragmentary tribal decree found on the Athenian Acropolis mentions honours, but since the text is very fragmentary it is not clear if – as it is supposed by scholars on the basis of the restoration of the text in IG – these honours took place in (Upper or Lower) Lamptrai or if some Lamptreus announced them at the Dionysia. And it is not at all certain that we are dealing with the ‘Rural’ Dionysia; the find-spot of the decree, the Athenian Acropolis, and the tribe (not the deme!) as the agent awarding the honours suggest in my view (contra: 280 no. 163 (“nordöstlich von Markopoulo”); 280 no. 164 (“in Markopoulo”); 280 no. 165 (“Markopoulo”); see as well Milchhöfer 1887, 99 no. 111 (dedication to Hermes by a Hagnousian, found “südöstlich Koropi”); see as well Milchhöfer in RE 1 (1893) 834 s.v. Agnus. It should be noted that Milchhöfer 1883, III 11 (in his description of remains in the area of Markopoulo, i. e. in Erläuternder Text of the Karten von Attika) states that the respective grave stones come from the east of Markopoulo while Dardisti is located in the southwest. In addition it is noteworthy that there are no reports about ancient architectural or other settlement remains which can be characterised as those of a “deme-site” (Milchhöfer 1883, III 11f.). So in addition to Traill’s excessively narrow interpretation, the connection of the deme-decree (missing any mention of a deme’s name!) to Hagnous (instead of any other deme in the area – or even of a deme from afar) is very close to a circular argument, at least not a basis for a certain assignment to a deme or fixing a location of its ‘centre’. Furthermore the

assignment of the horos IG II2 2767 to Hagnous (and thus the connection to IG II2 1183; see Wilson 2010, 66f. n. 94f.; Wilson 2011a) is not at all secure since a find-spot (even more so its ancient position in situ) is not known; in 1897 it was observed in a private house (of Panagiotis I. Orphanos) in Markopoulo and might have ‘travelled’ in ancient or/and in post-ancient times. In addition it seems to me doubtful that Hagnous stretched as far north as into the area of the modern airport “El. Venizelos” (probably the land of Erchia while Myrrhinous and Angele should be located southeast and northeast of Markopoulo respectively; contra: Wilson 2011); about recent excavations in the area of the Mesogeia and the respective finds helping to locate the demes see: O. Apostolopoulou-Kakavogianni, A "    /  )/ "/ «  "« A "«, in: Steinhauer 2005, 175–187; Vassilopoulou – Katsarou-Tzeveleki 2009, 47–78; 103–126; 177–204. About Myrrhinous: Vivliodetis 2005, 7–234, esp. 94–149.

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Fig. 2.9 Athens, National Archaeological Museum inv. no. 1733: so-called Bryaxis base

Takeuchi 2011 and Csapo – Wilson, forthcoming) that we are probably dealing with the City Dionysia. But there is a deme – located between these two on the east side of Mt. Hymettos – with better evidence for a deme theatre in the Mesogaia: Sphettos (cat. no. 24). A fragmentary inscription found at Philati west of Koropi awarding prohedria in a theatre alone would not be enough evidence to establish the celebration of the ‘Rural’ Dionysia with a dramatic festival in this deme. But there is in addition archaeological evidence as well, supporting this view: a votive relief of c. 350–325 with a special iconography found at Koropi, today in the National Archaeological Museum in Athens (fig. 2.10; pl. 2.2), celebrates a victory in tragedy: a choregos holding a crown as a symbol of his success approaches Dionysus,

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Fig. 2.10. Athens, National Archaeological Museum inv. 2400: Votive relief to Dionysus from Sphettos, detail of the chorus.

and with him a chorus is offering a sacrifice. The relief and the inscription together are more than twice as good as one piece of evidence. So Sphettos17 is a good candidate for ‘Rural’ Dionysia and for a theatre, maybe serving the neighbouring demes as well – I will return to this question at the end of this chapter. There is a final inscription found in the Mesogaia that can be associated with the ‘Rural’ Dionysia: it concerns the deme of Aigilia (cat. no. 2). It came to light in the area of Kalyvia Kouvara (today Kalyvia Thorikou), a bit further southwest of Markopoulo and Dardisti mentioned earlier. In this inscription, a father and his two sons are attested as victorious choregoi, who dedicated a statue and an altar to Dionysus. Since both sons are known from other inscriptions as demesmen of Aigilia, scholars have mostly taken the in17

Already in the list of demes “with securely attested built theatres”: Wilson 2010, 41 n. 13. – See cat. 24 for two other sculptures possibly related to the Dionysus sanctuary of Sphettos. – Whether it is only by chance that Sphettos is located at the other, the eastern side of a road

that crossed the range of Mt. Hymettos, coming from Aixone, a deme with kat’ agrous Dionysia celebrated in a theatre (see below with cat. no. 3) at the western end of this road, cannot be determined; about the road connections through Hymettos see Langdon 2002.

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Fig. 2.11. Athens, Epigraphical Museum inv. 13180: Choregic dedication by Sokrates (IG I3 969), a statue base from the area of Vari.

scription as evidence for ‘Rural’ Dionysia and dramatic competitions in that deme. Only Agelidis considered the possibility of connecting the dedication to the City Dionysia. The joint sponsorship of three men, members of the same family18, points in my view to a victory in an event at some kat’ agrous Dionysia – sharing of costs only makes sense if different families take up the duty of a choregia –, but I am not sure about the deme: Aigilia was situated on the west coast of Attica, not at all close to the find-spot of the inscription; and there is no evidence of a sanctuary of Dionysus in this deme, where the three men set up their dedications. The question arises: did the three compete in some ‘Rural’ Dionysia elsewhere outside their deme and dedicate the altar and statue in that other sanctuary – so maybe we should take the inscription as another piece of evidence for a theatre at Myrrhinous (see above)? There is a lot of evidence for dramatic performances at the southern tip of Mt. Hymettos. Several inscriptions related to choregíai were found in an area described as “Vari” in the nineteenth century. This area is now identified with the modern village of the same name on the east side of Mt. Hymettos on the road from Glyphada to the bay of Varkiza19. Here in the east, in a small and fertile plain, the ancient deme of Anagyrous was located; this is why in modern publications we read repeatedly about the ‘Rural’ Dionysia of Anagyrous (cat. no. 4) claiming a theatre – although the inscriptions do not contain any information about such a venue in this deme. But there might be two pieces of evidence connecting this deme with ‘Rural’ Dionysia: The rare name of a choreut (8CN in the list IG I3 969; fig. 2.11) attested for Anagyrous and the depiction of a choreut on a grave monument found in modern Vari (see fig. 2.12 and pl. 2.3). 18

19

Summa 2001, 72; Summa 2006, 85; Wilson 2010, 45 with n. 28–30. See Schörner – Goette 2004, 2–6 with n. 29. – East of Vari, at ‘Korbi’, a marble throne with a dedicator’s inscription was found, but this must not be interpreted as a seat of a theatre; more probably it was a dedication in a sanctu-

ary (see the examples on Cape Zoster and in Rhamnus): Milchhöfer 1888, 361 no. 766; IG II2 4906; all that can be said about this throne was discussed by H. Lauter, Attische Landgemeinden in klassischer Zeit, MWPr 1991, 82–84 with notes 245–254 (with another parallel in the deme of Phrearrhioi).

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Fig. 2.12. Athens, National Archaeological Museum inv. 4498: Grave monument: marble hydria and base with relief decoration from Vari.

On the west side of this road, in the modern suburbs of Voula and Glyphada, were found several inscriptions, all related to Aixone (cat. no. 3; fig. 2.13–14). Many of them come from one specific location: the mouth of the Pirnari gorge. Not far from this location a temple of Aphrodite was recently excavated producing more inscriptions, and so we can conclude that one of the possible locations of the deme’s centre20 was in the area of Pirnari (another possibility, already proposed by earlier scholars and now again by D. Ackermann is the location at the chapel of Ag. Nikolaos of Pirnari where one of the main deme sanctuaries, that of Hebe, can be located). The main reason for locating a theatre at the gorge of Pirnari is the fact that in the 1870s H. G. Lolling, a very experienced topographer and

20

New inscriptions found in the area of the demes in question (Aixone, Halai Aixonides,

Anagyrous): Steinhauer 1998; Steinhauer 2004; Steinhauer 2004–2009.

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Fig. 2.13. Athens, Epigraphical Museum inv. 13262: Deme decree from Aixone (SEG 36, 186).

epigraphist21, saw the remains of a theatre that soon after his visit unfortunately disappeared – and today the area is inaccessible on account of a military camp. Finally, with regard to this wider area, we have to mention the deme of Halai Aixonides (cat. no. 10), located south of Aixone in the modern suburb of Vouliagmeni. There is some speculation whether one of the surviving choregic inscriptions from this area was originally set up here. In IG II2 3091 (fig. 2.14) its find-spot is given as “Palaiochori between Voula and Vari”, therefore not in Vouliagmeni. The association of this inscription with Vouliagmeni was based on information provided by a lawyer from Vouliagmeni that the foundations of a theatre came to light during the construction of the local cinema. Considering the ancient 21

See the papers of a symposium in Athens 28.–30. Sept. 1994, collected in the volume Historische Landeskunde und Epigraphik in

Griechenland ed. by K. Fittschen (Münster 2007). – Lolling 1879, 194.

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Fig. 2.14. Athens, Epigraphical Museum inv. 19693: choregic dedication (IG II2 3091), a circular statue base from the area of Voula/Vari.

settlement pattern of Halai as we know it now – mostly scattered farms, small sanctuaries, and grave precincts lining a good road system22 – it seems quite improbable that there was a theatre. In addition, it is not reasonable to locate a theatre on the flat ground where the modern cinema was built; a bit further east, the natural slopes of a hill (named Kastraki because of an ancient acropolis) would have provided better support for a koilon. If we consider all the evidence for ‘Rural’ Dionysia on both sides of the southern tip of Mt. Hymettos – in modern Vari, Vouliagmeni, Voula, and Glyphada – it seems to me that it all amounts to a single sanctuary of Dionysus and a single theatre, the one in Aixone at Pirnari. Most of the inscriptions scattered in the area called “Vari” were found without any ancient context. In the nineteenth century European travellers in Attica and the first archaeologists of modern Greece collected the inscriptions in so-called Vari, and it is important to know that this “Vari” in those days comprised all the above communities, i. e. modern Vari in the plain of Anagyrous, Vouliagmeni (ancient Halai Aixonides), modern Voula and Glyphada23. We must therefore bear in mind that the “Vari” of the nineteenth century extended from the east side of Mt. Hymettos to the west side of the mountain, encompassing all the plain to the north and reaching quite close to Trachones. Today we know well the settlement patterns of this part of Attica, and so we can conclude that the deme of Aixone was densely inhabited. It was, moreover, well equipped with a very good infrastructure, had one of its centres at Pirnari east or northeast of modern Glyphada with the sanctuary of Dionysus at a theatre, and proudly celebrated kat’ agrous Dionysia. When the Anagyrousioi produced local performances of plays, some first shown at the City Dionysia with – for example (see IG I3 969; fig. 2.11) – Euripides as the didaskalos, they must have employed local choreuts, that is, demesmen of Anagyrous. This is documented by a fine funerary monument from modern Vari (fig. 2.12; pl. 2.3)24: The image of a choreut is preserved on the base of a marble hydria that was set up as a grave monument. While the 22

23

For a summary with earlier bibliography see Schörner – Goette 2004. Matthaiou 1992–1998, 146–169 = SEG 46, 8; Schörner – Goette 2004, 6 n. 29; for a very de-

24

tailed discussion see D. Ackermann in her PhD thesis (forthcoming). Athens, National Archaeological Museum inv. no. 4498: Kaltsas 2002, 170 no. 334 with fig.

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Fig. 2.15. Athens, National Archaeological Museum inv. 3727: Archaistic relief depiction of Dionysus from Phlya.

front depicts the typical scenes of dextrarum iunctio between couples, on the right side of the base we see a choreut in his long theatrical costume holding his mask as he reaped some glory in the theatre’s orchestra. Here he is commemorated at the acme of his public career while the images on the front of the base as well as on the lekythos show the same person as a ‘normal’ Athenian citizen following the tradition of Classical Attic funerary reliefs. Very close to the asty and not in the countryside was the deme of Kollytos (cat. no. 14). This is therefore considered as a special case of kat’ agrous Dionysia, documented by some speeches of Aischines and Demosthenes. Although the deme was located south and west of the Athenian Acropolis, and was thus an intramural deme in the area of so-called rock-cut Athens with its natural stony slopes, no trace of a theatre has been found, not even during the extensive cleaning and excavation of the past decade. Situated further north, in the modern suburb of Chalandri, was the deme Phlya (cat. no. 21). A literary source is thought to provide evidence for ‘Rural’ Dionysia here: Isaios tells

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us that a man named Kiron attended kat’ agrous Dionysia during the second quarter of the fourth century; because Kiron owned land in the deme of Phlya, these ‘Rural’ Dionysia were connected by some scholars with this deme although the text does not say this expressis verbis. Other evidence for the cult of Dionysus in Phlya comes from Roman Imperial times: Pausanias mentions Dionysus Anthios, and a large archaistic relief of the god was found in Chalandri (fig. 2.15). But I find that the evidence for ‘Rural’ Dionysia in Phlya is not conclusive. The same applies to Phlya’s neighbouring deme on the west: Athmonon (cat. no. 5) in the area of present day Maroussi. An inscription found here, naming a demarch and a pipe player (fig. 2.16), has been considered as evidence for ‘Rural’ Dionysia. But we know from another inscription (IG II2 1203) that the most important sanctuary of Athmonon, that of Artemis Amarysia, also hosted festival events; two ‘archaizing’ horos inscriptions of that sanctuary have been found in Maroussi (fig. 2.17). The original sanctuary of Artemis Amarysia was east of Eretria – with the one at Athmonon constituting an offshoot. We know that in the fourth century, the festival of Artemis Amarysia in Eretria was enriched with musical contests added to the splendid, old procession. We have therefore good reason to assume the same for the festival in the Attic deme, and should associate the inscription mentioning a pipe player and the demarch of Athmonon (fig. 2.16) with the Amarysia, not with kat’ agrous Dionysia. Aristophanes in his Acharnians pokes fun at Euripides as a cholopoios, while Dikaiopolis is a Cholleides, so a member of the deme Cholleidai (cat. no. 6) who celebrates his private ‘Rural’ Dionysia. Although most Classical scholars take this as a verbal allusion to drive home Aristophanes’ point, some scholars believe that there might have been a theatre in Cholleidai, probably the neighbouring deme of Acharnae. There is not enough evidence to support this view either. The last example of epigraphical evidence concerning kat’ agrous Dionysia is a much discussed deme decree of Plotheia (cat. no. 22), which was situated next to Ikarion (cat. no. 13) in northern Attica. A text about the financial affairs of the deme mentions a didaskalos, and this was the reason for claiming the existence of a theatre in that deme. But we may well ask: Why should a deme of about fifty male citizens want to construct a theatre at great expense25, especially since one already existed not far from their home deme? Instead of embarking on such an ambitious enterprise, the Plotheians could share with the Ikarian demesmen the theatre at Ikarion (fig. 2.3)26. The same question arises for Kollytos (the audience could use the theatre of Dionysus at Athens27, maybe ten minutes away on foot) and for other small demes. So I follow in the footsteps of Lohmann28 and Jones29 who have already considered – in passing – the possibility that demes shared theatrical venues for their deme festivals of the kat’ agrous Dionysia30. Let us take a quick look at the topography of Attica (fig. 2.1) with this idea in mind and check the possibilities for the other cases we discussed earlier.

25

About the financial impact in relation to the number of citizens (i.e. the bouleutic quota) see Wilson 2010, 41f. with n. 14 discussing Jones 2004, 139; Wilson 2010, 68 n. 99; and see Wilson 2010, 65 n. 91 (incl. bibliography) with examples on how demes financed the construction of permanent theatres.

26

27 28

29 30

Wilson 2010, 71 with n. 109 – suggesting that the Plotheians might have payed entrancecharges for the Dionysia at Ikarion. Wilson 2010, 42. Lohmann 1993, I 287f. with n. 2034. Comments on this: Wilson 2010, 67f. n. 97. Jones 2004, 139ff. Wilson 2010, 67f. n. 97; 69 with n. 102.

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Fig. 2.16. Maroussi, Ag. Athanasios: Choregic dedication (IG II2 3057), probably related to the festival of the Amarysia.

Fig. 2.17. Maroussi: Boundary inscriptions of the sanctuary of Artemis Amarysia (above: in the west wall of Ag. Nikolaos, IG I2 865B; below: squeeze of the lost inscription IG I2 865A).

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Piraeus and Eleusis (maybe both with two theatres from some point onward) played a special role in the Attic deme system because they had much closer ties to the asty. They probably had the chance to host demesmen from neighbouring demes. I have already mentioned that I consider the theatre at the Pirnari gorge as the focal point of a large area at the southern tip of Mt. Hymettos comprising the demes of Aixone, Halai, Anagyrous and maybe even Aigilia (an alternative might be that this deme had ties to Sphettos). Further north the demes of Euonymon (fig. 2.4) and Halimous may have hosted in their theatres other, smaller communities celebrating the Dionysia; the Halimous theatre is thought to have served – in addition to the kat’ agrous Dionysia – for the celebration of religious events connected to the nearby Thesmophorion31. On the other side of the Hymettos range, in the western part of the Mesogaia, the theatre in Sphettos is a good candidate for celebrating the Dionysia not just of that deme, but of Paiania, Lamptrai, Erchia and such communities as Gargettos (with a sanctuary of Dionysus32) or Ionidai and Kydantidai that shared a sanctuary of Heracles33. On the east side of Attica, on the coast of the Aegean, the theatres of Halai Araphenides and Thorikos probably served as venues for more than their respective communities. The Myrrhinousioi and Hagnousioi as well as the people from Phila=dai (with the sanctuary of Artemis Brauronia34) may have gone north to Halai Araphenides, while the demesmen living in communities of and around the Laurion hills had the quite large theatre at Thorikos (fig. 2.5) at their disposal35. The same may be true of the theatre in Rhamnus (fig. 2.2; pl. 2.1) serving the neighbouring demes as well. There is a (still unpublished) decree of the Marathonian tetrapolis (cat. no. 16) awarding honours to a man from Probalinthos (that is, one of their members) which, oddly enough, was found in Rhamnus. The stele with this text was to be set up in the “Dionysion”. Since the stone, made of local Rhamnusian marble, was found in Rhamnus, where the Dionysion is situated next to the theatre, most scholars argue – in my view convincingly36 – that it was to be set up in the Dionysion of Rhamnus, not of Marathon. This inscription adds support to my hypothesis that demes shared facilities. When I discussed the epigraphical evidence for ‘Rural’ Dionysia in Plotheia I already mentioned a probable connection to Ikarion, a theatre (fig. 2.3) that might have served for demes on the north side of Mt. Pentelikon while the (not yet found) venue in Acharnae in my view was a centre for religious festivals of demes located in the northern37 part of the Pedion including Cholleidai, Athmonon, and Phlya. 31

32

Travlos 1988, 6 fig. 19f. s. v. Agios Kosmas; Clinton 1996 (SEG 46, 20. 152. 160. 174); H. Lohmann, DNP 5 [1998] 94 s. v. Halimous. – It seems to me questionable that the thesmophoria were celebrated outside the sanctuary, in an open area like the theatre accessible to everybody and to be publicly visible from at least three sides. The ‘theatron’ of the sanctuary of Demeter and Kore in Corinth – where some Dionysiac masks were found “may reflect the god’s participation in these rites” – is located inside the temenos (Bookidis 2010, 144), the rites of the female participants thus protected from (male) viewers who had no access to the ceremonies. SEG 46, 10. 155; Wilson 2010, 62 n. 83; Marchiandi 2011, 622.

33

34

35

36

Matthaiou 1989 and Matthaiou 1990–1991 = SEG 39, 148; for further discussion: SEG 41, 71; SEG 45, 122; SEG 47, 27; SEG 48, 42 C; SEG 54, 215; SEG 55, 39. 255. Brauron as a ‘deme’: see here 86 n. 15 and cat. no. 20. Kephale: see under Thorikos, cat. no. 25. – If one finds the evidence for a theatre in Myrrhinous sufficient this venue probably served some of the surrounding demes for their festivals. See also Wilson 2010, 68 n. 97. – Already Solders 1939, 121 proposed that the ‘Tetrapolites’ would celebrate in a theatre of another deme, but he proposed that they went to Ikarion.

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My theory of course implies a number of assumptions. First, we need to find out if other religious festivals could be celebrated at the facilities of neighbouring demes or at least outside the respective community areas, outside the borders of demes. A good source for information are deme calendars38 and deme decrees regulating the finances of public events (like the one of Plotheia, see cat. no. 22). Both groups of inscriptions show that in fact there are such cases all over Attica. Not only do demesmen take part in sacrifices at cult places in and around Athens – like the Artemis sanctuary at Agrai which might be interpreted as state-related –, they also celebrate their deme festivals in other communities and on distant mountains39. Another problem is the date of the kat’ agrous Dionysia. If the demes celebrated this festival on the same day throughout Attica, different demes could not have celebrated their Dionysia simultaneously in the same venue – in this case we would have to conclude that several demes shared the festival at the same day in the same theatre. But we have good evidence – Pl. R. 475d40 – that the ‘Rural’ Dionysia were spread out during the month of Posideon, and did not take place on the same day. This allowed professional actors, pipe players, and didaskaloi, maybe even members of choruses victorious at the City Dionysia, so choreuts of the demes, to perform (again) in some of the demes – maybe on a less sumptuous level41. Taking all this into consideration, it seems likely that some demes shared theatres in order to celebrate their respective kat’ agrous Dionysia. And this entails that we should not always seek a local theatre42 at the place where a deme decree was found somewhere in Attica which honours a choregos or awards some demesman with the right of prohedria43. This sharing of theatres seems to have been based on geographical proximity and convenience rather than trittys as Paga argued. Finally, a last thought which makes all this discussion even more problematic than it already is. We have to consider the possibility of short-term venues, constructed of wood in focal points or deme agorai. These are the so-called ikria which leave almost no traces for the archaeologists to be recognised easily during (rescue) excavations or surveys44. But it has to be noted that, except for Piraeus, we have no epigraphical or literary evidence for 37

38

39

40

Recently a dedication to Dionysus was found quite close to Acharnae, namely in Kephissia: SEG 54, 316. Whitehead 1986, 195ff.; Humphreys 2004, 145ff.; Parker 2005, 67. Some examples: sacrifice of the Erchians (SEG 34, 111) for Zeus Epakrios on Mt. Hymettos: Humphreys 2004, 177ff.; Parker 2005, 64. – For Zeus Meilichios at Agrai: Parker 1996, 77f.; Humphreys 2004, 180 n. 130. – Sharing a thesmophorion with other demes: IG II2 1213; Humphreys 180 n. 131. – The Plotheians celebrating the Anakaia in the neighbouring deme or taking part at the Brauronia and – maybe – at the Herakleia of Marathon: IG I3 258: Humphreys 2004, 152f. n. 54–57. – Thorikians go to the Diasia at Agrai or to Sounion: Humphreys 2004, 155–163 etc. Csapo – Slater 1994, 124–132; Humphreys 2004, 140 n. 26. 238 n. 43; Parker 2005, 67; Wilson 2010, 39f.

41

42

43

44

An indication for this less sumptuous level was thought to be the smaller number of chorus members in IG I3 969 (fig. 2.11), but see Wilson 2000, 353 n. 90 and Csapo 2010a, 111f. n. 64. – Some ‘Rural’ Dionysia were probably celebrated just with a procession and a sacrifice, see Wilson 2010, 40 n. 11 with bibliography. – In addition the decoration (pinakes) of the smaller skene buildings of deme theatres can be imagined modest. As done for example by Goette 1995a, 18; Goette 2010, 480f.; Paga 2010. Humphreys 2004, 180 concludes from our knowledge of sanctuaries of Dionysus in the demes of Paiania, Gargettos or Theitras that Erchians had to go to those neighbouring communities (and she adds correctly Halai Araphenides) to see theatre performances. Jones 2004, 140.

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such structures during the fourth century in Attic demes. In that period, not only Athens, but several places in the Attic countryside acquired theatres in stone (see fig. 2.2–5 and n. 4). It was then that earlier wooden structures were ‘transformed’ into stone architecture. But this process may have left some demes untouched.

Catalogue of related evidence 1. Acharnae (Mesogaia-Demos, Phyle Oineis, 22 Bouleutai)

2. Aigilia (Paralia-Demos, Phyle Antiochis, 6 Bouleutai)

Architecture: excavation of part of a circular theatron: K6 " 17.2. and 22. 2. 2007; R. Pitt, JHS 128, 2008, 222; Paga 2010, 365f. n. 9; Csapo 2010a, 109 n. 52; Marchiandi 2011, 613; M. Platonos-Giota, O  ) «  " /  )/ A) (    @  6 , in: M. : -T – 8. O , A )  !« #!«. T« A: A ", M K  "« T!)« (Athens 2013) 135 fig. 16; 147–149 fig. 15.

Inscription: IG II2 3096. About the second son Kleostratos: IG II2 223, C 1–2 + Agora XV 34 (SEG 52, 90; 54, 123. 129); IG II2 224, 2 (SEG 54, 114; 55, 154); IG II2 225, 4–5 (SEG 56, 131).

Inscriptions: a) IG II2 1206 (SEG 36, 191; 38, 123; 44, 57); – b) IG II2 3106; – c) IG II2 3092 + SEG 46, 250 (SEG 51, 196; 56, 45); – d) AEphem 131, 1992, 179–193 = SEG 43, 26; 54, 14; 55, 39; 56, 25; – e) SEG 54, 302 (D. Summa, Una dedica coregia inedita, ZPE 150, 2004, 147f.). Maybe related to Acharnae, but not clear if to Dionysia/choregia: IG II2 1173; SEG 55, 39; Whitehead 1986, 391 no. 130; Wilson 2000, 315 n. 39; Lasagni 2004, 92; Wilson 2010, 52f. (“probably from Akharnai”). Literary sources: Ar. Ach. 241ff.; Paus. 1, 31, 6. Bibliography: Möbius, in: Bulle 1928, 8; Solders 1939, 40 no. 18; Pickard-Cambridge 1968, 49f. with n. 6–8; Whitehead 1986, 219 n. 253; 374; Lohmann 1993, I 287 with n. 1927. 2034; TGR 1994, II 116; Goette 1995 a, 18 no. 5 b; Makri 1992–1998, 63–70 pl. 7f.; Wilson 2000, 306f.; Lasagni 2004, 91f. n. 3; 99 n. 29; Jones 2004, 129f.; Humphreys 2004, 140 n. 26; 144 n. 35; 190f. n. 155; 193; Parker 2005, 64 n. 52; 317 n. 95; Spineto, 2005, 333 n. 21; Summa 2006, 81–84 under no. IV; Bressan 2009, 250; Agelidis 2009, 190–192 no. 55; 237f. no. 114; Paga 2010, 354 n. 5; 365f.; Csapo 2010a, 93f. n. 78; Wilson 2010, 45 n. 30; 55 n. 62; 62–65; 78–82; 82 n. 132; Csapo – Wilson 2010, 86–90; Marchiandi 2011, 613.

Bibliography: Milchhöfer 1887, 281 no. 178 (“von Spyrid. Priphtis in Kalyvia erworben, der den Stein auf seinem Acker fand”, so the exact find-spot of the inscription is not well attested); Möbius, in: Bulle 1928, 9; Whitehead 220 n. 265; TGR 1994, II 121; Goette 1995a, 18 no. 5 h; Makri 1992–1998, 68 n. 17; 69f. n. 23; Jones 2004, 130. 146. 148f. with n. 92; Bressan 2009, 250; Agelidis 2009, 197f. no. 62 pl. 7 e; Paga 2010, 354 n. 5; Csapo 2010a, 95; Wilson 2010, 54 n. 55. 3. Aixone (Paralia-Demos, Phyle Kekropis, 9/11 Bouleutai) Architecture: remains of a theatre: Lolling 1879, 194 (from here are IG II2 1197. 1198. 1200. 1202); Milchhöfer 1883, II 29f.; III 18; RE VI 1157; Möbius, in: Bulle 1928, 7f.; Matthaiou 1992–1998, 164f.; Schörner – Goette 2004, 6 n. 30. – About the deme and its archaeological remains: Konsolaki 1990, 24 with n. 41–43; 97–110 (SEG 40, 287), D. Ackermann, forthcoming. Inscriptions: a) IG II2 1197 (EM 12678 = SEG 40, 287; 55, 39; 56, 25); b) IG II2 1198 (EM 139 = SEG 45, 124; 52, 123; 55, 39; 56, 25); c) IG II2 1200 (EM 12667 = SEG 34, 102; 36, 185; 40, 287; 46, 156; 55, 39; 56, 25); d) IG II2 1202 (St. Petersburg, from ‘Trachones’: Meyer 1989, 305 no. A140 pl. 44, 1 = SEG 26, 133; 39, 324); e) AM 66, 1941, 218f. no. 1 = SEG 36, 186 (EM 13262, from Glyphada; fig. 2.13): Pickard-Cambridge 1968, 49 mit Abb. 25; Meyer 1989, 305 no. A141 pl. 44,2; Csapo 2010b, 85 n. 30; f) SEG 38, 263 (I. Tsirigoti,

The Archaeology of the ‘Rural’ Dionysia in Attica ADelt 36, 1981 [1988] Chron. B1 50; fragmentary inscription – –   found in Voula, Leoph. Varis was used as a spolium). – About new inscriptions from the area see Matthaiou 1992–1998, 133–169 (lex sacra IG II2 1356 = SEG 46, 173; decrees EM 13478 [= SEG 46, 154], 13480, 13482, 13483 and IG II2 1197. 1198. 1199. 1200. 1201. 1202. 2492. 2852; SEG 46, 247); Steinhauer 1998, 235–248 (deme decree from the Aphrodision); Steinhauer 2004, 157–176 (new fragment of lex sacra); Steinhauer 2004/2009, 69–72 (deme decree); Parker 2005, 65 n. 53 (IG II2 1356, 1199 = SEG 46, 173. 154). For the (questionable) cult of Dionysus Anthios see Solders 1939, 38 no. 3 (SEG 5, 39).

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n. 261; 234f.; 376 no. 14; Matthaiou 1990–1991, 179–182; TGR 1994, II 321; Goette 1995a, 18 no. 5 d; Makri 1992–1998, 68 n. 17; Wilson 2000, 246; Van Straten 1992, 269; Lasagni 2004, 105; 107f. n. 57; Jones 2004, 130f. 153; Humphreys 2004, 238 n. 43; Bressan 2009, 250; Agelidis 2009, 198f. no. 63; Paga 2010, 354 n. 5; Csapo 2010a, 91f.; Marchiandi 2011, 615. 637. 5. Athmonon (Mesogaia-Demos, Phyle Kekropis, 5 Bouleutai) Inscription (probably related to the festival of Artemis Amarysia, for the sanctuary see SEG 46, 225 and IG I2 865: fig. 2.17): IG II2 3057; SEG 51, 193 (fig. 2.16).

Bibliography: Whitehead 1986, 218f. 219n. 254; 375f.; TGR 1994, II 1994, 219; Goette 1995a, 18 Nr. 5 h; Jones 2004, 130; Lasagni 2004, 92 n. 2; 99; 104; 113–115 n. 80; Humphreys 2004, 193 n. 163 (SEG 36, 186 combined with IG II2 1202; 313/2 rather than 340/39); Moreno 2007, 72 n. 153 (some of the inscriptions may have been once in the theatre of Euonymon); Bressan 2009, 250; Paga 2010, 354 n. 5; Csapo 2010a, 95; Wilson 2010, 46–48; Marchiandi 2011, 359. 447–449. 614.

Bibliography: Möbius, in: Bulle 1928, 9; Pikoulas 1992–1998, 205–214; G. N. Pallis, E « IG II2 3057, Horos 14/16, 2000/2003, 95–97 (non vidi: G. N. Pallis, T M  « A "« [Marousi 2004] = SEG 55, 40); Csapo 2010a, 95 n. 100; Wilson 2010, 41 n. 12.

4. Anagyrous (Paralia-Demos, Phyle Erechtheis, 6 Bouleutai)

Bibliography: Ehrenberg 1962, 46; Kraus 1985, 42f.; 49 n. 44; Compton-Engle 1999, esp. 364. 366f.; Jones 2004, 131. 141; Paga 2010, 354 n. 6; Wilson 2010, 41 n. 12; 42 n. 18.

Inscriptions (some maybe related to Aixone: cat. no. 3): a) IG II2 1210 (from ‘Vari’); b) AEphem 1965 (1967), 163–167 pl. 45; SEG 23, 102; 26, 225; 36, 240. 721; 41, 191 = IG I3 969; SEG 51, 9 (from Varkiza; EM 13180; fig. 2.11); c) A. Milchhöfer, Antikenbericht, AM 13, 1888, 361 No. 764; Solders 1939, 41 no. 21; IG II2 3101; SEG 36, 242; 51, 198 (from ‘Vari’); d) IG II2 3091; SEG 56, 45; Marchiandi 2011, 623 (fig. 2.14). – A ‘new’ inscription of the fourth century ‘found’ in Varkiza (= Anagyrous) was mentioned in E6  of 12. Aug. 2005; it is said to name a demarch Theophilos being a choregos of dramatic contests of Euripides: AR 52, 2005–6, 12; Marchiandi 2011, 615. Nothing is known by now about such an inscription, so the note seems to be a misunderstanding by the journalist of E6  connecting information about inscription b) with IG II2 2852 actually not from Vari but from Aixone, see Matthaiou 1990–1991, 179. Sculpture: Marble grave monument: hydria with its base (fig. 2.12; pl. 2.3), Athens, National Archaeological Museum inv. no. 4498: Kaltsas 2002, 170 no. 334 with fig. Bibliography: Möbius, in: Bulle 1928, 8f.; PickardCambridge 1968, 50 n. 1f. (IG II2 3101: “probably from Anagyrous”); 54–56; Whitehead 1986, 220

6. Cholleidai (Mesogaia-Demos, Phyle Leontis, 2 Bouleutai) Literary source: Ar. Ach. 202–279. 406.

7. Eleusis (Paralia-Demos, Phyle Hippothontis, 11 Bouleutai) Architecture: Chandler (1762) and Clarke (1802) noted some remains of theatre architecture, but if those were on the south-west or (it should be considered: and) on the north side of the hill is not clear (see Clinton 2005, C 80f. ad no. 71. 79. 177). Inscriptions: a) IG I3 970 (IG II2 3090; SEG 42, 117; Kaltsas 2004, 308 no. 185; IE 2005, no. 53) (fig. 2.6); b) IG II2 949 (IE 2005, no. 229; SEG 55, 39. 254. 2097 bis); c) IG II2 1682 (IE 2005, no. 141); d) IG II2 1185 (IE 2005, no. 71; SEG 42, 117; 55, 39); e) IG II2 1186 (IE 2005, no. 70; SEG 42, 117; 51, 9; 55, 39); f) IG II2 1187 (IE 2005, no. 99; SEG 39, 324. 329; 40, 231; 42, 117; 55, 39); g) IG II2 1189 (IE 2005, no. 84; SEG 42, 117; 34, 106); h) IG II2 1192 (IE 2005, no. 96; SEG 42, 117; 55, 39); i) IG II2 1193 (IE 2005, no. 80; SEG 39, 324; 41, 1747; 45, 231); k) IG II2 1194 + 1274 + Hesperia 8, 1939, 177–180 (IE 2005, no. 101: SEG 39, 329; 42, 117); l) IG II2 3100 (IE 2005, no. 66); m) IG II2 3107 (IE 2005, no. 107). Sculpture: votive relief of a choregic type, Eleusis, Museum inv. no. 30: Dentzer 1982, 507. 595 R

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236 fig. 489; MTS2 113 AS 29; Csapo 2010a, 90f. n. 58 (p. 109); Csapo 2010b, 93f. fig. 7.7. Bibliography: Möbius, in: Bulle 1928,7; Solders 1939, 43f. no. 40–45; Pickard-Cambridge 1968, 47f.; Ghiron-Bistagne 1976, 92f.; Whitehead 1986, 217. 220 n. 262; 377–379; Travlos 1988, 96; TGR 1994, II 206; Goette 1995a, 18 no. 5 e; Makri 1992–1998, 69f. n. 23; Jördens 1999; Wilson 2000, 375 n. 164; Lasagni 2004, 92. 100 n. 36; 105. 106 n. 55; 108f. n. 62; 111 n. 73; 113–115 n. 80; 121; Humphreys 2004, 238 n. 43; Parker 2005, 317 n. 95; Bressan 2009, 250; Jones 2004, 131f.; Spineto, 2005, 241 n. 197; 335 n. 30; Agelidis 209, 217f. no. 90 pl. 7 f; 219 no. 93 pl. 8 f; 9 a; 223 no. 100 pl. 10 b; Paga 2010, 354 n. 5; Csapo 2010a, 90f.; Wilson 2010, 50f. 56 with n. 63; Marchiandi 2011, 354. 620f. 8. Euonymon (Asty-Demos, Phyle Erechtheis, 10 Bouleutai)

Inscription: IG II2 1183, 36f. (SEG 42, 113; SEG 50, 20; SEG 54, 205; SEG 55, 38. 261. 1979; Wilson 2010, 56 n. 64; 66f. n. 94f.; Wilson 2011. Bibliography: Pickard-Cambridge 1968, 4 n. 7; Traill 1986, 132; Whitehead 1986, 119. 159. 357 (SEG 42, 113); Millett 1991, 173; Robertson 1996; Jones 2004, 132; Humphreys 2004, 140 n. 25f.; 162 n. 80; Spineto, 2005, 36f. 328; Wilson 2010, 56 n. 64; 66f. n. 94f.; Paga 2010, 354 n. 5; Marchiandi 2011, 622; Wilson 2011. 10. Halai Aixonides (Paralia-Demos, Phyle Kekropis, 6 Bouleutai) Architecture: supposedly remains of a theatre found during the construction of the cinema in the lower, plain area of modern Vouliagmeni. Bibliography: Koutsogiannis 1984, 38; Matthaiou 1992–1998, 168 n. 55 (SEG 46, 8); Wilson 2010, 41 n. 12; Marchiandi 2011, 623.

Architecture: excavation of a theatre with a rectilinear prohedria of the late fifth/early fourth century and – from a second phase of refurbishment (supposedly connected to a dedication by Olympiodoros) – three double thrones made of Hymettian marble as well as a skene building (fig. 2.4a).

11. Halai Araphenides (Paralia-Demos, Phyle Aigeis, 5 Bouleutai)

Inscription: SEG 32, 267. 272; SEG 57, 125; Wilson forthcoming (on the many restorations proposed by G. Steinhauer, AEphem 146, 1999, 43–47).

Inscriptions: a) Bardani 1992–1998, 59 no. 2; SEG 34, 103; SEG 45, 123 (fig. 2.7); b) Bardani 1992–1998, 53–60; SEG 46, 153; c) Bardani 1992–1998, 58f.; SEG 55, 252.

Sculpture: two Archaistic statues of Dionysus, now in the Archaeological Museum of Piraeus: Tzachou-Alexandri 1999 (fig. 2.4b).

Sculpture: votive relief in Munich, Glypt. 552: Vierneisel – Scholl 2002; A. Schmölder-Veit, Polis und Theater, in: Moraw – Nölle 2002, 102 fig. 137; Wünsche 2004, 229 fig. 24, 7; 284 no. 113; Agelidis 2009, 60. 81 pl. 22 e; Csapo 2010a, 95 with n. 95 (fig. 2.8).

Bibliography: Touchais 1977; AR 1981–1982, 12; AR 1982–1983, 11; Whitehead 1986, 219 n. 255; Tzachou-Alexandri 1980. 1981; Travlos 1988, 6; Lohmann 1993, I 288f.; Reed 1993, 326 fig. 26f.; TGR 1994, II 311f.; Goette 1995a, 16f. fig. 4 pl. 12, 2; Wiles 1997, 29f. fig. 4 pl. 1; Ashby 1998, 37 fig. 19; Moretti 1999–2000, 377; Goette 2001, 186; Froning, in: Moraw – Nölle 2002, 47 fig. 47f.; Nielsen 2002, 124; Jones 2004, 132; Burmeister 2006, 24; Kaza-Papageorgiou 2006, 116f. with fig.; Moreno 2007, 39–76, esp. 43f.; Bressan 2009, 41 fig. 16; 250; Paga 2010, 354 n. 5; 363–365 fig. 9; Wilson 2010, 43f. 68; Marchiandi 2011, 401f. 621f. 9. Hagnous (Mesogaia-Demos, Phyle Akamantis, 5 Bouleutai) Architecture: no theatre (inscription probably related to Halai Araphenides [cat. no. 11] or Thorikos [cat. no. 25], maybe to Myrrhinous [cat. no. 17]).

Architecture: Bardani 1992–1998, 59f. reports excavated remains supposedly connected with the Dionysion.

Bibliography: Whitehead 1986, 123 n. 12f.; 141f. n. 118. 124; 212; 220 n. 263; 222; 381 nos. 59–61; Travlos 1988, 211; Goette 1995a, 18 no. 5 f; Isler 1997, 552; Jones 2004, 133; Lasagni 2004, 92 n. 2; 96 n. 14; 113–115; Humphreys 2004, 140 n. 25; 180; Bressan 2009, 251; Paga 2010, 354 n. 5; Csapo 2010a, 95; Csapo 2010b, 88f. fig. 7.4; Wilson 2010, 43 n. 21; Marchiandi 2011, 623. 12. Halimous (Asty-Demos, Phyle Leontis, 3 Bouleutai) Architecture: remains of a rectilinear prohedria with three double thrones at the foot of a slope on Ag. Anna hill (in Marinou Antypa St., former Hegesipyle St.); on top of this hill the remains of a thesmophorion were excavated (see here n. 31). Inscriptions: SEG 2, 7; 55, 39; 56, 27. 251; Hondius 1919–1921; Kaza-Papageorgiou 2006, 82.

The Archaeology of the ‘Rural’ Dionysia in Attica Bibliography: Solders 1939, 38 no. 4 and no. 5 (= Arnob. 5, 28); Whitehead 1986, 205 n. 172; 381f. no. 62; Jones 2004, 142 n. 59; Kaza-Papageorgiou1993; Kaza-Papageorgiou 2006, 82f.; reconstruction drawing: p. 85; Bressan 2009, 41; 252; Csapo 2010a, 109 n. 52; Wilson 2010, 41 n. 12; Isler 2011, 95; Marchiandi 2011, 406–409. 624. 13. Ikarion (Mesogaia-Demos, Phyle Aigeis, 5 Bouleutai) Architecture: sanctuary of Apollo Pythios (IG I3 1015; II2 2816; Voutyras 1982) and Dionysus with rectilinear theatre and a trapezoidal orchestra (fig. 2.3a). Inscriptions: a) IG I3 253 (SEG 51, 36; 54, 57; 55, 1972); b) IG I3 254 (SEG 51, 36; 54, 58; 55, 1972); c) IG II2 1178 (SEG 36, 24; 44, 251; 54, 58; 55, 39. 253); d) IG II2 2851; e) IG II2 3094 (SEG 36, 24); e) IG II2 3095 (SEG 32, 249; 36, 24) (fig. 2.3b); f) IG II2 3098; SEG 36, 24; 51, 9; g) IG II2 3099 (SEG 36, 24); h) SEG 22, 117; 55, 39. 254. See as well Athen. 2, 40 a-b. Sculpture: seated Archaic cult statue of Dionysus (repaired in the Late Classical period) set up in a baldachin (fig. 2.3c), Athens, National Archaeological Museum inv. no. 3072–3074. 3897 (statue) + inv. no. 4888 (fragment of baldachin) + Marathon, Archaeological Museum inv. no. F125 (baldachin): I. B. Romano, The Archaic Statue of Dionysus from Ikarion, Hesperia 51, 1982, 398–409; Kaltsas 2002, 66 no. 93; Despinis 2007 (with comprehensive bibliography p. 104f. n. 1). Bibliography: Solders 1939, 42f. Nr. 34–39; Anti 1947, 145f.; Dilke 1948, 150f. 177; Dilke 1950, 30f.; Pickard-Cambridge 1968, 48f.; 54 fig. 29; Stanley 1970, 109–116; Biers – Boyd 1982; Whitehead 1986, 219 n. 256; 382 no. 63–67; Travlos 1988, 85; TGR 1994, II 199; Goette 1995a, 10f.; Makri 1992–1998, 68 n. 17; 69f. n. 22f.; Moretti 1999–2000, 377; Wilson 2000, 249f. fig. 25; Nielson 2002, 120–123; Jones 2004, 133. 145; Makres 2004; Lasagni 2004, 97 n. 19f.; 98f.; 113–115 n. 80; Humphreys 2004, 139f. n. 26; 146–151 with n. 52; 238; Parker 2005, 67. 69 n. 75; 71 n. 84; IE 2005, C 83; Spineto, 2005, 6–8. 333 n. 21; Burmeister 2006, 24; Bressan 2009, 41. 252. 260 fig. 192; Agelidis 2009, 193f. no. 57 pl. 6 f–g; 221 no. 96; 196f. no. 61; 219 no. 92; Paga 2010, 354 n. 5; 356–360 fig. 4f.; Csapo 2010a, 93 with n. 77; 94 n. 90; Csapo 2010b, 85 n. 30; Wilson 2010, 45 n. 30; 50 with n. 46; 52 n. 52; 56 n. 64; 56–58; 58f. n. 71; 76 with n. 122; 77; Blok 2010; Marchiandi 2011, 625.

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14. Kollytos (Asty-Demos, Phyle Aigeis, 3 Bouleutai) Literary sources: Aischin. 1, 157; D. 18, 180. 262. 267. 314. Bibliography: Möbius, in: Bulle 1928, 8*; PickardCambridge 1968, 50 n. 4; Whitehead 1986, 220 n. 266; TGR 1994, II 143; Goette 1995a, 18 no. 5 k; Jones 2004, 133. 137; Lalonde 2006; Steffelbauer 2007; Bressan 2009, 250; Paga 2010, 354 n. 5; 375 n. 90; 377f.; Csapo 2010a, 94 with n. 83 and 88; Wilson 2010, 42 n. 17. 15. Lamptrai (Upper-L: Mesogaia-Demos, Phyle Erechtheis, 5 Bouleutai; Lower-L: Paralia-Demos, Phyle Erechtheis, 9 Bouleutai) Inscription: IG II2 1161. Bibliography: Solders 1939, 41 no. 21; Jones 2004, 133f.; Paga 2010, 354 n. 7; Wilson 2010, 41 n. 12; 48f.; Marchiandi 2011, 540f. 629f.; recently with a different view: Takeuchi 2011; Csapo and Wilson (forthcoming) notes that “in 330 BC Aischines (3.41–45) refers to a law in force that prevented both demes and tribes from announcing crowns at the tragic competition of the City Dionysia” and thinks it unlikely that the decree could refer to the City Dionysia. 16. Marathon (Paralia-Demos, Phyle Aiantis, 10 [?] Bouleutai) Inscription (unpublished): SEG 48, 129; 50, 166 (found in Rhamnus, made of local Rhamnusian marble). Dionysus in Marathon: IG II2 1243 l. 21f.; IG II2 2933; IG II2 4774; see: Solders 1939, 41f. no. 26–29; Petropoulakou – Pentazos 1973, 210 no. 10 (with bibliography); Humphreys 2004, 170 n. 100; 175f.; Goette – Weber 2004, 37f.; 96. 122 (SEG 54, 16). Bibliography: V. Petrakos, Ergon 1998, 14f. = Prakt 1998, 25f.; Lambert 2000, 69f.; Humphreys 2004, 165 n. 86; 171 n. 103; Moreno 2007, 71f.; Wilson 2010, 68 n. 97. 17. Myrrhinous (Paralia-Demos, Phyle Pandionis, 6 Bouleutai) Inscription: IG II2 1182 (SEG 42, 218; 48, 121). – A theatre token found in a sanctuary at Myrrhinous: SEG 53, 227; Wilson 2010, 41 n. 12. Bibliography: Milchhöfer 1887, 278 no. 150; Möbius, in: Bulle 1928, 8; Solders 1939, 40 no. 19; Pickard-Cambridge 1968, 45 n. 7; 50 n. 6f.; Whitehead 1986, 220 n. 264; 384 no. 81; Travlos 1988, 211; Lohmann 1993, I 287f. with n. 2034; Goette

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1995a, 18 no. 5 g; TGR 1994, II 256; Jones 2004, 134; Humphreys 2004, 140 n. 25f.; Parker 2005, 64 n. 52; 66 n. 61; Vivliodetis 2005, 41–43 Nr. E1; Bressan 2009, 253; Paga 2010, 354 n. 5; Csapo 2010a, 95; Wilson 2010, 67f. n. 97; Marchiandi 2011, 630. 18. Paiania (Upper-P.: Mesogaia-Demos, Phyle Pandionis, 1 Bouleutes; Lower-P.: MesogaiaDemos, Phyle Pandionis, 11 Bouleutai) Inscription: IG II2 3097. – Demosthenes Demainetou on the so-called Bryaxis base, Athens, National Archaeological Museum inv. no. 1733; IG II2 3130; Kaltas 2002, 254 no. 530; Kaltsas 2004, 330 no. 200 (fig. 2.9). Bibliography: Möbius, in: Bulle 1928, 9; PickardCambridge 1968, 50 n. 8; Travlos 1988, 211; Goette 1995a, 18 no. 5 I; TGR 1994, II 275; Jones 2004, 134; Humphreys 2004, 181 n. 133; Bressan 2009, 253; Agelidis 2009, 218 no. 91; Paga 2010, 354 n. 5; Csapo 2010a, 95; Wilson 2010, 43 n. 22; Marchiandi 2011, 499. 631f.; Wilson forthcoming (discussing an entry in the Lexica Segueriana s. v. Paionia as a support for ascribing the choregic dedication to the deme). 19. Piraeus (Asty-Demos, Phyle Hippothontis, 9 Bouleutai) Architecture: on the west slope of Mounychia hill there have been remains of a Classical theatre; west of the Zea harbour a second theatre has been built during the second century (see IG II2 2334). Inscriptions: a) IG II2 380 (SEG 33, 90; 52, 1906; 53, 97; 55, 23); b) IG II2 456 (SEG 51, 8); c) IG II2 1035 (SEG 52, 21; 54, 199; 55, 248 bis); IG II2 1496 + Hesp. 9, 1940, 328–330 no. 37 + IG II2 413 (SEG 54, 143); d) IG II2 1672 (SEG 48, 36. 158; 49, 2410 bis; 50, 21. 169. 1755; 51, 79; 52, 147. 705. 799. 1910. 2004; 53, 179; 55, 257. 261. 2091; 56, 7; 2080); e) IG II2 1176 (Agora XVI 93; Agora XIX L 13, 106; SEG 36, 149; 37, 101; 41, 103); f) IG II2 1214 (SEG 37, 101; 42, 1746; 55, 39. 2099); g) SEG 15, 104, l. 24–26; 55, 17; h) SEG 15, 104, l. 24–26; i) IG II2 1008 (SEG 52, 114; 53, 19. 142; 54, 12. 196; 55, 2118); k) Hesperia 16, 1947, 170–172 no. 67, l. 19f.; l) IG II2 1011 (SEG 53, 16. 142. 151; 54, 11f.; 55, 17; 56, 7); m) IG II2 1028 (SEG 55, 17; 55, 724; 56, 7); n) IG II2 1029 (SEG 56, 7); o) IG II2 1039 (SEG 55, 24). Literary sources: Th. 8, 93, 1; Arist. Ath. 54, 8; X. HG 2, 4, 32; D. 21, 10; Lys. 13, 32; Ael. VH 2, 13. Bibliography: Möbius in: Bulle 1928, 6 Nr. 1 a and b; Solders 1939, 38f. no. 6–14; Anti 1947,

136–138; Fiechter 1950, 35–41; Pickard-Cambridge 1968, 45–47 n. 8ff.; 54; Garland 1987, 161; Travlos 1988, 342f.; von Eickstedt 1991, 167f. and 115. 185; TGR 1994, II 276 and 277f.; Goette 1995a, 18 no. 5 a; 33; Moretti 1999–2000, 377; Moretti 2001, 208f.; Lasagni 2004, 122f.; Jones 2004, 134f. 137f.; Humphreys 2004, 159 n. 75; Parker 2005, 317 n. 96; 468; Spineto, 2005, 49 n. 134; 51 n. 140; 55 n. 153. 111. 149. 238. 328. 337; Bressan 2009, 38f. fig. 15; 253f. and 39. 44 fig. 23; 254; Paga 2010, 354 n. 5 and 9; 360–362; Wilson 2010, 55 n. 61f. 59–62; Marchiandi 2011, 633. 20. Philaïdai – Brauron (Mesogaia-Demos, Phyle Aigeis, 3 Bouleutai) Literary sources: Brauron as a deme: Str. 9, 1, 21f.; Dionysia in the “deme of Brauron”: schol. Ar. Peace 874. – Probably both sources are related to the sanctuaries of Artemis and Dionysus at Halai Araphenides since Brauron never constituted a deme and the sanctuary of Artemis Brauronia was mostly flooded already in the Hellenistic period. Bibliography: Möbius, in: Bulle 1928, 9; Solders 1939, 41 no. 22; Whitehead 1986, 11. 24. 32. 210. 370; H. Lohmann, DNP 9 (2000) 780f. s. v. Philaïdai; Jones 2004, 136; Paga 2010, 354 n. 6; Csapo 2010a, 95; Wilson 2010, 41 n. 12; Marchiandi 2011, 634f. 21. Phlya (Mesogaia-Demos, Phyle Kekropis, 5 Bouleutai) Literary sources: Is. 8, 15f. and 35; Paus. 1, 31, 4: Altar for Dionysus Anthios. Sculpture: Roman Imperial archaistic relief found at Ag. Loukas: Athens, National Archaeological Museum inv. no. 3727: Kaltsas 2002, 307 no. 648; Kaltsas 2004, 279 no. 161 (fig. 2.15). Bibliography: Möbius, in: Bulle 1928, 9; Solders 1939, 40 no. 17; Pickard-Cambridge 1968, 50f. n. 1; Loukas 1984, 74–78; TGR 1994, II 275; Jones 2004, 135; Bressan 2009, 254 (“Phyla” instead of Phlya); Paga 2010, 354 n. 5; Marchiandi 2011, 635. 22. Plotheia (Asty-Demos, Phyle Aigeis, 1 Bouleutes) Inscription: IG II2 1172 = IG I3 258 (SEG 32, 144. 226; 36, 25; 37, 243; 42, 22; SEG 54, 9; 55, 38); see as well the discussion (Whitehead vs. Traill): SEG 32, 144; 36, 189. Bibliography: Solders 1939, 42 no. 33; Whitehead 1986, 165–169; 220 n. 260; 286 no. 96; Millett 1991, 171–178; Isler 1997, 552; Humphreys 2004,

The Archaeology of the ‘Rural’ Dionysia in Attica 151–153; 238 n. 43; Parker 2005, 64. 66. 73f.; Bressan 2009, 254 (“Phloteia” instead of Plotheia); Wilson 2010, 70f.; Blok 2010; Marchiandi 2011, 635. 23. Rhamnus (Paralia-Demos, Phyle Aiantis, 8 Bouleutai) Architecture: theatre with rectilinear prohedria incl. marble thrones next to the Dionysion just in front of the acropolis fortification wall (fig. 2.2a; pl. 2.1). Inscriptions: a) IG II2 3108 (SEG 45, 147); b) IG II2 3109 (SEG 40, 178. 181. 1728; 47, 230f.; 48, 197) (fig. 2.2c); c) IG II2 1311 (SEG 40, 136. 295; 43, 35; 51, 132; 52, 130); d) SEG 22, 120; e) SEG 22, 129; f) SEG 31, 118. – See Petrakos 1999, II 5 no. 1 = SEG 43, 25; 7–9 no. 5 = SEG 3, 122; 21 no. 15 = SEG 22, 120; s. as well no. 58; 22–24 no. 17 = SEG 25, 155; 25f. no. 19; 57 no. 55 = SEG 22, 129; 59 no. 58; 74f. no. 82 = SEG 40, 197; 96f. no. 115; 99f. no. 120 = IG II2 3109. Sculpture: statue of Themis, Athens, National Archaeological Museum inv. no. 231: Petrakos 1999, II 99f. no. 120 = IG II2 3109; Kaltsas 2002, 272f. no. 568 (fig. 2.2b–c). Bibliography: Bulle 1928, 1–4 pl. 1f.; Whitehead 1986, 219 n. 258; Travlos 1988, 403; TGR 1994, II 221; Goette 1995, 18 no. 5 a; Petrakos 1999, I 89–105; Moretti 1999–2000, 377; Burmeister 2006, 25; Bressan 2009, 38f. fig. 15; 253f.; Agelidis 2009, 224 no. 101; Paga 2010, 354 n. 5; 362–363 fig. 6–8; Csapo 2010a, 95 with n. 96; Wilson 2010, 54 n. 56; Marchiandi 2011, 478. 636. 24. Sphettos (Mesogaia-Demos, Phyle Akamantis, 5 Bouleutai) Inscription: SEG 36, 187. Sculpture: votive relief to Dionysus with chorus, Athens, National Archaeological Museum inv. no. 2400 (fig. 2.10; pl. 2.2). – Two additional sculptures may be related to the Dionysus sanctuary of Sphettos: a) the statue of a papposilen with Dionysus as a child on his shoulder: Milchhöfer 1887, 97f. no. 99 (for the type see the statue from the Dionysus sanctuary in Athens: Kaltsas 2002, 119 no. 217); b) the fragment of a life-size marble bull, maybe once a dedication of a chorus (alter-

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natively part of a funerary monument?): Milchhöfer 1887, 98 no. 101. Bibliography: Milchhöfer 1887, 98 no. 103; Reisch 1890, 124 fig. 12; Svoronos 640 no. 370 fig.; Solders 1939, 41 no. 20; Voutyras 1991/1992, 39 with n. 43 fig. 7; Jones 2004, 135; Agelidis 2009, 51–53 no. 5.1.8; 221f. no. 95 pl. 10 a; Paga 2010, 354 n. 7; Csapo 2010a, 95 n. 99; Csapo 2010b, 86–88 fig. 7.3; Wilson 2010, 41 n. 13; 49f. with n. 44; Marchiandi 2011, 637. 25. Thorikos (Paralia-Demos, Phyle Akamantis, 5 Bouleutai) Architecture: theatre with a long, rectilinear prohedria built in stone next to a temple of Dionysus (fig. 2.5). [This might be the theatre (mentioned as an “amphitheatre” which fits quite well with the outline of the curved sidewings) seen by G. Wheler, Voyage de Dalmatie de la Grèce et du Levant (La Haye 1723) 260: Möbius, in: Bulle 1928, 9; TGR 1994, II 240. – Solders 1939, 41 no. 25 remarks that the hills near Keratea (= Kephale) have the same toponym as those close to Ikarion, namely “Dionysovouni”, but this name might be related to a church of Ag. Dionysios instead of holding on to a tradition knowing of a sanctuary of Dionysus.] Inscriptions: a) SEG 26, 136; 33, 147; IG I3 256bis; 52, 49. 136; 54, 60; 55, 34. 58. 2097/2097bis; 56, 125; b) SEG 34, 107; 36, 180; 41, 251; 56, 199; c) SEG 34, 174; 36, 214; 40, 180*; 41, 251; 56, 231; d) SEG 40, 128; 41, 251; 56, 200; e) SEG 40, 167; 51, 191; 56, 232. Bibliography: Bulle 1928, 9–15 pl. 1; 2 b-d; Pickard-Cambridge 1968, 52f. fig. 26f.; Stanley 1970, 87–108; Whitehead 1986, 219 n. 259; 390f. no. 127; Travlos 1988, 430–432; Lohmann 1993, I 288; TGR 1994, II 308f.; Goette 1995a, 12f.; Burmeister 1996, 110–113; Mussche 1998, 29–34; Moretti 1999–2000, 377; Palyvou 2001; Nielsen 2002, 124f.; Lasagni 2004, 92; Humphreys 2004, 139; 141; 155–163; 159 n. 75; 164f.; 238 n. 43; Parker 2005, 65 n. 58; Burmeister 2006, 26 with 3 figs.; Summa 2006, 77f. no. I; 79f. no. II; 81–84 no. IV; Bressan 2009, 41 fig. 17; 255; Paga 2010, 354 n. 5; 355f. fig. 2f.; Csapo 2010a, 94 n. 86; 95 n. 91; Wilson 2010, 37 n. 3; 43 n. 22; 54f. with n. 58; 69; 71–76; Marchiandi 2011, 352. 549–553. 639.

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The Evolution of Theatre Architecture Outside Athens in the Fourth Century

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The Evolution of Theatre Architecture Outside Athens in the Fourth Century* Jean-Charles Moretti

The Greeks were late to add theatres to the corpus of stone constructions they built to serve their cult practices. Theatres joined the repertoire long after temples, altars and hestiatoria, all of which are known from the Archaic period and reveal a great diversity of shape and ornament. The choice had nothing to do with technical know-how but illustrates a habit well-attested from the earliest moments of Greek architecture: cut stone was reserved for the gods and, secondarily, for the élites of Greek cities who were able to use dining halls. For a long time buildings designed for the entertainment of the masses remained outside the realm of monumental architecture and consequently outside the realm of the commissions entrusted to creative architects and stone-cutters1. Even in the fifth century, stone construction in Greek theatres is modest in scope and very simple in form. Stage-buildings appear everywhere to have been built of wood2. Stone auditoria are rare, except where they are cut straight into the bedrock, and they everywhere have stepped profiles with flat risers and flat top-surfaces. There is never any use of the Doric or Ionic order, nor of the diverse range of mouldings that adorned contemporary temples and altars. In the first part of the Classical period theatre architecture remains purely utilitarian and, in many cities, temporary3. Theatres were erected as needed, just as market stalls or temporary lodgings were put up for those who attended religious festivals. Greek significantly uses the word “skenai” ( ) in all three contexts. The fourth century, or, more precisely, the second half of the fourth century, is when the theatre becomes part of Greece’s public monumental architecture. It is only after this period we begin to see a significant increase in the number of festivals with dramatic competitions4 and after this period that cities begin to consider worthwhile the expenditure of sometimes considerable sums on the construction of seating or stage-buildings that are meant to last5. Once made permanent, the buildings could also be put to use before and after the religious festivals. For this reason our earliest evidence for the regular use of theatres for political assemblies dates to the fourth century6. We do not witness a mere petrification of fixtures previously built of wood, but the working out of new forms – forms different from those ascribed to the monuments of the fifth century, different even from * I thank E. Csapo who translated this paper from the French and M. Fincker who prepared the illustration and produced several original figures. For technical theatrical terms I employ the nomenclature borrowed from Greek words with the meanings generally attributed to them even when they do not correspond to the Greek meanings. In this regard see Moretti – Mauduit, forthcoming.

1 2

3

4 5 6

Csapo 2007; Moretti 2011, 121–153. Stone is mostly present in the retaining walls of terraces constructed for stage-buildings. But see, for Athens, the chapter in this volume by C. Papastamati-von Moock, and Slater 2011. Le Guen 1995; Le Guen 2010. Moretti 2010. McDonald 1943, 37–66; Kolb 1981, 88–99; Valavanis 2011, 6.

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those attested for other kinds of monuments in the fourth century, even if the theatre borrows part of its ornamentation from religious architecture, just as civic architecture had done before it. These formal innovations develop apace with an unprecedented spread of theatre architecture which I shall attempt to describe before analysing the types of monuments that were brought into being at that time and before trying to determine their functions and origins.

I. The Spread of Theatre Architecture in the Fourth Century Few theatres have left traces of stone construction in the fifth century. In Attica they include: the theatre in Athens, Thorikos, possibly Euonymon and Acharnae, and Icarion where it would be necessary to excavate the construction debris to be sure of the date. No identifiable trace remains of the Classical phase of the Piraeus theatre at Munichia, though its existence in the late fifth century is attested by several authors7. Outside Attica, the only theatre in the Greek peninsula that can be firmly dated to the fifth century is that of Argos, which, like Thorikos, was built in the middle of the century. Doubt has been cast on Richard Stillwell’s date of around 415 for the first phase of the theatre at Corinth8. The dates of the rock-cut seats at Chaeronea and Stymphalus are very insecure9, and the first phase of the theatre at Eretria proves later than had long been supposed10. Outside the peninsula, the list is beyond small: there is nothing on the islands11, except probably at Hephaestia on Lemnos12; nothing in Asia Minor13; nothing in the Greek colonies of the Eastern Mediterranean and the Black Sea. In South Italy and Magna Graecia, the only certainty is Metapontum, where a rectangular orchestra and circular auditorium in the mid sixth century succeeded rectilinear stands of seating14. It may not have been designed for popular assemblies, as Dieter Mertens at first supposed. Its shape is better suited to the movements of choruses or combat sports. At Catana, Carlo Anti’s ascription of remains to a fifth-century theatre remains hypothetical15. At Tarentum, no vestige of a Classical theatre has been identified16. At Syracuse, the location of the Classical theatre, attested by several texts17, remains an object of controversy. Some thought to recognise remains of the Classical theatre inside the large theatre that is no earlier than the third century18; others hoped to recognise the remains of the Classical theatre in the rectilinear seats cut into the rock that look old but are not dated19.

7

8

9 10

11

Ael. VH 2, 13; Th. 8, 93, 1. All the texts that mention the monument are collected by Bressan 2009, 253. Stillwell 1952, 131. See the reservations expressed by Gebhard 1973, 16f. and the further discussion by Sturgeon 2004, 4. Bressan’s phases I and II (2009, 158–160) are very hypothetical. Frederiksen 2002, 67. The date has recently been resolved by the excavations of H. P. Isler who places it in the last third of the fourth century (Isler 2007, 52. 69f.). The most recent excavations conducted in the theatre of Thasos have produced no certain proof of the existence of a Classical building in stone: Bonias – Marc 1996, 805.

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14

15

16 17 18 19

Archontidou et al. 2004, 45–65. Trunk 1994 and 1996 sought to demonstrate the existence of a building with rectilinear seating at Neandria, which would have been abandoned at the end of the fourth century. The remains are so sparse that the identity of the monument appears doubtful. Mertens 1982, 16–34; Mertens 2006, 161f. 334–337. Anti 1947, 125–128; Mitens 1988, 101; Tosi 2003, 595. Mitens 1988, 148; Tosi 2003, 221f. Polacco – Anti 1981, 41–43. Polacco – Anti 1981, 157–189. Moretti 1993, 83–86; Tosi 2003, 618f.

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I freely admit that this list could be challenged on certain points20, as can the list I will give of fourth-century theatres21. We can hope that both will be corrected, if not completed, by the future progress of archaeological research. But the general picture is unlikely to be radically different. Theatres with stone fixtures of any sort are rare in the fifth century and the geography of theatre architecture at this date is far from coextensive with that of musical and dramatic spectacles22. The spread of these spectacles was certainly more important than the spread of the architecture. The activity came first in this field. There is a noticeable change on the theatre map in the fourth century (fig. 3.1). Buildings spread through the Attic demes and the Athenian theatre is completely reconstructed23. In the Peloponnese construction begins on many theatres, at the sanctuary of Poseidon at Isthmia24 from the beginning of the fourth century, and in many other cities during the second half of the century: at Corinth25, Sicyon26, Phlious27, Mantinea28, at the Asclepieion in Epidaurus29 and possibly in the city as well30, at Megalopolis31, Elis32, Leontion33, Tegea34, and possibly also in Arcadia at Orchomenus35 and Phigalia where a theatre is attested by Diodorus (15, 40, 2) by 375/4. Central and Northern Greece are less densely provided. Plutarch places the prosecution of Epaminondas by his fellow citizens in the theatre of Thebes36. The first phase of the theatre at Thebes in Phthiotis should date from the middle of the fourth century.37 Two theatres are attested for Thessaly in the first third of the fourth century, as well as by texts of the second century A. D., and Pausanias 6, 5, 2 mentions a theatre that would have existed in Skotoussa at the moment of its destruction, probably in 36738. Plutarch (Pel. 29, 9–10) and Aelian (VH 14, 40) portray Alexander, the tyrant of Pherae, leaving the theatre during a production of Euripides’ Trojan Women or Aerope (?) so that his fellow citizens would not see him crying39. The first phase 20

21

22 23

For example I have not included the theatre of Goumani in Epirus (Gitane) which has not been excavated, but which Baçe 2005, 367–369, proposes to date to the fifth century because it has rectilinear seating. Cf. Frederiksen 2000; Csapo 2004a, 56 n. 13. The task is rendered all the more difficult as the dating of many theatres is to the end of the fourth century or the beginning of the third. This is the case for the second phase of the theatre at Corinth or the first phase of the theatre at Maroneia, and we know for certain that the theatre at Delos was under construction from the end of the fourth to the middle of the third century. Csapo 2004a. See in this volume the contributions of C. Papastamati-von Moock and H. R. Goette. For the buildings that are the focus of this chapter, I give only the most important bibliography and only at first mention. They can be easily complemented by the recent catalogues of ancient theatres (TRG 1994; Bosnakis – Gangtsis 1996; Sear 2006; Bressan 2009), the bibliographic surveys (Green 1989; Green 1995b; Green 2008; Isler 1996; Moretti 1991; Moretti 1992b; Moretti 1993); my reviews published between 1992 and 2008 in Bulletin analytique

24 25

26 27

28 29

30

31

32

33 34 35 36 37 38

39

d’architecture grecques of RA and the internet site http://www.theatrum.de. Gebhard 1973. Stillwell 1952; Williams – Zervos 1989; Sturgeon 2004, 4. Fiechter 1931a. Biers 1971, 436–447; Biers 1973, 111–120; Biers 1975. Fougères 1898, 165–174. Von Gerkan – Müller-Wiener 1961; Käppel 1989; Gogos 1998; Georgousopoulos – Gogos 2002, 17–95. Deïlaki 1972; Lambrinoudakis – Kazolias 2006. Fiechter 1931b; Portelanos – Cambourelis 1993; Karapanayotou 2001; Lauter – LauterBufe 2004. Pochmarski 1984; Mitsopoulos-Leon 1991; Glaser 2001. Daux 1959, 620. Vallois 1926a. Plassart – Blum 1914, 79f. Plu. Moralia 799 e-f. Adrymi-Sismani 1997; Adrymi-Sismani 1998. Diodorus’ date of 367 for the destruction of Skotoussa (15, 75, 1) seems more trustworthy than Pausanias’ date, 371. Doulgeri-Intzesiloglou 2011.

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Fig. 3.1. Location map of theatres constructed, or reconstructed, in the fourth century outside Attica. In non-italics: building whose remains are preserved. In italics: buildings attested in the fourth century only by texts.

of the theatre which is currently being excavated at Kalydon appears to date from the fourth century40. The theatre associated with the palace at Aegae41, the theatre of Thasos42 and the theatre of Philippi43 have been dated from the middle or the second half of the fourth century and a theatre must have existed at Dion in the last quarter of the century, the date of a decree that grants prohedria  G« :  «44. Plutarch mentions a debate between Alexander and an architect about the materials to use for the proskenion at Pella45. The first phase of the theatres of Ambracia46, of Stratos in Acarnania47 and of Maroneia48 could be as early as the end of the century. In Euboea, a theatre was built at Eretria 40

41

42

43

I thank R. Frederiksen for sending me information about this building. Drougou 1992; Drougou 1997; Drougou 1999; Drougou 2000. Bonias – Marc 1996; Granjean – Salviat 2000, 105–108; Marc 2012, 13. Collart 1928, 74–81; Collart 1937, 175–177; Samiou – Athanasiadis, 1987; Karadedos – Koukouli-Chrysanthaki 1993; KoukouliChrysanthaki – Karadedos 1999; Karadedos – Koukouli-Chrysanthaki 2001a; Karadedos – Koukouli-Chrysanthaki 2001b; Bonias 2006.

44

45

46

47 48

SEG 46, 739. See also below at n. 136 for the evidence for the competitions celebrated in honour of Zeus and the Muses, and E. Moloney, this volume. Plu. Moralia 1096b. On this text see below, at n. 139. Andreou 1983; Andreou 1984; Tsouvara-Souli 1992, 39–42. Schwandner 2006, 536f. Pentazos 1990; Lavas – Karadedos 1990.

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in the last third of the fourth century49. There is probably no theatre in the Cyclades earlier than that of Delos which was under construction from the end of the fourth century to the middle of the third50. Diodorus (19, 45, 5) attests the existence of a theatre at Rhodes in 316. In Asia Minor a stone theatre was constructed at Cyme in the middle of the fourth century51 and another was under construction at Troy at the end of the fourth century to house the musical contests of the Panathenaea organised by the koinon of Athena Ilias (Theatre A)52. Textual evidence indicates other buildings in this region, but there are no material remains. This is the case with the theatre of Ephesus, which is mentioned in an honorary inscription of the last third of the fourth century53; and with a theatre at Priene mentioned in an inscription of about 33054. Two theatres are textually attested in the Pontic region. At Olbia an honorary decree of about 325 specifies that the crown is to be proclaimed at the Dionysia in the theatre55. Diogenes Laertius (5, 91) mentions a theatre at Heraclea in Pontus where Heraclides was said to be crowned. In Cyprus a theatre was constructed at Paphos around 30056. One of the theatres of Cyrene57 and the first phase of the theatre at Babylon58 appear to be possibly as early as the end of the fourth century. In South Italy theatres were constructed at Locri59 and at Metapontum60 in the second half of the fourth century and possibly also at Rhegium61 and at Velia62. In Sicily, too, there was construction in the second half or rather at the end of the century at Catana63, at Heraclea Minoa64, at Iaitas65, at Morgantina66 and possibly at Helorus67. Two theatres are attested for the island by literary texts: one at Selinus by Callimachus68, and another at Agyrion by Diodorus69. In the second half of the fourth century we not only witness the inclusion of theatres in the corpus of monumental stone architecture of Greece, but also the first moments of its spread throughout the Greek world. Attica, the Peloponnese and Sicily are the areas most densely affected. The Cyclades and Asia Minor remain marginal to this development that grows more pronounced in the third and second centuries. It is only then that the theatre, along with the gymnasium, truly enters into the architectural koine of the Greek cities.

49 50 51 52 53 54

55

56

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Fiechter 1937; Isler 2007. Fraisse – Moretti 2007. Lagona 2006, 18. Frisch 1975, 1; Rose 1991. I Ephesos 1452, 33 (323–301). I Priene 4, 32. 54. The building that is now visible seems no earlier than the beginning of the third century. Among the theatres of Asia Minor I do not include that of Halicarnassus for which Ü. Serdaroglu ˘ has proposed a fourth century date for the first phase. SEG 32, 794, 16. On the theatre at Olbia, see Wasowicz 1975, 95f. and Dana 2011a, 57, who also allow the existence of theatres at Chersonesus and at Panticapaeum in the second half of the fourth century. Barker – Stennett 2004; Green 2007; Green et al. forthcoming. Chamoux 1998. Michel 2011; Potts 2011. Plutarch (Alex. 67, 8) makes mention of a choral competition that

59

60

61 62 63 64

65 66

67 68 69

Alexander attended in a – probably temporary – theatre located in the royal palace of Gedrosia, now in Pakistan. See Le Guen this volume. Mitens 1988, 136–139; Courtois 1989, 39–41; Parra 1998; Tosi 2003, 239f. Mertens 1982; Mitens 1988, 140–144; Courtois 1989, 42f. Mitens 1988, 145–147; Tosi 2003, 248. Steskal 2002; Kritzinger 2003. Branciforti 2010, 191–196. Mitens 1988, 92–95; Courtois 1989, 50; Tosi 2003, 603–605. Isler 1981; Courtois 1989, 35f.; Isler 2000. Mitens 1988, 105–108; Tosi 2003, 609f.; Sposito 2011. Tosi 2003, 602f. Call. Iamb. 11, fr. 200b (Pfeiffer). D. S. 16, 83, 3. See Mitens 1988, 83; Tosi 2003, 593.

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II. The Evolution of Materials and Forms The main contours in the evolution of theatrical forms in the fourth century are already known70. Gradually, though never completely, the monuments abandon their dependence on temporary materials. In some buildings stone is used wherever possible and its use coincides with the first appearance in theatre architecture of the orders and of mouldings. Curved auditoria take the place of rectilinear. Consequently the orchestra no longer has a rectangular or trapezoidal shape but is rectilinear at the edge of the stage-building and curvilinear where it meets the auditorium or at least in the central section of the auditorium. A two-storey stage-building with a proskenion in addition to a skene replaces the simple skene with flat roof whose existence we are led to infer from our reading of drama written for the fifth-century Athenian Dionysia. Before detailing this evolution, I would like to emphasise that it is not uniform and that the appearance of these new forms does not antedate the middle of the fourth century. The theatre in the sanctuary of Poseidon at Isthmia (fig. 3.2a), built around 400, shared the characteristics of fifth-century theatres71. Its orchestra, bordered by a drain, was trapezoidal. The stage-building backed onto a natural elevation that overhangs the orchestra towards the North. It was accessed by an axial corridor that crossed this elevation and opened onto an area that must have been occupied by the stage-building of which there remains a pebble surface of no more that a metre in width. E. Gebhard restores it with a proskenion, although there remains no trace of a colonnade on the edge of the orchestra, and no trace of the skene, which, she claims, was built on top of it. I think a single-storey building on the edge of the orchestra more likely for this period72. The roof was accessed by a stairway associated with the north end of the corridor. No single theatrical type became dominant throughout Greece in the fourth century. Some features of the fifth-century theatre survived into and even beyond the fourth. At Stratos in Acarnania73, a proskenion stage-building was not used before the third century, and at Athens74 and Babylonia75, not before the second. At Tegea a theatre with a rectilinear auditorium was built in the second half of the fourth century. In the third quarter of the fourth century the Morgantina theatre would also, according to H. Allen, have had a rectilinear auditorium, a trapezoidal orchestra and a temporary wooden stage building76. At Kalydon recent excavations uncovered a theatre that combined in the Hellenistic period a proskenion building with a koilon composed of three sections of rectilinear seats (fig. 3.3; pl. 3.1), that was probably constructed in the fourth century. Many theatres in the fourth century and even in the course of the Hellenistic period continued to have recourse to wooden constructions for their seating or for their stage-buildings77. In the fourth century the theatre of Phlious was of wood. The koilon of the first theatre at Corinth78 and that of the theatre of Eretria, constructed in the last third of the fourth century, were also doubtless of wood and it was probably wooden seating that was erected to extend the koilon of 70

71 72

In this chapter I do not deal with three important questions for theatre architecture: the location of the buildings (cf. recently Ashby 1991; Kreeb 2005), their financing (Moretti 2010), and the terminology relating to the parts of the theatre (Moretti – Mauduit, forthcoming). Gebhard 1973, 9–26. Moretti 1992a, 84.

73 74 75 76

77

78

Schwandner 2006, 536f. Recently: Valavanis 2007. Potts 2011, 241. 244 (phase I 2). See most recently Sposito 2011, especially 127–129 and, for criticism of this restoration, 131 and 134. For wooden stage-buildings, see, generally, Billig 1980. Williams – Zervos 1989.

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Fig. 3.2. Isthmia, theatre of the sanctuary of Poseidon: a. Reconstructed plan c. 400. – b. Reconstructed plan towards the end of the fourth century. – c. East end of the proskenion, conjectural isometric reconstruction.

the theatre at Thorikos in the mid fourth century. The use of wooden stage-buildings is well attested in the fourth century: in the Peloponnese at Megalopolis (fig. 3.4a), where a skenotheke served to store a moveable structure; at Philippi, where the stage-building used during the second half of the fourth century and throughout the Hellenistic period was probably of wood79; at Paphos (fig. 3.6), where the theatre, built around 300, comprised a stone koilon and a wooden stage building; and, in the West, by the remains of the theatres of Locri and Heraclea Minoa (fig. 3.8), as well as by the so-called phlyax vases80. In mainland Greece wooden stage-buildings are also attested by the oft-cited passage in Laws (7, 817c) where Plato rids his ideal city of tragedians who would have attempted to erect 79

Bonias 2006, 365.

80

Hughes 1996; Bacilieri 2001.

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Fig. 3.3. Kalydon, theatre, general view of the koilon from E.

Fig. 3.4. Megalopolis, theatre: a. Reconstructed plan with the skenotheke and the Thersilion façade. – b. Cross-section of the prohedria.

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their temporary skenai in the agora and bring forth their actors with beautiful voices ( «  "5« ’ $  λ  φ(« 7 « '!«). Stone theatres of the second half of the fourth century do not differ radically from their predecessors. In broad outline the specifications remain the same. The building is hypaethral. Spectators sit on graded banks of seats facing the orchestra. The stage-building is a roofed construction bordering one side of the orchestra without being organically tied to the koilon. Stage-building and koilon are separated by wide parodoi that form the chief access to the orchestra. They are often equipped with monumental gateways.

The orchestra The transformation of the shape of the orchestra is noteworthy. From trapezoidal or rectangular and generally oblong surfaces we advance to surfaces that combine a rectangle with a portion of a circle. The proportions are thus reversed. The depth measured on the building’s axis becomes more important than the length that is perpendicular to it. The distance between the centre of the auditorium and the front of the stage-building increases, and so, consequently, does that between the spectators in the auditorium and the actors who perform in front of or on the proskenion81. I am not sure that the shape of the orchestra played much of a role in architectural planning. It is a consequence of the use of at least partially curved rows of seats and of the placement of the front of the stage-building back beyond the foremost section of the koilon. More than its shape it is the importance and centrality of its surface within the building that seem to have been essential, because the choruses – both dramatic and above all dithyrambic – remained extremely important for theatrical spectacles82. The existence of lines of stone marking circles, as at the Asclepieion of Epidaurus (fig. 3.5) and at Stratos in Acarnania, or at times flanked by rectilinear bands, as at Corinth (fig. 3.17a), and lines marked on the ground in chalk to guide the choruses83 – all show that it was possible to redefine the surface as the spectacle required. The circular choruses of the dithyramb could just as easily have evolved in rectilinear orchestras as the rectangular choruses of drama in circular orchestrai. Shape matters little provided there is enough surface and the ground is suited to dance and song. The Greeks indeed were interested in knowing what conditions enabled the surface of the orchestra to reflect the song of choruses. This is the subject of one of the problems of the Aristotelian corpus (901b 30 [11, 25]): “Why are choruses harder to hear when the orchestra is covered with straw? Is it because of the roughness when a voice hitting an unsmooth surface becomes less unified and so weaker?” (  , Ρ $) /6-  ¹ H )  , J ¹ ) λ ( ; ν   κ  )   π φ/κ $  μ« G μ Rφ« J  , —’ /;). The koilon There are many innovations in the koilon: curved seats with a complex profile; a growing number of stairways radiating from an axis in the centre of the orchestra; the appearance 81

82

On the effect of this development on dramatic staging: Green 1991b, 18–20. According to Roux 1990, the circular shape is explained by the importance of the perform-

83

ance of dithyrambic choruses, which had a circular movement. Hsch. s. v.  ; Eust. Commentarii ad Homeri Iliadem 2, 790.

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Fig. 3.5. Epidaurus, theatre: a. General reconstruction of the final phase. – b. Reconstructed plan and elevation of the final phase of the stage-building. – c. Reconstructed cross-section of the first rows of seating and the diazoma.

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of what we wrongly call diazomata, namely horizontal passageways linked to ramps or access stairways; the development of embankments and retaining walls, some of which, like the West wall of the Athenian theatre, are technically quite complex; and the development of drainage-systems for rainwater. With these innovations Greek architects met a formidable challenge: to contain landfill that could exceed a depth of ten metres and to build on a slope to construct koila large enough to contain ten-, fifteen- or sometimes even twentythousand people, well beyond capacities achieved by buildings of the fifth century. A quantitative leap of this magnitude would not have been possible without the adoption of stone seating arranged in semi-circles, at least in the middle section.

The perimeter walls With some exceptions like Mantinea and Metapontum, the koila of the fourth century are built onto natural slopes that were partly hollowed and partly evened out by the addition of landfill to create surfaces fit to support the foundations of the auditoria. To contain this fill, retaining walls have to be built, which give definition to the koila according to a pattern known since the mid-fifth century at the theatre of Thorikos, but generally ignored where the seating was mainly constructed of wood84 or carved into natural bedrock. The whole auditorium thus acquired an unprecedented unity and volume. In Greece the parodos walls generally form an obtuse angle with the auditorium. By contrast, there is a tendency to alignment at Paphos (fig. 3.6), at Thebes in Phthiotis, at Ambracia and in the West. The plan of perimeter walls is highly variable: an arc, sometimes with recesses; rectilinear sides with curvilinear upper sections; or irregular contours, as in Athens. The theatre of Metapontum (fig. 3.7) is the only one we know where an exterior wall has architectural decoration, in this case of the Doric order. It is also the only one we know to have the shape of a regular polygon85. These two features are connected.

The auditorium No theatre with a circular auditorium certainly antedates the second half of the fourth century86. After this date we know several designs: semicircular auditoria with rectilinear extensions as at Athens and, at the end of the fourth century, at the sanctuary of Poseidon at Isthmia (fig. 3.2b), at Iaitas (fig. 3.11a) or at Heraclea Minoa (fig. 3.8); horse-shoe shaped auditoria, as at Sicyon (fig. 3.16), Megalopolis (fig. 3.4) and Delos (fig. 3.10a; pl. 4); and auditoria drawn on a tricentric plan such that the wings open slightly toward the stagebuilding, as at the Asclepieion at Epidaurus (fig. 3.5a), at Aegae (fig. 3.18), or at Morgantina. A curved plan is twice as advantageous: there are no angular returns and all the spectators in the same row are equidistant from the centre of the orchestra. This is an important increase in comfort both for viewing and hearing. 84

C. Papastamati-von Moock, forthcoming b, has nonetheless shown that at Athens in the fifth-century stone retaining walls bordering the parodoi were associated with stands of wooden seating.

85

86

We find this configuration at Solous in the second century (Wiegand 1997). Gebhard 1974 remains the fundamental work on this subject.

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Fig. 3.6. Paphos: Theatre, plan of remains and reconstruction of the koilon

The adoption of a concentric semicircular plan for the auditorium is accompanied by the appearance of several new kinds of seats either constructed entirely of stone or combining a stone seat with an earthen footrest, as at Megalopolis or at Metapontum87. Most common is the kind used at Athens and then at the Asclepieion of Epidaurus (fig. 3.5c), at Sicyon, Iaitas, Heraclea Minoa and Delos. It is entirely of stone. It has a complex profile: on the façade, a cavetto moulding is surmounted by a taenia. The upper section has three distinct zones: a front surface that serves as the seat, a middle section that is recessed to serve as a footrest, and the back section on which sits the seat in the row above it. The wide diffusion of this design makes it easy to forget just how revolutionary it was compared to the fifth-century and early-fourth century seats in the form of simple steps with flat surfaces (fig. 3.9). Spectators gained considerable comfort. It was better seating because an audience member could place his feet in part underneath his seat and because he did not sit on the same surface occupied by the feet of the person directly behind him. In global terms, spectators sat closer to the orchestra than they would have when sitting on stepped seats with a free top surface of the same dimensions (fig. 3.9: p) and with the height of the rows of seats (h–b) combined with the depth of the foot-rest (b)88. The fact

87

On the different types of seating, see Dilke 1948; Dilke 1949; Dilke 1950; Frederiksen 2000, 144–147.

88

See already the fair commentary of Dörpfeld in Dörpfeld – Reich 1896, 43f.

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Fig. 3.7. Metapontum, theatre in the second half of the fourth century: a. Reconstructed plan and cross-section. – b. Elevation of a section of the reconstructed koilon perimeter wall and cross-section of an entrance stairway at the top of the koilon.

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Fig. 3.8. Heraclea Minoa: Theatre.

that these rows of seats overlapped each other also played an essential part in the preservation of the structure. They covered the interior of the koilon as tiles cover a roof, with the drain bordering the orchestra serving as gutters. For this reason drainage canals become widespread when auditoria are built in stone. The projecting lip at the back of the seats kept water from penetrating between the seats and the foot-rests facilitated drainage towards the staircases that served the function of downspouts: this would probably explain the choice at Athens or at Sicyon of steps sloping down towards their front surfaces89. In this way the foundations and the fill that supported the auditorium were protected. It also prevented the accumulation of water which would threaten to destroy the walls of the parodoi. The accommodation of a large audience also led to the development of two further innovations in the koila of the second half of the fourth century: the creation of large horizontal passageways dividing the auditorium into several sections; and the creation of access ways from the outside to the ends of these passages and to the upper part of the auditorium. The credit for demonstrating the link between these two belongs to Thanos Papathanasopoulos90. No diazoma is without access from the outside. There is no “blind diazoma”, as he puts it.

89

The slope also permitted a reduction in the height of the risers.

90

Papathanasopoulos 1986.

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Fig. 3.9. Comparison between seating of the type of the theatre at Athens from the second half of the fourth century and seating with simple profile.

In the fifth century neither Thorikos nor Argos have a diazoma and it is significant that at Thorikos the ramps giving access to the top of the koilon only appeared when it was extended in the fourth century. In the second half of the century there is a diazoma in the theatres at Athens, Mantinea, Sicyon and Morgantina. There are two at Megalopolis. At Athens and Delos access is gained by ramps linked to the retaining walls. In one case the ramps diverge from the perimeter retaining walls, and in the other they are placed against it (fig. 3.10a; pl. 4). At the Asclepieion of Epidauros (fig. 3.5a) and at Megalopolis (fig. 3.4a), the accessway installed at either end of the diazomata is combined with a reduction in the length of the rows of seats above the diazoma. This elegant solution has the advantage of avoiding the most off-centre seating in the upper section. At Sicyon the diazoma is accessed by vaulted passageways that cross the upper auditorium. The appearance of horizontal passageways interrupting the auditorium led to more thought being given to the placement of seating and stairways above the passageways. In order to avoid creating blind angles for spectators in the upper auditorium, it was everywhere decided to align the nosings of the seats above the diazoma with those below by (at least sometimes) slightly increasing the angle of the slope. Hence the creation of a wall bordering the passageway. At the sanctuary of Asclepius in Epidaurus, these walls were crossed by steep radiating stairways. The same solution, with stairways bordering

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Fig. 3.10. Delos, theatre at the beginning of the second half of the third century: a. Model showing reconstruction. – b. Reconstructed cross-section.

the passageway, was adopted at Priene in the third century. The oldest examples of a diazoma bordered with a wall that is not crossed by stairways are, probably, the theatre at Sicyon, and, certainly, that of Delos (fig. 3.10b; pl. 4), where the koilon was not completed before the middle of the third century. At Delos the first and second maenianum were divided at the level of the top of the lateral ramps that led either to the diazoma or the walkway around the perimeter. The diazoma thus no longer served merely for circulation, but also for division. This is a function which is well attested for stairways in Greek theatres and which would be regularly chosen for dividing theatres into precincts in the West during the Empire.

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From the fifth century onwards we know of reserved seats for certain priests and magistrates and the placement of more comfortable seats at the base of and separate from the continuous benchwork of the koila. In fourth-century Athens, as well as Euonymon, Rhamnus, Halimous and Icarion, thrones bordered the orchestra91. In the Peloponnese there was a preference for continuous benches with backs, stretched between two staircases. We have examples from the second half of the fourth century at Megalopolis (fig. 3.4b), Sicyon (fig. 3.16a), and Epidaurus, both in the city and in the Asclepieion (fig. 3.5c). In the finished state of the latter building, benches with backs bordered not only the orchestra, but also the rows above and below the diazoma. The architect thought to use the back of the bench as a parapet to mark the upper limit of the first section of seating. This arrangement was partly adopted at Delos, where three rows of benchwork were constructed: at the foot of the koilon, behind the thrones erected at the periphery of the orchestra, below the diazoma and in the uppermost row (fig. 3.10b; pl. 4). In Sicily, in Heraclea Minoa and Iaitas they also made use of the same device (fig. 3.11b). At the base of the koilon of the latter theatre, three rows of seating were isolated from the others by a wide horizontal passageway92. Above two rows of standard type stood a bench with a back that marked the lower edge of the passage. The base of a statue of a recumbent lion bordered these three rows on the side of each parodos. This arrangement, unknown to the Greek East, seems to be the origin of the prohedriai of the Latin theatres in which low steps, separated from the continuous benches by a parapet, held wooden thrones.

The stage-building Did stage-buildings without a proskenion exist outside Athens? Let us now begin a discussion of the stage-building by asking if they were built in the second half of the fourth century with a single storey and projections like that completed in Athens at the time of Lycurgus93. This seems very likely for the theatre at Babylon94 and perhaps also for the theatre of Thasos95. Hans Peter Isler supposed this to be the case for the theatres of Eretria and Iaitas. He restores the first Eretrian stage-building (fig. 3.13), built in the last third of the fourth century, as a P-shaped building bordering three sides of a rectangular surface of a little more than 100 m2. Defined on the side of the orchestra by a course of poros blocks, it would have been limited to use by actors in the production of drama. Its long side probably enclosed three independent rooms, each with a door, and its sides enclosed two rooms each with double doors. The building contained no staircase. At Iaitas (fig. 3.12a), around 300, there was a comparable arrangement with a slightly elevated performance space of less than 35 m2. The long side would have enclosed one room with a single door opening onto the stage. The projections also had only one opening leading into the performance area. From their façade would have come the two maenad caryatids and the two satyr atlantes found during the excavations96. 91 92 93

For Athens, see Maass 1972. Isler 2000, 204f. For this building I use the reconstruction proposed by C. Papastamati-von Moock, this volume.

94 95 96

Potts 2011, 240f. (phase I 1). Marc 2012, 13. Ribi – Isler-Kerényi 1976, 13–48.

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Fig. 3.11. Iaitas, theatre: a. General plan. – b. Reconstruction of the prohedria and the first rows of seating.

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Fig. 3.12. Iaitas, theatre: a. Reconstructed plan of the stage-building c. 300. – b. Proposed reconstruction of the ground floor of the stage-building ca. 300.

Both buildings postdate the reconstruction of the Athenian theatre and Isler recognised a more or less direct influence of the Athenian model in some of the construction. I have elsewhere expressed doubts about the reconstruction of Iaitas97 and can only repeat them in the case of Eretria (fig. 3.13). There are two important differences between these buildings and the Athenian: at Eretria, as at Iaitas, the projections are not, on the one hand, fitted with colonnades, and, on the other, a common foundation joins their façades. At Eretria the foundation wall is some 0.65 m deep98. That is a lot to separate a surface that was no more than about 20 cm. above orchestra level. Thus E. Fiechter, P. Auberson, K. Schefold and more recently S. Gogos have each in their turn proposed the reconstruction of a stylobate on this foundation99. The same holds true for the Iaitas theatre, though this does not justify a similar restoration for both buildings. It appears acceptable to restore at Iaitas a proskenion of a depth of about 3m between two projecting wings (fig. 3.12b), as the building on this hypothesis would be comparable to the later theatres of Segesta100, Solous101 and Tyndaris102, that all have proskenia placed between projecting wings103. The hypothesis cannot, however, be retained for Eretria because the projection of the wings extends about 5.4 m104. No proskenion of that depth is known in Greece. For a while I was seduced by the restoration S. Gogos proposed for this building105. He would have placed a pillared portico between the façade of the projections. Such stagebuildings with only one level and a façade of pillars ought also, according to S. Gogos, be restored at Athens, Eretria, Oiniadai, Dodona and Aegae106, and at Stratos in Acarnania, 97 98 99

100

101

Moretti 1993, 79f. Isler 2007, 47. Bulle 1928, 83; Fiechter 1936, 27; Auberson – Schefold 1972, 47; Gogos 1989, col. 124–139. Von Gerkan 1941a, 118 restored on this foundation a wall of a depth (0.65 m) comparable to that of the stylobate of the first proskenion at Sicyon: 0.69 m (Fiechter 1931a, 13). See the discussion by Isler 2007, 19. Moretti 1993, 81f.; D’Andria 1997a; Campagna 1997; Tosi 2009, 611f. Wiegand 1997.

102 103

104

105 106

Moretti 1993, 87f.; Tosi 2009, 632f. Cf. also the recently published restoration of the third phase of the stage-building at Morgantina, with a deep proskenion with four columns and a façade of pinakes, associated with a skene of three doors on the façade of the first storey: Sposito 2011, 137 fig. 17. Fiechter measured 5.36 m at the west and 5.38 m at the east. Moretti 1992a, 87f. Gogos 1989; Gogos 1998; Gogos 2003, 143– 150; Gogos 2005, 142–159.

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Fig. 3.13. Eretria, theatre: Reconstructed plan of the stage-building in the last third of the fourth century.

Fig. 3.14. Eretria, theatre: Proposed reconstruction of the ground floor of the stage-building in the last third of the fourth century.

Fig. 3.15. Dodona, theatre: Proposed reconstruction of the ground floor of the stage-building at the beginning of the third century.

according to E.-L. Schwandner107. To my knowledge, however, no one has found any sure trace either of pillars, or of a stylobate that would suggest pillars on the edge of the orchestra. I would be tempted rather to restore the theatre of Eretria in a way similar to that suggested by S. I. Dakaris for the first phase of the theatre of Dodona at the beginning of the third century108 (fig. 3.15; pl. 3.2). Here there was also a large rectangular space of a depth of about 6 m. between two structures. Between the façades of these two lateral structures rose the remains of four pillars, each associated with a slot of a kind that also appears against the façade of each of the two lateral structures. They permitted the installation of a 107

Schwandner 2006, 535–537.

108

Dakaris 1962, 26–28; Dakaris 1971, 59–62.

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proskenion, the presence of which is to be expected, given the distance that separates the koilon from the remains of the stone stage-building. I can envisage a similar restoration for the first phase of the theatre of Eretria (fig. 3.14).

The proskenion stage-building It is possible, therefore, that the theatres of Eretria and Iaitas had the type of stage-building that was most common from the last third of the fourth century, namely that which combines a central two-level structure and a proskenion with a terrace roof. The form spreads rapidly in the Peloponnese and is also known from the end of the fourth century in North Greece (Ambracia, Dodona, Thasos), and, if one accepts the restoration that I propose for the theatre at Iaitas, in Sicily. We have not enough evidence to know if, from this time, Sicily and South Italy adopted deeper proskenia than Greece, bordered by the façade, with three doors, of the skene’s upper storey, and flanked by projecting wings at the side109, such as we know existed in these regions in the Hellenistic period. At the end of the fourth century the theatres of Isthmia (fig. 3.2b–c) and Delos, possibly also Eretria, had wooden proskenia with rectangular pillars, at a time when many other theatres already had stone proskenia of the Ionic or Doric order. The Greeks coined the term “proskenion” (  " ) for this new form of colonnade110. It is first attested in the accounts of the theatre of Delos at the beginning of the third century111, not in the text of Antiphanes the Younger cited by Athenaeus 13, 587b (FGrHist 349 F 2a–b) and Harpocration s. v. Nannion (FGrHist 349 F 2b)112. They never used the terms “bema” (#) or “stoa” () to designate the proskenion, despite some modern scholars who speak of this construction as if of a platform or a small portico. The proskenion differs from a stoa both in shape and size: it is much smaller than public porticos and even domestic peristyles. The stone supports that make up its façade are not free standing as they are in porticos. They are joined together by wooden panels, pinakes, to make up a continuous screen. We should not therefore describe the proskenion as a small portico erected in front of the skene, but as a low, elongated structure with a façade adorned with an engaged colonnade and covered with a terrace roof located at the level of the order’s cornice. Nowhere do we have any knowledge of lighting inside this structure, which must have been very dark. When an actor emerged from this space he stood out against a black backdrop. Most often the proskenion has a rectangular plan; a height comparable to its depth, which gives it a nearly square form in section; and a normal interaxial distance close to half that dimension. In some buildings, like those of the Asclepieion of Epidaurus (fig. 3.5b) or of Sicyon (fig. 3.16), the façade has short projections at its two extremities. It is an ornamental arrangement. The habit of calling these projections “paraskenia”, the same term as

109 110

This was perhaps the case at Morgantina. It appears that the term   "  referred only to the colonnade (Fraisse – Moretti 2007, 169f.; Moretti – Mauduit, forthcoming), although modern scholars have developed the habit of using proskenion to refer to the portico with its terrace roof. It is this latter usage that I adopt in this chapter.

111 112

IG XI 2, 153, 14. Several scholars have confused this Antiphanes who probably wrote in the first century (Jones 2012) with the fourth-century poet (Bieber 1961, 115f.; Rouveret 1989, 183). On this text, see below with n. 115.

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Fig. 3.16. Sicyon, theatre: a. Plan of the orchestra and stage-building. – b. Reconstructed elevation the stage-building’s façade.

for the projections of the Athenian theatre, has led to false comparisons between very different architectural structures. Those parts of the façade that are constructed of stone are the best known. A stylobate, located at orchestra level and therefore without a krepis – another distinction between a proskenion and a portico – carries a series of a new type of support created to receive the sides of the pinakes and the fittings of these painted wooden panels. The basic principle is the same everywhere, but the formal variations are many113. At the Asclepieion of Epidaurus and at Maroneia we have pillars with flanged Ionic semicolumns on the front, and on the back vertical rabbets. It appears that Sicyon and Elis had a comparable shape of supports. At Corinth, R. Stillwell restored for the colonnade of the proskenion a shaft component with two semicolumns separated by a groove114. At Delos, the wooden pillars, rectangular in section, that were used at the end of the fourth century, were replaced at the beginning of the third by marble semicolumn pillars in which the pillar was narrower than the diameter of the column. Around the same time at Thasos, they used fluted threequarter columns with vertical rabbets for the insertion of pinakes. Whereas the Ionic order is adopted for the most part in the proskenia of the Peloponnese and at Ambracia, the Doric order is retained on the islands, at Delos and at Thasos, a colony of Paros.

113

Pickard-Cambridge 1946, 217f.; Gogos 1992, 64f.

114

Stillwell 1952, 110 (block no. 38).

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Because we only have the remains of the stone portions of the proskenia, these are the ones that have generally been studied. But the anecdote about Nannion, the prostitute with the nickname proskenion is instructive. She got the nickname because she was goodlooking when dressed and covered with jewellery, but “frightfully ugly when undressed”. The anecdote calls to mind that the essential features of the proskenion, from the perspective of visual impact, were the wooden parts that have not survived115. The colonnade and its entablature constituted nothing more than a kind of permanent infrastructure that was normally made complete with the addition of a double door in the central intercolumniation, sometimes two side doors, pinakes in the other intercolumniations, and, between the entablature and the front wall of the skene, a wooden framework supporting a floor. The floor, which could be lightly inclined towards the orchestra to facilitate drainage and perhaps also the field of vision of the people who performed there, was a permanent fixture. This was not the case with the pinakes, although they were better protected than the flooring from harsh weather. These panels held fragile and expensive paintings. The Delos inventories preserve the cost of a panel: one hundred and thirty drachmas not including the fir-wood116. For the thirteen panels of this theatre, that comes to one thousand six hundred and ninety drachmas, wood not included. Such valuable objects were not left unprotected. At Delos, as elsewhere, panels were put in storage when the theatre was not in use117, and it is for this reason that the panels were made removable118. Some scholars assume that the decoration of the pinakes was connected with the dramas that were performed. They restore three types of scenes on the pinakes of the Hellenistic proskenia, the tria scaenarum genera described by Vitruvius (De architectura 5, 6, 9): a tragic scene that shows the interior of a royal palace, a comic scene that shows private houses, and a satyric scene that shows countryside119. This appears to me unjustified for several reasons: first, because  « is not a synonym for  ; secondly because all the evidence we have for pinakes in the Greek East in the Hellenistic period seem to indicate that each stage-building had only one set of panels; and finally because seeing these panels was not a vital component in understanding the progress of the performance. The evidence from Delos is unambiguous on this point. We know that the island had thirteen pinakes at the time when the proskenion had thirteen intercolumniations, and that four of these were masked by honorary statues erected on bases placed in front of the stagebuilding (fig. 3.10c; pl. 4). As we know in addition that the artisans commissioned to paint the pinakes were not specialised artists, I conclude that the panels must have carried ornamental painting unrelated to the subject of dramas produced there120.

115

116

117

The ancient texts: Athenaeus 13, 587b (FGrHist 349 F 2a–b) and Harpocration s. v. Nannion (FGrHist 349 F 2b), see above with n. 112. Accounts of 282: IG XI 2, 158, A, 67–69. See Fraisse – Moretti 2007, 163f. In 233 the administrators of the treasury of Delian Apollo drew up an inventory of all the theatre pinakes in the Oikos of the Andrians (ID 314, B, 167; see Fraisse – Moretti 2007, 198f.). We do not know why they were there, but it was not their usual storage space. They are not registered in any other inventory of this, or any other, oikos, or of any temple. In ordi-

118

119

120

nary times, they were probably stored on the ground floor of the skene, which was kept locked. In writing this I correct what I wrote in Fraisse – Moretti 2007, 240. Their removability could serve, secondarily, to create openings for spectacles in addition to the central door. But this only affected the side panels. The others stayed in place during spectacles. There is a good deal of literature on this subject. See the discussion by Saliou 2009, 258–265. Moretti 1997; Fraisse – Moretti 2007, 163– 165.

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A diversity of skenai The plans of the skenai in Greece that are associated with such proskenia differ considerably on the ground floor. At Delos, there is only a single room; at the Asclepieion of Epidaurus (fig. 3.5b), a long room is divided into two naves and flanked by small annex rooms; at Elis there are two large rooms; at Sicyon (fig. 3.16a), eight spaces are divided in two by an axial corridor with a portico backing on to it. This diversity suggests that these internal divisions were unimportant for dramatic production, but there is one thing worth noting, if we are to understand the building’s function: nowhere has anyone found the trace of a stairway to the upper storey. On the upper storey there is a universal tendency to restore large rooms bordered on their back and sides with solid walls. The façade included large openings leading onto the terrace roof of the proskenion: three openings for moderately sized buildings and five for the most important. The term “thyromata” (6 () is sometimes mistakenly applied to these openings: the dedication inscribed on the stage-building at Oropus uses the term to refer to the doors of the parodoi121. It is always difficult to restore the fronts of these buildings because no part of an upper storey survives in its original place122 and because the ancient architects nowhere made the work of archaeologists easier by employing orders in an upper storey123. Excavations of fourth-century theatres in Greece have not yielded anything that could induce one to suppose that an upper-storey façade was comparable to that of the proskenion, with supports giving a visual rhythm to a wooden enclosure. Nowhere has any part of a pillar or column been found with the kind of vertical rabbets that are well attested for the proskenia – bad news for those who restore painted panels in the bays of the upper storey! Indeed nowhere have the destruction layers yielded any part of a rebated threshold block fitted with pivot holes or any remnant of a door casing – bad news for those who would restore axial portals like the one Armin von Gerkan posited for the first phase of the Asclepieion theatre at Epidaurus and that at Priene124!

Machines and subterranean passages It seems unlikely that these buildings made use of the theatrical machinery known from fifth-century Athens. The central door of the proskenion, rarely more than 1.5m wide, offered a pretty narrow berth for an ekkyklema that could carry several actors125. The height 121 122

123

Moretti 1997, 36f. This is the case with the stage-building of the theatre of Ephesus of the first half of the second century. The only reported exception, though not a fourth-century one, would be the theatre of Apollonia in Albania, which is also the only stage-building in the Greek peninsula known to have possessed a Doric façade in the upper storey. It is related in this respect to several buildings in Sicily and Magna Graecia. See the restoration of Angelinouni – Bäuerlein 2008 (especially 24) and the criticisms of Fiedler et al. 2011 (especially 98).

124

125

Von Gerkan – Müller-Wiener 1961, 72; von Gerkan 1921, 70. See already the criticisms of Vallois 1926, 6. The use of this kind of machine in the Hellenistic period is nonetheless attested for Delos, where the paraskenion appears to be associated with some sort of mobile equipment: IG XI 2, 199, A, 95 (see Fraisse – Moretti 2007, 181). The remains of a pivoting mechanism discovered in an intercolumniation of the proskenion of the theatre at Caunus could be interpreted in this way.

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Fig. 3.17. Corinth, theatre in the Hellenistic period: a. Plan. – b. Elevation of the stage-building’s façade. – c. Reconstructed cross-section of the stairwell and the proskenion. – d. Reconstructed cross-section of an underground passageway between the proskenion and the orchestra.

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of these stage-buildings, often restored between eight and ten meters, was too great to permit cranes with a single arm to lift an actor above the roof. In some theatres arrangements nonetheless permitted the appearance of actors at the roof level of the skene. This was the case in Corinth, where, in a corner of the building, a stairway led to an opening cut into the roof126 (fig. 3.17c). In the same building there were two subterranean passages leading from the ground floor of the proskenion out into the orchestra127 to allow actors to appear or disappear suddenly before the eyes of the public (fig. 3.17d). Two shafts excavated at either end of the proskenion of the theatre at Delos128 (fig. 3.10; pl. 4) might lead one to think that double subterranean passages preceded the axial passages of the type attested in the Hellenistic period at Eretria, Argos, Sicyon and Paphos129.

The use of performance areas In a late-fourth century Greek theatre that had a proskenion stage-building, there were two performance spaces. No ancient text describes how they were used and no drama written for a proskenion theatre has been preserved. A reconstruction of the possible use of the performance space in proskenion theatres can only be based on the architectural analysis of the theatres’ forms and access points, and a consideration of the spectacles we know to have taken place in these theatres. We must keep in mind that these spectacles were not limited to drama, but included all manner of musical competition. I know of no ancient text that could permit us to suppose that any theatres were constructed for political or judicial assemblies. Many theatres were indeed used this way, but that was not the purpose that determined their design specifications or the decision to undertake construction. The orchestra was the principal performance space. Its surface is the most important in the theatre because it is the centre of the spectators’ field of vision. All eyes are turned towards it. It is also the best location for broadcasting sound. It is here that the dithyrambic and dramatic choruses performed. This must also be the place where musicians, singers, and reciters competed in the musical competitions, all those, in other words, who are qualified as 6 . Choruses traditionally made their entrances through the parodoi. Musicians, by contrast, must have entered the orchestra by the stage-building through the double doors placed on the axis of the proskenion. This can be deduced from a passage of Athenaeus (14, 631 f) who speaks of Asopodoros of Phlious130, a probably fourth-century - 7 ) /. Whether he is inside the proskenion aulete, waiting to enter the theatre  ) or inside the ground floor of the skene, he hears, without seeing, the public applauding the performance of the aulete who played before him. A second performance space was formed by the terrace roof of the proskenion and the floor of the upper storey of the skene. Together they constituted a unit called the G. This is a secondary space from several viewpoints: from its placement at the edge of the orchestra; from its relatively small dimensions compared with that of the orchestra; and from 126

127 128

Stillwell 1952, 37f. It is probably an addition to the original plan. Stillwell 1952, 39f. Fraisse – Moretti 2007, 76f.

129

130

For subterranean passages joining the stagebuilding with the orchestra, see in general Fraisse – Moretti 2007, 256f.; Green et al. forthcoming. Stephanis 1988, no. 468.

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its restriction to the use of actors, artists that are qualified as   . In Greece and more generally in the Greek East, this theatrical plateau, partly open and partly covered, was only accessible from the sides and from outside of the building, either through ramps that originated in the parodoi, as at the Asclepieion of Epidaurus, or by a staircase affixed to the skene, as at Delos. Everyone allows that this stage was used by actors. But was that the only surface upon which they moved? It seems unlikely, because the production possibilities on this high stage are very poor in comparison with the orchestra. At this lower level, the parodoi allowed side entrances. The central doorway of the proskenion, as well as the possible additional doors on either side, all permitted frontal entrances and a distinction between several houses, according to a play’s requirements. Thanks to the back door of the stage-building, it was also possible to combine side exits and entrances with front exits and entrances. At Corinth and at Delos underground passages leading from the ground floor of the proskenion also allowed actors to appear in the orchestra. Everywhere the wooden wall of the proskenion façade, thanks to wood’s ability to transfer sound, allowed actors to make themselves heard from inside the building. The many access points to the orchestra, the structure of the proskenion façade, and the opportunity, if the orchestra was used as the principal performance space, of using the upper storey as a secondary space, all induce one to think that the two-storey stage-building was conceived for actors playing mainly at orchestra level, at least in reperformances of the classic repertory, and only secondarily on the upper storey of the stage-building131. This is the same kind of arrangement that is reconstructed for the fifth-century Athenian theatre, even after the building that was finished in the time of Lycurgus, with the orchestra as the main performance space, the skene roof as a secondary space, and the possibility of actors’ voices being heard from inside the skene. Analysed in this way, the proskenion stage building seems not to be a new form responding to new uses, but a new form adapted to old uses. This is a very familiar evolutionary pattern in architectural history where forms change more often than uses.

III. The Origin of the New Forms The transformations of the ancient theatre are more easily understood from this perspective than that which seeks to explain the change of the building’s form through a supposed change in use unattested by ancient texts. If we accept this hypothesis, we can better understand why Athens, which played a major role in fourth-century music and poetry, partly stood outside these developments. One is also led to pose in new terms the controversial question of the origin of the common transformation of all the component parts of the Greek theatre: the koilon, orchestra and stage-building. Three paths are worth exploring and each leads to one of the great zones of creativity in the architecture of this era: Athens, the Argolid or more broadly the Peloponnese, and Macedonia. Athens probably invented the semi-circular auditorium and the remarkable seat profile that we have examined. But all the inventions that we discovered in the koila of the second half of the fourth century are certainly not Athenian. The horse-shoe shaped semicircle, the use of benches with backrests, the use of ramps to access the terrace roof of the proskenion, or the reduction of the front surface of the koilon above the diazoma, all sooner appear to have been Peloponnesian innovations. 131

Moretti 1997; Moretti 2011, 175–177.

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Fig. 3.18. Aegae, theatre: plan of the remains.

The origin of the proskenion stage-building is surely to be looked for outside of Attica. There is merit in the hypothesis that the Argolid, and in particular, Epidaurus, played a decisive role in the elaboration of the proskenion stage-building. G. Roux devoted his thesis to this architecture, that develops around the great program of renovation at the Asclepieion of Epidaurus, begun around 370 with the beginning of work on the temple of Asclepius and continued with the construction of the tholos, a fountain, the theatre and various works in the sanctuary of Apollo Maleatas132. He demonstrated the inventiveness of both the planning and ornamentation. To include tiered seating, the horseshoe-shaped auditorium and the proskenion stage-building in the list of these creations is not unlikely and it would permit us to account for Pausanias’ manner of presenting the building five centuries after its construction133. He extols its harmony and attributes its conception to the same architect as the tholos – Polycletus according to him134. Whether or not one accepts this attribution, it permits one to think that even in antiquity lovers of architecture had a special regard for the building.

132 133

Roux 1961. Paus. 2, 27, 5.

134

Bousquet 1953; Käppel 1989.

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Recent re-evaluation of the place of Macedonia in the history of the Classical Greek theatre and the theatrical interests of its kings, from Archelaus to Alexander135, tempts one to ask if the origin of the modifications of both the koilon and the stage-building in the third quarter of the fourth century might not at least partially be sought in this kingdom, even though no trace of a fourth-century proskenion stage-building has yet been found in Macedonia. We do not know the program of the competitions established by Archelaus at Dion in honour of Zeus and the Muses136, but a theatre associated with the palace of Aegae has been found (fig. 3.18)137. It has a horse-shoe shaped koilon with stone seats in the first row, whose front surface is flat and top surface is recessed to serve as a foot-rest. If it is possible to recognise this as the theatre where Philip was assassinated in 336, it follows that curved seating was known in Macedonia at a time when the Athenian theatre was still under construction138 and work on the theatres of Megalopolis and the Asclepieion of Epidaurus had not yet begun. The shape of the stage-building of the theatre of Aegae is unclear; nonetheless, if we are to believe the anecdote recorded by Plutarch, Alexander not only knew the proskenion stage-building type, but he was busy having one built at Pella, doubtless before his departure for Asia in 334. Plutarch reports that “when Alexander wanted to construct the proskenion in bronze at Pella, the architect would not permit it, declaring that the material would alter the actors’ voices”139. At that date neither the proskenion of the theatre of the Asclepieion at Epidaurus had been built, nor, probably, any other in the Peloponnese. It is, in fact, striking just how often Macedonian architecture, whether palatial or funerary, employs the motif of the pillar with an engaged semicolumn and the motif of the engaged column, forms that are very basic to the façades of proskenia140. It is suggestive, moreover, that among the first Greek buildings to include an Ionic entablature with a frieze and dentillated cornice are the Philippeion at Olympia141, erected after the battle at Chaeronea, the tomb of Eurydice at Aegae142, and the proskenion of the theatre of the Asclepieion at Epidaurus as it is restored by A. von Gerkan and W. MüllerWiener143 (fig. 3.19). The comparison of these walls with engaged columns is all the more troubling as the Ionic entablature with dentillated frieze is not attested at Epidaurus before the construction of the theatre144.

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Polacco 1986 and the contributions to this volume by B. Le Guen and E. Moloney. D. S. 17, 16, 3–4; Arr. An. 1, 11, 1. See above, at n. 44. Drougou 1989; Drougou 1997; Drougou 1999; Drougou 2000. Construction was underway when the Astydamas base was erected after the poet’s victory in 340: Samara – Papastamati-von Moock 2006. Plu. Moralia 1096b: ) % #A!5   P!9  #   μ   "  $ 4 ² )« ³«  φ6 % - 7 - κ φ/". For the frequency of this motif in Macedonian architecture, see Büsing 1970; Miller 1982; Ginouvès et al. 1993, 82–219; Hoepfner 1996; Schmidt-Dounas 2005; Granjean – Kozelj – Salviat 2006, 248–251. Miller 1973; Towsend 2003.

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For this tomb, traditionally dated between 344 and 340, see the bibliography collected by Huguenot 2008, II 36 (no. 38 F). The structure of the wall located behind the throne is comparable to that of the façade of the Rhomaios Tomb illustrated on fig. 19. Von Gerkan – Müller-Wiener 1961, 57–61. The same type of entablature is found in the third quarter of the fourth century in the Hall of Choral Dancers on Samothrace and in the Lysikrates monument at Athens, in which R. F. Townsend recognises a pro-Macedonian building (Townsend 2003). We find it in the first half of the third century in Temple L (Roux 1961, 223–252; Tomlinson 1983, 93f.) and in the North Propylaeum (Roux 1961, 253–274; Tomlinson 1983, 39–47).

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Fig. 3.19. Reconstructed intercolumniation of the proskenion at Epidaurus and intercolumniation at the Rhomaios Tomb.

Can one conclude that it was in Macedonia, in the second third of the fourth century, that the broad lineaments of the tiered horseshoe-shaped theatre and the proskenion stagebuilding were conceived and that they were taken up and further developed at Athens and in the Argolid before spreading to the rest of the Greek world? I think it bold to make any such claim, even if it is not without some plausibility. What does seem to me to be highly probable is that the great morphological transformations that the Greek theatre underwent in the fourth century correspond to no change in usage. At the time when the Greeks decided to become more generally receptive to the idea of building theatres in their cities and in their sanctuaries and to build them in stone, and to design them for audiences in excess of ten thousand, or, rather, fifteen thousand, they conceived architectural forms that were different from those used when theatres were mainly built of wood and frequently temporary. The requirements did not change but the decision to make theatres stone public buildings inspired the invention of new forms that were richer and better adapted to a massive audience. By the end of the fourth century the new forms are already quite widespread in the East as in the West, but from that time the theatres of South Italy and Sicily acquire distinctive

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traits: the alignment of the walls of the parodoi, as also known at Paphos, at Thebes in Phthiotis, and at Ambracia; the development of multiple prohedriai; possibly also the adoption of proskenion stage-buildings flanked by projecting wings with sculpted ornamentation and with an upper-level skene façade with three doors. It is as if these regions had adapted a model already built to different specifications than that established by the cities of Greece and the Greek East.

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Section B: Tragedy and Comedy

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How Pots and Papyri Might Prompt a Re-Evaluation of Fourth-Century Tragedy

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How Pots and Papyri Might Prompt a Re-Evaluation of Fourth-Century Tragedy* Oliver Taplin

Although a very large number of tragedies were undoubtedly first composed and performed in the fourth century, they supply a very slim and highly fragmentary chapter in the history of Greek literature. This is generally regarded as not particularly regrettable, since there has been a general consensus, unchallenged until recently, that the tragedies, if we had them, would prove to be stilted, derivative and second-rate1. The considerations that underlie this low opinion are not hard to find. First and foremost, the judgment of Time did not see fit to preserve one single complete tragedy that dates indisputably from later than 4002. Even the fragmentary remains are pretty paltry: little more than one hundred attested scraps in total are collected in the eighty pages of volume one of Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta that cover the entire fourth century. And the fact that no plays and so few fragments survive has been generally taken to mean that they were not good enough to be worth preserving; in other words that the factors determining selection and transmission did not rate them highly enough to ensure copying. And there is, indeed, some evidence that later antiquity regarded the tragedies of the fifth century, meaning in effect the big three, as far superior and more worthy of dissemination3. This unfavourable synkrisis is closely connected with, and possibly derived from, the second important determinant of the usual picture: Aristophanes’ Frogs. The death of Euripides, followed closely by Sophocles, supplies the play’s ‘Death of Tragedy’ scenario – and indeed it may well have seemed somewhat like that at the time. In the prologue those tragedians who still survive are dismissed as second-rate, exemplars of a rapidly deteriorating art-form. When Heracles offers Iophon, Agathon and Xenocles as worthy poets, Dionysus dismisses them as left-overs and vandals (92f.) – “if they get a chorus, they take a quick piss on Tragedy, and then they are gone again”. The third negative witness is Aristotle. While we may discount the grumblings of Plato about the contemporary theatre, Aristotle does not have such obvious axes to grind. Yet he still supplies scattered disparagements, especially in Poetics, praising the ‘old’ dramatists * I am grateful to Glenn Most for the stimulus to explore this topic for a Symposium he organized at the SNS in Pisa in March 2011, and to Luca Giuliani, François Lissarrague and others there for their observations. Also to the Editors of this volume for their encouragement and suggestions. 1 Easterling 1993 was an important step in the right direction.

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3

There is actually one play, Rhesus, that is widely believed to be of later date, and I do myself firmly believe it to have been composed in the early fourth century. But the point remains that it very probably survived only because it somehow infiltrated its way into the Euripidean corpus, displacing a play of his with the same title. E.g. Heraclides Ponticus’ work On the Three Tragic Poets.

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as opposed to the o¹ ! or o¹ % or o¹  4. In other places he exemplifies negative points by citing Carcinus, Chaeremon and Sthenelus. None the less, Aristotle does also cite fourth century tragedians in positive contexts as good examples, just as he cites Sophocles and Euripides5. He does not, in other words, regard the post-golden-age playwrights as totally beneath notice; and on occasion they might even be named alongside the greats. A nice extended example of the citation of both fifth and fourth century tragedians in the same breath was first published in 1969. In the scene of Menander’s Aspis at lines 399–428 the slave Daos is breaking the news to the old skinflint Smikrenes – the false news – of his brother’s sudden death. He embarks on a protracted series of tragic quotations about the unpredictability of mortality. Some are attributed, some not; some are well-known, some not. The probable sequence of sources goes as follows: irrecoverable, Euripides (without name but “great”), Chaeremon (unnamed but “fantastically great”!), Aeschylus (named), unknown, Carcinus (named), unknown, and finally Euripides and Chaeremon, both named and noted as “not any old body” ($ - )/). So we have here a mélange of the canonical three interspersed with the more recent Carcinus and, twice, Chaeremon. A not dissimilar mixture of fifth and fourth century names is found in the third century epitaph of an actor-athlete found near the theatre at Tegea6. Of the tragic victories singled out for special mention five were in plays of Euripides, one by Archestratus (otherwise virtually unknown) and one by Chaeremon, his Achilles. Three centuries later Plutarch in his essay On the Glories of Athens shows that the reputations of some of the fourth century tragedians still rode high7. He complains that the Athenians hold anniversary celebrations for all sorts of past achievements, especially military victories, yet not for famous tragic successes by Aeschylus or Sophocles; nor, he goes on to complain, for the anniversaries of the Aerope of Carcinus or the Hector of Astydamas. This only makes sense if these were still well-known and admired plays in his day. This amounts, then, to a (brief) case against assuming too hastily that fourth century tragedy was invariably devoid of any literary or theatrical quality. It may be that not all the dramatists were as derivative and second-rate as has been generally assumed. This potential re-evaluation should be set beside all the evidence accumulated elsewhere in this volume that tragedy was big business, indeed increasingly big business, throughout the fourth century – not only at Athens, but also in Attica, and far beyond throughout the scattered Hellenic world. Huge financial and organisational resources were devoted to both tragedy and comedy; actors and dramatists were figures of high esteem and commanded high rewards; prestigious competitions, as well as theatre buildings, were continually set up, especially, but by no means exclusively, in Sicily and Magna Graecia. So is there any room for a literary reassessment of the leading fourth century tragic dramatists? There are two possible resources that may not have been as thoroughly explored as they could be. One is papyrus fragments. The majority of our many tragic frag4

Viz. “the recent ones”, “those these days”, “the rest of them”. For example at 1450a 25–26 he disparages the tragedies of the recent ones as lacking characterisation – “and there are many such playwrights” he adds; at 1450b 7–8, he contrasts the $ )G (old authors) who had characters speak “politically” with those these days who speak “rhetorically”; at 1453b 27 he cites ¹   (ancient authors)

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with clear approval; and at 1456a 27f. he complains about the post-Sophoclean treatment of the chorus in “the rest of the bunch”. For example Theodectes at 1455a 9 and 1455b 29, and Astydamas at 1453b 32. IG V2, 118 = TrGF I, DID b 11; on this see also Bing 2011, 3. Plu. Moralia 349e–f.

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ments discovered on ancient papyri are attributed, either definitely or probably, to the great golden-age trio. But that still leaves a substantial residue of unattributed ‘adespota’: no fewer than one hundred and two fragments or groups of fragments are gathered, with exemplary scholarship, by Richard Kannicht in TrGF, vol. 2, 177–309. When it comes to conjecturing what period each comes from, I have noticed a tendency for them to be allocated either to the golden fifth century or to “Alexandrian” or “post-Classical times”, in other words either before or after the fourth century. I suspect that this rests on standard assumptions about fourth century tragedy being inferior and conventional. So if a fragment seems to be of high quality it is assumed to come from the fifth century; if it is unconventional or unexpected it is taken to come from a “late” or “Alexandrian period”. But if these periodisations are open to question, then the fragments might reward a new survey in that light. The second category of underexploited evidence is vase-painting. Vases have been generally regarded either as irrelevant, or, at best, as frustratingly unusable for throwing light on fourth century tragedy. Thus, in the whole of TrGF vol. 1 only one vase is admitted8. But that volume was published in 1971, just before the flood of new south-Italian vases which emerged in the 1970s and 1980s. So far as concerns possible connections with tragedy, the most numerous and important of these are the big ‘Apulian’ funerary volutekraters painted with mythological scenes and dating to the third quarter of the fourth century, the period of the Darius Painter. Building on the fundamental work of A. D. Trendall, I have tried to show in my Pots & Plays that quite a number of these vases have interesting connections with tragedy. It remains open to discussion what kind of connection each has; also how far these may be with texts, or reports of texts, or with performances – but connections, and not simple or trivial. Granted that some of these vases are related to tragedy, the big question then arises: since we know so little about the fourth century plays, is there any way of telling which might be connected with one of them rather than an earlier tragedy? It is true that the majority are to be related with fifth century ‘classics’, especially by Euripides, but I shall try now to make the case for referring at least a few vases to plays from the period closer to that of the painters and their viewers. And in the last part of this chapter I shall suggest – speculatively, as is inevitable – that two of the recently-published vases may be both linked with papyrus fragments, and referred to known fourth century tragedies. The firmest way in is to point to some vases which can be plausibly related to tragedies which were pretty clearly based on the same myth as a fifth century classic, but which told the story in a significantly different way. The later tragedy was responding, that is to say, to the famous ‘canonical’ version by being both similar to it and different from it. The clearest examples are later variants on Euripides’ Medea. We have testimonies of at least seven other tragic playwrights composing Medeas (and there were Medea-comedies as well). Diodorus (4, 56, 1) actually says that it was because of the sensationalism of the tragedians that the variants of the Medea myths were so many and inconsistent. First and best-known is the monumental volute-krater by the Underworld Painter, excavated in 1813, and acquired by Ludwig of Bavaria for his new Museum in Munich (fig. 4.1; pl. 6.1)9. It has clear signals of connections with tragedy, and it even used to be 8

This is in connection with Chaeremon’s Achilles (Thersitoktonos): TrGF 71 F 1c. Ironically I have some hesitations about this, discussed in the afternote, below.

9

Munich, Staatliche Antikensammlungen inv. no. 3296. Discussion, bibliography etc. in Taplin 2007, 255–257 cat. no. 102.

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Fig. 4.1. Munich, Staatliche Antikensammlungen und Glyptothek inv. 3296: Apulian red-figure volute-krater (c. 320) reflecting a post-Euripidean Medea in which one of her sons escapes.

claimed that the play in question was Euripides’ Medea itself. That is clearly mistaken, but at the same time there are indications of interaction with that notorious masterpiece. The princess is being eaten away by a magic crown of fire, for example; her doomed father approaches her in her death-throes; Medea’s escape-chariot is drawn by dragons; and on the other side of it Jason is unable to get his hands on her10. Alongside these links, however, there are important differences from the Euripidean model – not least the ghost of her father Aetes. And there is one departure that I would particularly emphasise: while there are two sons, as in Euripides, Medea at the bottom left is slaughtering one of them on an altar, while behind her the other is being rescued and hurried away by an anonymous young servant. Twice in Diodorus’ collection of variants on the Medea myth we have references to a son who escapes11. We cannot say whose Medea is reflected in the Munich painting, but it is surely very likely that it was a fourth century version. The same goes for an amphora by the Darius Painter in Naples (fig. 4.2; pl. 8.1), which also, though differently, follows Euripides and 10

The dragons are not actually in Euripides’ text as we have it, but they are in the earliest pictures, ca. 400 – see Taplin 2007, 117–123; Hart 2010, 72–74. On those vases Jason is similarly powerless, but positioned below Medea and her chariot.

11

These are at D. S. 4, 54, 7, where the son who escapes is one of many; and at D. S. 55, 2 where the escapee is named as Thessalos.

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Fig. 4.2. Naples, Museo Archeologico Nazionale inv. 81954: Apulian red-figure amphora (c. 340–330) reflecting a post-Euripidean Medea in which she barely escapes pursuit.

simultaneously diverges from him12. Here Medea’s dragon-drawn chariot is on the ground, not flying, and Jason is in hot pursuit on horseback. I have suggested that in this play, as presumably recounted by a messenger, Medea threw the body of one or both her sons out of her chariot in order to delay her pursuers. Again we cannot say whose version this is. We do, however, know something about yet another fourth century post-Euripidean version, that by Carcinus. This will occupy the last part of this chapter. It may be worth trying out a couple of more tenuous applications of the same method, namely finding evidence on vases of ‘post-canonical’ versions of tragic myths. One candidate is a variant on what was without doubt another of Euripides’ most famous tragedies, Telephus. We have substantial papyrus and book fragments, and several vases that may be plausibly associated with Euripides’ play, which seems to have eclipsed other earlier tragic versions. We also know of at least two post-Euripidean followers13. This encourages me to speculate that a large, rather late volute-krater (fig. 4.3) by the White Sakkos Painter might relate to one14. This shows a young prisoner being brought before the wounded Telephus, a scene that does not tally with anything we know of in Euripides’ play. If, however, the prisoner is to be identified as Achilles, as may be indicated by the emphasis on his lance, then that might suggest a ‘revisionist’ portrayal of the great warrior as humbled before the wounded Telephus, since we do know that Euripides introduced Achilles as a character, and that he had him refuse to help the barbarian. This play may, then, have given Telephus a kind of redress. A calyx-krater (fig. 4.4; pl. 7) in Basel, painted by the Darius Painter in about the 330’s offers what may be an even longer shot15. It tells a story that we know nothing of from any other source, so it is fortunate it has name-labels. In front of the young king Scythes stand Rhodope and Heracles, and behind them the little boy Hippolytus with his mother 12

13

Naples, Museo Archeologico Nazionale inv. no. 81954. Discussion, bibliography etc. in Taplin 2007, 124f. cat. no. 36. I am surprised that Guiliani and Most 2007, 203–205 regard this vase as directly drawing on Euripides (“all this corresponds very closely”). See Kannicht TrGF vol. 5 pt. 2, 686.

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Geneva, Sciclounoff coll. (first published in 1983). Discussion, bibliography etc. in Taplin 2007, 210f. cat. no. 78. Basel, Antikenmuseum und Sammlung Ludwig, inv. no. S34 (first published in 1976). Discussion, bibliography etc. in Taplin 2007, 245f. cat. no. 97.

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Fig. 4.3. Geneva, coll. Sciclounoff: Apulian red-figure volute-krater (c. 320–310) possibly reflecting a post-Euripidean Telephus.

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Fig. 4.4. Basel, Antikenmuseum und Sammlung Ludwig inv. Lu S 34: Apulian red-figure calyx-krater (c. 340–330) possibly reflecting a tragedy about the childhood of Hippolytus.

Antiope. Although we cannot be confident that this draws on a tragedy, it is partly the writing-tablet held out in Rhodope’s hand that encourages the speculation. This is an unusual prop in mythological narratives, and one of its most famous occurrences was the suicide-letter of Phaedra in Euripides’ Hippolytus. So it is just possible that this recherché tragedy was concerned with the childhood of Hippolytus, and hinged on a key letter, a kind of ‘prequel’ to the one in Euripides’ tragedy. All the vases discussed so far have been connected, if tenuously, with anonymous tragedies following, with deviations, in the footsteps of Euripides. The rest of this chapter will be devoted to two splendid vases which may, I shall argue, be associated with definite named plays and playwrights. In both cases, the play in question is a tragedy which we know was regarded as important in its time in the fourth century; furthermore, we have probable papyrus fragments from both. First the Hector of Astydamas. Astydamas was one of the leading lights of the fourth century tragic theatre; his epigram putting himself on a par with the fifth century greats, although with a sense of belatedness, made him proverbial for self-praise; he had a bronze statue set up in the Theatre of Dionysus, possibly even before the canonical three had theirs16. Hector was one of his most celebrated plays, as already seen from its citation by Plutarch (above with n. 7). It is, however surprisingly, the one and only tragedy that we know to have dramatised the story of the lead-up to Hector’s death, as told in the Iliad17.

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Testimonia collected under Astydamas II in TrGF 60 F 1 and in Kannicht et al. 1991. See also Snell 1971, 138–153; Goette 1999.

17

Perhaps Astydamas was setting out to emulate Aeschylus’ historic Achilles-trilogy?

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Fig. 4.5. Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Antikensammlungen inv. 1984.45: Apulian red-figure volute-krater (c. 320) with the departure of Hector to battle; may be related to Astydamas’ Hector. Attributed to the Underworld Painter.

The vase-painting which I would link closely with this play is a splendid volute-krater in Berlin painted by the Underworld Painter (fig. 4.5)18. I made the case for this combination – necessarily conjectural, but, I believe, pretty strong – in Taplin 2009. I shall not here reiterate the arguments, but only bring out the possible consequences for our views of the dramatic techniques and literary qualities of Astydamas’ tragedy. First, there is Hibeh Papyrus 174, which was already included in TrGF I as Astydamas 60 F 1h. The vase provides a remarkable match between the reference to “the divining seer Helenus” in line 12 (² 6« […]  « 6E«), and the figure in the top right holding a prophetic bough and observing the omen of the eagle and snake. If this fragment is indeed by Astydmas, then even more interesting than the inter-act direction of XOUOY MEFO819 18

Berlin, Staatlich Museen, Antikensammlung inv. no. 1984.45. Discussion, bibliography etc. in Taplin 2007, 252–255 cat. no. 101. The vase was excellently published by Giuliani 1988 and more fully in Giuliani 1995.

19

“Choral Song”: an indicator, in my view, that this playscript comes from the era when travelling actors interleaved their scenes with the songs of local choruses (dismissively called embolima by Aristotle).

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are the following lines (11–14), which are not in the iambic trimeters that we would conventionally expect to open a new scene: they seem to be in some sort of ionics, even possibly the variety known as ‘galliambics’, an exotic metre with Trojan associations best known from Catullus poem 63. If so, this would indicate that Astydamas was capable of bold and unconventional innovation in his dramatic and metrical technique. He would emerge as even more radical if I am right in connecting the prophetic Cassandra in the centre of the upper register of the painting with the extraordinary singing Cassandra in Oxyrhynchus Papyrus inv. 2746, which is TrGF adesp F 649 (pl. 5.1)20. The reason why this papyrus has usually been consigned to the Adespota rather than attributed to the only known tragedy about the death of Hector, that of Astydamas, is that it deviates so far from the familiar practices of fifth century tragedy, and thus does not tally with the usual stereotype of a stagnant and merely imitative period in the genre. There are undeniably some ‘unclassical’ features of verbal usage and of iambic meter here, but I do not see that there is anything so peculiar that it weighs conclusively against a date before 300, even if it does militate against one before 400. There are other features which are even more strikingly unlike anything we know from the fifth century. The most obvious is the repeated indications of C:H (“Singing”). I take these ‘stage directions’ as most likely meant to instruct that the actor of Cassandra should improvise some suitably mantic singing whenever the signal appears. These recurrent snatches of singing are not totally unlike the ultimate model in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, but would still be daringly innovative. So too is this ‘multi-voice lyric dialogue’, including the chorus as well as two actors. These are experimental and ‘post-Classical’ dramatic features, which, if they are the work of Astydamas, prompt a reassessment of what kind of playwright he was. They would show the extent to which he was prepared to go against the models of his canonical forerunners. But, as well as the innovative metrical and dramatic techniques, there is something weirdly complex and self-conscious going on in the stage-action of the fragment. Deiphobus enters at line 11, even though a few lines earlier Cassandra’s mantic vision had been seeing him in action on the battlefield. What she had seen thus turns out to have been Athena impersonating Deiphobus, as in the Iliad. I attempted to disentangle this nexus21: “So we have a highly ingenious and unpredictable alternative to the standard messengerspeech. Instead of the direct eye-witness, reporting afterwards, we have an instantaneous paranormal vision, garnished with snatches of possessed song. And the vision even includes a detail which is the result of divine trickery, and which is set right within the onstage framing. Reality impinges in a kind of double-take on the flawed ‘televisionary’ version of events which are happening elsewhere. This is clever – clever with a kind of selfconsciousness which goes beyond anything readily comparable from fifth century tragedy.” If this decoding of the fragment is right, it is extraordinarily ‘postmodern’ (almost) in its play on the elusiveness of representation. And if this can be attributed to Astydamas, it pushes the kind of sophistication that we think of as “Alexandrian” back into the mid fourth century. Secondly I want to propose a close connection between a vase-painting first published in 1984 and a papyrus first published in 2006 – a fragment which is not therefore to be 20

Some detail in Taplin 2009, 259–262, including bibliography in 259 n. 27. I should have referred there to the edition of the fragment in Kannicht et al. 1991, 254–257.

21

Taplin 2009, 260f.

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Fig. 4.6. Princeton University Art Museum inv. 1983.13: Apulian red-figure volute-krater (c. 340–330) with Medea and old paidagogos in shrine at Eleusis; may be related to Carcinus’ Medea.

found in TrGF. It will be best to look at the pot first: a volute-krater by the Darius Painter, exactly one metre in height, housed in Princeton (fig. 4.6)22. Guiliani – Most 2007 amounts to a breakthrough contribution on its interpretation, and, while there is nothing significant that I would challenge, I do have something to add. First a summary of what we have here. The scene is set at Eleusis, as would be sufficiently indicated by the cross-torches along with Demeter and Kore in the top right, even without the inscription EFEY8I8 TO IEUON (“Eleusis: the Shrine”) on the architrave23. Heracles, to be seen in the bottom right with a votive branch, approached by Iris, was evidently involved in the narrative; and the representation of Athena and Nike at the top left very probably indicate that Athens was somehow triumphant in the story. This victory is 22

Princeton University Art Museum inv. no. 1983.13. It was first published in Trendall 1984, and some characteristically perceptive observations were contributed in Schmidt 1986. Discussion, bibliography etc. in Taplin 2007, 238–240 cat. no. 94; Hart 2010, 76.

23

This sort of ‘notice’ as an indication of place, as opposed to personifications of locality, is extremely unusual.

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likely to have been in the protection of suppliants against outside threat, a strong and pious role for the city and her goddess, found several times in surviving tragedy. The big surprise in this picture is the identification of the two figures inside the shrine. On the right is a bent old man, typical of what is often known as the ‘paidagogos-figure’; it seems that his role was central rather than, as is usual, more marginal24. But, even more strange, the woman with him is identified by an inscription beneath her feet: MH:EIA. This is the first evidence ever known of a story about her set at Eleusis. The crucial point added by Giuliani – Most 2007 is that the two young people (probably both boys) who have taken refuge at the altar located beneath the shrine are to be identified as Medea’s own children. This must be right: who else could they be in a postEuripidean Medea story? In that case, they argue, we have a story here in which the children have not been killed at Corinth, neither by Medea, nor by the Corinthians, which is the most common variant, and was in fact the pre-Euripidean version. They then take the bold step of proposing that not only has Medea not killed them, but she has somehow rescued them, and has got them safely away from the dangers of Corinth to sanctuary at Eleusis. There, with the help of Heracles, she manages to save their lives; and, given his prominence, the loyal support of the old paidagogos is likely to have been crucial. If all this is right, there could hardly be a bolder departure from the authority of the Euripidean version. Euripides had made the killing of the children Medea’s defining act: the story on this vase denies her that distinction, and has her obey the genetic imperative of the protective mother. So the tragedy reflected in this vase, like the other two variants we saw earlier (above with n. 9ff. and figs. 4.1–2), but even more boldly and unpredictably, follows in the footsteps of Euripides, while at the same time departing from his authoritative version. Do we have any other trace of a tragedy that took such an anti-canonical step? Giuliani – Most 2007 say “we have no evidence about who the author is to whose play this vase seems to make reference”25. It is that blank that I hope to improve on. Trendall had, in fact, pointed out that the question of whether Medea had actually killed her children, and, if not, what she had done with them, seems to have been a prominent issue in the Medea of Carcinus26. Carcinus was another celebrated dramatist from the mid fourth century, like Astydamas – we have already encountered him in the Menander and Plutarch passages cited earlier (above with n. 7). The only direct evidence we have about his Medea is a difficult passage of Aristotle Rhetoric 1400b9 with the ancient commentary on it (= TrGF 70 F 1e). From this it seems that Medea was accused of killing the children because they could not be found anywhere, W   π M"   λ κ $κ - / (“because she had made a mistake about sending the children away”). She responded, the passage goes on, by arguing that it would not have made sense for her to have killed them, and yet not to have killed Jason. This was a mere scrappy piece of evidence, until it was given a fresh lease of life by a new tragic fragment. This is a musical papyrus acquired by the Louvre in 1891, and published by Annie Belis in 2006 (pl. 5.2)27. The relevant part for present purposes is the opening two spoken trimeters, and the following four trimeters. I set these out below in lines, although in the papyrus they are written with musical notation above and without lineation28: 24 25 26 27

The classic study of these figures is Green 1999. Giuliano – Most 2007, 215. Trendall 1984, 13f. Paris, Louvre, Antiquites égyptiennes, inv. no. E 10534: Belis 2004; importantly re-edited by West 2007. There have been further discus-

28

sions and fresh texts in Burkert 2008, and, with a full discussion of the scholia on Aristotle: Martinelli 2010. This is mainly the text of West 2007, but with some restorations removed before the discussion.

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' ’ …]6’ ³[«] φκ« G« $ $ξ «, ...] ", G5 ?« $ [«. ....] λ  %’  8 6 ..[ ] ³« $ [ ?« R  $κ G[« …] $[]     .... /  φ-< >.

By far the most likely interpretation is that in the first two lines someone, probably Jason, says “If, as you say, you have not killed the children, then display those that you have not killed [so you allege]”. Then in lines 3–6 Medea replies, with an oath by something Skythian, “I did not kill the children that I myself bore, but I have sent them away …” – if West’s restoration G[«, '« ’ $] in line 5 is right, then “away to safe sanctuary”. Then in line 6, Medea’s last before a change of speaker, we have    .... /  φ-< >, “entrusting them to a (or their) nurse”. The traces of the wording before  φ- are hard to make out: the first letter is , then traces of three letters, then probably , then what might be , and finally /. Assuming the word was an epithet, as is plausible, West suggested   -< > (“aged”). This would, however, amount to an emendation since it does not fit with the traces of the two letters before the /29. It is worth registering, however, that the /, if it is the ending of an epithet, might point to a male trophos rather than female. The word is nearly always used of female nurses, but there are a couple of male instances in Euripides30. When West wrote “  -  φ- suggests itself”, he was unaware that an old male nurse perfectly fits the figure in the shrine on the Princeton vase31. On the contrary, he says that the new fragment “really adds nothing to what could have been inferred before” concerning Carcinus’ play. But if it is once considered as belonging to the same play as the vase, then together they most certainly would do so. It has been universally assumed that in Carcinus’ play the children were sent away to the traditional refuge of Hera Akraia at Corinth, but it transpires that they were sent to Eleusis. And the vase shows that the trophos of the papyrus was indeed an important character in his own right. I suggest, then, that Carcinus’ Medea provides a chain of links between the Aristotle Rhetoric passage, the new musical papyrus and the Princeton vase. It is at the very least worth asking what this conjecture might suggest about Carcinus’ tragedy, and how this might, if justified, throw new light on the practices of fourth century tragedy. First, there is the way that the papyrus sets the iambic trimeters of Medea accompanied by the musical annotations of song, both for the four lines we have been looking at, and again for the last four lines of the fragment. Could this be the original Carcinus? West is emphatic that this musical scoring reflects much later practice, and cannot possibly go back to him: “Caricinus wrote it all as spoken dialogue. If he had wanted Medea to sing, he would have composed lyrics for her”32. I hesitate to take issue with the acknowledged world-expert on ancient Greek music, yet I cannot help wondering whether it is so unthinkable for a fourth century tragedian to have set some iambic trimeters for singing33. As 29

I am grateful to Dr Martinelli for showing me a good photo of the papyrus; plate 5. 2 in this volume now provides the best photo yet to be published. She reports that Franco Ferrari suggested the restoration « R5/ for the missing syllables. This would produce a rather strange

30 31 32

word-order, but, in favour of it, see the postscript (n. 41) at the end of this chapter. Heracles 45, Electra 409 (unemended). West 2007, 3. West 2007, 7f.

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a feature of dramatic technique this might have produced a rather effective tension; while the stichic iambic meter would have ingrained associations with argumentative reasoning, the music, in a kind of counterpoint with that, would convey fierce emotional turmoil. So this might have exploited the conventional generic expectations by creating a disturbing ‘contamination’ of the usual modes of expression and their associations. There is another, quite different, matter of dramatic technique suggested by combining the vase with the papyrus into the same tragedy. The dispute in the papyrus about the whereabouts of the children seems very likely to have taken place at Corinth, while the tragic scenes reflected on the vase were set at Eleusis, as is indeed emphasized by the inscription of locality. While a setting of the papyrus dispute at Eleusis, or inclusion of the narrative of the vase in a messenger-speech delivered at Corinth, are neither of them impossible, they both seem to be pretty far-fetched evasions of the evidence. Is there any way of escaping from this division of scene-settings, which seems to militate against allocating the papyrus and the vase to the same tragedy? I suggest that a possible solution would be if Carcinus’ Medea was a two-part tragedy, with the first part set at Corinth, and the second at Eleusis. This would mean that Medea travelled between the two locations at some juncture in the middle of the play. This kind of dramatic technique, involving a change of scene and a lapse of time, is extremely unusual in known fifth century tragedy – in fact Eumenides provides the only surviving example34. Assuming that the identity of the chorus was the same throughout, this reconstruction would seem at first sight to call for a travelling chorus also. It is possible, however, that the changing nature of the choral presence in the fourth century has a bearing. If it was, as I suspect, the case that local choruses would combine with travelling actors, supplying songs that were not necessarily specific to the tragic plot in question (the so-called embolima), then there would consequentially be a diminished temporal and local continuity of identity for choruses as time went by35. The fifth century expectation which normally required a chorus to stay fixed in place and time would become more relaxed. What is called for, either way, is some unconventional and ‘post-classical’ technique on the part of Carcinus. And this challenges the usual assumption that fourth century tragedy slavishly followed the conventions of the great fifth century masters. It also suggests that the relative reduction in the literary integration of the chorus, so deplored by Aristotle, brought some advantages with it by allowing the tragedians more flexibility in their local and temporal frameworks. In other words the changing performance-contexts went hand-in-hand with changing dramatic forms. To conclude: I am not trying to claim that fourth century tragedies would, if we had them, bear favourable comparison with the surviving fifth century greats. They are unlikely to have matched them in thematic depth and complexity, in poetic subtlety, in power and humanity. But I am suggesting that at least some of them might have struck us as considerably more interesting and surprising and exciting than has been usually supposed. And that is in33

Bing 2011, 5 with n. 18 brings to bear epigraphic evidence that this practice is attested at least as far back as the early second century, and anecdotal evidence for the early third. Edith Hall points out (in correspondence) that the manuscripts at Aristophanes’ Clouds 1371, before the usual emendation, have Strepsiades complain about how his subversive son sang a rhesis from Euripides.

34

35

See Taplin 1977, 375–378; also 416–418 for Aeschylus’ Aitnaiai, which seems to have employed a travelling chorus that moved between several locations during the course of the play. I have developed an exploratory model for the combination of travelling actors with local ‘home-grown’ choruses in Taplin 2012, esp. 240f.

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deed just what I would say of our Rhesus. Much of this chapter, especially the second half, has inevitably been largely conjectural, given the nature of the evidence, but I hope that I have at least planted my main point: that we should think again about indiscriminately disparaging the literature of the fourth century by comparison with the fifth century. Likewise, while we are at it, we should re-evaluate the artistic qualities of fourth century vase-painting.

Afternote on the Thersitas vase and Chaeremon There is one fourth-century tragedy for which too much may have been claimed rather than too little, the Achilleus Thersitoktonos (“slayer of Thersites”) by Chaeremon36. The subtitle is found in only one place: Stobaeus’ citation (1, 6, 7) of the single sententious line about tyche, which is also quoted in Menander’s Aspis (see above). Since such subtitles were normally coined to distinguish between two plays with the same main title, we cannot even be sure that any other reference to an Achilleus by Chaeremon, such as the Tegea epitaph (see above with n 6) alludes to the same play. The Achilleus Thersitoktonos is the one and only play to attract a vase-painting into TrGF vol. 1 (71 F 1c). This is the huge and well-known volute-krater (more than 1.24 m. high), painted in about the 340s and attributed as “close to the Varrese Painter”, which was acquired by the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston immediately after its discovery in 1899 (fig. 4.7; pl. 6.2)37. The vase clearly tells of a different Thersites from the ugly trouble-maker in the Iliad; in this narrative, which figured in the epic Aethiopis, he was a high-born relation of Diomedes, and was murdered by Achilles for taunting him about his romantic feelings for Penthesileia. Supposing that this vase does indeed reflect the Chaeremon tragedy alluded to by the subtitle in Stobaeus, what might it suggest about fourth-century tragedy? It would indicate a complex and non-conventional plot; and we have already encountered one possible fourthcentury example of an interest in variant portrayals of Achilles (see above with n. 7). The anonymous figure labeled as AITCFO8 (“Aetolian”) suggests that there may have been some particular Aetolian colouring to the story. And the gruesome picture of Thersites’ decapitated corpse makes one wonder whether this horror might have been brought onstage. I cannot, however, suppress some nagging doubts about the genre of narrative behind this painting. It is partly a matter of the sheer number of figures and the monumental size of the vessel – suggestive perhaps of epic rather than tragedy38? There is also a particular neglected feature of linguistics, which might point to a poetic genre other than tragedy. The tragedy-related vases are remarkably consistent in their use of Attic dialect in name-inscriptions, even though that was not the dialect of any of the Greek communities in Magna Graecia39. In other words the dialect of the plays overrides the spoken dialect of the local viewers. (And tragedy may indeed have been a powerful factor in the development towards 36

37

38

On Chaeremon see Snell 1971, 158–169; Collard 2007, 31–55. Boston, MFA inv. no. 1900.03.804. Discussion, bibliography etc. in Taplin 2007, 232–234 cat. no. 91. Morelli 2001, while providing a full account of all relevant material, pushes it much further than it can sustain. The same thought arises with the two huge vessels (1.30 m) by the Darius Painter excavated

39

at Canosa in 1851, and now in Naples: one (inv. no. 81393 = H3254) shows the funeral of Patroclus with the sacrifice of Polyxena; the other (inv. no. 81947 = H3253) is the Persai-vase with Darius and his court: discussion, bibliography etc. in Taplin 2007, 235–237 cat. no. 92. There are very few exceptions apart from two proper names that occur several times with an alpha instead of eta: Orestas and Hermas.

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Fig. 4.7. Boston, MFA inv. 1900.03.804: Apulian red-figure volute-krater (c. 350–340) with Achilles and decapitated Thersites; possibly related to Chaeremon’s Achilleus.

a koine.) On this vase, however, no fewer than four of the fourteen spellings appear to be Doric40, and not one is distinctively Attic. While three of these are attached to divinities (Athana, Hermas and Poina), the most conspicuous label of all is that of \EU8ITA8 above the decapitated corpse. We can be certain beyond doubt that Chaeremon’s Achilleus (“Thersitoktonos”) was in Attic dialect. So either this vase breaks the almost unbroken convention that tragedy(and indeed comedy-) related vases observe Attic spellings, or else, despite the initial attraction, this vase does not reflect tragedy but some other kind of narrative41.

40

41

Or possibly the Aetolian form of Northwest Greek? (Thanks to Andreas Willi for advice on this.) In the discussion of the new Louvre Medea papyrus above, I was tempted to adopt the restoration of the last line of Medea’s speech to read $      -< >  φ-< >.   - does not, however, match the traces of the letters, and Ferrari’s restoration $    « R5/  φ-< > is much closer. I have also come to see that this reading is no

less supportive of my proposal that Carcinus’ Medea was divided between a first half located in Corinth (the setting of the papyrus) and a second half in Eleusis (setting of the Princeton vase-painting). For it would show that in Carcinus’ play Medea did not send her children to the local sanctuary of Hera Akraia, as has been generally supposed: on the contrary she has sent them further away, « R5/ – beyond the territory of Corinth.

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Performing Classics: The Tragic Canon in the Fourth Century and Beyond* Sebastiana Nervegna

Two playwrights, one Chair of Tragedy, the god of theatre for a judge, and a chorus of initiates to the Eleusinian mysteries to hear out the two sides: this is the core of (roughly) the second part of Aristophanes’ Frogs, with its agon between the two champions of Greek tragedy, Aeschylus and Euripides. Aristophanes sets the one against the other, with their prologues, songs and ‘weighty’ lines, but there is another poet lurking in the background, Sophocles. As soon as he reached the underworld, Euripides rushed to compete for the throne occupied by Aeschylus, but Sophocles respectfully stepped aside. He paid homage to Aeschylus by kissing him and shaking his hand, keen on entering the contest only if Euripides had the upper hand. As so often during his lifetime, Sophocles is, in the end, the ‘real’ winner1. The departing Aeschylus leaves the Chair of Tragedy to him, denying to Euripides even the runner-up prize and forcing him to make do with the third placement. Rather than having Aeschylus compete against Euripides, Aristophanes then sets both Aeschylus and Sophocles against Euripides2. By 405, when Frogs was first staged, fifth-century tragedy had already its ‘big three’, the canon of Greek tragedy. Ancient scholars discussing Greek comedy could speak of its various stages and detail their chief representatives, but Greek tragedy was to be identified all along with fifth-century tragedy and Greek tragedians with the Classical tragedians. Handed over to future generations, the canon was there to stay. Fourth-century Athens turned the three canonical tragedians into bronze statues permanently on display in the eastern parodos of the Theatre of Dionysus. It also fixed their texts into an authoritative edition preserved in the public archive3 to be read aloud to the actors by the ‘state secretary’, the grammateus. According to Pseudo-Plutarch (Moralia 841f), this initiative was * This work is part of a larger project on the reception of Classical tragedy in the Hellenistic period generously funded by the Australian Research Council. As always, I am very grateful for their financial support. I wrote this contribution at the Centre of Classical and Near Eastern Studies of Australia (CCANESA) and during a one-month stay at the Fondation Hardt in Geneva, which I thank for sponsoring my visit. I have a huge debt of gratitude to the editors of this volume and to my fellow-speakers at the conference where I first delivered this work. I greatly benefited from long and stimulating conversations with J. R. Green. I also thank my audiences at the Department of Italian Studies at the University of Sydney and Gesine Manuwald,

1

2

3

who read an entire draft of this work. This is dedicated to Carmela Nervegna, in memoriam. Sophocles is the most productive and successful Classical Greek tragedian. The Suda ( 815; S. TrGF T 2) credits him with one hundred and twenty-three plays (“or many more, according to some”) and twenty-four victories, eighteen of which at the Great Dionysia (IG II2 2325). His excellent competitive record is a leitmotif in our sources: his Life (8; S. TrGF T 1, 33f.), for instance, makes a point of repeating that, while Sophocles often came second, he never came third. Ar. Frogs 788–794. 1515–1523. See Del Corno 1985, 203. See Papastamati-von Moock, this volume.

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meant to safeguard their tragedies from actors’ interventions, for “they were not allowed to perform contrary (to these copies)”4. Contemporary orators delivering political speeches kept citing lines from fifth-century tragedy – all by Euripides and Sophocles, as far as we know – often to legitimise their own claims by appealing to their authority. Contemporary scholars focussed their attention squarely on Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides, and, at least in one case, on all three of them. Heraclides of Pontus, who was a student of both Speusippus and Aristotle, and was still alive when Aristotle died in 322, is on record for writing a work called On the Three Tragic Poets5. Canons are time-honoured, have cultural legitimacy across time and place, and belong to people’s mental furniture. They are, by definition, the product of a selection. Like all literary works, Greek tragedies also underwent a selection, or rather several of them. The earliest one took place on public stages, in the hands of troupes and theatregoers, with the actors’ repertory as its end-result. The popularity of certain plays in the repertory probably led to the demand for written copies; later on, scholarly intervention both granted their transmission over time and operated further selections, ultimately preserving for us the extant Greek tragedies6. My interest here is to consider the relationship between actors’activities and the tragic canon – that is, the tragedies composed by the canonical tragedians – starting from the fourth century and concentrating mostly on this period but also looking forward to Roman Republican stages7. The theatrical reception of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides is an important chapter in their ancient afterlife and is also, in a way, the easiest one to be reconstructed. As often, the issue is one of evidence and its survival. Our sources for the theatrical afterlife of their plays in this period are rich, if not always unproblematic. They comprise literary, epigraphic and iconographic evidence from Athens and Greece in general, the pictorial record from fourth-century South Italy and Roman tragedy. They outnumber our sources related to the other two key venues for the ancient reception of Greek drama, dinner parties and schools. This trend is unlike the one that we find later on, in the imperial period, when our information on actors and ‘old plays’, as the epigraphic record calls them, becomes more and more elusive. Festival-related inscriptions do not record the titles of the dramas produced in different categories and ancient authors citing or variously alluding to plays can seldom be credited with seeing them on public stages. Later on, it also becomes harder to establish a direct link between theatre and the iconographic tradition of Greek drama8. One of my concerns is to contribute to the ongoing debate on the value of our tragedyrelated vases from South Italy and their relationship with theatrical activities. The views expressed by Oliver Taplin and Luca Giuliani best exemplify this scholarly controversy. On the one hand, Taplin (2007, esp. 9–15. 21f.) finds many a reason for relating pictorial record and tragic performances in South Italy: at least some of our vases clearly include 4

5

Papastamati-von Moock 2007, esp. 312–324 (the tragic group in the Theatre of Dionysus in Athens). Battezzato 2003b comments on the language used by Pseudo-Plutarch, and argues that Lycurgus was the first to archive old tragedies and discusses the role of the grammateus. Scodel 2007 considers Lycurgus’ initiative as exerting state ‘ownership’ of tragedy. Wilson 1996, esp. 312–317 (reception of fifthcentury tragedy in fourth-century oratory); Podlecki 1969, 118–120. 123f. (fourth-century scholarly works dealing with tragedy).

6

7

8

Easterling 1997c, esp. 225. See also Easterling 2006, 4f. I am here excluding the reception of the satyr plays by the canonical tragedians because I think that satyr play needs a separate treatment. On our sources for the theatrical reception of Classical and early-Hellenistic Greek drama in the Roman period and the problems they pose, see Nervegna 2013, esp. ch. 3.

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theatrical features, there are archaeological remains of several theatres in South Italy and a number of actors and dramatists came from this area. On the other hand, Giuliani (1996, 73; 2001, esp. 37) uses the vases themselves to argue against their connection with theatrical production: they are not snapshots of contemporary performances and can be read independently from the viewers’ knowledge of specific plays. Since this debate has been framed along the same lines for a long time, I suggest we approach it once again from a different perspective by shifting the focus to beyond the fourth century, the period to which the pictorial record is dated, and by introducing comparanda. We do have a different body of evidence against which we can set our vases: Roman Republican tragedy. Roman Republican tragedy looks both backwards and forwards. It looks forwards because it makes up a later strand in the survival of Greek plays on public stages but, more importantly for our purposes, it looks backwards because it builds on the activities and repertory of actors performing Greek drama in South Italian venues. The father of Roman drama was a Greek, or a “half-Greek” in Suetonius’ words, Andronikos, who debuted most probably at the Ludi Romani in 240, one year after the end of the first Punic War9. No ancient source makes him a war-captive brought to Rome after the Pyrrhic War in 272 (as we often read in scholarly works), but it is generally accepted that he came from Taras, a place of key importance in the production and diffusion of our theatre-related vases, and had a connection with the gens Livia since he eventually became a Roman citizen, Lucius Livius Andronicus. By the time he started producing drama in Rome, “Livius Andronicus must have had experience of Greek and of Italic indigenous theatrical tradition”10. His contemporary Naevius, who began his career around 235, came from Campania, probably Capua11. Ennius wrote his plays one generation later. He was brought to Rome from Sardinia in 204, at the age of thirty-five, but hailed from South Italy like Livius Andronicus and Naevius. Ennius took care to record, and later sources to preserve for us, that he was born in Rudiae, a Messapian centre that is about eighty kilometres south of Taras and was under the influence of that city12. Strabo calls Rudiae a “Greek city”. Of all the authors of Latin poetry, including Virgil and Horace, Strabo mentions Ennius alone: “Ennius’ Greekness was remembered by Greeks”13. Pacuvius was Ennius’ nephew and was active through the years of Caecilius Statius and Terence. He was born in Brundisium, worked in Rome for many years and later retired in Taras, where he reportedly met the young Accius, the first native-born Roman citizen to author Latin poetry14. The background to the activities of early Roman dramatists is the same one that produced our rich pictorial record: not only do Roman tragedy and tragedy-related vases come from the same areas, but they also share the same plays. That Greek plays were 9

10

Suet. Gram. 1, 2 refers to both Livius Andronicus and Ennius as semigraeci. A number of sources, including Cicero (Brut. 72) and Varro (cited by Gell. NA 17, 21, 42f.), date Livius’ debut to 240, but Cicero also preserves an alternative chronology proposed by Accius, who claimed that Livius was captured in Taras in 209 and was therefore younger than Plautus and Naevius. Although Accius’ scenario is generally rejected, Livius’ Tarentine origins are not. For discussions of sources and scholarly literature, see Gruen 1996, 80–84, Manuwald 2011, 188f. Manuwald 2011, 189.

11

12

13

14

Gell. NA 1, 24, 2 with Marmorale 1945, 9–14. See also Manuwald 2011, 194. Ennius’ birthplace: Enn. Ann. 376 (Messapus). 377 (Nos sumus Romani qui fuimus ante Rudini). The story of Ennius brought to Rome from Sardinia by M. Porcius Cato is preserved by Cornelius Nepos (Cato 1, 4). For Ennius’ dates and biography, see most recently Manuwald 2011, 204f. Strab. 6, 3, 5 with Feeney 2005, 237. See also Engels 2005, 131. Gell. NA 13, 2; see also Cic. Brut. 229. See Feeney 2005, 237; Manuwald 2011, 209f.

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adapted into Latin bespeaks both their popularity in South Italy and their appeal to nonGreek audiences, and Roman Republican tragedy in general also helps us identify Greek tragedies most successful in theatres. Working with Roman tragedies is, for obvious reasons, a difficult and tricky task: we do not have the text of one single play and identifying their Greek original is, in the vast majority of cases, simply impossible. But we do have some reliable evidence to use and, as I hope to show, there is probably something to be learned by putting our tragedy-related vases alongside Roman Republican tragedies. Public performance was a driving force in selecting dramas and dramatists, with actors and audiences playing a key role in preserving dramas or condemning them to loss. The survival of play-texts on papyri is, in itself, a by-product of actors’ activities. Actors are the likeliest recipients of the earliest written copies and the success of certain plays in the repertory probably led to the demand for play-texts by the larger public15. Theatrical tradition, however, did not remain unaltered over time and place. The most interesting case is made up by Aeschylus’ tragedy. For all the decree honouring Aeschylus after his death by encouraging continued performances of his plays, Aeschylus did not keep a secure spot in actors’ activities after the fifth century, at least in Athens and Greece in general16. Occasional performances of Aeschylus’ tragedies in these areas cannot be ruled out, but it is perhaps significant that lack of forthcoming evidence is not an issue for the other two main tragedians, Sophocles and Euripides. Aeschylus and his plays did survive on public stages, but elsewhere, in fourth-century South Italy and, later on, in Republican Rome. To be sure, our figures are not impressive. Only a handful of Aeschylus’ tragedies made their way into the pictorial record from South Italy and, of the relatively few Roman Republican tragedies fashioned after the works of the canonical tragedians, only three of them can be more or less securely tied to Aeschylus. More interestingly perhaps, later actors replaying Aeschylus do not seem to have approached his entire production; rather, they selected his late plays or, at any rate, those closer to later tragedy. The way in which later theatre engaged with the tragic canon – the relatively low popularity of Aeschylus and the difficulty in identifying models for Roman Republican tragedies – is in itself part of the history of tragic theatre and it sheds some light on its development. These days, few people would claim that fourth-century theatre had no talented tragedians or impressive plays to boast. Despite the almost complete loss of their tragedies, dramatists such as Astydamas, Carcinus and Theodectes have all their own spot in modern scholarship on Greek drama. From the honours attributed to fourth-century dramatists to quotations of their plays by ancient authors and the warm theatrical reception of at least some of their works, the vitality and popularity of fourth-century tragedy have been mapped in all kinds of sources17. What later actors and poets did with the tragic canon in Athens, South Italy and Republican Rome can also be read as a sign of the vitality of this genre in the late Classical and Hellenistic periods. The later uses of the canon do create a discourse with what was – and remained all along – outside the canon.

15 16

See references above. On this decree and our sources, see further below.

17

For references and discussion, see Easterling 1993.

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Euripides and Sophocles on Greek stages from the fourth century onward The Great Dionysia celebrated in 386 make up a good starting point for the reception of fifth-century tragedy on fourth-century stages, since in this year, “for the first time, the tragoidoi offered in addition an old play”. In this context, Neoptolemos produced two tragedies by Euripides, an Iphigenia in 342/341 and Orestes the following year, while Nikostratos brought back onto the stage a now anonymous Euripidean play in 340/33918. These were one-off performances, staged hors concours. As a token of the prestige that these plays (and their authors) had achieved, old tragedies were now above the votes of the judges and the moods of the audience. Both Neoptolemos and Nikostratos had quite a reputation as tragoidoi, so it is all the more unfortunate that we lack the details about the plays that they performed. An anecdote makes Neoptolemos familiar with the works of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides. When asked what he found most impressive about them, Neoptolemos preferred to tragedies an episode from real history, Philip being hailed like a god only to be killed the day after (Stob. 4, 34, 70). By 412, the dramatic date of Xenophon’s Symposium, Nikostratos was already proverbial for his skill in delivering tetrametra to the sound of the aulos. A character in a comedy by Eubulus proudly claims that he “will do everything according to Nikostratos”: he does seem to be a comic messenger drawing inspiration from the best tragic news-bringer19. Whatever plays Nikostratos performed, they are unlikely to belong to early tragedy. We can debate if the herald of Aeschylus’ Persians or the messenger of his Seven Against Thebes fills the bill for delivering a ‘proper’ messenger speech – that is, a narrative element with a dramatic function given by an anonymous eye-witness – but it seems clear that messenger speeches feature in Aeschylus “least of the great three”. Always keen on diversifying his narrative, Aeschylus has “strikingly little in the way of messenger scenes”. These scenes are instead typical of Sophocles’ and, above all, Euripides’ drama, where their features became so stereotyped that comedy could target them at ease20. Messenger speeches have perhaps something to do with the “little passages in verse” (epyllia) that Aristophanes consistently associates with Euripides. Epyllia is what Aristophanes’ Euripides “collects from outside”, one of the means whereby he slims down tragedy and one of the blessings of peace, right next to thrushes and Sophocles’ songs21. The pictorial record drives the point home. The presence of a messenger, in his standard theatrical attire, is one of the markers of our tragedy-related vases22. Some messenger speeches were so impressive that they seem to have become proverbial. In Plautus’ Rudens the slave Sceparnio compares the storm that hit his master’s house with Euripides’ Alcmena. The reference here is, apparently, to the messenger’s speech in Euripides’ Alcmena, which described the storm that saved Alcmena from being burnt alive23.

18 19 20 21

IG II2 2318, 201–203; IG II2 2320, 1f. 18f. 32f. X. Smp. 6, 3; Eub. PCG F 134. Taplin 1977, 81–85. Ar. Ach. 398, Frogs 941f., Peace 532. Denniston (1927, 116) suggests that epyllia may refer to Euripides’ messenger speeches, but perhaps it is best taken as indicating speeches in a broader sense. When Trygaeus mentions Euripides’ epyllia in Peace, Hermes responds that

22

23

Peace “does not like a poet of little forensic  ./ words” ($  W / ] 9   -, 533f.), which is a reference to Euripides’ agon scenes. Green 1999 collects fifty-three examples, illustrating and discussing several of them. See also Taplin 2007, esp. 40. Plaut. Rud. 83–87; Taplin 2007, 170 with n. 13.

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At the Great Dionysia in the fourth century as elsewhere, Euripides holds the scene. A sepulchral epigram for Euripides ascribed to Adaios of Mytilene concedes that Euripides’ body was buried in Macedonia, but makes Euripides’ tomb “Bacchus’ platforms and stages shaken by the buskin”24. All kinds of sources point to later performances of Euripides’ tragedies, sometime detailing their titles. Consider various stories on fourthcentury theatregoers and poets. Alexander of Pherae, who reigned in Thessaly from 369 to 358, was famous for his cruelty, yet he could be moved to tears by tragic heroes and their stories. Plutarch has him leave the theatre during the performance of Euripides’ Trojan Women in one instance and possibly of Euripides’ Hecuba in another25. Dionysius of Syracuse did not lack literary ambitions: he reportedly produced many tragedies in Athens before winning first prize with Ransom of Hector at the Lenaea in 36726. Eager to associate himself with Euripides, he purchased from Euripides’ heirs his tablet, harp and pen, and consecrated these objects in the temple of the Muses after inscribing Euripides’ and his own name on them27. The keen interest that Alexander the Great had in Greek tragedy is written all over his biography. At the age of ten, Alexander could recite rheseis, that is tragic speeches, at the drinking bout organised by his father for the Second Embassy. Alexander could apparently quote Greek tragedy with ease and he also secured for himself an edition of the three tragedians by having his treasurer Harpalos send him “many plays of Euripides, Sophocles and Aeschylus”28. Surrounded by actors during his last banquet, Alexander reportedly recited an entire episode from Euripides’ Andromeda, a tragedy widely illustrated in South Italy by its spectacular opening scene29. Andromeda’s monody and Perseus’ response speech is what the amateur tragoidoi of Abdera keep singing when the city is smitten by a disease after the performance of the tragoidos Archelaos around 30030. This tragedy also struck a chord with a later tragedian such as Ptolemy IV Philopator, who reigned from 221 to 205 and authored an Adonis that somehow imitated Euripides’ Andromeda31. Andromeda is only one of Euripides’ tragedies that kept drawing public audiences in the fourth century as later on. Consider Orestes, Telephus, Medea, Hecuba and Hypsipyle, just to name a few. Orestes was, in the words of Aristophanes of Byzantium, “one of the most popular tragedies on the stage”, even if later performances did not satisfy literary critics32. Euripides’ Orestes, just like his Heracles and Archelaos, was part of the repertory of the now anonymous actor from Tegea in Arkadia active in the second century33. Crates, 24

25

26

27

28

AP 7, 51, 5f.:  B ) / #" λ  « #  !« (Hartung;  6!« codd.). Plu. Pel. 29, 5 (with explicit mention of Euripides’ Trojan Women); Moralia 334a–b (with reference to the pain of Hecuba and Polixena). Tz. Chiliades 5, 178; see also D. S. 15, 74, 1 (Dionysius TrGF 76 T 1, 3). Family and Life of Euripides III, 4; E. TrGF T 1 III, 83–86. Note however that Lucian (Ind. 15) has Dionysius seize Aeschylus’ wax-tablet thinking that he would write inspired works with it. For general discussion, see Hanink 2010b, 46f. Aischin. 1, 168, Plu. Alex. 8. As Brigitte Le Guen points out to me, the order in which Plutarch lists the three tragedians is significant.

29

30

31

32

33

Nikoboule 127 FGrHist F 2. The play’s opening scene was famously parodied by Aristophanes’ Thesmophoriazusae (1008–1134) in 411, one year after the tragedy’s first performance. On the pictorial record from South Italy, see below. Lucian Hist.Conscr. 1 (with Kassel 1973); see also Eun. Hist. fr. 54. See further Easterling – Miles 1999, 101f. Schol. Ar. Th. 1059. An Andromeda is attributed to Livius Andronicus, Ennius and Accius. See also below. Hyp. E. Or. II 42; schol. Or. 57. 268. 643. 1366. See Revermann 1999–2000, 463 with n. 54. Nünlist (2009, 361f.) discusses these scholia and their interpretation. SIG 1080 with Le Guen 2007a.

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who lived in the late fourth and the early third century, was allegedly driven to Cynic philosophy “after seeing in a tragedy Telephus with a little basket and utterly miserable”. What Crates saw in Telephus’ hands was the same basket that Aristophanes’ Dikaiopolis requests as a prop from Euripides. Our scholia record performances with Telephus missing his pilos; South Italian vases kept reproducing the hostage scene of Euripides’ play34. Despite his generally dismissive attitude toward the performative aspect of tragedy, Aristotle did watch dramatic performances. The details of his experience as a theatregoer are often elusive, but for Medea at least Aristotle leaves little doubt. He disapproves of the use of the mechane at the end of the play, interestingly singling out the same scene illustrated on two vases from South Italy35. Later on, Euripides’ Medea could be spoken of as a real masterpiece, too fine to be imitated36. As an actor, Aeschines performed in a few Classical tragedies. Demosthenes makes a point of noting that he ruined the opening speech of Euripides’ Hecuba, where Aeschines evidently played the ghost of Polydorus37. One of the frescoes gracing the Casa dei Dioscuri in Pompeii illustrates the encounter between Hypsipyle and Amphiaraos, both in tragic attire and set on a stage. This fresco recalls performances in Greece if not in Athens, where the early-Hellenistic archetypes of our dramatic scenes were probably displayed38. The tragoidos Leonteus of Argo performed a Hypsipyle, most likely Euripides’ Hypsipyle, before the King Juba, who reigned in the years 25-AD 23. Juba lampooned his poor performance skills in an epigram that Athenaeus drew from the work On the Stage by a certain Amarantus39. In pointed contrast with New Comedy and specifically Menander, we have very few illustrations of tragedy on mosaics and wall paintings40. Euripides’ tragedies are the best candidates for most if not all of them, but there is at least one illustration that can be reasonably linked to Sophocles’ works. A metope from the House of the Comedians in Delos is likely to reproduce the opening scene of Oedipus at Colonos, with Antigone guiding her blind father41. Both this tragedy and Oedipus the King crop up in an anecdote on the actor Polos. According to Epictetus, Socrates made him an example of versatility by claiming that Polos, being able to wear the clothes of a king and a beggar alike, “used to perform” Oedipus the King just as well as Oedipus at Colonos. Epictetus’ story may well be a fic-

34

35

D. L. 6, 87; Ar. Ach. 453. 469; schol. Ar. Ach. 439. Todisco 2003, 725; see also Taplin 2007, 205–210 who lists eight vases illustrating Euripides’ Telephus (see further below). See also Timocles, Women Celebrating the Dionysia PCG F 6, 9–11: the reference to Telephus the beggar does smack of Euripides’ play. Arist. Po. 1454a 37-b 1. Policoro, Museo Nazionale della Siritide inv. 35296 (Lucanian hydria dated to ca. 400; Taplin 2007, no. 34); Cleveland Museum of Art inv. 1991.1 (Lucanian calyx-krater dated to ca. 400; Taplin 2007, no. 35). Note also a Faliscan bell-krater from the second half of the fourth century (St Petersburg, Hermitage inv. F 2083, found at Orbetello) illustrating Medea on her chariot with the bodies of her two children. On this vase, see most recently Menadier 2002, 87 with fig. 1. On Euripides’ Medea in South Italy, see also below.

36

37 38

39

40

41

AP 7, 50 (unknown date). The many Medea tragedies that circulated in antiquity further attest to the popularity of Euripides’ play. Diodorus Siculus (4, 56, 1) knew a variety of stories about Medea, which he blamed on “tragedians’ search for the marvellous.” D. 18, 242, citing E. Hec. 1. Naples, MAN inv. 9039; MTS2 NP 9. On the archetypes of our dramatic illustrations and their display location, see Green 1994, 112. Ath. 8, 343e–f. Aristophanes’ Frogs notoriously gives Euripides a Muse who plays castanets like Euripides’ Hypsipyle (1305f.). Nervegna 2013 with Appendix Two and Appendix Three. Metope VII; MTS2 DP 1 (455). But see the doubts expressed by Csapo 2010a, 150 with n. 37.

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tional one, but the pictorial record from South Italy shows that both plays did enter the performance tradition42. Epictetus’ Socrates is not the only one to cast Polos as a Sophoclean hero. Aulus Gellius singles out his performance in Athens as the heroine of Sophocles’ Electra, picturing Polos in the key scene of this tragedy, when Electra, wrapped up in her mourning clothes, holds the urn with the ashes that she thinks belong to Orestes. This was one of the tragedies “written by noble poets” that Polos “used to act knowledgeably and earnestly” (6, 5). Other actors also kept staging Sophocles’ works. We hear from Demosthenes (19, 246) that Theodoros, like Aristodemos, “often performed Sophocles’ Antigone”. For all the references to Theodoros and his talent scattered in our sources, including Aristotle’s comments on his extraordinary vocal skills, Theodoros’ repertory largely escapes us43. Quite disappointing is Aelian’s confusing anecdote that makes Theodoros a tragic poet and puts him on the stage as Aerope, a claim variously interpreted as a reference to Carcinus’ homonymous play or corrected into Merope, the heroine of Euripides’ Cresphontes44. Consider also Plutarch’s story on Theodoros and his wife. She would deny him sex before the dramatic competition only to welcome him afterward, when successful, with a remark from Sophocles’ Electra: “Son of Agamemnon, now permission is given to you”. It would be tempting to conclude that Theodoros performed as Sophocles’ Electra, but this may or may not be the case. Machon’s Chreiai, which are dated to the third century, include a similar anecdote with the same punch line but two different characters, Demetrius the Besieger and the hetaira Mania45. Evidently, this verse from Electra took up a life of its own, like many other dramatic lines circulating already in the fifth century. Anecdotes are a debatable source of reliable information. As a record for the popularity of Greek actors, there was in circulation a huge number of stories about them, an enormous amount of gossip that clearly appealed to audiences and readers across antiquity. They entered miscellaneous works like Gellius’ Attic Nights and even made up a subject of their own. A certain Rufus reportedly collected “the different doings and sayings of tragic and comic actors”, along with those related to musical performers46. A number of stories, however, refer to plays that we can otherwise trace in actors’ activities. Sophocles’ Electra and Antigone are two good examples. A third-century epigram ascribed to Dioscurides features a conversation between a passerby and the satyr standing on Sophocles’ tomb. The female mask with shorn hair in the satyr’s hands attracts the passerby’s attention. “Which production does it belong to? ( « W   «;)” he asks. And the satyr responds: “Whether you want to say Antigone or Electra, you would not be wrong, for 42

43

Epict. Dissertationes fr. 11. A play by Sophocles was reperformed in the competition of ‘old tragedies’ staged in mid-third century Athens (Hesperia 7, 1938, 116–118, fr. B; SEG 26, 208). This record is fragmentary, but we can safely reconstruct Sophocles’ name in one line (21): he is the author of the winning tragedy. We can also read the title of the two tragedies that came second and third, Oedipus and Ixion (22 f). On the visual record from South Italy, see below. Arist. Rhet. 1404b18–24 with Halliwell 2003, 60f. In the imperial period, Pausanias could still see Theodoros’ tomb on the Sacred Way near the Cephisus (1, 37, 3).

44

45

46

Ael. VH 14, 40; 70 Carcinus II TrGF 70 F 1; see also Kannicht 2004, 479 on Euripides’ Cresphontes. Little can also be made of the inscription “Theodoros performed” recorded beneath an imposing statue of Tragedy in the sanctuary of Dionysos on Thasos. Tragedy here holds the mask of an (often identified as blind, but just) old man, a choice that Hall (2007a, 243f.) links to the play performed by Theodoros at the festival commemorated. Plu. Moralia 737b (citing S. El. 2); Machon fr. 15 Gow (Ath. 13, 579a). Duncan 2005 reconstructs the different ways in which Polos and Theodoros performed as Electra. Phot. Bibl. 103b with Easterling 2002, 333.

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both are at the top ($φ   Ν )”47. That Sophocles’ tomb was graced by a satyr muddles the details of our tradition and, needless to say, the epigram is a fictional one, but this is exactly what makes it interesting48. Dated to two centuries after Sophocles’ death, these lines suggest that Dioscurides and his contemporaries were familiar with the masks of Electra and Antigone and with these two tragedies as ‘productions’. There are other plays by Sophocles, both surviving and lost, that entered the actors’ repertory. Not only did Aeschines perform as Creon in Antigone, but he also took up the role of Oenomaus in Sophocles’ homonymous play, staged at the Rural Dionysia in Kollytos49. Ajax is another example. A scholiast tells us that Ajax falling on his sword – the tragedy’s key scene – called for “a powerful [actor] to lead the spectators up to the revelation of Ajax”, an actor such as the otherwise unknown Timotheos of Zakynthus. Timotheos was so good at acting this scene that he earned the nickname of “executioner”, the same name by which Ajax calls his sword before throwing himself on it50. However Ajax’s suicide was staged, it was so striking that the whole tragedy came to be known after it: Dicaearchus called it Ajax’s Death. Ajax’ first entrance on the stage, still mad and with a whip in his hands, must have been just as spectacular to give the play the title of Ajax Mastigophoros51. At one point in the fourth century, a certain Alkimachos seems to have competed in Rhodes with three tragedies by Sophocles along with a satyr play, Telephus52. Another actor, Andronikos, was also familiar with Sophocles’ works. In an anecdote related by Lynceus of Samos, a contemporary of Menander, Andronikos celebrated his success in a tragic competition with Epigonoi, a tragedy generally identified with Sophocles’ Epigonoi53. As we will see in more detail later on, a number of Euripides’ tragedies and several of Sophocles’ plays entered the actors’ repertory not only in Athens and in Greece in general, but also in South Italy and Rome. There are very few specific sources on the ‘old tragedies’ performed on imperial stages, but they too point to Euripides and Sophocles. Both Philostratus and, in all likelihood, Plutarch mention actors delivering lines from Euripides’ Ino in theatres54. In Euripides’ Cresphontes, Merope recognises her son right when she is trying to kill him, in a scene that made a long-lasting impact on generations of theatregoers. Aristotle mentions it to exemplify what he holds to be the best kind of anagnorisis55. Plutarch, who appears to have seen the play, recalls exactly the same scene. After quoting a line spoken by Merope as she “lifts her axe against her son himself, thinking that he is her son’s killer,” he adds: “what a stir she rouses in the theatre, bringing the audience to their feet in 47

48

49

50

51

AP 7, 37, 7–10, on which see the comments by Gow – Page, 1965.2, 253–255. According to the Life (15; S. TrGF T 1, 63–65), Sophocles was buried with his ancestors along the street leading to Decelea and his tomb was surmounted either by a siren (so also Paus. 1, 21,1) or by a bronze swallow. D. 18, 180. 242 with Hsch.  7381, who identifies Oenomaus as Sophocles’ tragedy. Schol. S. Aj. 864a; S. Aj. 815. Jouanna (2001, 22 with n. 42) points out that the ancient scholia to Ajax often refer to the spectator ($ "« and, more often, 6"«) and that they also comment on the play as a spectacle. Both titles are mentioned by the hypothesis to Ajax (10). The staging of Ajax’s suicide remains a debated issue, most recently discussed

52

53 54

55

by Scullion 1994, 89–128, who argues against a visible suicide. IGUR 223+229. These records are fragmentary and their interpretation is unclear. See Csapo – Wilson, forthcoming. Ath. 13, 584d with Radt on S. TrGF F **185. Philostr. VA 7, 5 (E. TrGF F 420); Plu. Moralia 556a (E. TrGF F **399). The line that Plutarch cite as “said by Ino” is otherwise unattested. Unlike Philostratus’ citation, it cannot be securely identified as coming from Euripides’ Ino, but this is very likely. Arist. Po. 1454a 4–6. Aristotle refers to this scene also in EN 1111a 11f.: “a person might mistake even his son for an enemy, as Merope does”.

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terror, lest she wound the young men before the old man can stop her!”56 Tatian, who was an active Christian apologist in the second century AD, fiercely attacks the Greeks and the very core of Greekness in his Speech to the Greeks. He does not leave out public shows: “What use is to me the Euripidean madman”, he writes, “announcing the matricide of Alcmaeon? He has not even the normal bearing, he gapes wide and carries a sword; he shouts aloud and is on fire; he wears an inhuman garb”. It is not clear what kind of performance Tatian is here referring to, but the implication is that his audiences and readers were familiar with Euripides’ crazy Alcmaeon, who probably figured in Alcmaeon in Psophis57. More Euripides and, uniquely to my knowledge, some Sophocles come up in a passage from Dio Chrysostom. After mentioning the troubles that befell the house of Pelops, Dio (66, 6) names some famous mythical episodes related to it and adds that “these things should not be disbelieved, for they have been written by no ordinary men, Euripides and Sophocles, and are said in the midst of the theatres (! ξ  ! « G« _  «)”. Scattered as they are, these references in literary sources help us identify the ‘old tragedies’ recorded on festival inscriptions until the second century A. D.58

Aeschylus on fourth-century Greek stages Of the three canonical tragedians, Aeschylus is the hardest to locate on fourth-century Greek stages and later stages in general. To be sure, Lycurgus’ edition did include his drama and, since this edition was meant to safeguard texts from actors’ interpolations, the underlying assumption is that Aeschylus’ tragedies were indeed common fare for contemporary and future performers59. Aeschylus’ plays were to be found in the public archive and Aeschylus himself had a prominent position in the Theatre of Dionysus. Ancient writers refer to the statues of the three tragedians as “those around Aeschylus” (o¹  λ A')), an expression that clearly stresses the centrality of Aeschylus in the statuary complex60. Hard and fast evidence for contemporary (and later) performances of Aeschylus in Athens and Greece in general is, however, hard to come by. For all the actors staging Euripides’ and Sophocles’ plays, there is only one, flimsy example for Aeschylus, Likymnios, who comes straight from a letter that Alciphron writes for a parasite called Etheloglyptes (“Willy Scraper”, as Benner – Fobes 1949 render it). Alciphron’s parasite complains about being abused at a celebratory banquet thrown by Likymnios for “defeat[ing] his rivals Kritias from Kleonae and Hippasos from Ambrakia by performing Aeschylus’ Propompoi with a clear, louder voice”. Not otherwise attested, Likymnios, Kritias and Hippasos have all a very good chance of being products of Alciphron’s fantasy61. Given that our 56

57

58

Plu. Moralia 998e; E. TrGF F 456. See also [Plu.] Moralia 110c. Tatian, Speech to the Greeks 24, 1; E. Alcmaeon in Psophis TrGF T III. Collard – Cropp (2008.1, 81) also mention Tatian’s testimony in their discussion of Euripides’ Alcmaeon in Psophis. Webster (1967, 40–42) attributed it to the later Alcmaeon, Alcmaeon in Corinth; Jouan – van Looy 1998, 97 review our knowledge of both plays and conclude with a non liquet. Nervegna 2007, 18–25 (see also Nervegna 2013, ch. 2) collects our sources on festivals in-

59 60 61

cluding ‘old’ plays from the Hellenistic to the Roman period. See above. Ath. 1, 19e; D. L. 2, 43. Alciphr. 3, 12. On the dubious existence of the actors named by Alciphron, see Stephanis 1988, nos. 1552. 1506. 1280; Le Guen 2004, 81f. We do not know much about the play Propompoi, either. This title is listed in the catalogue of Aeschylus’ works given in some manuscripts and there is only one surviving fragment from it, a word preserved by Hesychius (A. TrGF T 78. F 209).

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sources often speak of the tragic trio, we may think it interesting when they are selective, as in the case of Plutarch’s anecdote on the turning point of Demosthenes’ career, the ‘private class’ given to him by the actor Satyros (Dem. 7). Satyros has Demosthenes recite some speeches from Sophocles and Euripides off the top of his head only to show him the power of delivery by performing the same speeches again. Fictional as it may be, this story agrees with other records in suggesting familiarity with Euripides and Sophocles by fourth-century actors and speakers alike. The case for public performances of Aeschylus in fourth-century Athens as in the later Greek world is never beyond controversy. Consider the end of Seven against Thebes, which some modern scholars consider not to be authentic and to have been reworked with either Euripides’ Phoenician Women or Sophocles’ Antigone as its main source62. If their claims are right and our Seven against Thebes can be placed within the reperformance tradition of Aeschylus’ drama, this text may be read against an interesting passage from Quintilian. After detailing Aeschylus’ fundamental role in the history of Greek tragedy, Quintilian points out that Aeschylus is “lofty, full of dignity, grandiloquent often to a fault, but in general crude and lacking polish. For this reason, the Athenians allowed later poets to stage competitively his plays in revised versions and many were successful in this way”63. If indeed one of these later poets reworked Seven against Thebes by writing the extant tragedy which then circulated under Aeschylus’ name, he took care to modernise it not only linguistically but also in terms of staging, since the end does seem to require a third actor64. Of all our sources for the Athenian honorary decree for Aeschylus, Quintilian is unique in mentioning revised texts performed within the dramatic competition, and although our information on this decree is not unproblematic65, Quintilian’s testimony is of no little importance. Quintilian is here likely to be drawing from the great Alexandrian critics whom he mentions in his review of Greek poetry66. At least two other Aeschylean tragedies have been tentatively identified in the repertory of later actors. When Pollux in discussing theatrical machines mentions a Psychostasia 62

63

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There was no ancient debate about the authenticity of the end of this play and scholars such as Lloyd-Jones (1959) considered it Aeschylean. For a recent review of the issue, see Hutchinson (1985, esp. XLII and on Ar. Th. 1005–1078), who gives the first production of Euripides’ Phoenician Women (about 411–409) as the terminus post quem, noting that the post-Classical period is also indicated by language, prosody and style. For Sophocles’ Antigone as the source of the interpolated scene, see Zimmermann 1993, 99–111 with earlier literature. Inst. 10, 1, 66: Tragoedias primus in lucem Aeschylus protulit, sublimis et grauis et grandilocus saepe usque ad uitium, sed rudis in plerisque et incompositus: propter quod correctas eius fabulas in certamen deferre posterioribus poetis Athenienses permisere: suntque eo modo multi coronati. Philostr. VA 6, 11 mentions only victories with reperformances of Aeschylus. Hutchinson 1985, esp. XLIII and on A. Th. 1005–1078; Taplin 1977, 185f.

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According to the Life of Aeschylus (A. TrGF T 1, 48f.), the decree granted a chorus to “whoever wanted to perform Aeschylus’ plays”. This testimony and other sources for the decree have been recently discussed by Biles (2006–2007; see also 2011, 60f.), who points out that they are at odds with what we know about the intense competition among poets to enter the festival. Quintilian mentions the decree for Aeschylus at Inst. 10, 1, 66. Earlier on he recommends reading Apollonius of Rhodes even if Aristophanes of Byzantium and Aristarchus did not include him and mentions three iambic writers pointing out that they had been selected by Aristarchus (Inst. 10, 1, 54. 60). For Quintilian’s use of Hellenistic sources in his section on Greek poetry, see Steinmetz 1964 and Rutherford 1998, 41. The “revised texts” mentioned by Quintilian are, in all likelihood, the ‘diaskeuai’ that we know from a number of sources. See further Nervegna 2013, 88–99.

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play, one would be tempted to conclude that he “may be talking about a late extravaganza modelled on Aeschylus or about a late reproduction of Aeschylus which added spectacular effects”, but Pollux, among other things, does not name Aeschylus67. Ancient scholars writing on Aeschylus’ Agamemnon comment at times on its staging and performance, showing a “continuing awareness of the play’s importance in theatrical terms”68, although this does not necessarily imply their exposure to Agamemnon by means of public performance. Outside theatres too Aeschylus did not fare as well as Sophocles and Euripides. Fourth-century orators (and Aristotle’s Poetics) ignore him; Plato and Aristotle, our main sources for the indirect tradition of fifth-century tragedy in the fourth century, cite him only rarely69. The smaller percentage of iambic trimeters in Aeschylus’ tragedy has probably something to do with this trend. Although choral parts were thought to express the poet’s voice, as scholia often point out, citations from tragedy are overwhelmingly concerned with spoken parts (about 88 % according to Karanasiou’s figures)70. According to Scodel (2007, 133), “Aeschylus, then, by the end of the fifth century already had a canonical status that could be independent of theatrical practice”. The claim must be largely right, since there is little pointing to familiarity with Aeschylus’ plays as performance texts after the fifth century. It is unclear to me if we should suspect an Aeschylean background for two Middle Comedies, Alexis’ and Amphis’ Seven against Thebes, which are now almost completely lost, but fourth-century comedy can probably shed some light on the reception history of Aeschylus’ Eumenides71. Little can be made of Cratinus’ Eumenides, although Cratinus’ penchant for Aeschylus makes it likely that this play was an extended parody of its tragic namesake72, but a better case for a comic re-working of Eumenides is the Orestautokleides by Timocles, who was active in the late fourth century. Timocles presents Autokleides, a notorious pederast, with eleven old women around him. They have prostitute-like names and are sleeping. This is a clear parody of Eumenides’ opening scene, where the horrified Pythia describes Orestes surrounded by the Furies (40–47). We also know from Harpocration that in this comedy Timocles used the word ‘parabystos’ to indicate the law court used by the Eleven, a board in charge of arresting and prosecuting some types of criminals. Like Orestes, Autokleides was also apparently put on trial, with the chorus acting as his prosecutor73. We can perhaps set Timocles’ play against the pictorial record from Attica. In Attic vase-painting, there is no represen67 68 69

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Poll. 4, 130 with Taplin 1977, 433. Easterling 2005, 25. Wilson 1996, 315 with n. 30 (Aeschylus and orators); Wartelle 1971, 95–97 with references (citations from Aeschylus by Plato and Aristotle). See also Scodel 2007, 132f., who reviews and discusses Aeschylus’ presence in Plato. It is interesting that Aristotle gives Sophocles’ tragedy and not Aeschylus’ as an example of ‘active’ choruses (Po. 1456a 25–27). Sch. E. Alc. 962 and Or. 1691 with Meijering 1985, 97 (chorus as the poet’s mouthpiece); Karanasiou 2002, 29, table 10. Alexis PCG F 83, Amphis PCG F 16. Eumenides may have been a good target for comedy because it has, among other things, a peculiar dramatic structure and skilfully uses comic language to describe and give voice to a chorus

72

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unique in extant tragedy. See Herington 1963 (parallels between Old Comedy and Eumenides); Sommerstein 2002b, esp. 160–164 (comic language in Eumenides). Bakola 2010, 174–177; see also 126f., 135–138 (Cratinus’ use of Eumenides in his Ploutoi, which was probably staged at the Lenaea of 429). Timocles, Orestautokleides PCG F 27f. with Olson 2007, 175f., who notes that Timocles’ play is particularly interesting because fourthcentury comedy does not have much to say about Aeschylus. Eric Csapo suggests to me that Timocles’ Orestautokleides may be the play that Aristotle has in mind when he mentions that comedy ends with reconciliation even if “its characters are outright enemies in the plot, like Orestes and Aegisthus” (Po. 1453a36–39).

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tation of Orestes in Delphi before 458, when Aeschylus invented this detail in his Eumenides74. The story kept being represented around the mid-fifth century, with one example found in the fourth century, an Attic pelike currently preserved in Perugia. Dated to the 370s or the 360s, this pelike illustrates Orestes at the omphalos, flanked by two Erinyes dressed in long peploi and carrying torches75. Our visual record for Libation Bearers features a similar trend. The ‘children at the tomb’ motif whereby the play is represented appears in Attic vase-painting as early as about 440 and continued in the early fourth century, when it is found on a fragmentary Attic pelike attributed to the Jena Painter76. Timocles’ comedy and these Attic vases fit well with what we hear about the survival of Eumenides and Libations Bearers elsewhere. Of all Aeschylus’ plays, Eumenides is perhaps the tragedy that we can best identify in the repertory of ancient actors. This is a point I will come back to. That we have so little on theatrical revivals of Aeschylus on fourth-century Greek stages may look like a curious accident, given that at least some of Aeschylus’ plays were to be seen in fifth-century theatres. The honorary decree passed for Aeschylus was clearly aimed at keeping his drama alive77. Aristophanes’ Dikaiopolis could expect to see Aeschylus on the stage in 424 (Ach. 9–12) and there are a few indications for a late fifth-century performance of Libation Bearers. Aristophanes compares his Clouds looking for clever spectators to Electra looking for her brother’s hair lock, sure to recognise it after seeing it (534–536); Euripides’ Electra and its recognition scene in particular closely re-write Aeschylus’ play; Sophocles’ Electra also sets itself against it, or takes part in the ‘debate’78. For no other early tragedian do we have comparable evidence. Consider Phrynichus, made infamous by his Capture of Miletos. According to Herodotus, “the Athenians fined [Phrynichus] one thousand drachmae for reminding them of their own misfortunes and decreed that nobody should use this play in the future”79. Herodotus’ comment implies that in the early fifth century tragedies could be reperformed or somehow re-used. Aristophanes keeps mentioning Phrynichus in a number of his comedies, from Wasps (422) to Birds (414), Thesmophoriazusai (411) and Frogs (405)80. The most interesting case is that of Wasps. The jurors of this comedy know Phrynichus’ songs by heart and chant them on the streets of Athens81. Dancing drunk and all eager to show up modern tragoidoi (1478–1481), Philocleon impersonates Phrynichus by using his dancing style: “Phrynichus”, he tells us, “cowers like a cock … kicking his leg sky-high” (1490 f). The chorus also mentions what is apparently the same dance-step: “someone do the Phrynichean kick, so that seeing the foot in the air the audience will cry ‘Ooh’!” (1524–1527). Scodel (2010, 74

75

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The earliest artefact is an Attic hydria from Nola (Berlin, SMPK Antikensammlung inv. F 2380; LIMC s. v. Orestes no. 7), dated to ca. 450s. We also have an additional four Attic vases (LIMC s. v. Orestes nos. 8–10. 22) dated to the fifth century, between ca. 440s and ca. 430s. See Giuliani 2001, 27f., Taplin 2007, 59; Csapo 2010a, 45. Perugia, Museo Etrusco-Romano (Taplin 2007, no. 6). The early Attic artefact is a skyphos by the Penelope Painter (Copenhagen, Nat. Mus. inv. 597); the pelike attributed to the Jena Painter (ca. 380s) is now preserved at the University of Exeter (Taplin 2007, no. 1).

77 78 79

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See above. See, most recently, Torrance 2011, 177–182. Hdt. 6, 21, 2. Phrynichus’ production is traditionally dated to the aftermath of the sack of Miletus, in 495/494, but we cannot exclude a later dating if the troubles of which the Athenians were reminded coincide with the Persian sack of their own city in 480/479. See Badian 1996. Phrynichus TrGF 3 T 10a–g with the scholia to Aristophanes’ passages. Ar. Wasps 219f. (from Phrynichus’ Phoenician Women), 268f.

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39) notes that “Aristophanes was an admirer of Phrynichus, and this is interesting in itself, because Aristophanes was a very young man in 427 BCE and cannot have seen the first productions of plays by Phrynichus”. Aristophanes may not have been sitting in the audience of Phrynichus, but Philocleon and his fellow-jurors, as described by Aristophanes, surely might. Philocleon’s behaviour is at times very animated and energetic (note, for instance, the escape scene), but Philocleon, just like his friends, is a very old man. The jurors fought in the Persian Wars and they clearly recall taking part in the battle of Marathon in 49082. Not only could Aristophanes’ jurors have seen the first productions of Phrynichus’ plays, but, as Peter Wilson suggests to me, they could have also performed in them, as Phrynichus’ chorus members. Aeschylus had his own place in the history of tragedy already in the fifth century and we get a sense in our sources that his plays were to survive. Some fifty years after Aeschylus’ death, Aristophanes has him claim that his poetry, unlike Euripides’ tragedy, did not die with him (Frogs 868f.). By then, Aeschylus had already a reputation as an inspired poet, something that Cratinus keenly exploited by presenting himself as the comic Aeschylus83. The biographic tradition gives us the portrait of a poet fully confident in his skill and future fame. Aeschylus apparently claimed that he started his dramatic career spurred by Dionysus: the god approached him when he was a small boy sleeping in a field to guard the grapes, bade him to write tragedies and, right at daybreak, he took up the art, finding it quite easy84. According to Athenaeus, Theophrastus or Chamaeleon took care to record that “once, unjustly defeated on the stage, [Aeschylus] said that he dedicated his tragedies to Time, knowing that it would bring him the honour he deserved”. This is enough for Athenaeus to define Aeschylus “a first-rate philosopher”85. Self-glorification can also be read in Aeschylus’ notorious statement that “his plays were crumbs from Homer’s big banquets”. Apart from the thematic links identifiable between Aeschylus’ tragedy and Homer’s epos, Aeschylus is here reported as comparing himself to the immortal founder of Greek poetry and culture86. Early tragedy is surrounded by much mystery – unsurprisingly so, since ancient authors do not seem to be well informed about it, either – but at least one fact is beyond doubt: Aeschylus brought the genre to a new level. This is a common motif in our sources. That tragedy reached perfection with Sophocles is an admitted truth for the author of the Life of Aeschylus, who is, however, keen to point out Aeschylus’ key-role in this process: “It would have been much more difficult to bring tragedy to such greatness from Thespis, Phrynichus and Choerilus than from Aeschylus”87. When fifth-century comic poets put Aeschylus on the stage, they consistently present him as a ground-breaking figure in the history of tragic theatre. The chorus of Aristophanes’ Frogs addresses him as “the first Greek to build the towering words of tragedy and to have adorned tragic talk” (1004). An older colleague of Aristophanes, Pherecrates, staged a play, Small Change, where Aeschylus proudly boasts: “I built and perfected a great craft and I gave it to them” (PCG F 100). 82

83 84

Select references: Wasps 357. 809f. 1380f. (Aristophanes stresses that Philocleon is a feeble old man). 1060–1100 (the jurors fought in the Persian Wars and recall the battle of Marathon; see Austin 1973, 134). Bakola 2010, 24–29. See also below. Paus. 1, 21, 1; A. TrGF T 111. Compare this story with various reports that Aeschylus used to write his plays when drunk. First attested by

85 86

87

Chamaeleon (see Ath. 1, 22a–b. 10, 428f), this claim is repeated by a number of authors like Plutarch (Moralia 622f) and [Lucian] (Praise of Demosthenes 15). See A. TrGF T 117a–g. Ath. 8, 347e; A. TrGF T 113a. Ath. 8, 347d, see also Eust. 2, 1298, 56 (A. TrGF T 112a–b). Life of Aeschylus 62–65; A. TrGF T 1, 16.

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Writing on tragedy with an interest in its evolution, Aristotle tells us that, next to increasing the number of actors from one to two, Aeschylus “reduced the choral element and made speech the protagonist”88. But Aeschylus’ innovations were no longer such later on: Aeschylus was as ground-breaking in the early fifth century as old-fashioned by the late fifth century. When Aristophanes’ Euripides looks at Aeschylus’ drama with the eyes of a contemporary spectator, all he can see and hear are silent actors and long choruses, one after the other. Silent like his heroes, Aristophanes’ Aeschylus is, in the words of Aristophanes’ Euripides, “incapable of chatting” ($ , Frogs 839), the hallmark of Euripides’ tragedy. With his plays full of small talk democratically delivered by all characters, Aristophanes’ Euripides is, by contrast, a chatterbox and, as all chatterboxes, modern poets follow suit with Euripides89. Aeschylus belongs to the generation of the Persian Wars. A liking for his tragedies marks Aristophanic characters longing for the good old days: Dikaiopolis eagerly waits for one of Aeschylus’ plays in the theatre and Strepsiades unsuccessfully asks his son to perform Aeschylus at a drinking party90. Pausanias (1, 21, 2) points out that Aeschylus’ statue in the Theatre of Dionysus in Athens is later than the most renowned painting in the Stoa Poikile, the one reproducing the battle of Marathon. By the time of Pausanias, Aeschylus could be identified as one of the Greeks fighting against the Persians and it may not be ruled out altogether that earlier viewers of this painting, which was probably realised around the mid-fifth century, could also make this association. With their heavy choruses and little narrative, Aeschylus’ tragedies quickly lost their appeal as texts for public performance. Early tragedies with only two actors must have also felt too static for later audiences. Above all, theatregoers did not understand Aeschylus. As Aristophanes’ parody makes clear, his contemporaries had already a hard time with Aeschylus’ words: they are “ox-sized, with crests and bows, formidable monster-like things unfamiliar to the spectators”, so obscure that they keep a theatregoer like Dionysus awake at night91. When Quintilian mentions ‘revised tragedies’ right after commenting on Aeschylus’ bombastic and unrefined style, he does suggest that later audiences did not fare any better with Aeschylus’ language92. The praise that ancient authors lavish on Euripides for using ordinary Greek (a trend to be followed by later dramatists, including Menander, one of the easiest Greek authors)93 further stresses the linguistic difficulty of Aeschylus and early tragedy in general. Aristotle singles out Euripides as the author who can best conceal his art by coating it in ordinary language. That Euripides could mix tragedy, emotions and common language was indeed a wondrous feat for the philosopher Crantor, a contemporary of Menander94. By increasing the tolerance for use of resolved syllables in iambic tri88

89

90

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Arist. Po. 1449a15–18; see also Philostr. VA 6, 11 (A. TrGF T 100. 106). Ar. Frogs. 907–920 (Aeschylus’ silent actors and long choruses). 948–950. 952 (Euripides and his chatty characters). 89–91 (contemporary poets as chatterboxes). For full discussion of Aeschylus’ and Euripides’ tragedy as portrayed in Aristophanes’ Frogs see Csapo 2010a, 120–124; Hunter 2009, ch. 1. Ar. Ach. 9–12 (with Biles 2011, 60), Clouds 1364–1372. Ar. Frogs. 923f.; see also 1058, where Euripides remarks that Aeschylus does not talk like men do.

92

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Quint. Inst. 10, 1, 66, on which see above. From Aeschylus to Photius, who records Phrynichus’ definition of Aeschylus as “the most grandiloquent of the three tragedians” (-   - A') μ φ/, Bibl. 101b), ancient authors often comment on Aeschylus’ lofty and harsh style. See Podlecki 2006. See Allan 2008, 45: “surviving fragments show that it was Euripides’ simpler and plainer dialogue style that became the dramatic koine¯ of the following centuries”. Arist. Rhet. 1404b 18–25; D. L. 4, 26. See also [Longin.] de sublimitate 40, 2f.

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meter verse, Euripides managed to accommodate words and expressions foreign to earlier drama and to achieve a prose-like effect95. Some plays are easier than others; the level of colloquialism in Orestes, for instance, is substantially higher than in any previous tragedy96. Hard Greek, long and integral choruses and little narrative may all explain why fourth-century Athens, and fourth-century Greece in general, had little interest in performing Aeschylus’ tragedies. This is not to say that Aeschylus’ plays dropped out of the stage. Indeed, they can be more easily identified in South Italy where, for more than one reason, at least some of them were granted a longer stage life. From there, they were handed over to Republican Rome.

Aeschylus on fourth-century South Italian stages Greek tragedy was an export hit already in its infancy. Phrynichus was probably the first poet to bring the new genre over to South Italy, making up an important precedent for Aeschylus97. Aeschylus visited Sicily to stage old and new plays, given that he entertained local audiences with his Persians, a play first produced at Athens in 472, and, under Hieron’s commission, he wrote Women of Aetna to celebrate the ‘founding’ of Aetna98. Epicharmus, who probably met Aeschylus, made fun of his language99. As we read in his Life, Aeschylus died in Gela and was given a lavish burial place that soon became a pilgrimage site: “those who made their livelihood in tragedy often visited the memorial, where they made offerings and staged dramas” (or rather “staged his drama”, if we take the article in a defining sense)100. The author of the Life seems to imply that Aeschylus received a hero cult soon after his death – an honour that Athens did not bestow on him – and our vases illustrating Aeschylus’ tragedies suggest that this cult was alive for long afterwards and that it also had an impact on other areas. We have a number of vases from fourth-century South Italy that more or less controversially reproduce scenes from Greek tragedy, a substantial body of evidence most recently collected and discussed by Oliver Taplin (2007). Taplin’s catalogue illustrates over one hundred vases (one hundred and nine including a few Attic exemplars and including dubious cases), with some eighty of them more or less plausibly related to the plays by the canonical tragedians. To be sure, they are only the tip of the iceberg, since we have between three hundred and four hundred and fifty vessels that show tragic connections101. These vases do not simply tell us that tragedy travelled to South Italy but they also tell us which plays found the favour of local audiences. Euripides clearly dominates the scene. We can identify, with various degree of confidence, twenty-six of his tragedies. Ten of them belong 95

96 97

Prato 1972; Willink 1986, esp. IV (Euripides’ language); Stevens 1976 updated by Collard 2005 (colloquial expressions in Euripides). Stevens 1976, 64f. Prolegomena III 32 K. (Phrynichus PCG T 2); 3 Phrynichus TrGF T 6. The Prolegomena have Phrynichus as the son of Phradmon, which can be explained as a corruption for Polyphradmon, named as one of the possible fathers of the tragic poet (Suda φ 762; 3 Phrynichus TrGF T 1). The songs of the tragedian Phrynichus, at any rate, were known in early-fourth century Syracuse. Timaeus, FGrHist 566 F 32

98

99 100

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(preserved by Ath. 6, 250b); 3 Phrynichus TrGF T 11. See further Nervegna 2013, 19. For our sources on Aeschylus’ trips to Sicily, see A. TrGF T 88–92 and the other testimonia cited there. Epich. PCG F 221. Life of Aeschylus 11; A. TrGF T 1, 46f. See Wilson 2007d, 357. Taplin 2007, 15. Todisco (2003) lists almost exactly four hundred vessels related to tragedy, but some attributions are highly unlikely. See further below.

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to the extant plays, ranging from the earliest to the latest phase of his career: Alcestis, Medea, Children of Heracles, Hippolytus, Andromache, Hecuba, Ion, Iphigenia among the Taurians, Bacchae and Iphigenia at Aulis102. The majority of vases related to Euripides’ tragedies illustrate (now) fragmentary plays: Aegeus, Aeolus, Alcmena, Andromeda, (possibly) Antigone, Antiope, Dicktys, Melanippe the Wise, Meleager, Oeneus, Stheneboia, Telephus, Hypsipyle, Phoenix, Phrixos (first version) and Chrysippos103. Sophocles does not fare as well on our pictorial record, where he is represented by some nine or ten plays: Oedipus the King, (possibly) Antigone, Electra, Oedipus at Colonos, (possibly) Creusa, Tereus and (probably) Thyestes at Sicyon104. To these plays one could also add Niobe and Andromeda105. A case like the Oenomaus tragedy illustrated on an Apulian situla dated to 102

103

Select references: Basel, Antikenmuseum inv. S21 (Apulian loutrophoros, ca. 340s; Alcestis); Cleveland Museum of Art inv. 1991.1 (Lucanian calyx-krater, ca. 400; Medea); Policoro, Mus. Naz. della Siritide inv. 35302 (Lucanian pelike, ca. 400; Children of Heracles); London, BM inv. F279 (Apulian volute-krater, ca. 340s; Hippolytus); Milan, Collezione H.A., Banca Intesa Collection inv. 239 (Apulian volutekrater, ca. 360s; Andromache); London, BM inv. 1900.5–19.1(Apulian loutrophoros, ca. 330s; Hecuba); Ruvo, Mus. Naz. Jatta inv. 1097 [36822] (Apulian volute-krater, ca. 350; Ion); Naples, MAN inv. 82113 [H 3223] (Apulian volute-krater, ca. 360s; Iphigenia among the Taurians); London, BM inv. F 133 (Apulian phiale, ca. 350; Bacchae); London, BM inv. F 159 (Apulian volute-krater, ca. 360s; Iphigenia in Aulis). See Taplin 2007, 108–160 for discussion of these and other vases that can be related to these tragedies. Select references: Adophseck, Schloss Fasanerie inv. 179 (Apulian bell-krater, ca. 370s; Aigeus); Bari, Mus. Arch. Prov. inv. 1535 (Lucanian hydria, ca. 410s; Aiolos); Taranto, MAN inv. 4600 (fragmentary Apulian calyx-krater; ca. 400; Alcmena); Berlin, SMPK Antikensammlung inv. VI 3237 (Attic calyx-krater, ca. 390s, produced in Athens but reportedly found in Capua; Andromeda); Ruvo, Mus. Naz. Jatta inv. J432 [36734] (Apulian amphora, ca. 350s; Antigone); Berlin, SMPK Antikensammlung inv. F3296 (Sicilian calyx-krater, ca. 380s; Antiope); Princeton University Art Museum inv. 1989.40 (Apulian volute-krater, ca. 360s; Dictys); Atlanta, Carlos Museum, Emory University inv. 1994.1 (Apulian volute-krater, ca. 320s; Melanippe the Wise); Naples, MAN inv. 80854 [Stg. 11] (Apulian volute-krater, ca. 340s; Meleager); London, BM inv. F 155 (Paestan hydria, ca. 340s; Oeneus); Boston, MFA inv. 1900.349 (Apulian stamnos, ca. 400; Stheneboia); Cleveland, Museum of Art inv. 1999.1 (Lucanian calyx-krater, ca. 400; Telephus); Naples, MAN

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inv. 81934 [H3255] (Apulian volute-krater, ca. 330s; Hypsipyle); Oklahoma, Stovall Museum inv. C/53–4/55/1 (fragment of Apulian calyxkrater, ca. 330s; Phoenix); Berlin, SMPK Antikensammlung inv. 1984.41 (Apulian volutekrater, ca. 330s; Phrixos); Berlin, SMPK Antikensammlung inv. 1968.12 (Apulian bellkrater, ca. 330s; Chrysippos). On these and other vases that can be related to these tragedies, see Taplin 2007, 166–219. Select references: Syracuse, Museo Archeologico Regionale “Paolo Orsi” inv. 66557 (Sicilian calyx-krater, ca. 330s; Oedipus the King); Basel, Antikenmuseum inv. BS 473 (Apulian oinochoe, ca. 330s; Antigone); Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum inv. 689 [SK 195, 69] (Lucanian bell-krater, ca. 350s; Electra); Melbourne, Geddes collection inv. A 5:8 (Apulian calyx-krater, ca. 340s; Oedipus at Colonos); Formerly Basel market (Apulian loutrophoros or narrow amphora, ca. 330s; Creusa); Naples, MAN inv. 82268 [H3233] (Apulian loutrophoros, ca. 330s; Tereus); Boston, MFA inv. 1987.53 (Apulian calyx-krater, ca. 330s; Thyestes at Sicyon). See Taplin 2007, 88–107. Note also that Sophocles’ Tereus is probably illustrated on a Lucanian bell-krater by the Dolon Painter (Paris, Louvre inv. CA 2193; ca. 390s). Although often ascribed to Euripides’ Medea, this vase does seem to reproduce the recognition scene of Sophocles’ play. See Schmidt 1970, 826; Fitzpatrick 2001, 98; Todisco 2003, 396 (L 30) with further literature. Sophocles’ Niobe is probably illustrated on an Apulian volute-krater of ca. 330s (Ruvo, Mus. Naz. Jatta inv. 424). See Easterling 2006, 13–15; Todisco 2003, 476f. (Ap 205) with earlier literature. The case for Andromeda rests on a series of vases where Andromeda is shown tied to stakes rather than to a rock. See, for instance, an Apulian volute-krater dated to ca. 400 (Malibu, J Paul Getty Museum inv. 85 AE. 102) with Green 1994, 20–22; Todisco 2003, 407f. (Ap 9) with earlier bibliography.

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around the 360s is hard to assess. Both Sophocles and Euripides wrote an Oenomaus and very little is known of either one. It may be significant, however, that Sophocles’ play is to be found in the actors’ repertory in fourth-century Athens106. On our vases, Aeschylus is the least popular of the three canonical tragedians. We find only six of his tragedies: Libation Bearers, Eumenides, Edonians, Europa or Carians, Niobe and Phrygians or Ransom of Hector107. Various sources on Aeschylus’ production give us from a minimum of seventy (excluding satyr plays) to a maximum of ninety108. The reasons behind the selection of the six plays illustrated on our pictorial record are not always clear, but the overall preference is for the late Aeschylus. Although we frustratingly lack production dates for almost the entire dramatic career of Aeschylus, most of the six tragedies illustrated in South Italy can be more or less securely dated. The Oresteia, here represented by its second and third play, was first produced in Athens in 458. The first tragedy in the tetralogy known as Lycurgeia, Edonians, staged the arrival of Dionysus and his followers in Thrace, where they met with Lycurgus’ opposition. Since one of its fragments (“truly the house is possessed, the building is in a Bacchic frenzy”) suggests the presence of a stage building, a late date is more likely than an early one109. Aristophanes knew the Edonians and quoted from it in his Thesmophoriazusai, and the Lycurgeia apparently survived long enough to be studied by Aristarchos in one of the very few ancient works devoted to Aeschylus and his drama110. One of our vases reproducing Edonians includes a tragic messenger and it is at least interesting to find a messenger also in what is very likely to be the Latin adaptation of this play, Naevius’ Lycurgus111. Of Europa or Carians we have only one, long fragment. It comes from a second-century school anthology, where it was copied with two other dramatic excerpts, a passage early in Euripides’ Medea and, in all likelihood, a prologue from New Comedy112. Europa is here telling her story. She relates on her abduction by Zeus and the children she had, end106

107

Rome, Museo Nazionale Etrusco di Villa Giulia inv. 18003. Taplin (2007, 199) ascribes it to Euripides though acknowledging that “there is no particular reason to connect it to Euripides rather than Sophocles”. On reperformances of Sophocles’ Oenomaus in fourth-century Attica, see above. Select references: Naples, MAN inv. 82140 [H 1755] (Lucanian amphora, ca. 380; Libation Bearers); Naples, MAN inv. 82270 [H 3249] (Apulian volute-krater, ca. 360s; Eumenides); London, BM inv. F 271 (Apulian calyx-krater, ca. 350s; Edonians); New York, Met. Mus. inv. 16.140 (Apulian bell-krater, ca. 390s; Europa or Carians); Taranto, MAN inv. 8935 (Apulian amphora, ca. 340s; Niobe); St Petersburg, Hermitage inv. B 1718 [St. 422] (Apulian volutekrater, ca. 350; Phrygians or Ransom of Hector). See Taplin 2007, 48–87. Todisco (2003) lists some 220 vases as reproducing a total of about 20 plays by Aeschylus, but his identifications are very tentative at best. Taplin is much more reliable, although I do not follow him in identifying a Lucanian volute-krater (Ruvo, Mus. Naz. Jatta inv. 1095) as reproducing Ae-

108

109

110

111

112

schylus’ Phineus. As he notes, “there is no strong reason to connect it with Aeschylus” (2007, 82). See Podlecki 2009, 319f. for a recent review of our sources. A. TrGF F 58. West (1990, 48–50) finds more arguments to support a late date. Ar. Th. 134f. (a scholiast identifies l. 136 as borrowed from Aeschylus’ Edonians and this is perhaps not the only instance. See further Austin – Olson 2004, 100f.). Schol. Theoc. 10, 18e mentions Aristarchus’ hypomnemata on Aeschylus’ Lycurgus, which was the satyr play attached to this trilogy, but it has been suggested that Lycurgus here may stand for Lycurgeia. Radt on A. TrGF 234f.; see also Montanari 2009, 416f. London, BM inv. F 271 (Apulian calyx-krater dated to about 350s; Taplin 2007, no. 13); Naevius fr. 24 W. For Naevius’ Lycurgus and its Greek model, see below. P. Didot. 16–28 (P. Louvre inv. E 7172; Cribiore 1996, no. 244) preserving, along with A. Europa or Carians TrGF F 99, 1–23, E. Med. 5–12 and Menander, Fabula Incerta 2 Arnott.

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ing her speech by expressing her fears about her son Sarpedon, now fighting at Troy. This piece is, in all likelihood, a prologue, something that squares well with students’ general preference for prologues as dramatic excerpts113. It smacks of Euripides’ prologues, with their tendency to inform the audience about the dramatic action “right away,” as both Aristophanes and Aristotle could already note114. Later scholars often complained about Euripides’ prologues, finding them “annoying” and long-winded, yet they were to become the standard dramatic prologue115. Note also that this fragment is written in simple, straightforward Greek. Its language was simple enough to be approached by the student who copied this text, Apollonios son of Glaukias, a teenager attending the grammarian’s class at the Sarapieion of Memphis116. Apollonios’ anthology is one of only three records in schoolhands preserving lines from Aeschylus’ plays117. All the Aeschylean plays in South Italy which are more or less securely dateable – Libation Bearers, Eumenides, Edonians and possibly Europa or Carians – come from the late Aeschylus and are, at any rate, the more modern ones. With their use of three actors, skene-building, recognition and agon scenes, as well as Euripides-like prologues, they bring Aeschylus very close to later tragedy. A further selection took place among Aeschylus’ late plays. The presence of two tragedies from the Oresteia makes the absence of Agamemnon all the more remarkable. Easterling (2005) points to the accidents of evidence survival, but it may not be a coincidence that later actors and audiences had no interest in this tragedy. Despite its use of three actors, Agamemnon is a static play that, paradoxically as it may seem, is “written largely on the principle of a one actor play”118. More interestingly, Agamemnon is almost one thousand seven hundred lines long and its heavy choral songs take up a lot of stage time119. Libation Bearers and Eumenides also feature long and integral choruses but their texts are much shorter, a little over one thousand lines. Eumenides is the shortest surviving tragedy. The pictorial record from fourth-century South Italy shows that Western Greeks were more interested in Aeschylus than their counterparts across the Adriatic. This is the same trend that we can identify in the reperformance tradition of Old comedy. Fifth-century comedy had a generally unimpressive stage afterlife. We hear of only two reperformances of Old Comedies in Athens, Teleclides’ Sterroi, possibly restaged at the Lenaea of 430, and 113 114 115

116

117

On this point see Nervegna 2013, 214f. Ar. Frogs. 946f., Arist. Rh. 1415a 18–20. E. Life 3; schol. Ar. Ach. 416; schol. E. Ph. 88. The scholion to A. Eu. 1b praises Aeschylus for not “relating the things off stage”, adding that “this is a modern thing and Euripides-like”, and implies that Aeschylus’ type of prologue is of better quality (see Mejering 1987, 195f.). Euripides-like prologues are to be found in later tragedy (see for instance Carcinus TrGF 70 F 5) and in comedy, as Menander clearly shows. On Apollonios and his anthology, see Cribiore 2001, 188f. The other two records are PCol. III 125 (A. Psychagogoi TrGF F 273; Cribiore 1996, no. 250) and OClaud. inv. 2969 (where l. 9 interestingly reflects a phrase in A. Pers. 483 or in E. Hyps. TrGF F 757, l; Cribiore 1996, no. 277). On the circulation of Aeschylus’ plays in and out of

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schools, see Cribiore 2001, 198. As Morgan (2003) points out, the Leuven Database of Ancient Books includes 301 entries under tragedy, counting different plays preserved on the same papyrus as separate entries. Of these entries, 249 are identifiable as fragments by the three canonical tragedians: 176 are by Euripides, 38 by Sophocles and 35 by Aeschylus. Sophocles and Aeschylus are very close to each other, but Aeschylus is not as evenly distributed across time and place: 29 out of our 35 survivals for Aeschylus come from Oxyrhynchus in the second and third century A. D. Their dating is relevant: our Aeschylus-papyri belong to the Second Sophistic, a period all permeated by archaizing tendencies. Wilson 1995, 398. I owe this point to Eric Csapo.

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Frogs, possibly produced a second time at the Lenaea of 404120. When the Great Dionysia in Athens finally included institutionalised reperformances of comedies, a practice first attested in 340/339 and perhaps more regular from 311, the ‘old comedies’ produced here are our Middle and New Comedies, the plays composed by dramatists such as Anaxandrides, Menander and Posidippus121. Our earliest record for competitions of ‘old comedies’, which is dated to around the mid-third century, preserves the names of Menander, Diphilus and Philemon. This is also, incidentally, our earliest record for the New Comedy trio, which comes straight from actors’ activities122. Like Old Comedy, Aeschylus’ tragedy virtually dropped out of fourth-century Greek stages to survive in Western Greek theatres. Considered from this perspective, the activities of actors working in South Italy and the taste of their audiences look conservative and oldfashioned when compared to those across the Adriatic. Taplin finds a similar pattern in the reception of Euripides’ tragedies by noting that, while the surviving plays from the 430s to the 420s have left quite a trace in vase painting from South Italy, there are few examples from the later ones, such as Iphigenia among the Taurians, Andromeda and Ion123. In South Italy too we can then find a “manifestation of the peculiarly fourth-century obsession with the fifth”124. We can also catch a glance of the regional differences that are so hard to identify in the repertory of ancient actors. Greek colonies should not be cast as cultural backwaters, but there is plenty of evidence for modern immigrant communities as being more conservative than their parent cultures125. The Greek West figures largely in the ancient reception of Aeschylus. Aeschylus’ tragedies were considered to be full of Sicilianisms; Aeschylus himself was labelled “in a way, a native of Sicily” or even “definitely a Sicilian”126. As far as we know, scholarship on Aeschylus was born in the Greek West. The Glaukos who authored the Myths of Aeschylus is generally identified with the late fifthcentury Glaucus of Rhegion, the earliest scholar on record for working on Aeschylus127. Western Greeks watched Aeschylus’ plays for a longer time than the Greeks living across the Adriatic and both the hero-cult that Aeschylus received in South Italy and the conservative cast of actors’ activities in this area probably played a role in this process. Even so, local theatregoers were not familiar with many of Aeschylus’ tragedies.

120

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IG XIV 1098a (IGUR 215); Hyp. Frogs. 1, 3 W (see also Life of Aristophanes 35–39, mentioning the honour granted to Aristophanes for his Frogs). On Aristophanes’ Frogs and its second performance, see Revermann 2006, 73 with earlier literature. IG II2 2318, 316–318; IG II2 2323a. Select references: Anaxandrides’ Thesauros in 311 (IG II2 2323a, 38f.); Menander’s Misogynes in ca. 193 (IG II2 2323, 129f.); Posidippus’ Apokleiomene in 183 and 181 (Horos 6, 1988, 13; IG II2 2323, 162f.). Hesperia 7, 1938, 116–118, fr. A; SEG 26, 208. See further Nervegna 2013, 57f. Taplin 2007, 146. In fourth-century Athens we find some of Euripides’ early plays such as Medea and Telephus (see above), but there is plenty of evidence pointing to the popularity of later tragedies. New Comedy perhaps shows

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this more clearly by appropriating ‘recognition’ and other motifs that Satyros ascribes to Euripides (Life of Euripides fr. 39 col. VII; E. TrGF T 137). Wilson 1996, 315 (whom I thank for this point). Consider the example of the Italian community in America, most recently discussed in the essays collected by Del Giudice 2009. Ath. 9, 376c; schol. Venet. Ar. Peace 73; Macr. Sat. 5, 19, 17 (A. TrGF T 92a. 90. 91). Herington 1967; Csapo 2010a, 39. Hyp. A. Pers.; A. TrGF T 86 (where, interestingly, Glaukos also shows familiarity with Phrynichus’ Phoenician Women, which he considers the source of Aeschylus’ Persians). The identification of Glaukos with Glaucus of Rhegion is likely and widely accepted, though not secure. See Montanari 2009, 396f.

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The Tragic Canon in Republican Rome Adapted into Latin to be staged for Latin-speaking audiences, many Greek plays and several plays by the three canonical tragedians had a new lease of life in Republican Rome. In Roman tragedy as on our tragedy-related vases, Euripides is by far the best represented. Ennius is said to have drawn “most plays from Euripides” and ancient authors confirm this claim in a handful of cases – Hecuba, Alexander, Medea and (problematically) Andromacha – adding one instance for Pacuvius, Antiope128. Surviving fragments from Roman tragedies raise by far these figures, suggesting that Euripides was the model of Ennius’ Iphigenia (fashioned after Euripides’ Iphigenia in Aulis), Andromeda and Erechtheus129. That both Ennius and Accius portrayed Telephus as a beggar and that Ennius at least staged a crazy Alcmaeon is a clue to the Euripidean paternity of their Greek original130. A Euripidean model has been suspected for at least another three of Ennius’ plays, Cresphontes, Melanippa (after Euripides’ Melanippe the Wise) and Phoenix131. Naevius’ Iphigenia was possibly based on Euripides’ Iphigenia among the Taurians132. Accius drew from Euripides for his Bacchae and Phoenician Women, with Chrysippus as a (possible) third instance133. 128

129

Gloss. Lat. I, 568 L (cited below). Gell. NA 2, 4 (Hecuba), Varro, Ling. 7, 82 (Alexander, with Jocelyn 1967, 203), Cic. Fin. 1, 2, 4 (Medea), Varro, Ling. 7, 82 (Andromacha, but the fragments and the subject matter of Ennius’ play do not seem to match Euripides’ Andromache), Cic. Fin. 1, 2, 4 (Pacuvius’ Antiope). Cic. Fin. 1, 2, 4 claims that Ennius adapted Euripides’ Medea word by word, though, judging from the extant fragments, this is a clear exaggeration. For a recent discussion of Ennius’ Medea, which is also cited as Medea Exul, see Rosato 2004, ch. II. Cowan (2010) explores the Roman tragedians’ fascination with Medea, also present in Pacuvius’ Medus and Accius’ Medea siue Argonautae. Ennius’ Iphigenia: Jocelyn 1967, 318 (“the five pieces quoted as from Ennius’ Iphigenia put this play without much doubt in Aulis”). Andromeda: E. Andromeda TrGF F 114 = Ennius, Andromeda frs. 117f. W; see further Kannicht 2004, 237 with references; Jouan – van Looy 1998, 163f. (contra Jocelyn who ascribed Ennius’ fragment to Andromacha, fr. XXXIII). An Andromeda is also attributed to Livius Andronicus (1 extant fragment) and Accius (15 fragments). Accius’ model is debated: KlimekWinter 1993, 321 (followed by Pagano 2010, 28) suggests Sophocles’ Andromeda. Euripides’ Erechtheus is the only known tragedy with this title. We can match with Euripides’ text one of the three extant fragments from Ennius’ Erechtheus and one from Ennius’ fragmenta incerta: Ennius, Erechtheus fr. LX Joc. = E. Erechtheus TrGF F 370, 44a–b; Ennius fr. CCXXII Joc.= E. Erechtheus TrGF F 360, 4f. See the comments on these Euripidean lines in

130

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Kannicht’s (2004) and Sonnino’s (2010) editions. Ennius, Telephus fr. CXLII f. Joc.; Accius, Telephus fr. 4f. D; see also Hor. Ars P. 95–97 with full discussion in Fantham 2009. Ennius, Alcmaeon frs. XIV f. Joc. Accius’ Alcmaeon is harder to reconstruct. On Euripides and his crazy Alcmaeon see above. Cresphontes: although fr. LIII Joc. poses a problem to identifying Euripides as the model, Harder (1985, 5–7) suggests “to accept the idea that Ennius adapted Euripides’ Kresphontes and leave fr. LIII out of consideration”. Melanippa: Euripides is the only known author of tragedies with this title; for Ennius drawing on him, see Jocelyn 1967, 383 with earlier references. Phoenix: Kannicht 2004, 847f.; Jouan – van Looy 2002, 327; Collard – Cropp 2008, II 407. As Webster (1967, 85) notes, the case would be stronger if inc.inc. CXVII R (“my father, strangers, my father blinded me”) does belong to Ennius’ Phoenix. As far as we know, Euripides’ play “was … distinctive for having Amyntor blind his own son” (Taplin 2007, 214 with references). The one secure fragment of Naevius’ Iphigenia (passo velo vicinum, Aquilo, me in portum fer foras, 21 W) recalls the escape scene of Euripides’ tragedy. See Warmington 1936, 120–123, Cropp 2000, 63. The fragments of Accius’ Phoenician Women and Bacchae can be matched with Euripides’ texts. See Dangel 1995, 358. 340 with further references. For Accius’ Chrysippus as possibly based on Euripides’ play, see Kannicht 2004, 879 with references.

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An all-time favourite of Sophocles’ plays was Electra, which was adapted into Latin by Atilius, probably in the first half of the second century134. Quarrelling against those who despised the Latin versions of Greek texts, Cicero could proudly claim that Atilius’ play was worth reading “even if Sophocles’ Electra is a masterpiece”. Atilius’ tragedy was popular in and out of scholarly circles, since excerpts from it were sung at the funeral games for Caesar135. Electra also left a trace in Propertius’ elegies, written in the Rome of the Emperor Augustus. Finally admitted indoor by his beloved girl to enjoy her company for the whole night, Propertius compares himself to a series of Greek mythological characters blessed with joy after struggling long and hard. One of these characters is Electra, pictured “when (she) saw Orestes safe, whose bones she thought to be holding in mourning”. Via Roman elegy, we are back to the image of Polos performing as Electra in fourthcentury Athens, with the urn full of ashes in his hands136. Roman tragedy includes an Ajax Mastigophorus, apparently ascribed to Livius Andronicus, and Ajax’ suicide could still be evoked by Augustus, who destroyed the Ajax he was writing because his hero had fallen on a sponge137. Accius’ Epigoni and Antigone, Pacuvius’ Niptra, and, in all likelihood, Accius’ Tereus, were all drawn from Sophocles138. Accius may have also adapted Sophocles’ Andromeda and Oenomaus139. Cicero (Ac. 1, 3) speaks of Roman tragedians (“Ennius, Pacuvius, Accius and many others”) as following Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides, but there is no literary source confirming the Aeschylean paternity of any Roman tragedy. For Aeschylus, we have to rely only on surviving fragments matching his texts, Ennius’ Eumenides and Naevius’ Lycurgus (drawn from Aeschylus’ Edonians)140. An Aeschylean model, Ransom of Hector or Phrygians, has been also suggested for Ennius’ Ransom of Hector, although conclusive evidence is lacking141. With two or possibly three plays that made their way into Roman theatres, Aeschylus is, once again, the least popular of the canonical trio. Note the consistency between the pictorial record from South Italy and the Greek models used by Roman dramatists. Euripides figures in Roman tragedy more or less securely with some seventeen tragedies, thirteen of which can be independently identified on our vases: Hecuba, Alexander, Medea, Andromache, Antiope, Iphigenia in Aulis, Melanippe the Wise, Phoenix, Iphigenia among the Taurians, Bacchae, Andromeda, Telephus and Chrysippos. Of the some eight Sophoclean tragedies more or less securely adapted into Latin, four or five can be found in the pictorial record: Electra, Tereus, Andromeda and Antigone, along with the always problematic Oenomaus. The two or three plays by Aeschylus that entered Roman tragedy also crop up on our vases from South Italy, Eumenides, Edonians and (possibly) Ransom of Hector or Phrygians. 134

135 136 137

138

Atilius was otherwise famous for his comedies: Varro Sedigitus included him in his canon of comic poets. See further Manuwald 2011, 280f. Cic. Fin.1, 2, 5; Suet. Iul. 84. Prop. 2, 14, 5f. with Lloyd 2005, 121. Ajax Mastigophorus: Jocelyn 1967, 179–181 (doubting Livius’ authorship); Suet. Aug. 85. Accius’ Epigoni: Cic. Opt. Gen. 18 (a passage unfortunately suspected of corruption). Pacuvius’ Niptra: Cic. Tusc. 2, 21, 48. The fragments of both Accius’ Tereus and Antigone suggest Sophocles’ tragedies. See Dangel 1995, 346. 362. Accius’ Tereus has been generally thought

139

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to follow Sophocles (Dobrov 1993, 199; Fitzpatrick 2001, 92) and there is little to prove that Livius Andronicus’ Tereus did not draw from the same model (Fitzpatrick 2001, 92). For Accius’ Andromeda, see above; on Oenomaus, see Radt on S. TrGF p. 381. It is unclear if Euripides’ or Sophocles’ Danae lie behind Livius Andronicus’ and Naevius’ homonymous plays. For Naevius’ Lycurgus as modelled on Aeschylus’ Edonians, see Dodds 1960, XXXI f., Seaford 1996, 26f. On Ennius’ Eumenides see below. Jocelyn 1967, 290f. reviews the issue.

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Fig. 5.1. Paris, Louvre inv. K 710: Apulian red-figure bell-krater, c. 390–380, attributed to the Eumenides Painter.

I take one example, Aeschylus’ Eumenides, both to illustrate how vases and Roman tragedies can illuminate each other and to use it as a starting point in identifying a group of plays that was particularly appealing to public audiences in South Italy and Rome. The iconographic tradition of Orestes’ refuge in Delphi begins in Attica around the mid-fifth century and later on spreads to South Italy, where it is found on several Apulian vases ranging from about the 400s to the 350s142. One of them, an Apulian bell-krater dated to the 380s and realised by the so-called Eumenides Painter (fig. 5.1; pl. 8.2), includes Apollo holding a piglet over Orestes’ head. This is a reference to the purification of Orestes at Delphi, as Orestes relates himself (A. Eum. 282f.). Since this scene is not enacted on the stage during the play, Giuliani forcefully argues for the mediation of texts: “whoever invented the iconography of Orestes’ purification did not rely on something he had seen at the theatre, but relied on what he had been read i n g” and shows accurate knowledge of the text and its details143. We know that tragedies circulated in written copies and that the textual transmission contributed, at least to some extent, to their 142

Taplin 2007, nos. 7–11; Csapo 2010a, 44f. with references. One of our vases, an Apulian bell-krater dated to around 400s may not be related to the Delphi scene, since has Orestes in Athens. Berlin, SMPK Antikensammlung inv.

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VI 4565 (Taplin 2007, no. 11 with Taplin’s comments). On the iconographic tradition of Orestes at Delphi in Attica, see above. Giuliani 2001, 36 (his italics). See Taplin’s rebuttal (2007, 63).

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popularity. In the second century, however, Aeschylus’ Eumenides hit the Roman stages via Ennius’ version. Few as they are, our fragments of this play make their Greek model quite clear. A character speaks of avenging his father by spilling his mother’s blood (nisi patrem materno sanguine exanclando ulciscerem, fr. LXIII Joc.). Using a legal language, another one says: “I proclaim that Orestes has won. You get away from him” (dico vicisse Orestem, vos ab hoc facessite, fr. LXIV Joc.). Who is the ‘you’ addressed here? To my knowledge, nobody has ever doubted that the speaker of this fragment is Athena and that she is addressing the Furies144. The implication is that Ennius retained Aeschylus’ chorus of Furies – the same Furies that we find illustrated on our vases and that, in Taplin’s words, “are the best candidates for distant echoes of the chorus” on our vases from South Italy145. The probability that an unassigned fragment by Ennius, “members of the Areopagus (areopagitae)”, also belongs to his Eumenides is surely there146. Eumenides may have kept drawing poets and audiences well into the second century, given that Pacuvius’ Orestes reportedly included Pylades, Apollo’s temple and an Orestes assaulted by the Furies147. Jocelyn (1967, 284) is surprised to find Eumenides in Ennius’ production because Aeschylus’ play “does not seem a likely theme for the second century Rome”. Yet, this is not the only example of an Athens-focused tragedy that fared well outside Athens and Greece in general. It is hard to tell why actors selected specific plays. At least later on, an actor’s physical build and talents played a role in his choices. Consider the Hellenistic actor-boxer from Tegea who specialised in Heracles’ roles or Cicero’ comments on performers picking tragedies according to their natural gifts. Actors who rely on their voice, Cicero writes, go for Epigoni and Medus, while those who are confident in their gestures opt for Melanippa and Clitemnestra148. It may also be relevant that several of the tragedies attested in the actors’ repertory (Sophocles’ Electra, Oedipus the King, Euripides’ Medea and Hecuba, for instance) have a strong main role played by one actor throughout149. These large roles may have been particularly attractive for virtuoso tragoidoi and they may have facilitated their job, since impersonating one single character is, I suppose, less demanding than impersonating more than one. If there is, however, a group of plays that can be most easily identified in our records for theatrical activities and that includes works by all three canonical poets, this group 144

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See Jocelyn 1967, 286. For Podlecki (1989, 24) Ennius’ tragedy “drew directly upon Aeschylus’ Eumenides”. Taplin 2007, 39. As far as we can see, Ennius’ treatment of the chorus varied. In his Iphigenia, he changed the choral persona by replacing Euripides’ women of Chalkis with a chorus of soldiers who, at one point in the play, complain about being forced to inactivity (fr. XCIX Joc.; on Ennius’ Iphigenia see also above). In his Medea, on the other hand, he retained Euripides’ Corinthian women (Cic. fam. 7, 6, 1 with Jocelyn 1967, 358–361). Ennius fr. CXCII Joc. (cited by Varro, Ling. 7, 19). Surprisingly to me, Jocelyn (1967, 285) does not ascribe the last fragment to Ennius’ Eumenides. The hypothesis to Aeschylus’ Eumenides knows of no work by the other two

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canonical tragedians dealing with this myth / G π 6 `). ( ’ $! ) Serv. Aen. 4, 473: “Pacuvius has Orestes led into Apollo’s temple under Pylades’ advice to avoid the Furies. And as he wants to get out, he is assaulted by the Furies”. See also Diom. GL 1, 490 with D’Anna 1967, 161f. SIG 1080 (on which see also above), Cic. Off. 1, 114. Note also Quintilian’s comments on Demetrius, an actor of (in all likelihood) Greek New Comedy. Quintilian mentions that he specialised in performing characters like gods and young men, remarks on his peculiar stage mannerism and adds that “in all of this, he was helped by his height and good looks” (Inst. 11, 3, 178f.). See Pickard-Cambridge 1968, 141. 145.

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comprises the tragedies focussed on Athens and Athenian myths150. Aeschylus’ Eumenides is one of the tragedies that bring us closest to Athenian history by staging the establishment of the Areopagus Council to replace personal vendetta. For all its Athenian focus, this play appealed to audiences in both South Italy and Rome. Another example from Ennius’ works is Erechtheus, modelled after Euripides’ homonymous tragedy151. This tragedy was set on the Acropolis, had a chorus of old Athenians and staged the sacrifice of the mythical king of Athens. The Delphic oracle instructed Erechtheus to sacrifice his daughter to save the city from the Thracian invasion led by Eumolpus. Erechtheus was evidently reluctant but his wife, Praxithea, spurs him into action with a long speech all framed around the need to put one’s country before one’s family. This is the speech that Lycurgus cites at length when prosecuting Leocrates for deserting Athens after Chaeronea. At the end of his quotation, Lycurgus takes care to add, “On these lines, men of Athens, our fathers were brought up”152. It is unclear to me if we should suspect theatrical performances of Euripides’ Erechtheus in Lycurgan Athens but this tragedy did retain a spot in public theatres to be adapted eventually into Latin153. According to an ancient scholar, Sophocles wrote his Oedipus at Colonos when already old “to gratify () 1«) not only his own land, but his own deme. So he made the deme famous and gave greatest gratification () 6 ) to the Athenians with the lines in which Oedipus says they will be unravaged and overcome their enemies”154. In the play, the deme is distinguished from Athens yet we are reminded that is ruled by Athens and her king, Theseus. Colonos is called the “bulwark of Athens” and it does become “a kind of miniature Athens”155. Oedipus appeals to Athens as “the city most honoured of all” and values such as piety, justice and hospitality are presented as typical of Athens156. Oedipus at Colonos was to be seen outside Athens and Attica. A calyx-krater from Taras dated to the 340s and now in the Geddes Collection in Melbourne illustrates the play: flanked by his two daughter Antigone and Ismene, Oedipus sits in the grove of the Eumenides at Colonos and he is here cursing his son Polyneices in the presence of another figure, Theseus in all likelihood (fig. 5.2; pl. 9.1)157. Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonos follows the pattern of a ‘suppliant drama’ where Athens is the city that rescues and protects the suppliant (who will, in turn, protect the city)158. Athens plays the same role

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151 152

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Scholarship on Roman tragedy has largely focused on the presence of Trojan themes and their relevance to Roman audiences. See Manuwald’s review and discussion of individual tragic poets (2011). See references above. Lycurg. 1, 100; E. Erechtheus TrGF F 360. See Wilson 1996, 312–314. A Lucanian pelike in Policoro, Museo della Siritide inv. 35304, dated to 420–410, has been identified as reproducing this play, although this vase has nothing explicitly theatrical. For a review of this issue, see Sonnino 2010, 133–135 with earlier bibliography. Euripides’ Erechtheus is also interestingly preserved on a mid-third century papyrus that seems to have contained the whole play, P. Sorb. 2328. See Carrara 2009, 35–39.

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Hyp. 1 to S. OC 13–17. Note the verb ) 6 , the same verb used for Euripides writing the Archelaos to “gratify” the King of Macedon: Family and Life of Euripides IA 6, 10; E. TrGF T 1. S. OC 58, Mills 1997, 194. See also Said 2012, esp. 87f. S. OC 14–16, 24f., 78f. (Colonos distinguished from Athens); 66–69 (Colonos under Athenian rule); 108 (citation). For Athens and its representation in Oedipus at Colonos, see Blundell 1993. Melbourne, Geddes collection inv. A 5:8 (Taplin 2007, no. 27). For the identification and interpretation of this scene, see Green et al. 2003, 27–29; Easterling 2006, 8f. Hall 2010b, 323f. with earlier literature.

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Fig. 5.2. Formerly Melbourne, Geddes collection inv. A 5.8: Apulian red-figure calyx-krater, c. 350–340. Close to the De Schulthess Painter.

in Euripides’ Children of Heracles, a tragedy set in Marathon and whose cast includes the Kings of Athens Demophon and Acamas, and a chorus made up by old men of Marathon, all ready to protect the suppliants from Eurystheus and his men. This is one of Euripides’ most patriotic works. First produced around 430, this play entered the pictorial record by its opening scene, Iolaos and the children of Heracles at the altar approached by Eurystheus’ herald. This tableau recurs on two Lucanian vases, and on one of them (fig. 5.3; pl. 9.2) Athena appears on the right to counter-balance the herald who has his typical staff and the traveller’s petasos. Athena stands for the city of Athens, representing both the Attic location and Athens’ care for the suppliants159. Probably realised in the same workshop, these vases were produced near or in Heraclea around 400, not too long after the play’s first performance. One concludes that this tragedy was staged in Heraclea, a town with a special tie with the cult of Heracles, but Heraclea is unlikely to have been its only performance venue. It makes good practical sense that actors did not master a play only to perform it once in one specific venue. Heraclea is surrounded by several cities hosting theatrical activities, Taras and Thurii, which probably co-founded Heraclea in 433 or 432160, and Metapontum, which lies halfway between Taras and Her-

159

Policoro, Museo Nazionale della Siritide inv. 35302 (Lucanian pelike); Berlin, SMPK Antikensammlung inv. 1969.6 (Lucanian column-

160

krater): Taplin 2007, nos. 37f.; see also Allan 2001, 74–78. See Osborne 2011, 119 with n. 168.

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Fig. 5.3. Policoro, Museo Nazionale della Siritide inv. 35302: Lucanian red-figure pelike, c. 400. Close to the Karneia Painter.

aclea. These centres must have made up a circuit, the periodos that travelling actors would visit in South Italy161. Scholars discussing Athens-centred tragedies depicted on South Italian vases often feel the need to justify what appears to be an oddity. Easterling (2006, 9) writes that “we might be surprised to find [Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonos] exercising the appeal it clearly did have” if the tragedy were as Athens-centred as its first hypothesis suggests, and points to “mutifunctionality” as the quality allowing a work’s survival. In discussing the reception of Euripides’ Children of Heracles in South Italy, Allan (2001, 80) acknowledges that tragedy “remained a political genre” even outside Athens, but notes that “its specifically Athenian elements lose their importance and are superseded by other ways of viewing the action”. The specific Athenian focus of these tragedies, however, may well have been their selling point. Greek tragedy steers away from Athens and her myths: shaped as the “nonAthens” and even the “anti-Athens”, Thebes holds the spotlight162. The exceptions are, therefore, all the more important. The stage afterlife of Euripides’ Suppliant Women is all but lost163, but the survival of the text suggests that this play did enter the performance tradition. Euripides’ Aegeus staged the story of Theseus who arrived in Athens, ran the risk of being poisoned by Medea and was finally recognised by his father Theseus. If Taplin is 161

See Dearden 1999, 234, who notes that there was a good deal of contact between painters working in Lucania and Apulia and that trade routes also suggest that this area was the first to receive travelling performers.

162 163

Zeitlin 1990. See also Revermann 2008, 245. Storey 2008, 121.

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correct in identifying Euripides’ Aegeus on an Apulian bell-krater dated to the late fourth century, this play too retained the favour of ancient theatregoers164. One could find other examples. Euripides’ Ion is set in Delphi, but has Athens written all over it. Creusa is an Athenian princess and the slave women of the chorus belong to the Athenian royal house. Athens is often mentioned and praised; Ion discovers his Athenian identity and by the end of the tragedy he leaves for Athens to rule over the city, as Athena herself tells him165. Later actors performed Ion both in Greece and in fourth-century South Italy166. Sophocles’ Tereus, which crops up both on the pictorial record from South Italy and in Roman tragedy, staged the myth of Prokne and Philomela, the daughters of the Athenian king Pandion167. Aristotle notes that the best tragedies of his day revolve around “few families” and names some examples: Alcmaeon, Oedipus, Orestes, Meleager, Thyestes and Telephus. His list excludes Theseus, but this omission does not suggest that “during the process by which tragedy metastasised over the entire Greek-speaking world, it became inappropriate for its content to be so explicitly designed for Athenians”168. Not only did later Greek playwrights compose explicitly Athenian tragedies (in the third century, Moschion wrote a Themistocles and Lycophron a Marathonians)169, but Athens-centred plays entered the repertory of travelling troupes. The Western Greeks’ interest in these kinds of tragedies squares well with their interest in Old Comedy. The visual record speaks of performances of Aristophanes’ Thesmophoriazusae and Frogs as well as Eupolis’ Demes170. Old Comedy, which is all concerned with things Athenian, drew the same audiences that went to watch tragedies171. It may be that Athens-based tragedies also inspired Roman dramatists writing Roman tragedies of Roman subject-matter, the praetextae. These plays celebrated Rome by staging episodes drawn not only from Roman history but also from Rome’s mythical past, as in Naevius’ Romulus and Ennius’ Sabinae. In this too, we can perhaps find some continuity between the Greek tragedies staged in South Italy and Roman dramatic production. Theatrical activities in South Italy and, later on, in Rome, make up a unique body of evidence for the stage afterlife of Classical and early-Hellenistic Greek tragedy outside Athens from 164 165

166

167

168 169

See references above. See Swift 2008, esp. 80f.: “Ion can … be read as a fairly unsubtle piece of Athenian self-assertion, designed to bolster Athens’ image as leader as well as reflecting the Athenians’ deepseated belief in their own superiority”. When mentioning acting techniques, [Demetr.] Eloc. 195 (a work generally dated to the Hellenistic period) refers to Euripides’ Ion and describes Ion’s first appearance on the stage. Euripides’ Ion can be identified on an Apulian volute-krater dated to the mid-fourth century (see above n. 102). See Accius, Tereus fr. 651W: Struunt sorores Atticae dirum nefas. Arist. Po. 1453a 17–22; Hall 2010b, 103. 97 Moschion TrGF F 1; 100 Lycophron TrGF T 3. The Themistocles that the Suda lists among the works of the comic poet Philiscus is often attributed to the tragic poet Philicus, a member of the Pleiad (Philicus Corcyraeus TrGF 104). See Kassel – Austin on Philiscus PCG T 1.

170

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Thesmophoriazusae: Würzburg, Martin von Wagner Museum inv. H5697, ca. 370. Frogs: formerly Berlin inv. F3046, 375–350. Eupolis’ Demes: Salerno, Museo Provinciale inv. 1812, ca. 350. Note that there are also three Apulian gutti reproducing Aristophanes’ Acharnians, dated to 330–320: Naples, MNA inv. Stg. 368n; Tampa Museum, Zewadki Collection; Münster, Arch. Mus. d. Univ. inv. 1009. On Attic comedy in South Italy, see Csapo 2010a, 38–82; Green 1994, esp. 64–67; Taplin 1993. J. Richard Green is preparing an updated catalogue of our vases illustrating Old Comedy. Since New Comedy is notoriously less focused on Athens than Old Comedy, it is also interesting that Roman poets adapting New Comedies “claim that everything happens in Athens, so that it may seem more Greek to you” (Plaut. Men. 7–10: hoc poetae faciunt in comoediis: / omnis res gestas esse Athenis autumant,/ quo íllud vobis graecum videatur magis).

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the fourth to the first century. That the same plays and motifs recur in both media is not a coincidence. Our tragedy-related vases and Roman tragedies belong to the same context, the ancient reperformance tradition of Greek tragedy.

Non-Canonical Greek Tragedians in Republican Rome The some thirty Roman tragedies that can be more or less securely identified as adaptations of the works by the three canonical tragedians are only a small part of the overall production. We know of some one hundred Roman tragedies of Greek subject matter composed and produced in the Hellenistic period, between the mid-third and the first century. Even factoring in the great gaps that trouble our knowledge of this genre and its authors, Roman tragedians did draw from the works of non-canonical tragic poets. Pacuvius, for instance, arguably earned the title of doctus poeta because of his taste for adapting less known plays172. If it is right to think that early Greek tragedies did not have a long reperformance tradition because of their hard language, their heavy choruses and old-fashioned staging, we should rule them out as possible models for Roman tragedies to consider only the plays produced from around the second half of the fifth century onward173. There is some positive evidence supporting this hypothesis. Consider Aristarchus of Tegea. The Suda tells us that he was a contemporary of Euripides and credits him with setting the length of plays, thus suggesting that he had an impact on the history of tragedy writing. Plautus opens his Poenulus tragically: “I wish to rehearse the Achilles by Aristarchus; from there, from that tragedy I’ll take my beginning: ‘be silent and quiet and pay attention; you are ordered to listen by the commander of’ … actors.” The scene mentioned here may be an assembly scene from a tragedy possibly staging Agamemnon’s attempt to persuade Achilles to go back to the battlefield. However extensively Plautus quotes and re-works the tragic lines, what he is citing here is not Aristarchus’ Achilles but its Latin adaptation by Ennius174. Roman audiences were familiar with Roman plays, both comedies and tragedies, by the title and author of their Greek models175. Plautus’ audiences knew who Aristarchus was. Nor was Achilles the only tragedy by Aristarchus to have reached Roman stages: according to ancient scholars, Ennius took “very many plays from Euripides and some from Aristarchus”176. The Hector by Astydamas the Younger, who was active from the 370s to at least the 340s, is another good example. Notoriously cited by Plutarch (Moralia 349f) in the same breath as the masterpieces by Aeschylus and Sophocles, this play is not ill-represented on papyri. Four papyrus fragments more or less securely attributed to Hector show that its text circulated in the Hellenistic period – one of the fragments apparently comes from an entire text, given the marker “song of the chorus” – and that it may have also reached the

172

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174

See, for instance, Hor. Epist. 2, 1, 56 with Castagna 1991; see also Fantham 2003, esp. 116f. On Pacuvius’ doctrina, see in general Schierl 2006, 64f. See the case of Phrynichus’ tragedies discussed above (at n. 79ff.). Plaut. Poen. 1–4, in the elegant translation by De Melo 2012. On these lines, see Jocelyn’s referenced discussion (1967, 164–167).

175 176

See further Nervegna 2013, 72–76. Gloss. Lat. I, 568 L (14 Aristarchus Tegeates TrGF T 4): Ennius … plurimas ex Euripide transtulit nec nonnullas ex Aristarcho. We have the title of only three of Aristarchus’ plays, Asclepios, Achilles and Tantalos, but the Suda credits him with seventy tragedies (14 Aristarchus Tegeates TrGF T 1).

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Roman period, in one format or the other177. As Taplin argues, the key scene of the play, the departing Hector who has taken off his helmet not to scare his child, made its way onto a monumental Apulian volute-krater dated to around 320 and attributed to the Underworld Painter (see 148 fig. 4.5)178. The single most important detail is here the helmet. Rather than putting it on the ground as in the Iliad, where he then leaves on foot, Hector hands his helmet to an “attendant,” whom we can here identify as his charioteer179. Roman tragedy has also something to add to the stage afterlife of Astydamas’ Hector. Given that, as far as we know, Astydamas’ Hector is the only play to have this title and to have dealt with the farewell and death of Hector, this tragedy is as the obvious candidate for the model of Naevius’ Departing Hector (Hector Proficiscens), which was produced sometime in the late third century180. The title of Naevius’ tragedy is, of course, significant: not only did the play enter the visual record by its key scene, but it also came to be called after it. Prometheus Unbound also crops up in the pictorial record. An Apulian calyx-krater dated to the 340s and attributed to the Branca Painter depicts this tragedy by its title-scene, Prometheus being released by Heracles181. Unusually well represented in our fragments, Prometheus Unbound belongs, in all likelihood, to a trilogy comprising Prometheus Bound and Prometheus Fire-Bringing. Attributed to Aeschylus in antiquity, these plays are very likely to be post-Aeschylean. Most scholars would date them to the 440s or 430s and, to explain the absence of an ancient debate on the Aeschylean paternity of this trilogy, a case has been made for Aeschylus’ son Euphronios as its author182. Cicero was familiar with Prometheus Unbound and adapted part of its prologue into Latin, although Cicero’s own lines were later ascribed to Accius183. Accius, at any rate, did write a Prometheus, and Accius’ debts to Prometheus Bound or Prometheus Unbound have been often discussed184. Aristarchus, Astydamas and the author of the Prometheus trilogy remind us that noncanonical authors and their works also survived on ancient stages. From the Classical period onward, scholars invariably wrote about Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides. The lives of the three canonical tragedians, for instance, kept circulating among students and scholars, and the recurrence of the same themes and key-words in these biographies suggests that they were approached and interpreted in relation to one another185. The hypotheses to the extant plays, or at least the hypotheses attributed to Aristophanes of Byzantium (Aeschylus’ Eumenides, Euripides’ Medea and Orestes, for instance), show a concern only for the three canonical tragedians by noting the use that they made of specific myths. Although he refrains from expressing his own opinion, Quintilian gives us a brief insight into intense debates on whether Sophocles or Euripides should be regarded as the best poet 177

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Astydamas II TrGF 60 F **1h? (P.Hib. II 174, second century, which preserves the note “song of the chorus”). **1i? (P.Amh. II 10, second century). **2a? (P.Strassb. W.G. 304.2, third century); TrGF adesp. F 649 (P.Oxy. 2746, first or second century AD). There is only one book-fragment, F 2 (cited by schol. Hom. Il. 6, 472). See Taplin 2009, esp. 257–261. Berlin, SMPK Antikensammlung inv. 1984.45; Taplin 2007, no. 101. See also Taplin 2009 and Taplin in this volume. Hom. Il. 6, 466–473; Astydamas II TrGF 60 F 2. Taplin 2007, 253; Taplin 2009, 256–260 (reading Adespota TrGF vol. II F 649 against

180

181

182

183

184 185

this vase to identify the figures depicted on the upper level). See, for instance, Snell in TrGF I 201, Manuwald 2011, 196. Berlin, SMPK Antikensammlung inv. 1969.9; Taplin 2007, no. 18. Griffith 1977, 9–13. 252–254; Griffith 1983, 31–33 (date); Griffith 1983, 281f. (trilogy); West 1990, 51–72 (see 67–72 for Euphronios as its author). Cic. Tusc. 2, 10, 23–25. On Cicero as the author of the Latin lines, see Herington 1961. D’Antò 1980, 350–357; Dangel 1995, 332. Hanink 2010b, 58.

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(Inst. 10, 1, 66f.). But for all the scholarly focus on the canonical tragedians and on the plays that they produced, on later stages there was much to be seen and heard that did not belong to the canon. Actors and audiences were less selective.

Conclusion In the hands of actors’ troupes, Classical Greek tragedies travelled far and wide. They entertained fourth-century audiences in Athens and continental Greece, and moved across the Adriatic to be performed in South-Italian venues and to be illustrated on local artefacts. From around the mid-third century, they finally made their way into Rome, adapted into Latin by playwrights who hailed from South Italy. Reperfomance tradition took up different features: fast-changing in fourth-century Athens and Greece in general, and more conservative in South Italy, with Roman poets eager to adapt well-known scripts as well as tragedies that are, at least for us, quite obscure. Across time and media, the plays by the canonical tragedians keep recurring: there was, in general, much Euripides to be seen, much more than Sophocles and Aeschylus. Aeschylus, the earliest tragedian who made an impact on the history of the genre, did not fare as well as his younger colleagues. When his plays were reperformed, they were selected according to their affinity with later tragedy so that ancient audiences knew only the more modern Aeschylus. With his recognition scenes, debates and easier Greek, the late Aeschylus was closer to Sophocles, Euripides and later tragedy in general. Seen from this perspective, Aeschylus was truly the father of Greek tragedy. Of all Classical Greek tragedians and tragedies, the canonical playwrights and their works figure most prominently in the plays that we can identify in actors’ repertories. Our numbers, however, are surprisingly low. Even including all the tragedies that entered the reperformance tradition from the fourth century onward, in various areas across the Mediterranean, much drama is not there: only a small percentage of the tragic production by Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides survived on later stages. The history of the reperformance tradition of Greek drama is a barely charted territory. The earliest phase in the making up of the actors’ repertory; the reasons why the repertory included specific plays and, as far as we know, only Classical and Early-Hellenistic tragedies; and, last but not least, the relationship between these plays and those that became canonical in schools and among the larger reading public are all questions that remain open.

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Literary Evidence for New Tragic Production: The View from the Fourth Century Johanna Hanink

In an influential paper on the Athenian tragic theatre of the fourth century, Patricia Easterling amassed a variety of evidence to show that, contrary to a view widespread in tragic scholarship, “the fourth century was a time of extraordinary vitality in the theatre”1. This conclusion has been roundly reinforced by a number of subsequent studies; now in the light of the drastically revised communis opinio it is perhaps most surprising that just two decades ago the correction still was needed2. Nevertheless, and as Easterling explained, the idea that the theatre declined precipitously after the fifth century had its roots in ancient sources. In Aristophanes’ Frogs of 405 the god of theatre laments that no decent (tragic) poet is left alive (the play premiered shortly after Sophocles’ death)3. Aeschylus, and to a greater extent Sophocles and Euripides, dominate the pages of Aristotle’s influential Poetics4. During Athens’ Lycurgan Era (ca. 338–322) a decree of the Assembly also called for larger-than-life portrait statues of the famous triad to be erected at the Theatre of Dionysus, and for the scripts of their plays to be enshrined in the city’s archive5. We now better realise, however, that in the same period the festivals of the Great Dionysia, the Lenaea, and the ‘rural’ Dionysia (not to mention festivals outside of Athens) continued to showcase new plays annually6, tragic actors enjoyed greater status than ever7, and tragic playwrights were in some cases extraordinarily productive. For Plutarch, the names of the 1

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Easterling 1993, 562; cf. also Le Guen 1995, esp. 63–80 (her treatment of the Hellenistic theatre begins with the last decades of the fourth century). For the “stereotype of sudden and total collapse” see Easterling 1993, 559–562 and Le Guen 1995, 59f. with a survey of scholarship that subscribed to the earlier view at 59 n. 2 (Webster 1954 marks an early exception to the ‘old’ narrative). The notion that a violent rupture in Athenian tragedy occurred at the end of the fifth century had been of programmatic importance for some scholars: see e.g. Vernant 1972 (on “the historical moment of tragedy”) and, most influentially, Nietzsche’s The Birth of Tragedy (esp. at § 11). Ar. Frogs 71f.; cf. Easterling 1993, 559f. In a Discourse of the early second-century A. D. Dio ‘Chrysostom’ would class the same three tragedians (and only these three) among the “supreme men” of old, the Ν  Ν «: D. Chr. 52, 2.

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7

[Plu.] Moralia 841f. See Millis in this volume for the epigraphic evidence. Ceccarelli 2010, 106–121 discusses the Athenian practice of conferring honours upon benefactors “before the new tragedies” ( / G«  G«); this evidence demonstrates the continued importance of the new productions (esp. 118f.); see also Wilson – Hartwig 2009. On the prestige of the occasion see Aeschin. 3, 34 (discussed below). For the early (fifth– fourth century) spread of Athenian theatre in Attica and beyond see esp. Csapo 2010a, 83–116 and Taplin 1999. For a brief recent account of the rise of the actor see Csapo 2010a, 85–89; on the power of the actor in this period see esp. Easterling 2002; for Aristotle’s scattered remarks on the contemporary acting profession (few of them favorable) see Sifakis 2002.

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fourth-century tragedians Astydamas and Carcinus could, when invoked alongside those of Aeschylus and Sophocles, serve as a metonymy for the whole of the Athenian tragic tradition8. What, then, might have led generations of modern scholars to trust in any account, of whatever antiquity, that implicitly (and causally) synchronised Sophocles’ death in 405 with the death of a genre, institution, and industry? With that question in mind, this paper re-examines contemporary literary evidence for new tragic production in fourth-century Athens. Easterling embarked on her argument with this programmatic statement of direction: “It may be best to begin, not with the fragments and their probably misleading perspectives, but with the theatre as an institution”9. Here she was referring to the fragments of fourth-century tragedy, which modern scholars had tended to characterise as melodramatic, sentimental, and highly derivative of Euripides10. Scholarship in recent years has begun to show signs of taking late Classical tragedy more seriously, both on literary grounds and as texts which attest to continued relationships between new tragic production and wider currents of cultural and political life11. My own study will be touching upon aspects of the similarly “misleading perspectives” upon tragedy which surface in other texts from the century (in comedy, Aristotle, and oratory); these texts certainly bear some of the blame for earlier assumptions of tragedy’s post fifth-century decline. Here I will focus primarily on tragic testimonia from the third quarter of the century, i. e. after Plato and before the career of Menander, because a remarkable body of evidence for the theatre – literary, material, and documentary alike – clusters in this period. As Eric Csapo and Peter Wilson discuss in this volume, the administrations of Eubulus and Lycurgus in Athens saw major reorganisations of the city’s theatre industry12, and the literary evidence from these years will also attest to certain shifts in the discourses that attended Athenian theatrical life. My primary aim will be to tease out from these testimonia certain statements and themes that could have contributed to the mistaken impression that, compared to tragedy’s ‘Golden Age’ in the fifth century, the fourth was a relative wasteland for new production. The pictures suggested by the two different sets of evidence (documentary and material vs. literary) do initially appear to be distinct. In the first case, theatre construction and renovation, inscribed victory records, and other documents concerned with the management of the dramatic industry foreground the persistence of successful playwrights and clearly attest to the “extraordinary vitality in the theatre” that Easterling importantly emphasised13. In the second, however, literary discussions of new tragic drama often place that output against the background of the Classical, i. e. fifth-century, tradition, or speak of the tragic theatre only in general terms. The fragments of fourth-century comedy, for example, show a tendency to regard tragic drama as a collective whole (Tragedy) rather than to engage directly with single new plays and performances (tragedies). Nevertheless, the texts’ emphases on the theatrical past and tragic ‘universals’ are in most cases best read in the context 8 9 10

11

Plu. Moralia 349 e (De Gloria Atheniensium). Easterling 1993, 563. On the fragments of fourth-century tragedy see esp. Xanthakis-Karamanos 1980. See Taplin in this volume, as well as Carrara 2007 on the poetic sophistication implied by fragments from Astydamas’ Hector (TrGF 60 F 1h–2a), a scene of which may be depicted on a vase: Taplin 2007, 253–255. See also Karamanou 2011 on fourth-century tragedies and Lightfoot 2002 on the case of Hellenistic tra-

12

13

gedy: in addition to Lycophron’s Cassandreis, “there are other examples of plays which may have offered at least some scope for contemporary political engagement, a relief from postEuripidean romantic melodramas which often colour our notions about the nature of much Hellenistic tragedy” (222). On the Lycurgan theatre programme in Athens see also Lambert 2008 and Hanink 2010a. See esp. the contributions in Sections A and D of this volume.

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of other cultural currents (such as tragedy’s ‘internationalisation’, and increased theorisation: see below) or in the light of the other agendas at stake for the authors. Upon closer reading and despite their many references to the tragedy of the past these sources, too, will bear witness to the high profile and productivity of the tragic theatre in the fourth century.

1. Middle Comedy and Tragic Theorisation In the fifth century, and especially during its last few decades, Athenian comic playwrights showed a sustained and varied interest in the art, lives, and works of their tragic counterparts14. Comedies satirised elevated tragic diction, but they also specifically named, parodied, and otherwise alluded to recent plays and productions. A fragment of Strattis’ Orestes Humanised (Anthroporestes), for example, contains critical evaluations of both a particular tragedy and a single performance: here an eponymous archon laments that Euripides’ Orestes, the tragedian’s “cleverest play”, had been “mangled” by the actor Hegelochos15. Aristophanes was especially fond of transforming tragedians into comic characters, and in his surviving plays ‘Euripides’ appears more often among the dramatis personae than any other figure16. In the Acharnians the poet is visited at home by Dicaeopolis, who is hoping to borrow the costume of one of Euripides’ tragic characters. After rejecting the outfits of Oeneus, Phoenix, Philoctetes, and Bellerophon, Dicaeopolis finally settles on the rags of Telephus, which lie in a pile together with the clothes of Thyestes and Ino17. This scene, with its effective catalogue of Euripidean title characters, serves to highlight two distinguishing features of comedy’s engagement with tragedy in this period: a tendency to refer to specific plays and productions, as well as to the personal figures of specific tragic playwrights18. After the spectacular paratragic fireworks in the Frogs of 405, there is little evidence that comic playwrights continued to regard new tragedies as the same treasure-trove of material. This is hardly to say that fourth-century comedy severed ties with its sister genre, and especially in the earlier part of the century popular mythological comedies continued to parody tragic plots19. By roughly the mid-century, however, the spirit of comedy’s specific references to tragic poets and plays has visibly shifted. The references tend no longer to be made to contemporary tragedians or to recently premiered pieces; instead the comic playwrights appear to maintain their gaze fixed primarily on tragedy of the past. And although fifth-century comic playwrights had alluded to (works by) a variety of roughly contemporary tragedians, as far as we can tell from the fragments those 14

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For overviews of comic responses to tragedy at the end of the fifth century see esp. Taplin 1986 and 1996; Foley 2008; see also Rau 1967; Seidensticker 1982; and Medda et al. 2006. On Aristophanes and tragedy see esp. Goldhill 1991, ch. 3 and Silk 1993; for recent studies of tragedy and other comic playwrights see Telò 2007, 106–121, Miles 2009, and Bakola 2010, 118–176. Strattis PCG F 1 ap. schol. E. Or. 279; for discussion see Miles 2009, 118–126. See esp. Tammaro 2006 on tragedians as characters in comedy and Platter 2007, ch. 5 on Euripides in Ar. Ach. and Th. In later centuries a

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19

topos of the Euripidean biographical tradition held that Euripides had been driven to abandon Athens for Macedon because he could no longer endure the abuse of the comic playwrights: TrGF T 1 IB, 3; cf. Satyr. Vit. Eur. (POxy. 1176) fr. 6, 39 col. 15 with 39, col. 19 Schorn. The scene occurs at Ar. Ach. 394–489. Cf. also e.g. the reference to Euripides’ “recent Helen” (κ  κ aE!) at Ar. Th. 850. See esp. Nesselrath 1990, ch. 3, 1; Casolari 2003, ch. 5; Cusset 2003, 31–35. Cf. Mastronarde 2010, 5f. n. 18 for a list of names of plays by Euripides that also appear as comic titles in the fifth and fourth centuries.

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allusions become more restricted in the fourth century to Euripides and, to a lesser extent, Sophocles20. In the later comic corpus, however, the poetry of neither of the two playwrights tends to be the direct object of satire, even in those fragments which contain quotations of their plays. Instead, scenes of tragic citation generally aim to provoke laughter at the character quoting, not the tragedian quoted21. With an aura of dignity now wellestablished around the old tragedies, more comic potential now apparently lay in absurd (mis)quotations of tragic poetry, particularly by low-status characters22. Certainly the general nature of the later fragments to quote primarily from Euripides and Sophocles may reflect the nature of the texts that preserve the fragments themselves: for an author such as Athenaeus (our source for the majority of the comic fragments discussed here), these two tragedians enjoyed premiere status among the authors of the Greek literary past23. Nevertheless, the very persistence of allusions to their works in comedies composed ever longer after their deaths is noteworthy in itself. In the Rustic (Agroikos) of Antiphanes24, for example, an unknown character reworks lines from Sophocles’ Antigone into this encomium of excessive drinking: ² ) »«   .6   )   « Ρ ! / $λ κ   λ κ π!  # !) !6« λ « b  ,  ’ $ 6’ {¹λ @   ν 5  R)’} $ ’ $ 25.

Look at the trees along torrent streams that stay moist all day and night; how large and beautiful they grow! But those that resist are destroyed root and branch (trans. Olson). Here the anonymous tippler misappropriates lines from a venerated tragic text26, and the joke lies in the transposition of Sophocles’ verses – from Haemon’s great monologue – to 20

21

22

23

In TrGF vol. I, a number of the testimonia that Snell records for the ‘minor’ tragedians derives from Old Comic, and particularly Aristophanic, sources: see esp. the predominance of Aristophanic testimonia in the cases of the fifth-century tragic poets Carcinus, Melanthius, Philocles, Theognis, Morsimus, Morychus, Xenocles, and Agathon. Slater 1985a, 103; cf. Nesselrath 1990, 248f. (Nesselrath remarks that the “Komödienfiguren keine klassischen Philologen sind”: 248). For similarly absurd moments of tragic quotation see also e.g. Antiphanes’ Carians (PCG F 111); Wounded Man (T «, PCG F 205); and PCG adesp. F 228. On tragic quotations in Middle Comedy see esp. Slater 1985a and Cusset 2003, 46–52 (on Alexis’ reworkings of tragic verse). See Nervegna in this volume on the popularity of Euripides and Sophocles on later stages, in both the fourth century and beyond. By Athenaeus’ own day, however, Sophocles was not a popular author among the literary elite: Cri-

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26

biore 2001, 198 notes: “The papyri show that members of the cultivated public were very fond of Euripides; they read Aeschylus rarely, and Sophocles even more infrequently”. Antiphanes’ career spanned much of the fourth century: he was born between 408 and 404 (in the 93rd Olympiad), began competing as a comic playwright at roughly the age of twenty, and is said to have died at the age of seventyfour – though a reference in one of his fragments (PCG F 185) to “King Seleucus” suggests a terminus post quem of 306: on the dates see Nesselrath 1990, 193f. Antiphanes PCG F 228, 3–7; cf. S. Ant. »«   .6   )   « Ρ | 712–714: ² ) ! / 7  , -« ³«  ) (1 , |  ’ $ ’ $ ’ $ . Cf. esp. D. 19, 246f. Aristotle refers to the play at Rh. 1, 1373b 11–12. 3, 1417a 28–32. 1417b 20. 1418b 32. On the influence of Sophocles’ Antigone in the fourth century see e.g. Scodel 2007, 144f.

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the decidedly less dignified pursuit of inebriation. And yet Antiphanes and his colleagues also enjoyed satirising the type of audience member most likely to reel at the drunkard’s mishandling of Sophocles, namely the over-zealous devotees of old tragedy. Within the comic fragments of this period we find hints that extreme (and sometimes unhealthy) tragedy-mania had become a topos in its own right. The playwright Alexis, whose first victory at the Great Dionysia was in 34727, supposedly wrote a play called The Tragedy Lover (Philotragoidos), and Axionicus composed a Euripides Lover (Phileuripides)28. One of the fragments of Axionicus’ play tells of a couple who are so sick (% ) with love of Euripidean song that everything else sounds like shrill gingras pipes29. On rare occasions, hints at the world of contemporary tragic theatre do nevertheless break the surface. The “tragedy lover” of Alexis’ play need not have been enamoured exclusively of earlier tragedy, and references to the fourth-century tragedian and dithyrambist Chaeremon appear – once in the company of Euripides’ name – among the Middle Comic fragments30. A character of Antiphanes also complains that the expense of providing golden robes for a chorus can reduce the choregos himself to rags31, and another play by Alexis calls for the part of a tragic actor-cum-chef: its character Simos is “the best cook among actors and the best actor among cooks”32. Explanations for the comic fragments’ apparent fixation on earlier tragedy also do not require any narrative of theatrical decline. Konstantakos has recently outlined how the level of international success and prestige that the Athenian theatre had by this time achieved changed the “working conditions” of playwrights, who came to be in increasingly high demand with audiences outside Attica33. The Theatre of Dionysus in Athens could not have played host to every comedy from this period, not least because playwrights so productive as e.g., Antiphanes and Alexis, wrote more plays than the city’s festivals could accommodate34. If comic playwrights were producing their plays abroad, it would be risky to assume that audiences were up to date with the latest in Athenian tragedy. These poets could, however, be confident that references to Euripides, Sophocles, and certain of their plays would be recognised in many corners of the Greek world. Conversely, a later writer such as Athenaeus may have been more inclined to quote more generalising discussion35. Nevertheless, we might still suspect that some comic 27

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On the dates of Alexis see Nesselrath 1990, 198f. and Arnott 1996, 3–10. Axionicus PCG F 3; discussion at Nesselrath 1990, 245–247. Philippides, a poet of New Comedy, also wrote a Phileuripides: PCG F 25; discussion at Sommerstein 2002a, 155. The topos can be traced back at least to the Frogs, at the beginning of which Dionysus tells Heracles that his longing (6«) for Euripides has been devouring him (52–54; cf. 103); on the nature of Dionysus’ longing see esp. Halliwell 2011, 101–106. Eubulus PCG F 128 = Chaeremon TrGF 71 F 17; cf. Eubulus PCG F 151 with Hunter 1983 ad loc. See also Ephippus PCG F 9, which also names Euripides and Homer; cf. Nesselrath 1990, 247f. Antiphanes PCG F 202, 5f. The type of choregia (dramatic or dithyrambic) is admittedly not specified. Alexis PCG F 140, 14–16, cf. Csapo and Slater

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1995, 9f. See esp. Nesselrath 1990, 226–228, Arnott 1996 ad loc. Konstantakos 2011, 9–18 (with bibliography on the spread of Attic comedy at 14 n. 23). Antiphanes and Alexis are said to have written 280 and 245 comedies, respectively; cf. Konstantakos 2011, 14f. See also Handley 1985, 399: “The fourth-century Athenian theatre freely drew in talent and exported plays, which were certainly written in some number: 617 were catalogued for the period Middle Comedy […] according to the so-called Anonymous, De comoedia; and Athenaeus’ figure, possibly differently based, is ‘over 800’” (Handley’s references are to Anon. De com. III 45–46 Koster and Ath. 8, 336c). See however esp. Csapo 2000, 116 and 126–129 on the dangers of assuming that later fourth-century comedy generally lacked topical references because it was more ‘international’: as Csapo reminds us, Attic comedy’s

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poets of this era generally avoided topical references to recent drama out of concern for the ‘durability’ of their own works. Whether a contemporary tragedian such as Astydamas could stand the test of time still remained to be seen, but it would be long before allusions to Sophocles and Euripides – particularly allusions to their works qua classics – put a comedy at risk of appearing dated36. In the mid-fourth century Athens was still the capital of Greek theatre, but in hindsight we can also see that the industry’s ‘independence’ – and its decentralisation with respect to Athens – was not far on the horizon. Alexander the Great heralded an explosion of new theatre festivals37, and the early decades of the next century saw the formation of professional actors’ guilds, the ‘Artists of Dionysus’38. These evolving circumstances help to contextualise another aspect of the comic fragments of this period, i. e. their discussion of tragic drama in general and abstract terms. Comic speeches about the very nature of tragedy required only that spectators be familiar with tragic conventions, and not with the current theatrical landscape of Athens. In a piece that focuses on tragedy in the early fourth century, Hall has observed that “The export of tragedy coincided with its increasing theorisation”39, much of which was developed and enacted on comic stages: in the last decades of the fifth century, the Attic comedians’ parodies of and other engagements with tragedy had prompted spectators to think about the defining parameters of the theatrical genres, as well as about the arc of tragic drama’s own evolution (as in Aristophanes’ Frogs)40. In the fourth century comedy likely continued to play a significant role in how tragedy was regarded and understood by its audiences. New comic plays would also have both reflected and had a hand in shaping what in this period was an incipient ‘canon’ of tragic texts, or at least a broad repertory of plays that were generally familiar (whether in revival or textual form) to broad swathes of theatre-goers and readers41. A lengthy fragment of Timocles’ Women at the Dionysia42, consists in a detailed account of how tragedy helps to put the suffering and grief of one’s own life into perspective. The discussion is articulated here in part through a panorama of standard tragic plots (Timocles PCG F 643):

36

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internationalisation had already begun in the fifth century (cf. esp. Easterling 1994 on tragedy’s own early international audiences). Nevertheless, the sheer quantity of comic production in this period is suggestive of more of a ‘mass market’. New Comedy does contain a few quotations of fourth-century tragedians: Daos’ torrent of sententiae in Menander’s Aspis, for example, includes citations of poetry by Carcinus and Chaeremon: Men. Asp. 415–418 = Carcinus TrGF F 5a; Men. Asp. 425–428 = Chaeremon TrGF F 42 Snell. Both Carcinus and Chaeremon were perhaps regarded as having a relatively assured ‘durable’ status thanks partially to Aristotle’s references to them in his Rhetoric and Poetics (Chaeremon: Rh. 1400b 25. 1413b 13; Po. 1447b 22. 1460a 2; Carcinus: Rh. 1400b 28. 1417b 18; Po. 1455a 26–29). See Le Guen in this volume. Le Guen 2001, II esp. 5–40 (on the evolution of the ‘Artists’); Aneziri 2003, esp. 37–41 (on the

39 40

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third-century Athenian section of the guild). For a briefer overview of the Artists see also Lightfoot 2002. Hall 2007b, 272. Hall 2007b, 273; see also Wright 2012, 162– 164; Taplin 1986. Sophocles’ Antigone, for example, is parodied in the fragment of Antiphanes’ Agroikos discussed above (PCG F 228, 3–7), and in his speech On the False Embassy Demosthenes indicates that the play was regularly reperformed (D. 19, 246f.; see too below). For Aristophanes’ own possible role in the early shaping of the tragic canon see esp. Rosen 2006; on the evidence for the development of the tragic canon in the fourth century see Nervegna, this volume. Dionysiazusai; third quarter of the century? On the dates of Timocles’ career (from the 340s to at least 317) see Nesselrath 1990, 200. In Ath. 6, 223b–d and included by Stobaeus (4, 56, 19) in a collection of consolatory pas-

Literary Evidence for New Tragic Production: The View from the Fourth Century

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Listen, mister, and see if what I say makes sense to you. Man’s a creature doomed to trouble by his very nature, and his life brings many griefs with it. He therefore invented these ways of distracting himself from anxious thoughts; because after your mind forgets (5) its own problems and gets entranced by someone else’s suffering, it leaves happy – plus educated. Consider first, if you will, the benefits the tragedians bestow on everyone. One guy, who’s a pauper, finds out that Telephus was poorer than he is, (10) and immediately he has an easier time putting up with his own poverty. The man who’s a bit unstable thinks of Alcmeon. Someone has an infected eye; Phineus’ sons are b lin d . Someone’s child has died; Niobe cheers him up. Someone’s crippled; he sees Philoctetes. (15) An old man’s down on his luck; he finds out about Oineus. Because when a person considers all the bad luck even worse than his own that’s hit other people, he complains less about his own troubles (trans. Olson). On a number of counts this fragment reflects an interest in the ‘theory’ of tragedy, or in the abstract parameters and qualities of the genre. For example, the character attributes to tragedy the power of enthralment (@)/, 6) as well as education ( «, 7); and of pleasure (π", 7) alongside benefit (gφ, 9). The notion of @)/ as a potential effect of a techne is foreshadowed already by Gorgias, who in his Encomium of Helen had spoken of poetry’s capacity to ‘enchant’ (6!/) and even of its sorcerous power ()45. Used of poetry, however, the term @)/ is first witnessed in fourth-censages (  ; cf.  @)« … φ / at l. 4). See Hunter 2009, 42f. on the consolation ( 6) that mythical stories were seen to provide. In Plato’s Apology (41a–b) Socrates claims that he looks forward, upon his arrival in Hades, to comparing his own sufferings ( % 6) with those of Palamedes and Telamonian Ajax – and with “anyone of old who also died because of an un-

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just judgment” ( λ 4  « Ν« -  -     Ν  !6 , 41 b). Commentaries: Kassel – Austin ad loc. (PCG VII 759); Olson 2007, ad D 5 (169–172). Gorg. Hel. 10. These terms occur precisely in the context of a discussion of the ‘release from grief’ (it provides $/λ «; cf. line 3 of the Timocles); cf. Gutzwiller 2000, 113f. and Halliwell 2005, 395f.

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tury Socratic texts. In Plato’s Phaedrus Socrates speaks of the enthralment effected by rhetoric46, while Xenophon’s Socrates asks the sculptor Kleiton how he produces that aspect of his works which most “enthrals” their viewers – the appearance that the statues are alive47. With the possible exception of Timocles’ character, Aristotle is the first whom we know to have attributed the power of @)/ specifically to tragedy: in ch. 6 of the Poetics he claims that the parts of tragedy which most “enthral” (@)/G) are its reversals and recognitions48; he also judges that tragic spectacle (@ «), though enthralling (@)/ ), is the least artful or natural aspect of the poetic craft49. But that which is especially striking about Timocles’ fragment is that its speaker attributes to tragedy the (positive) effects of enthralment and ethical instruction alike. As Gutzwiller has discussed, in the Hellenistic period discussions and debates about the purpose of literature would crystallise “around the terms   , ‘instruction’, and @)/, ‘enthralment’”50. Yet the comic character evidently saw no tension in setting these terms, as well as a number of related ones, in each other’s close company: as Gutzwiller further reminds us, “   was associated with benefit (gφ), and @/ with pleasure (π")”51. In the next century Eratosthenes would pronounce that “every poet strives at enthralment, not instruction”, but this comic fragment locates tragedy’s gift precisely in its ability to bring about both52. The fragment of Timocles is, we should remember, a comic one, and in going on to list a series of examples of tragedy’s ‘didacticism’ its speaker does perhaps over-literalise his observations about tragedy’s function to the point of caricature: Rosen has recently argued that the fragment “seems to be a parody of explicitly didactic theories of tragedy, the kind of theorising that takes the notion of ‘teaching’ very literally and directly”53. Yet even if the fragment performs a reductio ad absurdum of certain current ideas about tragic drama, such a parody would entail a parodic object and thus the existence of a thriving interest in (debates about) the nature and function of tragedy. On other points as well, the monologue points to shifts in the way that tragedy was being discussed. It is, for example, notable that this character can see the sufferings of a handful of tragic characters as sufficient metonymy for the whole of the tragic genre. The catalogue in these lines shares the names of Oeneus, Philoctetes, and Telephus with the ‘costume’ scene from the Acharnians, but a critical point also differentiates the two passages: Timocles’ speaker lists standard characters after whom tragedies were still often named54, but not specific plays of any particular poet. 46

47

48 49

50 51

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Pl. Phdr. 261a. Cf. the discussion of Lucas 1968 ad Arist. Po. 1450a 33. X. Mem. 3, 10, 6. Socrates is himself attributed with ‘psychagogic’ powers at Ar. Birds 1555. Arist. Po. 1450a 33–35. Arist. Po. 1450b 16–17: $) ξ λ W  ' G «   «. Gutzwiller 2010, 340. Gutzwiller 2010, 340. At Ar. Frogs 1051 ‘Aeschylus’ praises poets of the past for being “beneficial” (gφ!  ) to people, by teaching them skills and moral values. Cited at Strabo 1, 1, 10; cf. Gutzwiller 2010, 341. For a discussion of the intellectual genealogy of the ideas about tragedy which this fragment presents see Halliwell 2005, 394–396. Halliwell rightly sees this speaker as implying that “pleasure and understanding are some-

53

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how interwoven in the viewing of tragic drama” (395). Rosen 2012, 183. Rosen sees in this fragment “the kinds of parodic practices that we have come to associate with the poets of Old Comedy” (184). Telephus: Aeschylus, Euripides, Iophon (son of Sophocles), Agathon, Cleophon [and Moschion in the third century]; Alcmaeon: Sophocles, Euripides, Agathon, Timotheus, Astydamas II; Phineus: Aeschylus, Sophocles (at Po. 1455a 10 Aristotle refers to a Phineidae); Niobe: Aeschylus, Sophocles; Philoctetes: Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Antiphon, Philocles I, Theodectes; Oeneus: Sophocles(?), Ion, Euripides, Philocles I, Chaeremon. Cf. Olson 2007, D 5 ad loc.

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In Book 2 of the Republic Socrates, too, speaks about possible tragic subjects in a similarly generalizing way. Having just quoted lines from Aeschylus’ Niobe, he prescribes that if anyone else should wish to compose tragedy about “the sorrows of Niobe or, say, those of the Pelopidae or the Trojans or anything else of the sort”, he must not represent the sufferings as the fault of god55. Both Timocles and Socrates’ lists of customary tragic subjects and characters thus reflect the development of an approach to tragedy that considered ‘typologies’ of plots and protagonists. We can even discern the first seeds of these in the late fifth century, as when in the Frogs ‘Aeschylus’ declares, “By god, I never created whores, Phaedras or Stheneboias”56. To this ‘Euripides’ retorts: “And what harm, O worst of men, did my Stheneboias do the city?”57. A similar catalogue of standard tragic plots appears in another lengthy fragment of Middle Comedy that preserves part of a speech from the Poetry of Antiphanes, Timocles’ older contemporary. Here a figure – ‘Poetry’ herself, or perhaps a comic playwright58? – expresses resentment at how lucky the tragedians are: if they get their plots in a bind, they can always “throw in the towel” by using the crane ()"), that is, by bringing in a deus ex machina. This fragment, too, contains a distinctly general (and generalising) account of tragedy (Antiphanes PCG F 18959):      π  ) /   ’, 4   - ¹  7μ - 6- '  / ! ,  λ   ’ 'G· —6’ 7  G μ " O' ’ j φ  ’ Ν ’ 4 · ² κ F «, " #I , 6! «, G« «,  6’ k«,   . j   49   « #A !/, λ    ’ $6« 4 )’, Ρ λ« $!  κ ! ’, $ - ’ 5A « $6!/« W5   ’ Ν   – ∪  R 6’ Ρ ξ /’ 'G R ,

 9  ’ $ " /   G«   , 4   —   κ )",

λ G« 6/!   $) (/« R) .

55

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Pl. R. 2, 380a:  « N#« 6, ν  P - ν  T /  c  Ν -  /. Compare D. 19, 377, on Aeschines’ poor reception with audiences when he would perform “the misfortunes of Thyestes and the men   ). in Troy” ( \! λ - λ T  ) Ar. Frogs 1053: $’ $  :’ $ i «   « $ξ 86#«. These plurals may refer more strictly the ‘Phaedras’ of both of Euripides’ Hippolytus plays, and the ‘Stheneboias’ of his Stheneboia and Bellerophon; they do however show signs that stereotypes about such characters were crystallising. Ar. Frogs 1059: λ  #’, τ )! ’

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$ -, κ   4λ 86!#  . Plutarch uses similar plurals in De Gloria Atheniensium: if one adds up the costs of Athenian tragedies, it would likely come out that the demos spent more “on Bacchaes and Phoenissaes and Oedipuses and Antigone and the woes of Medea and Electra” ('« B )« λ i « λ O'« λ #A  λ  M«

  λ #H!  «) than on their empire and the defense of freedom against barbarians (Moralia 349a). Poetry herself: Handley 1985, 412; a comic playwright: Hall 2000, 414. In Ath. 6, 222a–223a.

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πG ξ %’ $ R , $  G 7 G, H  ,  – ∪  / !  – ∪ –   )   ,  %  , κ  φ", κ '#". j n  /  9  X !«  « ν i/  «,    PG ξ %’ R5 λ T ) /  G60.

20

Tragedy’s a thoroughly enviable type of poetry! The plots, first of all, are familiar to the audience before anyone speaks a word; so all the poet has to do is offer a reminder. (5) Someone need only say “Oedipus”, and they know everything else: his father’s Laius; his mother’s Jocasta; who his daughters and his sons are; what’s going to happen to him; what he’s done. Again, if someone mentions Alcmaeon, he’s as good as named all his children, plus (10) the fact that he went crazy and killed his mother, and that Adrastus is going to get annoyed and come straight home and go off again … Then, when they’ve run out of anything to say and have totally collapsed from exhaustion in their plays, they raise the theatrical crane like a white towel61 (15) – and the audience is satisfied! We don’t have these advantages, so we have to invent everything: new names, …; and then what happened previously, the current situation, (20) the conclusion, and the introduction. If some Chremes or Pheidon omits even one of these points, he’s hissed off the stage; but they let Peleus and Teucer get away with this (trans. Olson, slightly modified). Hall reads these lines as evidence of how comedy in the fourth century “continued to develop popular ideas about the formal distinctions between the two genres – for example, how they engineered plot closure”62. The speaker here protests that the tragedians can resolve knotty plots with the crane, and in other texts of the century the )" is itself used as a metaphor for an easy (and cheap) way out of a pinch. Amidst the discussion of the relationship between signifier and signified (the “truth of names”) in Plato’s Cratylus, Socrates proposes reaching a resolution by taking a page from the tragic poets: “whenever they are at a loss, they get out of it by bringing in gods on cranes”63. He then playfully suggests that the group simply attribute the earliest words for things to the gods. In Antiphanes’ fragment, the speaker’s complaint about the crane helps to build a picture of tragic production that has gone relatively stale: if the tragedians continued to repeat well-known versions of mythological events, what room was there for creativity and innovation64? Some of this speaker’s observations even seem to be confirmed by Aristotle. In ch. 9 of the Poetics Aristotle allows that tragic poets need not restrict themselves to the traditional myths: Agathon’s Antheus was no less delightful because its characters and 60

61

I reproduce the Greek text of Olson (2007) D 6. Commentaries: Kassel-Austin ad loc. (PCG II 418f.); Olson 2007, ad D 6 (172–175). I have modified Olson’s translation of the line (“they raise the theatrical crane like a white flag”) to reflect the likelihood that the metaphor is from boxing (where “to throw in a [white] towel” is to surrender) rather than warfare. See the detailed discussion of Mastronarde 1990, 291 n. 3; cf. 298f. for “select testimonia about the crane”.

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Hall 2007b, 273. Pl. Cra. 425d. In his second oration against Boiotos, Demosthenes claims that the defence had brought in the witness Timocrates “as if from the crane”: — $μ )«, D. 40, 59. Nesselrath 1990, 240f. suggests that Antiphanes’ fragment makes most sense if it dates to a period when comedy no longer regularly parodied myth (mythological comedies could also use the )": 241).

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events were made up ( ). In the same passage, however, he also indicates that tragic poets do tend to keep to mythical material65. Later (in ch. 14) he then confirms that, when tragedians do work with myths, they cannot ‘undo’ the essential aspects of the traditional stories (« ξ σ   !« 6«   $ R ): Clytemnestra must always be murdered by Orestes, and likewise Eriphyle by Alcmaeon. The task of the playwright, Aristotle explains, is therefore to find ways to “use” () 6 ) the old stories well66. And yet in a recent discussion of Antiphanes’ fragment, Taplin has reminded us of how well the tragedians did seize upon opportunities to invent new plots, even if the barest bones of mythical stories were already established. He emphasises the example of Euripides’ Antigone, which deviated in crucial respects from the Sophoclean – and later the ‘standard’ – version67. We of course need look no further than the surviving plays to find variety in the handling of a single story68: neither Sophocles nor Euripides’ Electra follows the exact same path as Aeschylus’ Libation Bearers. Dio’s 52nd Discourse (a comparison of the same three tragedians’ Philoctetes plays) also offers a sense of the latitude that the established ‘biography’ of Philoctetes allowed. Moreover, as a fragment of comedy Antiphanes’ lines must be taken with a heaping of salt. Their expression of the comic premium on novelty reworks in some ways the boasts of innovation and originality that we find in the parabaseis of fifth-century comedies69. In the parabasis of the Peace, for example, Aristophanes is particularly “eloquent in identifying literary innovation as the distinguishing characteristic of what he offers the comic stage”70. Antiphanes’ fragment, too, should be read under the rubric of a larger and long-lived discourse that championed (and likely often exaggerated) comic novelty and innovation. Although the extant fourth-century comic fragments are sparse in their references to contemporary tragedians and recent tragic productions, the ‘theorising’ that is reflected by the fragments of Timocles and Antiphanes should inspire us to imagine a backdrop of energetic theatrical activity71. The tragedies in which Timocles’ speaker finds consolation (and which Antiphanes’ character claims are so easy to write) cannot simply be established classics of the fifth-century past. The generalisations made in these fragments also make good sense in the context of Athenian theatre’s popularity and continued diffusion throughout the Greek world. Spectators who were unfamiliar with, for example, Astyda65

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Arist. Po. 1451b 23–25: —’ $ /« ρ 1! -  !/ 6/,  λ ?« ¹  ) / ', $!)6 . A few lines earlier he had also remarked that in tragedy, unlike in comedy, the poets “cling to established names” [i. e. to mythological characters] (λ ξ «  ) /« - !/ H/ $!) , 1451b 15–16). Handley 1985, 412f. compares Antiphanes’ fragment and Aristotle’s remarks; see also Lowe 2000, 260–262 on these passages as evidence for ancient views of comedy’s ‘fictionality’. Arist. Po. 1453b 22–26. With reference to Antiphanes’ line 7 he remarks: “È innegabile che la relazioni di Laio, Edipo, e Giocasta fossero pressoché definite: ma le storie riguardanti le loro figlie (6! «) non lo erano assolutamente”: Taplin 2010, 28. See also Xanthakis-Karamanos 1979a on fourth-

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century ‘deviations’ from fifth-century tragic treatments of myth. On the varieties of the same myths that we find in both plays and on vases see Small 2003, 43–45. Cf. Handley 1985, 412, who prudently remarks: “In interpreting this passage, we shall beware of treating Antiphanes as if he were writing an article on theatre and audience in the fourth century”. Biles 2011, 3. Cusset (2003, 20) sees still further theoretical reflection in Antiphanes’ fragment, such as an opposition between tradition (7 ) in the case of tragedy and invention (7 G) in the case of comedy, as well as an interest in exploring multiple “termes de la famille de  G” (i. e. , l. 2;  ", l. 5) (Cusset 2003, 45).

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mas’ recent Alcmaeon could still have understood the references that Timocles and Antiphanes’ speakers make to the character’s ‘tragic’ insanity. Finally, the typologies of tragic subjects on display in these fragments attest to the continued participation of tragedy in current intellectual trends, and particularly in the late fourth-century impulse towards prosopographical categorisation and the portrayal of ‘stock’ types72. That tendency is evidenced on a variety of fronts, including the material record for both the production of terracotta figurines depicting “standard types of the comic stage in standard situations” and the further standardisation of mask-types73. To this milieu we can also assign Theophrastus’ Characters, some of which happen to overlap with titles of fourth-century comedy: e.g. “toady” ( 574) and “bumpkin” (Ν  «)75. Aristotle, too, had taken an interest in outlining the characteristic rusticity of the ‘bumpkin’76, and Antiphanes himself composed at least one play called Agroikos (see above)77. In some ways, then, the characters of Oedipus and Alcmaeon had become to tragedy what the parasite and the country bumpkin were becoming to comedy. The last two lines of Antiphanes’ fragment of Poetry even make the parallel explicit: Chremes and Pheidon were stock comic names78, just as Peleus and Teucer were now ‘stock’ tragic figures79. Antiphanes’ own use of his genre’s ‘types’ thus marks another count on which his speaker’s complaints about tragedy beg to be read as “somewhat disingenuous”80.

2. Signs of Life in Aristotle Antiphanes is said to have died at the age of 74 and so between the years 334 and 33181; Timocles composed comedies from the 340s until at least as late as 317. The careers of both playwrights thus overlapped with that of Aristotle, and both would have been active in 335, at the start of Aristotle’s so-called Second Athenian Period. During that time Aristotle lectured and wrote on his theories of tragic poetics, but he also conducted research into the historical particulars of Athenian dramatic competitions. This vein of research yielded at least two works, the Victories at the Dionysia and Didascaliae82. In the Poetics, on the other hand, Aristotle undertook to outline the ‘universals’ of tragedy: the essential features of tragic drama, which (unlike historical writing) captured the universals of 72 73

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76 77

78

Cf. Slater 1995, 37. Green 1991b, 32. On the typologies of masks in New Comedy see esp. Webster 1995, 1–51. Thphr. Char. 2; the title of plays by Philemon and Menander. Thphr. Char. 4; plays by Anaxilas, Antiphanes; later Philemon and Menander. On Theophrastus and esp. New Comic characters cf. Diggle 2004, 8: “Comedy furnishes much the same cast of players as the Characters”. The pseudoAristotelian work Physiognomica may also date to the late fourth century. For the passages see Broadie 2009, 168f. Konstantakos 2004 argues that Antiphanes actually wrote two Agroikos plays. Cf. the discussion of these lines in Hunter 1985, 65f. Hunter notes that Chremes and Pheidon are not merely everyday Athenian

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names, but “stock names for comic characters” that “turn up play after play” (65). In Terence’s plays Chremes would essentially become the name for the stock type of the distinguished Athenian man (cf. Phormio, Andria, Hautontimorumenos). Cf. also Men. Ep. 326–327 for the phrase “some Neleus and Pelias” (N!   | P ), a reference to the high-born parents to whom goatherds give babies, according to a typical tragic plot (outlined at lines 325–333). On the passage see esp. Gutzwiller 2010, 111f. Slater 1995, 37. See nn. 24 and 42 above on the dates of Antiphanes and Timocles, respectively. On these works (and their relationship to inscribed victory records) see esp. Blum 1991, 24–42.

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human behaviour and events83. Like the fragments of Antiphanes and Timocles, Aristotle’s theorisation took as its subject Tragedy conceived as a whole. But his discussions also show specific points of shared interest and inquiry with the comic fragments. Like the speaker of Antiphanes’ Poetry, Aristotle is critical of the )" as a means of tragic resolution ( «)84. He also and again emphasises the ‘fictionality’ of comic characters as opposed to the mythical personae of tragedy85. And like the speaker in Timocles’ fragment, he endeavours to describe and to define the nature of the abstract benefit (gφ) that the experience of tragedy brings: ch. 6 of the Poetics contains the famous (if elusive) claim that, by means of pity and fear, tragedy accomplishes the purgation ( 6  «) of those same emotions86. Aristotle’s own writing may itself be a far cry from comedy, but the similar observations and orientations should cause us to wonder with Handley “how far comic practice nourished Aristotelian theory before the formulated principles in their turn influenced comic dramatists”87. While, moreover, the aim in the Poetics is to outline and describe the universal features of tragedy, it is also true that the works of fifth-century tragedians (Sophocles, Euripides, and to a lesser extent Aeschylus) dominate the work, a text in which Webster saw “praise of Classical tragedy on every page”88. Tragic plays by four more or less contemporary tragedians (Astydamas II, Carcinus II, Chaeremon, and Theodectes) are mentioned in the Poetics, but these receive comparatively little individual attention89. Instead, Aristotle tends to place his references to later tragedies alongside citations of plays by one of the three great fifth-century tragedians. Astydamas’ Alcmaeon and Sophocles’ Wounded Odysseus are adduced as examples of tragedies in which the critical event occurs during the timeframe of the play90, while Theodectes’ Lynceus and Sophocles’ Oedipus the King 83

84

85

For poetry’s treatment of universals see esp. Arist. Po. ch. 9; for the universals of tragedy as the heart of Aristotle’s inquiry see esp. Heath 2009 and 1991. Po. 1454a 47-b 2, where Aristotle disapproves of the ending of Euripides’ Medea. Cf. Handley 1985, 412f. When Aristotle observes that Agathon’s Antheus was delightful although its characters were fictional (see above n. 65), he goes so far as to claim that it would be ridiculous (G) for (all) tragedians always to treat mythical stories, “since even the ‘known’ stories are actually only known to few people, but they nevertheless delight everyone” (λ λ  (  H « (   , $’ Ρ/« $φ  «, 1451b 25f.). It does perhaps seem logical to read this as “an argument whose initial thesis contrasts strikingly with what is asserted” in Antiphanes’ fragment (so Olson 2006, 173) – namely that tragic plots are all well-known by the spectators (¹  7μ - 6- '  / ! , PCG F 189, 2f.). However, Aristotle may be speaking of specialised and detailed mythological knowledge, or he may be advancing his strongly ‘universalist’ approach to tragedy: poetry speaks of universals (

6, Po. 1451b 6f.), and a well-con-

86

87 88

89

90

structed tragedy should delight anyone – even those with no knowledge of myth. Po. 1449b 27f. Plato’s Socrates had seen giving in to tragic emotions as dangerous (Pl. R 10, 603b–607b); Timocles’ fragment, by contrast with both Plato and Aristotle, emphasises a kind of distancing that tragic spectators will experience (to their own benefit) from the tragic sufferings that they see onstage. Gutzwiller 2000, 114 writes of Timocles’ fragment that “this speaker’s more complete theory of tragedy seems a comic reworking, perhaps even a parody, of contemporary Aristotelian ideas”. It is nevertheless difficult to determine the direction of influence, and the discussions of both texts may independently reflect a broader interest in these sorts of questions in this period. Handley 1985, 413. Webster 1954, 307; Green 1994, 50 counts: “Aristotle refers to five plays of Aeschylus, twelve of Sophocles, and twenty of Euripides” in the Poetics. Karamanou 2011 attempts to reconstruct some of the lost fourth-century tragedies on the basis of Aristotle’s discussions. Po. 1453b 33f.

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are brought together as dramas about reversals of fortune91. Carcinus’ Thyestes and Sophocles’ Tyro exemplify cases of “recognition by signs”92, and Theodectes’ Tydeus is one of four plays (including Aeschylus’ Libation Bearers and Euripides’ Iphigenia in Tauris) that are named to demonstrate how recognitions can occur “as a result of inference”93. These pairings of fifth and fourth-century examples are by no means haphazard, but rather serve the programmatic purpose of illustrating the coherence and consistency of the ‘universal’ tragic genre. For Aristotle, true tragic plots of all times and places would hinge upon recognitions and reversals and provoke pity and fear. The distribution of specific tragic references in the Poetics may nevertheless seem to imply that the fifth-century playwrights had set a standard that was not being matched in Aristotle’s own day. Yet any apparent bias for the fifth century can again be explained without recourse to a narrative of theatrical languor and decline in the fourth. In the first place, Aristotle likely chose to draw his exempla from plays such as Oedipus the King and Iphigenia in Tauris because they were known to the broadest audiences – whether in Athens, his native Macedon, or elsewhere in Greece94. An illustration from, e.g., Sophocles’ now century-old Oedipus the King had the potential to illuminate for a great many people Aristotle’s new concepts, such as his categorisation of a plot’s events as taking place either within or “outside of the drama”95. But Aristotle also suggests that even he saw certain contemporary tragedies as being of a high quality: in Poetics ch. 13 he observes that “These days the best tragedies are written about a few [mythical] houses”, such as those of Alcmaeon, Oedipus, Orestes, Meleager, Thyestes, and Telephus (in the old days, tragedians would write plays about whichever myths struck their fancy)96. Perhaps unsurprisingly, this catalogue shares names of tragic characters in common with those which appear amid Timocles and Antiphanes’ lines – another indication that the accounts of tragedy in the comic fragments also had new production in mind. Furthermore, in Aristotle’s Rhetoric – where the explicit object of inquiry is not tragic poetry – we find more references (ten) to fourth-century tragedy than the nine that occur in the Poetics. The majority of these appear in ch. 2, 23, a section on strategies of demonstrating the truth of an argument which contains relatively few references to plays by Sophocles and Euripides97. Scholars have long been tempted to explain the frequency of fourth-century tragedy here with Aristotle’s famous observation in the Poetics that the characters of tragedy now speak more ‘rhetorically’ than they had in the past (when they 91 92 93 94

95 96

I. e. a  ! : Po. 1452a 24–27. Po. 1454b 23–25. I. e.   %: Po. 1455a 3–10. See White 1997 for Aristotle’s remarks on these plays, which appear to have been among his ‘favourite’ tragedies. Po. 1453b 31f. Po. 1453a 17–22:  - ξ  ¹  λ « )« 6« $ 6, % ξ  λ H« ' « ¹    ) / 6 , b  λ #A !/ λ O' λ #O ! λ M!  λ \! λ T"φ λ Ρ « Ν « #!#  ν 6G   ν   . Kitto 1966, 114–116 found Aristotle wholly critical of contemporary tragedy, but the phrase ¹

   ) / implies otherwise.

97

Fourth-century references: to Antiphon’s Meleager (Rh. 1379b 13 and 1399b 26), Carcinus’ Medea (Rh. 1400b 28); to a play by Chaeremon, likely his Dionysus (Rh. 1400b 25); to Theodectes’ Alcmaeon (Rh. 1397b 3) and Ajax (Rh. 1399b 26 and 1400a 28). (At Rh. ch. 2, 24, 3, 1401a 36, Aristotle also mentions Theodectes’ Orestes.) Fifth-century references: to Sophocles’ lost Teucer and Tyro at 1398a 4 and 1400b 17 [= S. TrGF F 597] respectively; Euripides’ Hecuba and lost Thyestes, at Rh. 1400b 22 and 1397a 16–18 [= E. TrGF F 396] respectively. In Rh. 1400b the lines from Sophocles and Euripides along with a line by Chaeremon (TrGF 71 F 4, from Dionysus) are cited as verses which draw attention to characters whose names particularly suit them.

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had spoken in a more ‘civically’-minded way)98. But Aristotle may also have been more inclined to draw upon contemporary tragedy in the Rhetoric because no larger argument about the nature or development of tragedy was at stake. In the Rhetoric his references to tragedy have a different purpose than they do in the Poetics (i. e. that of illustrating strategies of argumentation, not of supporting the ‘universality’ of plot structures or devices), and his heavier reliance there upon fourth-century drama attests to both the productivity and influence of his play-writing contemporaries99. In spite, then, of the predominance of allusions to fifth-century tragedy in the Poetics, both there and elsewhere Aristotle does open windows onto the vitality of the fourth-century theatre100. His critique of how the fourth-century tragedian Carcinus (ineptly) staged a play about Amphiaraus also points to an experience of, or at least an interest in, current performance101. Certain plays of Sophocles and Euripides, on the other hand, constituted for Aristotle a useful body of ‘set texts’ which, thanks to their popularity and status, could be relied upon when abstract ideas called for illustration by means of specific examples. And as in the case of the comic fragments, the Poetics’ specific references primarily to Classical tragedy would have made for a text more accessible to wider Greek audiences: both Aristotle and the comic playwrights communicate ideas about tragedy without requiring their audiences to be versed in the latest plays or productions. In this period, then, an appreciably larger circle of people could have been drawn into debates about the nature of tragic poetry and performance. Aristophanes’ Acharnians was surely most enjoyable for those spectators who had also been present to watch Euripides’ Telephus, but anyone with a modest experience of theatregoing could have understood the logic of Timocles’ verses, the complaint of Antiphanes’ speaker, and the principles of tragic architecture and design that Aristotle sets down. The manifest liveliness of these conversations about tragedy does not then make sense unless we postulate a vital theatre industry alive in the background, inspiring and provoking these debates to take place.

3. Theatrical Disputes in Athenian Oratory In the Poetics Aristotle characterises contemporary tragic speeches as more ‘rhetorical’ than they had been in the past, but the rhetoricians of this period were also in one way becoming more ‘tragic’: Demosthenes, Aeschines and Lycurgus each quoted from tragedy in one of their surviving speeches. These instances of quotation are restricted to verses of Sophocles and Euripides, and certainly attest to Classical tragedy’s present status as a source of “implicit authority, and a storehouse of edifying moral and political models”102. In each case, however, the orator’s use of fifth-century tragedy should also be contextualised within broader themes and arguments of the speech. Tragic verses tend to be cited in order to emphasise the distance between the morality of the speaker’s opponent and the venerable ancestors of the Athenian past – an idealised past to which Sophocles and Euripides 98

99

Po. 1450b 7–8: ¹ $ )G   -«  !«, ¹ ξ % . -«. See esp. Xanthakis-Karamanos (1979b) and Le Guen 1995, 69f. on rhetoric and fourth-century tragedy. For a more extensive discussion of Aristotle’s uses of and approaches to both Classical and more contemporary tragedy see Hanink 2010a, ch. 6.

100

101 102

See also e.g. Sifakis 2002, on the remarks made by Aristotle about contemporary actors and acting. Po. 1455a 26–29; see esp. Green 1990. Wilson 1996, 315. On the role of tragedy in fourth-century oratory see also Scodel 2007, 133–142.

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(just like Pericles and Themistocles103) now firmly belonged. In Lycurgus’ Against Leokrates (330), for example, the cowardice of men such as Leokrates, who had fled Athens after the defeat at Chaeronea, is highlighted by comparison with the devotion to Athens that had been shown by the legendary King Erechtheus, who sacrificed his daughter to save the city. Lycurgus explains that Euripides should be commended for dramatizing that sacrifice in his Erechtheus, then proceeds to quote an entire speech from the play104. Aeschines had also used a quotation of Euripides (“a poet than whom no one is wiser”105) in his speech Against Timarchus (346). The verses, from Euripides’ Phoenix, highlight the importance of the company one keeps and are cited to cast doubt upon Timarchus’ own character106. Three years later, in On the False Embassy, Demosthenes would criticise Aeschines for making use of the Phoenix, largely because it had not been performed in recent memory107. Instead, Aeschines should have cited (and taken to heart) lines from Sophocles’ oft-revived Antigone, a tragedy in which Aeschines himself had acted108. In On the False Embassy, Aeschines’ failure to grasp the civic value of Antigone constitutes one of his many failures to respect and to interpret correctly critical chapters in the Athenian past. Neither does Aeschines understand, for example, the nature of the model provided by Solon, even if in Against Timarchus he had invoked Solon’s legendary self-restraint109. Demosthenes would reprise this strategy against Aeschines in his speech On the Crown, of 330. There Demosthenes bids the clerk to read out the tragic monologues that Aeschines, in his days as an actor, had mangled (« ." « Ϊ« )110. Only one line of each speech is transmitted with the text, but the first is the opening verse of Euripides’ Hecuba. Yet again, Aeschines’ abuse of the city’s theatrical patrimony is cast as a symbol of the ruin that he has brought upon Athens itself111. Despite the orators’ restriction of their quotations to the tragedy of the past, their speeches do also contain indications that a dynamic – and costly – theatre industry was in full operation in the Athens of their own time. In his First Philippic Demosthenes expresses his frustration that his fellow citizens always manage to plan so well for their celebrations of the Panathenaea and the Dionysia, but not for their military expeditions. Those two festivals, he claims, are more lavishly funded and see bigger crowds than any other comparable occasions112. In his First Olynthiac he then reproaches the Athenians for too often diverting to their festivals (i. e. to the theoric fund) monies that had been earmarked for military needs (in the stratiotic fund)113. Aeschines’ Against Ctesiphon and Demosthenes’ On the Crown also offer glimpses at how enormous and important the occasion of the Great Dionysia was still perceived to be. At dispute in these speeches is the legality of the proposal that Ctesiphon had made (in 336) to award Demosthenes a crown for his services to Athens. In Against Ctesiphon, Aeschines expresses particular outrage that the crown 103 104 105 106 107 108 109

Cf. Aeschin 1, 25, 2. Lycurg. 1, 98–101. Aeschin. 1, 151. Aeschin. 1, 152 = E. TrGF F 812. D. 19, 246. D. 19, 246f. D. 19, 252 with Aeschin. 1, 25f. On Demosthenes’ presentation of Aeschines’ failure as an Athenian citizen see esp. Scodel 2007, 139; Martin 2009, 57–70 discusses Demosthenes’ characterisation of Aeschines as a violator of ancestral religious nomoi.

110 111

112

113

D. 18, 267. For further discussion of these instances of tragic citation in the orators see Hanink 2010a, chs. 3, 3 and 4. D. 4, 35 (First Philippic, 351/350); Pritchard 2012 discusses (and debunks) the topos of Athenian outspending on festivals over military needs. D. 1, 19 (First Olynthiac, 349); cf. Plu. Moralia 349 b.

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was to be announced not in the Assembly, but at the Great Dionysia and in the timeslot be/-  !/  -, Aeschin. 3, 34). fore the competition of new tragedies ( ) When crowns are conferred in that moment, Aeschines argues, they are bestowed “in the presence of all Greeks”114. He therefore shudders to think that all Hellas could be given the impression that Demosthenes was the kind of man whom the Athenians thought fit to honour. In his own ‘crown’ speech Demosthenes retorts that this moment is perfect for the conferral of honours, precisely because of the crowds: “all who hear the proclamation are spurred on to do good deeds for the city”115. As recent studies of crownings have emphasised and as both of these speeches suggest, the prestige of the honours that were proclaimed before the new tragedies implies the continued importance of that agon within the festival – the portion of the programme at which “all of Greece” was allegedly present116.

Conclusion The tragedy of the fifth century casts an undeniably long shadow over the literary texts of the fourth century, where Sophocles and Euripides enjoy enormous status and fame. By looking beyond the explicit references to specific tragedies, however, we can also see signs in these texts that new tragic production was as energetic as ever. Two of our lengthiest fragments of fourth-century comedy consist in extended reflections on the nature of tragedy and frame their discussions in theoretical terms that, to our knowledge, had developed only since the fifth century. Contemporary tragedians provided Aristotle with a number of examples with which to illustrate his points in the Rhetoric (and to a lesser extent, in the Poetics, too). In 330 Demosthenes staunchly defended the proposal that he be crowned at the Great Dionysia before the contest of new tragedies, but twenty years earlier he had found his compatriots’ love of the theatre to be a point of severe frustration: to his mind the ‘tragedy lovers’ of Athens (cf. Alexis’ Philotragoidos) diverted far too much money from military affairs into their lavish festivals. Finally, the generalising discussions in both the comic fragments and Aristotle’s Poetics also hint at the wider audience that tragedy enjoyed in this period. The essence of the tragic genre no longer depended upon the most recent premiere at the theatre in Athens, but lay in the Antigones, Alcmaeons and Meleagers who trod tragic stages throughout the Greek world. Read closely, then, the literary testimonia do have their own images of tragic vitality to offer, and those images complement as well as complicate the picture that continues to emerge from the material and epigraphic record. Nowhere, perhaps, does idealisation of the theatrical past distract us from the dynamism of the fourth-century tragic theatre as much as in the story of the statue which the 114

115

116

Aeschin. 3, 43; cf. 3, 34 (“not in the presence of the demos, but of the Greeks”). 3, 49. 3, 189. Cf. Wilson – Hartwig 2009, 18 “Attendance of the theatre was also evidently greatest at the tragic contest, and hence deemed to be the ideal moment for maximum publicity” (they cite Isoc. 8, 2). D. 18, 120: Ϊ« '« μ  G σ κ     ! . Ceccarelli 2010 observes how striking it is that “the venue chosen for the announcements, a

venue which might be considered the most prestigious event, and linked with civic life, is not the moment reserved for the old tragedy, which harked back to the great period of Athenian theatre, but the contest of new tragedies” (118f.). For the allure of this competition at the fourth-century Dionysia see also Xenocrates T 22 Parenti, ap. Plu. Moralia 603 c, de Exilio: Xenocrates left the Academy just once a year, to watch the agon of new tragedy.

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Athenians awarded Astydamas, one of the most successful and productive tragedians of the fourth century. According to lexicographical sources, “praising oneself like Astydamas” came, thanks to the comic poet Philemon, to be a phrase synonymous with praising one’s self excessively117. The root of the saying supposedly lay in the epigram that Astydamas allegedly composed for his own statue in the Theatre of Dionysus118. Athens had awarded him the statue in the wake of his victory at the Great Dionysia (in 340) with a slate that included his Parthenopaios. But, we are told, the Athenians found the epigram too arrogant for inscription119: 46’ Ω   « , c G ψ’ πG θ («  «  -  % φ!  , ³« ’ $6«  6 $φ6λ«   «· % ξ ) ) /  !)’, p φ6« $ n 120.

If I had lived in their day, or they in mine, those men who seem to carried off the first prizes in eloquence, then I would have been judged on fair grounds as their competitor121. But they have the advantage of time, where envy does not follow. Diogenes Laertius raises the episode in his biography of Socrates, as part of a litany of injustices that the Athenians had committed against other great men. For Diogenes, however, the victim in question is not Astydamas. Diogenes claims (citing Heraclides as his source) that the Athenians had fined Homer fifty drachmas for madness, labelled Tyrtaeus insane, and “honoured Astydamas with a bronze statue before [they honoured] the tragedians of Aeschylus’ era”122. Diogenes thus encourages our indignation at the honours for Astydamas: who was this tragic playwright to think that he could have competed with the likes of Aeschylus or a Sophocles123? But Diogenes’ personal resentment only diverts us from what is perhaps the most interesting part of the story, namely that it was Astydamas, a tragic poet of the fourth century, whom Athens deemed worthy of receiving its honours first.

117

118

119 120 121

Zen. 5, 100; Phot.  502; Suda  161. In Paus. Gr. the lemma ( 6) is κ  G« — #A«,  (cf. Philemon PCG F 160). On the ‘Astydamas base’ that has been recovered in the Theatre of Dionysus see esp. Goette 1999 and Papastamati-von Moock, this volume. Zen. 5, 100 = Astyd. TrGF 60 T 2b. App. Anth. 43. The text is Page’s (FGE 33–4). Page (1981, 34) explains that $φ6λ«   « is the ‘language’ of the stadium: Νφ « is the start of a race, the man who is   « is “competing side-by-side”.

122

123

D. L. 2, 43 = Heraclides F 169 Wehrli: #A    -  λ A')  '  ) 9 . One can only imagine that Diogenes is referring to the Lycurgan statues of the three great tragedians from ca. 330; cf. n. 705 above. Heraclides himself lived in the fourth century, and was associated with the Peripatos. Pausanias the Lexicographer calls Astydamas’ epigram an   $1 μ:  6 = Astyd. TrGF 60 T 2a. See Biles 2011, 22f. on its “competitive poetics”.

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The Evolution of Comedy in the Fourth Century* Andrew Hartwig

Comedy in the first half of the fourth century, according to some modern accounts, marked a lowlight in the genre’s development1. It had entered a slump, only to re-emerge at the end of the fourth century, reinvigorated by the so-called New Comedy represented chiefly by Menander. Although scholarship has made some progress towards restoring the reputation of comedy in this period, nevertheless one still often encounters the belief that Middle Comedy on the whole was a period of transition2, a description which, at the very least, implies it lacked a character and purpose of its own. Contemporary fourth-century views, on the other hand, reveal a different attitude. In the aftermath of the previous century comic drama had not died. Instead it was incredibly vital, proving to be a period of intense experimentation and discovery, open to a broad range of influences, and adopting both new and previously under-explored comic themes. The beginning of the fourth century, which is the main focus of this chapter, contributed much to set the agenda of comedy for the remainder of the century and beyond. Here more than any other period we see significant changes and developments, with a definite shift away from popular fifth-century styles. This is not to deny that there was no continuity at all between fifth and fourth-century comedy3 – politics and personal satire, for example, can still be found right through to the end of the fourth century4. But nevertheless obvious changes emerge. This chapter will focus on these popular developments and analyse the forces that influenced these changes, giving rise to a style (or styles) of comedy that would dominate for centuries to come. The first part of this chapter will survey broadly some of the changes that took place in the early fourth century. Next, it will look at the reception of Old Comedy in fourth-century Athens – or rather the general absence of it – which itself seems to be a symptom of the rapid change in tastes and styles of comedy. Finally I will survey some of the broader developments in fourth century theatre and society that helped contribute to many of these changes. * This chapter has benefitted much from discussion with colleagues. I would very much like to thank Zach Biles, Eric Csapo, Richard Green, Sebastiana Nervegna, Ted Robinson and Peter Wilson for their helpful comments. 1 The most famous denunciation is by Norwood 1931, 37f. He describes Middle Comedy as “extremely dull … its authors differ little from each other”, as well as “a backwater … many single pages of Plato and Demosthenes are worth all these remnants”, and that “between the excitingly varied landscape of Old Comedy and the city of Menander stretches a desert … tiresome, barren and trickling”. Concerning

2 3

4

the two canonical poets of this period, Antiphanes and Alexis, he pronounces: “the huge number of their plays suggests slightness and triviality”. Cf. Arnott 2010, 283. On the continuities see esp. Csapo 2000 and Papachrysostomou 2008, 18–23. Among some of the more recent bibliography on political comedy see e.g. Nesselrath 1997, Csapo 2000, 120f. and Konstantakos 2011, 162–174. For the dispute between the New Comedy poet Philippides and the politician Stratocles at the very end of the fourth century, see Hartwig forthcoming.

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Changing Trends in Early Fourth-Century Comedy Developments in fourth-century comedy can be analysed from many different levels, whether subject matter and themes, plot types, character types, the chorus, structural and compositional elements of comedy, or the use of obscenity and personal abuse. Changes in each of these aspects, in terms of the shift from Old Comedy to New Comedy, do not occur all at once, nor is there necessarily a single moment when all comic poets might be said to have adopted a certain development en masse. Significant changes to the chorus, for example, seem to be staggered and occur quite late. We still find actors interacting with the chorus, unlike in Menander’s comedy, certainly as late as 3465. Antiphanes possibly experimented with isolated choruses that did not interact with the actors as early as 3436. But even by Menander’s time we still find possible evidence of choral interaction in the comedy of his contemporaries7. New developments may take time to become popular and will naturally co-exist beside the old. Plot types typical of New Comedy, such as rapes and recognitions, we are told, first emerge with late Aristophanes, or perhaps his son Araros, as early as 387 with the comedy Kokalos8. Anaxandrides is also linked to this development, despite coming shortly after. But he might have been known for frequently adopting plots of this kind9. Not long before this we still find clunky episodic plot structures typical of Old Comedy such as that found in Aristophanes’ Wealth in 388.

5

6

7

Aeschin. 1, 157: the actor Parmenon addresses the chorus during a recent comic production in the Attic deme of Kollytos. This is based on the assumption that the standard formula for introducing the chorus in the late fourth century – as exemplified by Men. Dys. 230–232 – reflects a separation of the chorus from the actors. Antiphanes’ Dodonis (PCG F 91) uses such a formula, where an actor announces the arrival of a chorus of softliving Ionians on the stage. The description of the chorus as Ionians prompted Edmonds (1959, 202) to suggest that Dodonis might have been produced around 343 when an embassy from Persia visited Athens. But the date is by no means certain. A similar choral introduction can be found at Alexis PCG F 112 (from Kouris, date unknown). The tragic poet Agathon had already experimented with independent choral songs (embolima) in the late fifth century (Arist. Po. 1456a29–31 = TrGF I 39 T 18). On the fourth-century chorus in general see more recently Rothwell 1995. Cf. e.g. Plautus’ Rudens where the actors interact with a chorus of fishermen. This play was modelled on a Greek original by Diphilus who debuted soon after Menander. Cf. also the chorus of lawyers in Plautus’ Poenulus based on the Karchedonios of Alexis; although the date of Alexis’ original production may be earlier than Menander.

8

9

The Vita Aristophanis (Prolegomena XXVIII 5f. Koster = Ar. PCG T 1, 4–6) tells us that Kokalos (produced soon after 388) anticipated the New Comedy of Menander and Philemon:  -« ξ λ « !« /) /« μ   ! 5  ) - K/ ) /, 5 k κ $ )κ # M! «  λ i "/   . This comedy, we are later told, introduced themes of rape and recognition typical of Menander (Prolegomena XXVIII 54f. Koster = Ar. PCG T 1, 49–51): R @

/) /   K( ,  p ) ' φ6 

λ $/ μ λ Ν , ψ 1"/ M! «. Clement of Alexandria (Strom. 6, 2, 26, 6) claims that Philemon wrote his Hypobolimaios by altering the Kokalos of Araros: μ ! K(  μ  6! #A   ) - #A φ« ¹G i "/ ² / μ« 75«  aY# ) /  /) (. The Suda  1982 (= Anaxandr. PCG T 1) reports that Anaxandrides was the first to introduce love stories and rapes:  -« k« R /« λ  6!/ φ6 « '". On the problems associated with this claim in light of the Aristophanic evidence mentioned above, see further Webster 1970, 77 and Millis 2001, 7–9. Among the comedies of Anaxandrides, Millis 2001, 8f., cites Amprakiotis, Anteros, Kanephoros, Kitharistria, Phialephoros and Samia as possible candidates for plots of this kind.

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Another important development of this period is the appearance of stock character types, such as parasites, braggarts (including cooks and soldiers), and country bumpkins (agroikoi)10. Although prototypes can be found for many of these in the fifth century, it is only in the early fourth century that they emerge as popular comic types11. These developments in comedy even appear to have influenced ethological analyses in fourth-century philosophy, including the works of Aristotle and Theophrastus12. One of the more significant changes can be seen in dramatic themes. In the early fourth century we see a definite shift towards mythological comedies. Webster notes that in the first half of the century a third to a half of all datable plays have mythological titles13. Correspondingly we see a reduction in several popular themes of fifth-century comedy, including politics, fantasy, and utopian plots. While we do occasionally find mythological plays in the fifth century, these are mostly found among the older contemporaries of Aristophanes, such as Cratinus (roughly one third of his plays), and Hermippus. Aristophanes has a few, but it is not always clear if they are paratragedy or mythological burlesque14. In general mythological burlesque does not appear to have been very common at all during the last quarter of the fifth century, taking a back seat instead to political and other comic styles15. Among the comic poets whose careers began in the fifth and continued into the early fourth century, it is noticeable that most of the datable mythological plays of these poets were produced in the fourth century. For example, among the surviving titles of Aristomenes (ca. 439–388)16 his only known plays with mythological themes, Dionysos Asketes and Admetos, are dated to 394 and 388 respectively. The same phenomenon can be observed in Plato Comicus. His career spanned from around 421 to 38517. Most of his datable political comedies are found in the fifth century. Of the ten mythological titles among his works, only two are datable, but both fall in the fourth century18. Other Old Comedy poets who began their careers at the end of the fifth century, among them Strattis, Theopompus, Philyllius and Polyzelus, all have a high percentage of mythological titles. The shift towards mythological themes, therefore, can be seen taking shape more decisively in the fourth century, even among poets whose careers began many years earlier in the fifth. A particular sub-genre of mythological comedy, namely plays dealing with the birth of gods, suddenly becomes fashionable at the beginning of the fourth century19. One import10

11

12 13

14

For discussion of the comic parasite see Ribbeck 1883, Nesselrath 1990, 309–317 and Tylawsky 2002. For braggarts in general see Ribbeck 1882 and MacDowell 1990. For cooks: Nesselrath 1990, 297–309 and Wilkins 2000. Soldiers: Nesselrath 1990, 325–329. For agroikoi see Ribbeck 1888 and Konstantakos 2005. Cf. also the New York terracottas from around the last decade of the fifth century which feature standardised character types reproduced throughout the early fourth century (Green 1994, 34–37). Cf. Diggle 2004, 5–9. Webster 1970, 85. He contrasts the later period 350 to 320 where they only make up a tenth. Mythological plays and mythological burlesque are to be distinguished here from paratragedy. This distinction, however, is not without methodological difficulties in the case of fragmen-

15 16

17

18

19

tary plays, since it is often impossible to tell from a mythological title whether a comedy was based on a tragedy or on myth more generally (or indeed both). Cf. also Storey 2010, 200–208. Aristomenes’ career was possibly interrupted by exile if he was involved in the profanation of the Mysteries: see MacDowell 1962, 211 who also mentions the comic poets Archippus and Cephisodorus in this regard. On the date of his debut see Hartwig 2010, esp. 20–22. See Pirrotta 2009, 40f. Mythological titles comprise about one third of his works which are 31 in total. Comic poets who explore this genre (in roughly chronological order) are: Polyzelus, Demetrius I, Nicophon, Philiscus, Araros, Antiphanes and Anaxandrides. On divine birth plays in general see Nesselrath 1995.

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ant exception is Hermippus (ca. 440–410) whose #A6»«  was produced in the fifth century. Unless this is a late play it would appear to be an isolated phenomenon among fifth-century comedy20. It may even have provided inspiration for the crop of divine birth plays which flourished soon after when comedy begins to experiment with different styles of comedy. This phenomenon can be observed in other instances where fourth-century comic poets appear to adopt rare or neglected styles of comedy from the fifth century and make them popular. Other examples will be seen in the course of this chapter. Paratragedy, a close relative to mythological burlesque, reaches a peak in popularity during the final decade of the fifth century. Here we find Aristophanes and Strattis in particular embarking on extended parodies of entire tragedies21. In the same decade literarycritical and metatheatrical comedies are also extremely popular22. In this period and afterwards we also find a crop of play titles among poets of the late fifth and early fourth centuries that combine the names of human and divine characters (or similar), many of which are likely paratragic23. The importance of paratragedy in the late fifth century for the development of later fourth-century mythological comedy cannot be overestimated. The comic technique of paratragedy, which involves placing ordinary characters into grandiose mythic settings, or conversely placing gods and heroes into banal everyday circumstances, appears to have been extended to mythological themes in general. It is also from experiments in this style of comedy, especially parodies of Euripidean tragedy, that later comic plot types, including the recognition plots typical of New Comedy, possibly emerged24. Another significant development at this time is the sudden huge popularity of hetaira plays. During the fifth century the only comic poet seemingly interested in this theme, with perhaps the exception of Hegemon, was Pherecrates25. But it is among poets active in the late fifth and early fourth centuries that we see widespread interest in this theme suddenly emerge, marking a distinct shift in comic styles26. Hetaira plays would continue to be one of the more enduring and popular themes of Middle and New Comedy. As we saw with Hermippus and comedies on the births of gods, the hetaira comedies of Pherecrates are something of a fifth-century anomaly. In fact Pherecrates appears to have been different from most Old Comedy poets in several respects. He has, for example, almost no political 20

21

22

Cf. Gkaras 2008, 20–22. Cratinus’ Nemesis included the birth of Helen from an egg. See Bakola 2010, 220–224. Paratragedy: Aristophanes’ Thesmophoriazusae (411), Aiolosikon A (ca. 410–400), Lemniai (ca. 410), Phoinissai (ca. 407); Strattis’ Lemnomeda (post 410), Phoinissai (post 409), Philoktetes (post 409), Anthroporestes (post 408), and others (on Strattis see Orth 2009 and Miles 2009). Several comedies of Philyllius, including his Auge and possibly Helen, appear to be paratragic comedies from this period (on the date of Auge see Geissler 1969, 69). See also Bowie 2010, 153. See e.g. Aristophanes’ Gerytades (ca. 408), Skenas Katalambanousai (ca. 406), Frogs (405); Plato Comicus’ Heortai (ca. 410), Skeuai (ca. 407–404), Lakonians or Poets (ca. 406–401); Phrynichus’ Muses (405), Tragoidoi (ca. 400); cf. also Strattis’ Cinesias (ca. 400).

23

24 25

26

E.g. Apollophanes or Strattis’ Iphigeron (ca. 405); Polyzelus’ Demotyndareus (ca. 410); Strattis’ Atalantos (ca. 380), Lemnomeda (post 410), Anthroporestes (post 408); Aristophanes’ Aiolosikon. Earlier comedies with similarly constructed titles include Cratinus’ Dionysalexandros, Pherecrates’ Anthropherakles and two titles of Menecrates (debut ca. 440), Hermioneus and Manektor. See Lowe 2000, 267–269. The comedies Korianno, Thalatta and Petale were probably of this kind, cf. Henry 1985, 16. See also Henderson 2000, 138–140. Our earliest examples of such comedies, after Pherecrates, include Hegemon’s Philinna (debut ca. 410); Diocles’ Thalatta; Eunicus or Philyllius’ Anteia; Cephisodorus’ Antilais; and Theopompus’ Pamphile and Nemea.

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komodoumenoi among his surviving fragments27. The anonymous writer on comedy also states that he refrained from personal abuse, and describes him as a pivotal figure in the invention of plots28. His comedy, then, perhaps owing to these qualities, was a ready model for later poets. Finally it is worth mentioning other possible influences on early fourth-century comedy. Rosen and Shaw have noted the emergence of symposiastic settings, especially comic dramas that feature kottabos playing scenes, such as those we find in the later Middle Comedies of Antiphanes and Eubulus29. An earlier precursor to such scenes can be found in the Zeus Kakoumenos of Plato Comicus, dated roughly after 400. We also have a play by Ameipsias called “Apokottabizontes” which may come from late in his career around the turn of the fifth and fourth centuries. A model for these scenes may have been found in satyr play, as indeed may have been the case also for comedies that feature the birth of gods30.

Reception of Fifth-Century Comedy in the Fourth Century Rapid changes in fourth-century comic tastes and styles are indicated in part by the reception of fifth-century comedy in the fourth century. A closer look at some of the inscriptional and literary evidence, certainly in Athens, reveals a significant neglect and marginalisation of Old Comedy during the fourth century. We do find an important exception to this trend in the Greek West and possibly elsewhere, as is shown by the material evidence. But overall Old Comedy was not as eagerly reperformed – certainly in Athens – as much as Middle Comedy and New Comedy were in later years. Official texts of the three great tragedians of the fifth century, Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides, were commissioned by Lycurgus in the 330s31, but there is no evidence of any such preservation of Old Comedy, even despite its historical interest to Athens. Likewise the inscriptional evidence seems to indicate that there was little nostalgia for fifth-century comic poetry like that felt for fifth-century tragic poets. Athens had shown a keen appreciation of its tragic heritage by introducing reperformances of an ‘old’ tragedy at the City Dionysia as early as 38632. Comedy, on the other hand, was not recognised in this way so soon after the end of the fifth century. Instead we have to wait nearly fifty years later until comedy is officially recognised in this way, with reperformances of older comedies eventually introduced at the City Dionysia in 33933. But here again, interestingly, fifth-century comedy seems to have been almost entirely overlooked. While the evidence is only fragmentary, it appears that the majority of the 27

28

Sommerstein 1996, 342–346, lists Carcinus (PCG F 15) and Alcibiades (PCG F 164) as the only politically prominent individuals mocked by Pherecrates. But while fragment 15 may mock Carcinus and his theatrical family for political ambition, fragment 164 mocks Alcibiades not on political grounds, but for his philandering. Anon. De Com. (Prolegomena III. 29–31 Koster = Pherecr. PCG T 2): % ξ   G $!,   ξ '«   $  « 7  μ« 6/. The claim that Pherecrates avoided personal abuse is not absolutely true (see PCG F 6. 11. 15. 46.

29 30

31 32

33

64. 143. 148. 155 and 164); although he certainly avoids it more than most other Old Comedy poets. Rosen 1995, 124–126 and Shaw 2010, 9–12. See in general Shaw 2010 who explores the possible influence of satyr play on the development of fourth-century comedy. Plu. Moralia 841f. IG II2 2318, 201–203 (= MO lines 1009– 1011): λ \ |  μ  »  -[] |  5 ¹  [/ ]. IG II2 2318, 316–318 (= MO lines 1563– 1565): []λ \φ [] | [] μ  »[  ]-[] | [] 5[ ¹] [/][/ ].

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Andrew Hartwig

‘old’ comedies reperformed after this date were not by fifth-century poets, but rather by Middle Comedy poets active in the first half of the fourth century. For example, the old comedy reperformed at the Dionysia of 311 was Anaxandrides’ Thesauros34. Comedies with this title, or that dealt with a similar theme, were extremely popular in Middle and New Comedy, and were frequently adapted by Roman playwrights35. The selection of older comedies for reperformance, then, probably depended a great deal on what suited modern tastes rather than antiquarian interest or nostalgia for Athens’ dramatic heritage. The same can be seen in the third and second centuries where, rather than fifth-century comedies, we find reperformances of the canonical New Comedy poets Philemon, Menander, Diphilus, Philippides and Posidippus36. One possible piece of direct evidence that fifth-century comedies were occasionally reperformed is the production of Monotropos (Solitary Man) in 169, although it is uncertain whether this was the version by Phrynichus first produced at the City Dionysia of 414, or that of the Middle Comedy poet Anaxilas37. In any case, even if this was the play of Phrynichus produced in the fifth century, the selection once again fits the ethos of later comedy perfectly. Phrynichus’ play is notable for anticipating the kind of character studies which became quite popular in the fourth century38. It was no doubt imitated by Anaxilas, and we find the same character type still popular many years later in Menander’s Dyskolos (Ill-Tempered Man) which was produced probably in 316. Another fifth-century play that may possibly have been reperformed is Cratinus’ Odysseis. Platonius tells us that the version of the play he knew, presumably a text, did not have any choral parts, from which he wrongly infers that the choregia must have been abolished by this time39. We know, in fact, that the play did have a chorus because we find it in the surviving fragments40. But a text that existed without choral parts or where the chorus had at least been altered or minimised in some way may be evidence that this text was later adapted for reperformance41. If so, the selection of this play for reperformance likely depended on its mythological subject matter and its similarity to Middle Comedy, as indeed would appear to have been the case also for Aristophanes’ Aiolosikon which is mentioned alongside Cratinus’ play in the same context. Platonius also singles out Cratinus’ play for the striking absence of personal abuse typical of most Old Comedy, which is especially unusual for Cratinus42. This example, if genuine, would again seem to confirm that if any 34 35

36

37 38 39

IG II2 2323a, 40 (= MO col. I 6). Other poets who produced a Thesauros include Crates II, Dioxippus, Archedicus, Philemon, Menander and Diphilus. Cf. also the lost Latin adaptation of Lavinius (mentioned in the prologue of Ter. Eun.), as well as Plautus’ Aulularia and Trinummus (the latter modelled on Philemon’s Thesauros). IG II2 2323, 101. 130. 147. 164. 192. 207. 224. 233 (= MO lines 15. 172. 268. 300. 397. 412. 462. 510). SEG 26, 208. IG II2 2323, 192 (= MO line 397). Cf. Ceccarelli 2000, 461–463. Platon. Diff. Com. (Prolegomena I, 20–31 Koster). See esp. 30f.: λ ¹ #OG« K  λ G -  -  / Κ )  Κ  # « R). For details on the end of the choregia in the late fourth century see Csapo – Wilson 2012.

40

41

42

Cratinus PCG F 151:    Ϊ« R)  , | λ   )  α | πG ’ #I6   «  , | ! ’ Ϊ’ #O! 6) /. Perhaps only the choral songs and the parabasis were removed, while choral dialogue or other sections integral to the play were retained. The anapaestic dimeter catalectics of PCG F 151 are probably recitative, or at least could be treated as such in a later reperformance. Another possibility is that Platonius had mistakenly identified a comedy by another poet as that belonging to Cratinus. See further Sommerstein 2009. Platon. Diff. Com. (Prolegomena I, 51f. Koster): ¹ % #OG« K  $μ«    R) ,   μ ξ « #O« % aO" . This comedy may therefore have first been produced between 440/39 and 437/6 when the so-called decree of Morychides was in

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Old Comedies were reperformed the selection was made only if that play was similar in spirit to fourth-century comedy. In Western Greece, on the other hand, we see a striking dichotomy emerge. As opposed to Athens where Old Comedy seems mostly neglected, here we find what appears to be evidence of frequent reperformances of Old Comedies. Pots and other objects suggest that performances of Aristophanes’ Thesmophoriazusae, Frogs, and Eupolis’ Demes, as well as other unidentifiable fifth-century comedies, were staged in the Greek West in the fourth century43. The simple explanation for their presence here, and their absence in Athens, may be that topical Athenian Old Comedy did not age so well at home. Topical comedies quickly became yesterday’s news, and more relevant and up-to-date stories were constantly supplanting them. Comedies that mentioned the glory days of the Athenian Empire and the leading politicians of the day as though they were all still relevant might have seemed out of place to an Athenian audience in the early fourth century. Older comedies might also have been avoided partly because they touched upon local sensitivities. Rehashing comedies full of personal abuse might still potentially offend many locals and reopen old wounds. Any local reperformance of such plays would have required serious revision if it was to remain relevant. In the Greek West, on the other hand, old Athenian comedies could be viewed impartially. The reasons for their performance could be several44. The selection of Old Comedies may have been chosen partly for their historical or cultural interest. Eupolis’ Demes certainly had historical interest with its presentation of famous Athenian statesmen returned from the dead45. A similar example might be seen earlier in the fifth century when Hieron asked Aeschylus to restage his historical tragedy Persians in Syracuse46. Otherwise there is every indication that comedies featuring tragic poets and tragic parodies were popular. Tragedy, after all, was extremely popular in the West47. There was a native tradition of paratragedy going back to the early fifth century. Epicharmus’ Persai may have parodied Aeschylus’ play of the same name after witnessing it in Syracuse, while his contemporary Deinolochus wrote a comedy with the suggestive title Komoidotragoidia48. The continuing popularity of paratragedy in South Italy can be seen in the late fourth/early third-century hilarotragoidiai or phlyax plays of Rhinthon of Taras, which are seemingly based on specific Attic models49. Athenian Old Comedy, then, may have been particularly suited to West Greek tastes because of these features.

43

44

45

46

effect, apparently prohibiting comic poets from abuse (see schol.RE=Lh Ar. Ach. 67; Geissler 1969, 20). In general see Taplin 1993; Csapo 2010a, 52–67. Taplin 1993, 94–99; Green 1994, 66f. and Bosher 2006, 120–123 canvass some of the possible reasons for reperformances of Attic Old Comedy in West Greece. Those statesmen were Miltiades, Aristides, Solon and Pericles (schol. Aristid. 3, 365 = Eup. PCG Demes test. *i). On this comedy in general see Storey 2003, 111–174. Schol.VE\Barb Ar. Frogs 1028f. The source of this information was Eratosthenes. On Aeschylus in Sicily and his legacy, see Wilson 2007d, 356f.

47

48

49

Cf. the large number of tragic vases from West Greece. Plutarch (Nic. 29, 2) records an anecdote that Athenian prisoners were freed after the failed Sicilian expedition of 415–413 if they were able to recite verses of Euripidean tragedy. Euripides himself, we are told, once served as an ambassador to Syracuse (Schol. Arist. Rh. 1417b18). Cf. also Bosher 2006, 135f. and RodríguezNoriega Guillén 2012, 85f. See the Suda 171 (= Rhinthon PCG T 1) where his dramas are also called /    . His surviving titles suggest Euripides was one such model, cf. the titles Iphigenia in Aulis, Iphigenia in Tauris, and Telephus among others.

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Returning to Athens, the extant works of Aristotle provide a good litmus test of fourth-century tastes. Aristotle famously notes a shift in taste among comic poets and their audiences during the fourth century. In the Nicomachean Ethics, written after his return to Athens in 335/4, Aristotle notes that older comedies found humour in obscene language (') ), while the newer ones preferred innuendo (7 )50. There are potential problems here in determining when he sees this shift taking place. Aristotle could be comparing early fourth-century comedy as he first experienced it upon arriving at Athens in 367/6 with the state of comedy as he found it ca. 335. Otherwise he may be comparing what roughly equates to fourth-century comedy in general compared with earlier fifth-century Attic comedy. The latter seems more likely given Aristotle’s obvious enjoyment of the early fourth-century comic poet Anaxandrides (as we will see below) and the familiarity with which he cites the performances of the actor Philemon. From Aristotle, then, we can see that fifth-century comedy quickly came to be regarded as somewhat antiquated and out of date by the early fourth century. Aristotle’s extant works are also noticeably scarce in references to fifth-century Attic comedy. Cratinus and Eupolis, surprisingly, do not even rate a mention51. Magnes and Chionides are cited for historical purposes as the first poets of Attic comedy52, and Crates for his apparent contribution to the development of plots53. Aristophanes is mentioned a few times, at one point alongside Sophocles as examples of poets who represent men “doing things”, and another time he is quoted to exemplify the rhetorical use of diminutives54. The two comic poets who clearly dominated Aristotle’s interest were Epicharmus, who is mentioned twice as many times as any other comic poet55, and Anaxandrides, who was clearly one of Aristotle’s favourite contemporary poets. Aristotle certainly witnessed productions by Anaxandrides after he arrived at Athens in 367. He comments on the performance of the early fourth-century actor Philemon56 in Anaxandrides’ comedies Eusebeis and Gerontomania57. He also notes that comic poets would often drag the agroikos character on stage, a character that lent his name to one of the surviving play titles of Anaxandrides58. Elsewhere Aristotle quotes Anaxandrides several times for the intelligence and 50

51

Arist. EN 1128a22: 4 ’ Ν  « λ  -

/) / - -  - λ -  -α G« ξ   G π ') , G« ξ » π 7 α  φ!  ’ $  μ %  μ« $). See Heath 1989, 344f., who argues that Aristotle, nonetheless, did not necessarily disapprove of Aristophanic comedy. For a collection of references to comic poets in Aristotle, see Cooper 1922, 150–161. Cooper’s evidence is slightly skewed in that he includes poets found in surviving didascalic notes. He therefore includes Cratinus and Eupolis, although theoretically Aristotle’s Didaskaliai would have included every poet who was known to have competed at the Lenaea and City Dionysia festivals from the fifth century down to Aristotle’s time. Ecphantides is mentioned in passing at Arist. Pol. 1341a30 while discussing an aulete recorded on a choregic dedication from one of his productions.

52

53 54

55

56

57 58

Arist. Po. 1448a34 (= Magnes PCG T 2 and Chionides PCG T 2). Arist. Po. 1448b7 (= Crates PCG T 5). Arist. Po. 1448a27; Rh. 1405b20; Pol. 1262b12 mentions the character of Aristophanes in Plato’s Symposium. Arist. Po. 1448a33. 1449b6 (supplemented text); Metaph. 1010a6. 1086a17; Rh. 1365a16. 1410b4; EN 1167b25; GA 724a28. Philemon won the comic actor’s prize twice at the Lenaea, initially ca. 375–370 (IG II2 2325, 191 = MO 2325F, 36). Arist. Rh. 1413b26 (= Anaxandr. PCG T 8). Arist. EE 1230b19: 3« ¹ /) /      $  «. Anaxandrides may have produced his play at the City Dionysia in 349 when he came fourth (see IGUR 218, 8), unless this was the Anchises which would also fit the lacuna. Agroikos plays were also produced in the fourth century by Antiphanes, Anaxilas, Augeas, Philemon and Menander. Cf. supra n. 10 for bibliography.

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wit of his poetry, whether satirising cities that have good laws but do not observe them59, commenting on girls who are slow to marry60, or recalling his famous lines on how it is better to die before deserving death61. Compared with Anaxandrides and the Sicilian comedy of Epicharmus, Aristotle had very little interest in Attic Old Comedy beyond literaryhistorical purposes. A similar lack of interest can be detected in the Peripatetics. While Old Comedy was undoubtedly mentioned from time to time in writings by the Peripatetics on comedy and on dramatic productions, there appear to have been no poetic biographies, a favourite genre around this period, dedicated solely to an Old Comedy poet. Old Comedy texts were certainly mined by the Peripatetics when writing biographies about other people. Instead the only known works dedicated to individual comic poets written at the end of the fourth and the beginning of the third centuries again focus on later comic poets, including a work on the Middle Comedy poet Antiphanes by Demetrius of Phaleron, and another on Menander by Lynceus of Samos62. Attic Old Comedy poets also do not appear to have been honoured with monuments in Athens until much later. The New Comedy poet Menander was honoured with a statue beside those of the great fifth-century tragedians, Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides, along the east parodos of the Theatre of Dionysus63, as was Philippides. Pausanias, writing in the second century A. D., tells us that other comic poets were honoured as well, but apart from Menander apparently these were not well known64. We have evidence of busts and herms of Old Comedy poets, including Aristophanes, Eupolis and Plato Comicus, but these are probably late Hellenistic in origin65. Athenian Old Comedy, it seems, only regained some of its lustre after the Alexandrians took interest. One last piece of evidence, and the most striking, for the marginalisation of Old Comedy can be seen in the Parian Marble66. The chronicle inscribed on the marble was compiled in 264/3 and shows a considerable interest in the biographical, historical, and production information for poets of all genres67. It is therefore the closest thing we have for gauging anything resembling a poetic canon at the close of the fourth century. What is par59 60 61 62

63

64

Arist. EN 1152a22 (= Anaxandr. PCG F 66). Arist. Rh. 1411a19 (= Anaxandr. PCG F 67). Arist. Rh. 1412b17 (= Anaxandr. PCG F 65) For Demetrius’ work on Antiphanes see D. L. 5, 81 (= Antiph. PCG T 5), and for Lynceus on Menander see Ath. 6, 242b (= Men. PCG T 75). See Paus. 1, 21, 1 and IG II2 657, 63. Menander appears to have been honoured posthumously soon after his death in 291/0. See Papastamativon Moock 2007, 293f. and in this volume. Paus. 1, 21, 1: 'λ ξ #A6 « ' «  ) 6 ) / λ  ) /« λ /) /«  -, ¹ λ - $φ! /α Ρ κ  M! «, $λ«   κ« /) /« - « 5 π /. IG II2 648 (295/4) mentions a foreigner who was to be honoured with a bronze statue in the theatre. Habicht 1979, 13–15, suggests it may have been the New Comedy poet Diodorus of Sinope, but the identification of the honoree is far from certain. See also Osborne 1982, 153 (D 69).

65

66

67

For Aristophanes see Richter 1965, 140f. On the recently discovered Eupolis herm from the second century A. D., see Kavvadias 2000. A statue base discovered at Ostia originally held a bust of Plato Comicus attributed to the previously unknown sculptor Lysikles (see Zevi 1969). The inscription on the base is a Roman copy (ca. 100 A. D.) of a Greek original (see Richter 1971, 435). The original date of the lost portrait, then, would appear to be late third or early second century since it describes Plato as a poet of Old Comedy (² « $ )«

// «  "«), a specification that was only first made by the Alexandrians around that time. Cf. Nesselrath 1990, 186f. IG XII 5, 444 (= FGrHist 239). See also Jacoby 1904. At least thirty-six entries in the Parian Marble deal with poets and musicians. Much of this material must have depended heavily on the biographies and writings on poets by the Peripatetics and Atthidographers.

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Andrew Hartwig

ticularly striking, given the chronicler’s obvious obsession with poetry, is the absence of any fifth-century Attic comic poets. The only comic poets considered worthy for inclusion here are Susarion, mentioned in connection with the invention of comedy sometime between 581/0–562/1, Epicharmus, who was active in 472/1 when Hiero became tyrant of Sicily, Anaxandrides, who won in 377/6, then quite possibly Alexis or Antiphanes in the fragmentary entry for 357/6, Philemon who won in 328/7, and Menander in 316/15. The tragic genre is broadly represented. We find the classic trio of fifth-century tragic poets Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides, as well as the inclusion of the fourth-century tragedian Astydamas. A large selection of dithyrambic poets from the fifth and fourth centuries can also be found. The exclusion of comic poets such as Aristophanes, Eupolis and Cratinus, then, is all the more remarkable. This document must reflect something of the minor importance given to fifth-century Attic comedy at the time, as witnessed by other near contemporary sources, and a profound preference for the new styles of comedy that emerged around the beginning of the fourth century which had quickly made the older poets obsolete.

Some Factors behind Fourth-Century Comic Developments Why, then, did this shift away from Old Comedy take place with the rapid emergence of new comic styles? Several factors may explain these developments, many of which are interdependent and should not be taken in isolation. An obvious factor was the end of the Peloponnesian War which had been a favourite topic among many poets. Such a vacuum would have left room for new and underexplored comic material to emerge, prompting greater experimentation68. A clear change in focus, however, can already be seen taking place in the last decade of the fifth century, before the end of the war, with a stronger preference for paratragedy and theatrical themed plays, and the emergence of standardised comic types, as evidenced by the New York terracottas. It is possible that political events, such as the failed Sicilian expedition in 413, and especially the short-lived oligarchies of 411 and 405 may have prompted a slight – certainly not total – aversion to political comedy around that time69. But changes in public taste, even a growing consciousness that the tragic art in Athens was quickly approaching the end of an era, may have helped paratragedy and mythological comedy emerge as the dominant style around this time. Around the same time we can also see a strong book trade surfacing in Athens, perhaps introducing new ideas and styles to the poets, and influencing popular tastes among the literate public. Literary references to books and booksellers are extremely frequent among authors active at the turn of the fifth and fourth centuries. Eupolis, in an unplaced fragment (429–410), refers to a bookmarket in Athens (PCG F 327: k  # #’ [ ), and booksellers are frequently encountered in the fragments of comic poets active in the late 68

Cf. Hunter 1983, 23. Political themes in general, of course, continue throughout the fourth century (cf. supra n. 4). The influence of politics on the development of comedy in the fourth century is overplayed by ancient sources such as Platonius (Prolegomena I Koster), usually on the basis of flimsy or incorrect evidence. On politics and comic boundaries in general, see Hartwig forthcoming.

69

Platonius (Prolegomena I 18–20 Koster), interestingly, notes a change away from political comedy towards mythological comedy in the aftermath of the Baptai of Eupolis (ca. 415) when Alcibiades is reported either to have threatened or killed Eupolis in response to comic mockery (see Storey 2003, 101–103).

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fifth and early fourth centuries: for example Aristomenes (fl. 439–388) in Goetes (PCG F 9: # # (), probably a fifth-century play to judge from the title and theme; Nicophon in Encheirogastores (PCG F 10, 4: # # ( «); and Theopompus (PCG F 79: « ## (« †  ). In Plato’s Apology, set in 399, Socrates refers to the sale of works by Anaxagoras in the orchestra of the agora (Pl. Ap. 26 d)70. Socrates is also said to have taken up the works of the tragic and dithyrambic poets in order to cross-examine the artists about their meaning (Pl. Ap. 22 b). An entry in the Eusebius chronicle for the year 443/2 also refers to an Athenian decree to burn the works of Protagoras. This decree, if genuine, was likely enacted some time closer to the turn of the century71. The book trade, unless comic poets acquired texts by other means, would have encouraged and made possible some of the more intricate and detailed tragic parodies from this period. Aristophanes’ Frogs (405) is not only the apparent beneficiary of this phenomenon, but in many ways seems to be a response to a growing culture of books and literary analysis. The character of Dionysus, for example, begins his mission to the underworld after reading a text of Euripides’ Andromeda72; Euripides is described on a couple of occasions as reliant on books for writing his tragedies73; and the audience are said to be familiar with books, allowing them to appreciate better the subtleties of the ensuing argument between Aeschylus and Euripides74. Aristophanes himself most likely depended on texts for much of the tragic material in this comedy. Certainly the lengthy passage at Frogs 1119–1248 in which he quotes and criticises the opening lines of numerous tragic prologues may have benefitted from books, particularly since these passages could be quickly and conveniently referenced in such a source. Books were one medium that might also have opened up new ideas and contributed to the development of new styles of comedy by the range of non-Attic material they provided. The mimes of Sophron of Syracuse written in the second half of the fifth century, for example, feature many themes reminiscent of comedy in the early fourth century, in particular depictions of hetairai in the women’s mimes75. This work supposedly influenced Plato’s use of characterisation in his dialogues76. There is some reason to think his work was probably available in Athens around the end of the fifth century, considering the growing book market and theatrical contact between mainland Greece and the Greek West at the time (see further below). Comic treatment of famous literary figures in the fourth 70

71

Cf. X. An. 7, 5, 14 where books are among the lost cargo of a merchant ship washed up on the shore of the Black Sea. Eus. Chronikon 113, 21–23 Helm. Cf. also Hermipp. PCG F 63, 13 who mentions papyrus imported from Egypt. The question of Athenian literacy is always raised as a barrier against a thriving book trade in Athens, despite the evidence given above. Athens, in any case, appears to have been more literate than elsewhere in Greece, a phenomenon sometimes explained by the dependence of democratic institutions on literacy in order to work effectively, as evidenced by the copious epigraphic habit of that city (cf. in general Missiou 2011 and Thomas 1992, 128–157). Irrespective of these debates, comic poets were certainly literate and able to make use of any texts available through the bookmarkets.

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Ar. Frogs 52–53: λ ’ λ « Ω« $ (   / κ #A !  μ« μ. Ar. Frogs 943: )μ … // $μ # #/ $6-, 1409: 5#Ω  # #. Ar. Frogs 1114: # # ’ R)/ n « 6  5 . For sympathies between fourth-century comedy and mime, see especially the later mimes of Herodas and the discussion in Headlam 1922, XXXI–LVI. See Riginos 1976, 174–176. Hordern 2004, 26f. is skeptical of Sophron’s influence on Plato in the fourth century. Cf. also 3f. where he doubts the possibility of Sophron’s work being known in Athens by the end of the fifth century, although he acknowledges the “close contacts that existed between Sicily, especially Syracuse, and various mainland Greek states” in that period.

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century would also have benefitted from texts, especially those like Sappho, who was a popular theme in fourth-century comedy, but may only have been known in Athens via textual traditions77. The most significant development behind changes in comedy must have been the rapid spread and internationalisation of theatre. Again this is a phenomenon that becomes noticeable only at the very end of the fifth century. Throughout the fifth century Attic comic poets had dominated the Athenian stage with Attic themes and Attic problems. We also find a certain parochialism among the comic poets of Athens, exemplified by jokes made against comedy from Megara, or even jokes made against each other that questioned their Athenianness78. At the turn of the century, however, foreign comic poets begin to make their presence felt and even go on to dominate the comic theatre in the following generations79. Our earliest known foreign comic poets, Hegemon of Thasos and Alcaeus of Mytilene, first produced comedies most likely in the last decade of the fifth century80. The comic poet Cephisodorus who won in 402 may also have been foreign, although he may have been an Athenian born metic81. Soon after among the Middle Comedy poets we find Antiphanes, Anaxandrides, Amphis82, Alexis, Anaxilas83, Epicrates, Eubulides, Sophilus, and Dionysius of Sinope, all of apparently foreign origin. Among the New Comedy poets we find Philemon, Apollodorus of Gela, Diphilus, Posidippus, Apollodorus of Carystus, and Phoenicides. These names are not insignificant, but include some of the most influential and productive poets within the comic canons84. Their influence would have brought fresh ideas and a broader, less parochial, approach to comedy, even contributing features from native comic traditions85. 77

78

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Cf. the work of Antiochus of Alexandria On the Poets Satirised in Middle Comedy (Ath. 11, 482c) which would attest to a continuing trend of literary humour. Jokes against Megarian comedy: Ecphantides PCG F 3; Ar. Wasps 57; Eup. PCG F 261. Comic poets accused of being foreign include Phrynichus (schol.RVME\Barb Ar. Frogs 13 = Phryn. Com. PCG T 8); the unnamed individual, likely a comic poet, at Cratinus PCG F *361, 3 (nicknamed ‘Xenias’); and possibly Aristophanes, which may partly explain the variant traditions recorded in the Suda ( 3932 = Ar. PCG T 2b) about his origins. Such jokes suited comic poets of the late fifth century since many of them were born before or around the time tighter citizenship laws were introduced in 451/0 which required both parents to be Athenian. See Kaimio 1999, 58f.; Konstantakos 2011, 153–162; and the tables in Nervegna 2013, 33. The wise foreign poets mentioned at Eupolis PCG F 392 are more likely dithyrambic poets rather than foreign comic rivals. I leave out Ion of Chios whom schol.RV= Ar. Peace 835 (cf. Suda  1029) reports wrote comedy, but this is likely an error. Hegemon is said to have been performing his epic parody the Gigantomachia in Athens when news of the disastrous Sicilian expedition first reached

81

82 83

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Athens in 413 (Ath. 9, 407a–b). His attempt(s) at comedy presumably came soon after. Alcaeus’ Komoidotragoidia is dated post 408 by Geissler 1969, 63, since it parodies Euripides’ Orestes (PCG F 19). Lys. 21, 4. MacDowell 1962, 211, identifies this poet with the metic Cephisodorus who was denounced in 415 for the profanation of the Mysteries. See Papachrysostomou 2008, 30. Edmonds (1959, 332f. n. b) notes the Doric origin of the name. Cf. Konstantakos 2011, 161. The Old Comedy canon, as recorded by the anonymous writer on comedy (Prolegomena III Koster), with the exception of Epicharmus, consists entirely of Athenians: Epicharmus, Magnes, Cratinus, Crates, Pherecrates, Phrynichus, Eupolis, Aristophanes. Contrast the Middle Comedy canon which has only two poets, Antiphanes and Alexis, both of whom are foreign. Similar statistics can be seen in the New Comedy canon, where, apart from Menander and Philippides, the rest are non-Athenian: Philemon, Diphilus, Posidippus and Apollodorus. One such example is the ‘Maison’ mask of New Comedy, apparently of Megarian origin, see Poll. 4, 148 (cf. Ath. 14, 659a = Ar. Byz. fr. 363 Slater).

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The attraction for foreign poets may have had a lot to do with the economic lure of the Athenian theatre at the time. Comic poets could earn huge sums by being granted a chorus at the City Dionysia. The poets’ stipend was obviously high enough to justify some Athenian politicians wanting to have it reduced around 40586. Presumably the lure of this pay encouraged the epic parodist, Hegemon of Thasos, to switch genres and try his hand at comedy sometime around 410. Elsewhere Hegemon had explained his participation in the contest for epic parody at Athens as a result of his poverty and the one hundred drachma prize on offer87. With far greater prize money on offer at the City Dionysia for comedy, possibly up to two thousand drachmas88, this must have had its attractions for Hegemon and other foreign poets. At the same time foreigners were coming into Athens we see evidence of theatre spreading further abroad. An increasing number of theatres appear throughout the Greek world at this time, whether for local or visiting productions, as well as the spread of theatrical objects throughout the Greek world89. With this increase in venues we also see a corresponding increase in the productivity of the comic poets, as if to fill a swelling demand for comic theatre outside Athens90. The practice of revising older plays for reperformance may, in part, be a direct result of these circumstances91. Among the Old Comedy poets the most productive were Aristophanes (427–388) with forty-four plays and Hermippus (ca. 440–410) with forty. Their average rate of production is a little over one play per year. These numbers are dwarfed by fourth-century comic poets. Antiphanes, for example, wrote a staggering 280 comedies92. Even if he was active for 70 years this would be an average of four plays for every year of his career. Alexis has 245 plays at a rate of more than three per year. New Comedy is no different. Menander, for example, was active for only 33 years, yet wrote 105 or 108 plays. This comes to an average of just over three comedies per year. Even if we assume each poet performed at every available City Dionysia and Lenaea every year of their career, which is highly unlikely93, we must also assume they frequently 86

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Aristophanes was no doubt right to suspect that comic satire was also partly responsible for politicians reacting in this way, Ar. Frogs 367f.: «  6« -  - ."/ φ ρ’ $ ( , / /) /6λ«  G«   « G« G« % : . Ath. 15, 698d–699a. On Hegemon and his influence on Middle Comedy, see Panomitros 2003. For estimates see Wilson 2008, 105 n. 95. References to theatres throughout the Greek world are gathered by Frederiksen 2002, 97–120. See also Csapo 2010, 95–103. Theatrical performances would have been held in many of these places long before a permanent theatre was eventually constructed. For the spread of theatrical objects and their provenances, see the charts and accompanying discussion in Green 1994, 68f. (cf. 64f.). The same phenomenon can be observed in tragedy. According to the numbers given in the Suda, the fourth-century tragedians Astydamas ( 4264 = TrGF I 60 T 1) and Carcinus ( 394

91

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= TrGF I 70 T 1) wrote 240 and 160 plays respectively. In the early fifth century Choerilus () 594 = TrGF I 2 T 1) supposedly wrote 160 dramas, even though Aeschylus ( 357 = TrGF T 2), Sophocles ( 815 = TrGF T 2) and Euripides ( 3695 = TrGF T 3) only have 90, 123 and 92 dramas respectively. The anecdote of the Peripatetic Chamaeleon that Anaxandrides preferred to destroy unsuccessful plays rather than revise them suggests that the revision of old plays was a common practice in the fourth century (Ath. 9, 373f– 374b = Anaxandr. PCG T 2). On diaskeuai see further Nervegna 2013, 88–99. Our sources give 365, 280 or 260 as the number of comedies by Antiphanes (Suda  2735 = PCG T 1 and Prolegomena III, 52 Koster = PCG T 2). On the discrepancy, see Konstantakos 2000, 177f. Not only were there limited places available at these festivals, for which a large pool of poets had to compete against each other to be admitted by the archon, but the festivals too – or

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performed abroad as well. One venue, of course, might be the Rural Dionysia which we see expanding throughout the fourth century, although there is no direct evidence for new comedies94. In the case of tragedy we only hear of reproductions of old tragedies at the Rural Dionysia in the fourth century, such as Aeschines acting in reperformances of Sophocles. But the practice may have been different between the various demes and the dramatic genres. Comedy, by its very topical nature, certainly at the beginning of the fourth century, may have tended towards first productions, or at the very least reperformances of recently staged comedies in the City. Aeschines 1, 157 hints at new comedies at the Rural Dionysia in Kollytos when he cites a particular joke made there against Timarchus. The deme of Aixone, bucking the trend observed elsewhere, made comedy the forum for announcing local honours rather than the tragic agon95. Aixone, then, appears to have given special importance to comedy. This would be particularly fitting if they were first productions96. Foreign festivals must also have had comic contests. The comic actor Philemon seems to have performed in Thasos in the early fourth century97. We also see comic contests and comic poets present at some of the ad hoc festivals held by Philip of Macedon and Alexander at which both Anaxandrides and Antiphanes are recorded as attending98. Patronage of comic poets was also strong at the end of the century when both Menander and Philemon were invited by Ptolemy Soter to join his court, and Philippides left Athens in controversial circumstances for the court of Lysimachus99. These developments may partly explain the emergence of comic styles in the fourth century that were better suited to a panHellenic audience. Comic poets were now required to be more adaptable in the comedies they wrote, and more circumspect with regard to foreign sensitivities.

94

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at least the comic agon – might occasionally be postponed or held on alternate years, as the evidence for the third and second centuries at least suggests, e.g. IG II2 2323, 99. 128. 144. 145. 162. 205. etc. (= MO lines 13. 170. 265. 266. 298. 410; see also Millis – Olson 2012, 156–162 on IG II2 2325C = 2325, 39–87bis). See, however, the discussion infra on possible evidence for new comedies at the Rural Dionysia. IG II2 1202 and SEG 36, 186. See in general Wilson – Hartwig 2009, esp. 20. Cf. also an honorary stele from Aixone (313/12) with a relief featuring comic masks that may suggest the same (SEG 36, 186 = Athens EM 13262, supra Fig. 2.13). See also IG II2 3090 (Eleusis) and perhaps IG II2 3091 (Halai Aixonides) – unless it commemorates productions in the City festivals – which may suggest that Ecphantides, Cratinus and Aristophanes participated in the Rural sphere as didaskaloi. Nicostratus, the son of Aristophanes, may also have produced at Ikarion (IG II2 3094).

97

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IG XII Suppl. 400 with Salviat 1979. Konstantakos 2011, 155f. The biographical note on Anaxandrides in the Suda says that he was active “in the contests of Philip” (Suda  1982 = PCG T 1): Ω«  G« $- i  % M «. The contests held after the destruction of Olynthus in 347 are possibly meant where we know the comic actor Satyros also performed (D. 19, 192–195). An anecdote of Lycophron (Ath. 13, 555a) reports that Antiphanes was present at a festival put on by Alexander. Cf. also Plu. Alex. 29, 3 and Moralia 334 f for the comic actor Lykon performing for Alexander in 331 after Alexander’s return to Phoenicia from Egypt. On Ptolemy’s invitation to Menander and Philemon see Alciphr. 4, 18; Plin. HN 7, 30, 31. Menander famously refused. For Philippides’ absence from Athens, probably in self-imposed exile after causing a scandal with his comedies, see Shear 1978, 49 and Hartwig forthcoming.

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The Greek West and Fourth-Century Comedy One of the likeliest places for early fourth-century comic production outside Athens is South Italy and Sicily. Here we find some of our oldest attested theatres and an already long established theatrical tradition with links to Athens100. At the beginning of the fourth century our sources reveal even greater contact. Around this time we find keen literary patrons like Dionysius of Syracuse who, after coming into power in 405, patronised foreign tragic poets such as Antiphon and Carcinus, as well as the dithyrambic poet Philoxenus of Kythera, and quite possibly the Athenian poet Cinesias101. Dionysius very likely encouraged cultural exchange with the Greek mainland. In fact he entered tragedies of his own in the Athenian dramatic competitions, coming first at the Lenaea of 368/7 with his tragedy The Ransom of Hector102. We also find a sudden efflorescence of comic terracottas and vases from the Greek West. This attests to increased interest in comedy, and more importantly a sudden rise in comic activity outside of Athens in the early fourth century. While some of these artefacts clearly represent reperformances of Attic Old Comedies, many also represent scenes of mythological burlesque, a style of comedy popular in the early fourth century. It has been suggested that some of these may therefore reflect Middle Comedy performances, whether contemporary reperformances, or even first productions by visiting comic poets from the Greek mainland103. This would not at all be surprising given the excessive number of titles for Middle Comedy poets which clearly could not have been produced at Athens alone. In South Italy the Athenian colony of Thurii, like many Athenian colonies, may have introduced dramatic contests in imitation of those in Athens104. Revermann has reasonably suggested that Thurii was the venue for Metagenes’ production of Thouriopersai in the late fifth or early fourth century. This comedy, as well as the Sirens of his contemporary Nicophon, was not produced in Athens, since it was absent from the Athenian production lists105. The play’s utopian theme might certainly have been flattering to the citizens of Thurii. Such a play, then, from a competitive standpoint, would certainly make sense if it was intended to win over a local South Italian audience. Nicophon’s Sirens, too, might have been intended for the Greek West. The title of this comedy is shared elsewhere not only with his contemporary Theopompus, but also, more interestingly, with Epicharmus. Nicophon’s play, therefore, may have been partly inspired by greater artistic contact with the West, and might have been thought an appropriate choice of material for a comic poet visiting Sicily and its surrounds. Two other comic poets are worth mentioning briefly here in this connection. Ephippus in his comedy Obeliaphoroi or Homoioi (fr. 16) mentions Dionysius of Syracuse in what is 100

101

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See the survey in Csapo 2010, 96–99. On fifthcentury theatre in Sicily in general, see Wilson 2007d. On Dionysius and poets, for Antiphon see Plu. Moralia 833 c (other testimonia at TrGF I, 55 T 1–7); for Carcinus II see D. L. 2, 63 (= TrGF I, 70 T 3); for Philoxenus see D. S. 15, 6, 2–5; and for Cinesias cf. IG II2 18 where Cinesias proposes honours for Dionysius in Athens. This likely implies a previous relationship between the two men. D. S. 15, 74, 1; Tz. Chiliades 5, 178 (= TrGF I, 76 T 1 and 3).

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So Webster 1948, 19. Bosher 2006, 127–138 re-examines the possibility that some of these vases may represent performances of local comedies, particularly those of Epicharmus (cf. Dearden 1990a, 161; Dearden 2012, 286–288; and Green in this volume). See Parker 1994, 343. Revermann 2006, 71f. Athenaeus was unable to date both comedies since he did not find them in the production lists. He therefore labels them somewhat misleadingly as $  (Ath. 6, 270a).

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often thought to be a mocking tone, but Csapo has recently suggested that the passage may be more flattering than we think106. This goes against the grain of normal comic treatment of Dionysius107, and may therefore indicate comic material adapted for an non-Athenian audience. In addition a South Italian vase, the St. Petersburg Obeliaphoroi, an Apulian bell-krater depicting two men carrying a large loaf of bread on a spit, is often linked with the same comedy108. The vase is dated ca. 375–350 while Ephippus himself was active ca. 380–340. Another point of interest is the double title of Ephippus’ play: Obeliaphoroi and Homoioi. Here the alternative title is conceivably the result of a revised production of the same comedy, perhaps one performed in Athens and the other in the Greek West109. Archippus too very likely travelled abroad in the last decade of the fifth century, especially if, as MacDowell has argued, he was exiled in connection with the profanation of the Mysteries in 415110. There is some evidence that Archippus and Nicochares, both active at the turn of the century, were influenced by Epicharmus’ Marriage of Hebe. This play dealt with the marriage of Hebe and Heracles, a theme interestingly resurrected around the beginning of the fourth century by the aforementioned poets who each wrote a Marriage of Herakles. The fragments of Archippus, especially, are noticeable for their scenes of lavish feasting similar to Epicharmus’ play. It is tempting to think that during his exile Archippus may have sought other venues for his comedies, among them Sicily, where he would likely have been exposed to Epicharmean comedy. Apart from the Marriage of Herakles, his only other known mythological comedy was the Amphitryon, of which two versions survived111. Its Heraclean theme would have suited a non-Athenian or West Greek audience, and the existence of two comedies by this name may reflect productions adapted for performance both at home and abroad.

The Influence of Epicharmus and Fifth-Century Sicilian Comedy Discussion about the influence of Epicharmus on Attic comedy is a hotly debated topic, and usually focuses on what effect, if any, he had on fifth-century Athenian comic poets. There is little reason to doubt that there was at least some influence here112. But when we come to the early fourth century, a period usually ignored – or perhaps taken for granted – in such accounts, we begin to see remarkable parallels with Sicilian comedy emerge. Many of these developments may in fact be largely due to the direct influence of comedy from the Greek West113. As already noted, there was increased cultural and theatrical contact between Athens and the Greek West at approximately the same time that these changes in

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Csapo 2010, 171f. Cf. Hunter 1983, 116f. In St Petersburg, Hermitage Museum inv. 2074 (W. 1122). See Taplin 1993, 73 and pl. 14.12. There is the possibility, however, that this image is based on an earlier comedy produced ca. 400, for which we have a similar scene preserved on a polychrome oinochoe discovered in the Athenian agora (Agora Museum inv. P23907): Crosby 1955, 80f. with pls. 35b and 36a. On alternative titles sometimes representing, among other things, a revised production, see Hunter 1983, 147f. and Arnott 1996, 51.

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MacDowell 1962, 211. Cf. Ath. 3, 95e and 10, 426b. Cf. e.g. Revermann 2006, 70 n. 17; and see Kerkhof 2001. Willi 2012, 73 mentions how Epicharmus was likely a “reference point for later Sicilian authors” just as Aeschylus and Sophocles had been for Athenian authors of the late fifth and early fourth centuries. We might readjust that verdict and suggest he was looked upon as a reference point even further afield than Sicily at that time.

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comedy were taking place, and no doubt this exposure to native Sicilian comic traditions had an influence on poets from the Greek mainland. Not only might travelling theatrical artists have witnessed locally staged contemporary reperformances of early Sicilian comedies114, but the expanding book trade would also have acted as an important medium of influence. An interesting figure who ties together both of these strands is the aulete Chrysogonus115. Chrysogonus was already active as an artist in the late fifth century, since he is reported to have been on board the same ship, together with the tragic actor Kallippides, in which Alcibiades returned to Athens in 408116. Chrysogonus is also the supposed author of the spurious Politeia attributed to Epicharmus117. The Epicharmean connection here, whether right or wrong, is intriguing, and if nothing else at least suggests the kind of theatrical and literary exchange that was occurring around the end of the fifth century, as well as the new-found popularity of Epicharmus that others were now keen to exploit. The popularity of Epicharmus in Athens and elsewhere during the fourth century is undeniable. By the middle of the century he was widely regarded as the best comic poet of all. His popularity is reflected by his inclusion among the few comic poets to be mentioned in the Parian Marble, not to mention the number of times Aristotle makes reference to him in his works, far more than any other comic poet. Plato’s Theaetetus (152e), written ca. 367 but with a dramatic date set in the fifth century, regards him as the chief comic poet; while Alexis in the Linos (PCG F 140), perhaps written early in his career (ca. 350) due to its mythological subject matter118, lists Epicharmus among the literary greats whose works might typically be found in private libraries at the time. It is in the late fifth and fourth centuries that the anthologies and spuria known as the Pseudepicharmeia were written, evidently an attempt to cash in on his emerging popularity; while Dionysius II sometime around the middle of the fourth century also wrote letters on the poetry of Epicharmus. The surprisingly high number of comic works that survived of Epicharmus in contrast to the small number of surviving works by early fifth-century Attic comic poets shows to some extent how valued and popular his works were119. One might naturally expect, then, that he was an acceptable model for other comic poets120. Several possible areas of influence begin to appear when we compare Epicharmus and his contemporary Sicilian poets with the dramas of later fourth-century comic poets. 114

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Epicharmus’ Marriage of Hebe, e.g., was revised and reperformed under the title Muses (Ath. 3, 110b). It is unclear whether the revision was by Epicharmus himself, or a posthumous adaptation. The double title of the drama Hope or Wealth may again reflect a second production. But double titles aside, there is no reason why comedies by Epicharmus could not have been regularly reperformed in Sicily after his death. The fact that so many survived (see infra n. 119) may be due in part to such a reperformance tradition. Stephanis 1988, no. 2637. Ath. 12, 535d. Aristoxenus attributed the Politeia to Chrysogonus, Ath. 14, 648d–e (= Pseudepicharm. PCG T I). See Arnott 1996, 19.

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46 dramatic titles attributed to Epicharmus survive. The Suda  2766 (= Epich. PCG T 1) says he wrote 52 dramas, or 35 according to Lyco; while the Anon. De Com. (Prolegomena III 17 Koster = Epich. PCG T 6) records 40, four of which were thought to be spurious. It is worth noting that the Roman playwright Plautus (ca. 254–184), who otherwise borrowed freely from fourth-century Greek comedy, was explicitly thought to have modeled himself on Epicharmus, as Horace tells us (Epist. 2, 1, 58 = Epich. PCG T 21): Plautus (sc. dicitur) ad exemplar Siculi properare Epicharmi. Contrast Terence who is said in the next line to have excelled in “contrivance” (2, 1, 59): Terentius arte (sc. dicitur vincere). This may possibly reflect Euripidean influence on fourth-century comedy.

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Among the numerous similarities between early fifth-century Sicilian comedy and fourth-century Middle Comedy, one of the more obvious is a decided preference for mythological themes. Half of Epicharmus’ known dramatic titles are mythological121, all by Phormus, and nine out of the twelve known titles by Deinolochus. Odysseus and Heracles are popular topics, while many individual plays by these authors could have influenced later comedy’s treatment of the same subject matter. For example, we have already noted that the title Sirens is shared only between Epicharmus and the late fifth/early fourth-century poets Nicophon and Theopompus. Epicharmus’ Marriage of Hebe is echoed by Archippus and Nicochares who both wrote a Marriage of Herakles. In addition the Cyclops of Epicharmus, a myth with strong Sicilian resonances, is possibly echoed in the Galateia of Nicochares, as well as the Cyclops of Antiphanes and Galateia of Alexis122. The title Admetus by the Sicilian comic poet Phormus is shared only with Aristomenes (388) and Theopompus; while the Althaia of Deinolochus is echoed later by Theopompus. All these correspondences, especially in the case of Theopompus and Nicochares, certainly suggest the possible influence of Sicily to a greater or lesser degree. Non-mythological correspondences also emerge. Deinolochus’ distinctively titled comedy Komoidotragoidia is shared also by Alcaeus (ca. 408–388) and Anaxandrides123. His comedy Iatros has the same title as the Middle Comedy poets Antiphanes and Aristophon, and later comic poets. Epicharmus anticipates numerous themes that become a staple of Middle Comedy. His play Agrostinos seems to have treated the theme of the gauche country bumpkin so popular in the agroikos plays of Middle Comedy124. Hope or Wealth gives us a detailed self-description by a parasite, a figure that, apart from the Kolakes of Eupolis, only becomes a standard comic type in the fourth comedy125. His comedy Megaris appears to have been an hetaira play126. This, as we have seen, becomes a wide-spread theme at the beginning of the fourth century. The play also anticipates many play titles of fourth-century comedy based on a female ethnic127. Chytrai is suspected to have featured pots full of money, a favourite subject of Middle and New Comedy128. We also find a selfimportant cook in one fragment, a character not properly developed and exploited by

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On Epicharmus and mythological themes see Rodríguez-Noriega Guillén 2012, 76–84. Philoxenus’ dithyramb Cyclops or Galatea (ca. 390) took inspiration from local tradition in Sicily, and may even have mocked his patron Dionysius of Syracuse. Duris (FGrHist 76 F 58) claims that Philoxenus invented the story of Polyphemus’ love for Galatea, but this is not necessarily true. His account, at any rate, is different from earlier traditions about the genesis of the song, perhaps deliberately so (cf. Hordern 1999, 447). Cf. also Plautus’ Amphitruo, line 59, which he describes as a tragicomoedia. Plautus conceivably based his drama on a Middle Comedy. Cf. further Webster 1970, 86–97. See Hsch.  847: $ /G«α $ G «, and Epich. PCG F 219: $ μ     G«, which Crusius suspected may come from this play. Kerkhof 2001, 129; Ribbeck 1888, 6.

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Note also the figure of the Sicilian parasite in New Comedy mentioned at Pollux 4, 146–148 (mask 20). Kerkhof 2001, 130. PCG F 80 describes a female with musical accomplishments, typical of an hetaira. Cf. Demetrius I (Sikelia), Philippus (Olynthia), Antiphanes (Delia, Ephesia, Korinthia), and Anaxandrides (Amprakiotis, Samia). Kerkhof 2001, 130f. Note not only the Thesauros plays (supra n. 35), but also the earlier productions of Argyriou Aphanismos by either Strattis or Pherecrates around the late fifth century, and later by Antiphanes, Epigenes and Philippides. An interesting figure here is Crates II, whom the Suda says was a poet of Old Comedy, and who supposedly had plays by the titles Thesauros and Philargyros. If he is an Old Comedy poet his career likely began around the turn of the century.

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Attic comedy until the fourth century129. Periallos, with its “superior” person, may have featured a braggart130. The play Philoklines may also anticipate many plays with similar titles in fourth-century comedy that explore obsessive-compulsive character types131. One last possible sphere of Epicharmean influence on fourth century comedy is that of plot structure. Aristotle happens to single out Epicharmus especially for his plots132. And although Aristotle mentions Crates as the first comic poet in fifth-century Athens to give up the iambic style and write stories and plots, it seems that it was only in the early fourth century that Attic comedy began to take plot structure seriously and abandon the episodic structure common in the fifth century133. Epicharmus may also have had some influence here.

Conclusion From this survey it emerges that the early fourth century was a vibrant and creative period in the development of comedy, unfettered by any expectations of having to rival or imitate the legacy of its fifth-century predecessors. The opposite appears to have been true for their fourth-century tragic counterparts. The tragic poet Astydamas, for example, seems to have suggested that the reputation of the great Athenian tragedians of the fifth century had not allowed his own achievements to be properly recognised134. In the case of comedy, both the general public and the comic poets themselves do not appear to have had the same hang-ups. Fifth-century Old Comedy was certainly not regarded so preciously or reverently. Indeed the evidence suggests that in Athens, at least, Athenian Old Comedy was largely ignored during the fourth century, even marginalised, allowing the genre room to move in various new directions. Indeed the ethos of the genre was geared towards innovation. This combined with the topicality of Old Comedy meant that older comedies fell out of fashion and favour more quickly. If any Old Comedy was reperformed or at least intended for a reperformance in the fifth century – as, for example, Aristophanes’ Clouds – it seems typical that the poet revised it to suit its new performance context. Likewise any potential reperformances of Old Comedy in the late fourth century were apt to be selected only according to features an individual play may have shared with contemporary comedy, conceivably with some choral parts and topical features such as the parabasis removed. Comic poetry’s development appears to have reached a high point around the turn of the fifth and fourth centuries. This was encouraged by a significant number of concurrent factors: recent political unrests in Athens and the end of the Peloponnesian War; a growing book trade exposing poets to wider influences and encouraging more literary-themed plays; the spread of tragic and comic theatre abroad; as well as the increasing numbers of

129

Epicharm. PCG F 98. 118. In the fifth century a cook might have featured in Pherecrates’ suggestively titled Ipnos or Pannychis, dated by Geissler to 414. Interestingly we find such a figure in Alexis’ similarly titled Pannychis (see Arnott 1996, 516f.). Cf. also Aristophanes’ Aiolosikon first produced around the final decade of the fifth century. The cooks of New Comedy are mostly Sicilian, such as Sikon in Menander’s Dyskolos. Wilkins 2000, 384–386, ac-

130 131

132 133 134

knowledges the Sicilian influence on the cook figure of later comedy, but sees this influence taking shape through different contexts beyond drama. Cf. further Wilkins 2000, 370. 373. Cf. Kerkhof 2001, 132. See especially the many i - play titles of Antiphanes, Alexis and Philippides. Arist. Po. 1449b6 (= Epicharm. PCG T 5). Cf. supra n. 8 and 9. Suda  161 = TrGF I 60 T 2a.

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foreign poets competing in Athens. In many ways this made comedy more pan-Hellenic in outlook, with a preference for themes that could be understood by – and appealed to – a wider Greek audience. One poet whose popularity seems to have peaked in the fourth century for many of these reasons was Epicharmus of Syracuse. Although he was active almost a century earlier, Epicharmus had far more in common with Middle Comedy than with fifth-century Athenian Old Comedy. Indeed we can almost see a direct line of influence tracing its history from Epicharmus through to Middle Comedy, New Comedy and Roman Comedy, skipping Athenian Old Comedy along the way. Fourth-century comic poets very likely seized upon Epicharmus as a source of ideas given his obvious popularity. As a result we see an interesting exchange taking place between Athens and the Greek West at this time. While Athens was showing signs of an obsession with Epicharmus and importing ideas from early fifth-century Sicilian comedy, at the same time Athenian Old Comedies were being exported to the Greek West. Both had discovered the merits of foreign comic traditions. The reason why Athenian Old Comedy was popular in the West but not in Athens is not entirely clear. The Greek West’s seemingly perennial interest in anything to do with Athenian tragedy, including paratragedy, may be one reason; and it may have been more tolerant of much of the largely obscure topical, political and personal content of these plays precisely because it had nothing invested in it, whereas in Athens it cut closer to home. To return to one of the opening questions of this chapter – whether Middle Comedy was a period of ‘transition’ and whether comic drama had experienced a death in the early fourth century – the answer is clearly “no”. Comedy expanded its outlook ten-fold, finding far greater resources to draw upon. Furthermore the styles, themes and characters that emerge in this period were to be enduring. Later comedy, including Menander and most of the other New Comedy poets, borrowed extensively from this rich inheritance135. New Comedy certainly made refinements and developed comedy in various subtle ways, but its general outline is mostly derivative of the fundamental groundwork laid in the first half of the century by the poets of Middle Comedy. By way of illustrating the debt we might compare two passages preserved in our ancient sources: one is a fragment of the Middle Comedy poet Antiphanes, a key figure in the development of comedy, in which he complains about the difficulties that faced comic poets in forging new and original plots compared with the ready-made material available to the tragic poets136; the second is an anecdote preserved in Plutarch on the New Comedy poet Menander. The Antiphanes passage, in fact, might be said to illustrate just as well the difference between Middle Comedy and New Comedy, rather than comedy and tragedy. The Middle Comedy poets were central in

135

Cf. supra n. 8. Menander was well-known for borrowing material. His Deisidaimon was supposedly a reworked version of Antiphanes’ Oionistes 10, 3, 13 = Men. Deisid. PCG T III). Aristophanes of Byzantion, for whom Menander was a favourite poet, nevertheless wrote a work titled P  M   λ $φ’ p R @   (Eus. P. E. 10, 3, 12 = Men. PCG T 76). And Latinus wrote a work in six books, probably derivative of Aristophanes of Byzantion, titled On What Doesn’t Belong to Menander (see Eus. P. E. 10, 3, 12 = Men. PCG T 81).

136

Antiphanes Poiesis PCG F 189, 1–5 and / /  17–22:      π  )

 ’, 4   - ¹  / 7μ - 6- '  / ! , /  λ   ’ 'Gα —6’ 7  / G μ  " … / πG ξ %’ $ R , $  G / 7 G, H  ,   ) / ! /   ,  %  , κ

 φ", / κ '#". j n  /  9  / X !«  « ν i/  «,    .

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developing new plots and characters, while the New Comedy poets were able to pick and choose from these pre-made comic models at their leisure. At any rate we are told that Menander, when once asked if a play he was working on would be ready in time for the Dionysia, replied that the plot was ready; all he had to do was write the verses137.

137

Plu. Moralia 347e (= Men. PCG T 70): ! ξ λ M ) / - "6/  « 'G “« σ M!   :  , λ  κ

/) / $  «;” μ ’ $ -

6 “κ « 6« R/   κ

/) /α g )   π  6 «α G ’ $9    )  ) » ”.

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Section C: Performance outside Athens

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The Macedonian Kings and Greek Theatre

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Philippus in acie tutior quam in theatro fuit … (Curtius 9, 6, 25): The Macedonian Kings and Greek Theatre* Eoghan Moloney

Introduction While recent decades have seen a welcome increase of interest in the expansion of theatre outside of Athens, in Classical and post-Classical periods1, scholarly focus on ancient Greek theatre still tends to be, overall, more cursory than sustained. Understandably, considerations of the legacy and traditions of the ‘metropolis of theatre’ continue to dominate discussion of ancient drama2, and Classical Athens still endures as our primary context for the production of ancient drama3. And although it can be difficult to set ancient theatre activity within even broad cultural frames when we attempt to look beyond Athens, nevertheless we must engage with the full extent of performance among the Greeks if we are to understand this most malleable medium properly. Indeed, recent research on drama in South Italy and Sicily, in particular, shows the merit of tackling afresh the scattered evidence for non-canonical theatre performance, producing a body of work that considers the dynamic interplay between two different theatrical traditions rather than a restricted, repetitive review of one4. Ancient Greek theatre had more ‘historical moments’ worthy of consideration than scholarship has often allowed for5. * Sincere thanks to all the participants in the Sydney sessions, and especially to Peter Wilson, Eric Csapo, and Sophie Morton for all their patience and support. I expand on many of the points raised in this chapter in Moloney forthcoming. 1 On the vitality of Athenian tragedy beyond the fifth century see Xanthakis-Karamanos 1980; both Easterling 1993, 559–569 and Easterling 1997c, 211–227 remain crucial contributions. On the demand for performances outside of Attica see Dearden 1990b; Taplin 1993; Le Guen 1995; Taplin 1999. For a more up-todate survey see Csapo 2010a, 95–103. One should also note key works on ancient Greek history and politics that push beyond the almost-standard focus on Athens: Brock – Hodkinson 2000; Hansen – Nielsen 2004. 2 The phrase is from Wilson 2007b, 7. Csapo – Miller 2007, 7–24 offer a fine review of evi-

3

4

5

dence on the origins of drama in Greece. On the early dates for tragedy at Athens see Connor 1989, 7–32; West 1989, 251–254; Scullion 2002, 81–101. On the issue of the ‘Athenianness’ of Greek tragedy see the discussion in Griffith – Carter 2011, 4–7. See Todisco 2002 and the collections edited by Martina 2003 and Bosher 2012. Finally, Part III of Peter Wilson’s edited collection The Greek Theatre and Festivals presents an important group of papers that uncover a number of ‘paths beyond Athens’, both to the west (Jordan 2007, 335–350; Wilson 2007d, 351–377) and the east (Ma 2007, 215–245; Le Guen 2007b, 246–278; Rutherford 2007, 279–293; Crowther 2007, 294–334). On tragedy’s ‘particular moment’ and setting (Athens, from Solon to Agathon) see the stillinfluential Vernant 1988, 23–28.

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Returning to the mainland, but moving north this time, this chapter draws attention to another cluster of evidence, centred on ancient Macedonia, that also merits a proper (re)evaluation. Given the extent to which the remarkable military careers and conquests of Philip II and Alexander the Great dominate ancient Macedonian history, one still has to fight against the current somewhat to emphasise the extent to which this kingdom was a key site for the reception and production of the arts6. While a well-established narrative does detail the extraordinary fourth-century transformation of Macedon into the great imperial power of the age, that rise to supremacy is often presented as the triumph of a brutish cohort, lacking in refinement. Even in the usually steady Arrian we find the Macedonians presented as a barely-civilised people. In the notable outburst at Opis, Alexander supposedly reminds his men that: i «   #Ω 7»« "« λ $ «,   φ6!  « « « !« $     # H … " ξ  - H - «  , $5 )« "« G«  )(  « - # # / … (  ' " « $!φ

λ  « λ R6 ) G«  .

Philip found you wandering, helpless, most of you still in skins, pasturing a few sheep in the mountains … He led you down from the hills and onto the plains, making you the equal in battle of your barbarian neighbours … He made you city-dwellers, and he brought order with good laws and customs7. Of course, even more influential are the colourful barbs of Demosthenes and Theopompus, strident opponents of Philip who, for example, present his royal court as a place where men … $ $  5 ! , $’ 4  «   G« 6E  ν G« # #  «  « ν # μ« ν 6 « μ  , k )μ Ϊ« '« M  $6  6!« … (“… were not chosen on merit, but instead if anyone among the Greeks or barbarians was lewd, loathsome, or brazen in manner, nearly all of them were collected together in Macedonia …”)8. Attacks such as this increasingly tended to emanate from Athens as the fourth century developed, abuse that consistently depicted and dismissed Macedonia as a “cultural wasteland”9; a kingdom preeminent in power and influence, but lacking in terms of cultural standing. In that area Athens still claimed supremacy; the antithesis of Macedon, Athenians would give greater emphasis to their city’s record of cultural achievement even as, especially, her political power and influence faded. Athens remained, as Plato’s Protagoras claims, the “prytaneion of wisdom” (Prt. 337d), no other site could compare10.

6

7

8

9

As Carney 2010, 157 notes, “History’s Macedonians … were all about power”; on the different perceptions of the Macedonians through history see Asirvatham 2010, 99–124. Arr. An. 7, 9, 2. On the authenticity of this speech see Bosworth 1988a, 101–113. Theopomp. Hist. FGrHist 115 F 224; see also the Theopomp. Hist. FGrHist 115 F 225 a-b as well as D. 2, 18–20. Spencer 2002, 2.

10

Thucydides’ Pericles (2, 41) famously offered Athens as “an education for Greece” (« aE«  ); Isocrates (4, 50) maintained ¹ « 6λ - Ν/     (“[Athens’] pupils have become the teachers of all others”). On Athens as the “self-appointed arbiter of cultural authenticity”, see J. Hall 2002, 202–220; on the enduring importance of Athens’ past cultural glories see Wilson 1996, 310–324; Most 2006, 382–386.

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Of course, such statements do not represent any distinct identity in themselves, but were a product of Athenian ideology; so too the presentation of Macedon as a kingdom devoid of culture was also an ideological construction11. As it happens, from the midfourth century on the Macedonian royal court did compare (and compete) as a centre for high culture, as the remarkable work of a generation of archaeologists working in the region since the late 1950s has proved12. The wealth of the material uncovered has slowly exposed the speciousness of some of the old stereotypes in the written sources, and is prompting a significant change in the way in which historians assess the Macedonians and their approach to culture. Not only is it now clear that certainly the elite at court maintained a keen interest in, and appreciation for, the arts, but findings also suggest that the Macedonians had tastes and traditions in architecture and material culture that were truly distinctive13. Most notably, evidence from the many burial tombs excavated highlights that local religious practices and burial habits were quite different from those in southern Greece, suggesting that the Macedonians maintained their own peculiarly local tastes and traditions in architecture and material culture14. Further, it is important to recognise too that the Macedonians themselves were aware of the importance of articulating their own self-fashioning, that they were actively engaged in an ideological contest with other states. All of which might be somewhat basic, but too often some sources and scholars have failed to give the Macedonians even that much credit. What we see emerging is a refined picture of a people who, from the Archaic period down until Classical times, adopted, assimilated, and combined diverse cultural elements (from both east and west) in order to create their own non-canonical regional style15. And this process of absorption and subsequent (re)articulation is one that can also be seen in the appropriation of ancient theatre by the Macedonian elite. Indeed, Argead patrons enticed leading players from the Athenian theatre scene to their court from the end of the fifth century, offering new alternatives and opportunities to Athenian playwrights and performers even before the emergence of this kingdom as a great power. In doing so, the Macedonian patrons would even help shape the future direction and development of ancient Greek drama16. 11

12

13

Paraphrasing Whitmarsh 2010, 8f. on divisions between Greek ‘culture’ and Roman ‘power’ in the imperial period. Archaeological interest in Macedonia grew after the Pella mosaics were found, and intensified further following the discovery of the royal cemetery at Vergina by Manolis Andronikos and his team; work that produced “a virtual explosion of material from the soil of Macedonia” as Borza 1990, 267 puts it. Although Archibald 2000, 227 notes: “Archaeological investigations in Macedonia have accelerated enormously since M. Andronikos’ spectacular tomb finds at Vergina. But little has been added to our knowledge of pre-Hellenistic settlements”. Too many finds to detail here, but valuable reviews can be found in: Barr-Sharrar – Borza 1982; Andronikos 1988; Borza 1990, 253–276; Touratsoglou 1999; Stamatopoulou – Yeroulanou 2002, 75–107; Hatzopolos 2011, 39–42.

14

15

16

See Barr-Sharrar 1982, 123–139; Miller 1982, 152–169. More recently, Christesen – Murray 2010, 428–445; Mari 2011, 453–465 on Macedonian religion; Hardiman 2010, 505–521 on art. Borza 1999, 32: “In the formative period of the early Archaic era one looks in vain for the emergence of a material culture that appears to be uniquely ‘Macedonian’ … In the period in which we might expect the Macedonians to have evolved a characteristic culture of their own, we find that they are like a sponge, absorbing a variety of surrounding cultures”. This chapter restricts itself to the first half of the fourth century (before Alexander the Great) and the first examples of Macedonian appropriation of ancient Greek theatre. While some of the trends and features noted below blossom in later periods, tracing that development is beyond the scope of this piece.

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Archelaus The culturally-enlightened, philhellenic rule of King Archelaus provides us with our starting point; Archelaus is not perhaps one of the familiar names in Macedonian history, but he was a monarch of ambition and ability nonetheless. This Argead ruled for fifteen-or-so years at the end of the fifth century (414/3–399), managing to revive the fortunes of a weak Macedonian kingdom during difficult times. Archelaus also Hellenised the royal court and acted as patron to a host of distinguished artists from the south17. The Macedonian managed to persuade luminaries such as the Athenian playwrights Euripides, Agathon, the epic poet Choerilus of Samos, and the musician and dithyrambic poet Timotheus of Miletus to visit his kingdom18. According to Aristotle, Socrates too was also called to court, but refused to undertake the journey to Macedonia. In Rhetoric, we are told of an invitation, which Socrates turned down because ]#   Rφ ρ μ κ 6 $6 ²/« σ 6, — λ  -« (“he said it was shameful not to be able to return a favour, as well as a slight”; Rh. 1398a 24)19. It was a significant refusal, for the ‘favours’ of Archelaus were particularly generous, that is if we can set any store in evidence that draws heavily from the poetic vitae20. Plutarch tells of a golden cup casually awarded to Euripides as he dined (Plu. Moralia 177a, 531d–e), while Athenaeus informs us that Choerilus received pay of four hundred drachmas a day while at court (345d). Aelian too preserves details of Archelaus’ lavish spending, in a passage that also notes quite a degree of resistance to his efforts: 8/ « R #A )! '« κ '    «  »« $- , Z%5   6/ μ aH  (, 3 $κ  φ , '« dμ ξ $!.  μ  /6 ξ $φ G6  9  <9 > 9  « #!« 66 κ ' ·  ’ $μ ξ #A )! ! '« M « !6 ,  "   $9  ) " λ 9 , 7φ’ p $ j ¹ 6 μ G.

Socrates said Archelaus spent four hundred minae on his palace, engaging Zeuxis of Heraclea to paint it. However, he spent nothing on himself. And so people quickly came from far away, eager to see the house; but no one journeyed to Macedonia to visit Archelaus himself. Unless he persuaded and tempted some with money, although no serious person would be taken in by such21. There are hints here of a hostile Greek tradition that presented Archelaus as both the bastard son of a slave who has murdered his way to the throne (Pl. Grg. 471a–c), and a bar17

18

For an outline of Archelaus’ career see Borza 1990, 161–179. See Borza 1993, 237–244. Daskalakis 1965, 271 n. 9 gives an overly-ambitious catalogue of artists who may have visited Macedonia during Archelaus’ reign; he maintains that all the artists who accepted Macedonian patronage at this time were, crucially, Athenian or had close links with that city. The Macedonian king may also have welcomed Plato the comic writer, while the biographical tradition suggests that Sophocles was also offered a royal invitation but did not accept.

19

20

21

Diogenes tells of Socrates’ contempt for Archelaus of Macedon (among others), refusing to accept any and all offers of patronage (D. L. 2, 25). Difficult material that has to be treated with care and consideration, for fine recent examples of how to work effectively with the ancient biographical traditions see Hanink 2008 and Hanink 2010b. Ael. VH 14, 17.

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barian (as in Thrasym. 85 B 2 D–K)22. The efforts at refinement of a man such as this are presented as a boorish pretence that fail to convince; this is a patron who poorly understands the work of his guests. As we see in a quip from the late grammarian, Diomedes: Tristia namque tragoediae proprium, ideoque Euripides, petente Archelao rege ut de se tragoediam scriberet, abnuit, ac precatus est ne accideret Archelao aliquid tragoediae proprium, ostendens nihil aliud esse tragoediam quam miseriarum comprehensionem. That is to say, sadness is proper to tragedy. Hence it was that Euripides, on being asked by King Archelaus to write a tragedy about him, refused, and expressed the hope that Archelaus would never experience anything appropriate to tragedy. He thereby demonstrated that tragedy is nothing more than a presentation of miseries23. But, again, we must be wary of the hostility that often colours Greek accounts of events in Macedonia; surely here, for example, we can take it that Archelaus did not need to have the finer points of Greek theatre explained to him? It is not the case that vacuous Macedonians, supposedly without any culture of their own, simply ape what were established practices elsewhere. Furthermore, when Archelaus threw open his court to a motley crew of Greek artists, he did so for purely Macedonian purposes and not as a mere affectation. The example for all Macedonian kings was set by Alexander I, who was keen to restore close ties with the rest of the Greek world in the period of the Persian Wars. Alexander began to assert those family ties with Argos that we find in Herodotus, in addition to dedicating a golden self-portrait at Delphi24. Alexander may have also acted as patron to Pindar and Bacchylides, for certainly we have fragments of encomia written by each in honour of the king25. Consequently, it was no simple affectation for Archelaus to follow his grandfather’s philhellenic example when Macedonian and Greek interests were again contiguous at the other end of the fifth century. One key difference that we should perhaps note is that Archelaus’ reign was remarkable for the efforts this king made to establish closer links with Athens in particular – efforts that were very much appreciated by a city struggling in the final years of the Peloponnesian War, a city in desperate need of Macedonian timber in order to rebuild and maintain its naval fleet following the disastrous defeat in Sicily26. 22

23

24

See Borza 1990, 175–177 on Greek hostility. In the Gorgias (471c), Archelaus is identified , as !     Ω« -  M ) $6 («  / M / (“the greatest criminal in Macedonia, the most wretched of all Macedonians”), both a brutal and corrupt tyrant. Diom. Ars grammatica 488. Text and translation taken from Kelly 1993, 11, who traces Diomedes’ definitions of tragedy here back to Theophrastus (via Suetonius and Varro). For Argead ties to Argos see Hdt. 5, 18–22. 8, 137–9. 9, 45; details of Alexander’s dedications can be found in Hdt. 8, 121 and D. 12, 21. Borza 1982, 8 examines the possibility that Herodotus visited Macedon. See Badian 1982, 34 on the timing of Alexander’s attempts to re-

25

26

establish links with the southern Greeks, which came after the Persian retreat to Asia. Strikingly both fragments appear to tie the Macedonian king to the Homeric Alexander, son of Priam, and not primarily to a Greek pedigree. The short Pindar fragment 120f. is the more explicit: #O#/ ²( :  » G 6 « #A (“namesake of the blessed son of Dardanus, daring child of Amyntas”). For extensive arguments on Bacchylides fragment 20B, see the excellent analysis by Fearn 2007, 27–86. For Athenian dependence on Macedonian timber see IG I3 89; D. 19, 265. 49, 26; Th. 4, 108, 1 and X. HG 6, 1, 11. After 413 there were no timber supplies coming to Athens from the west, and with Amphipolis also hostile, the

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Athenian dependence on Macedonian natural resources provided Archelaus, in turn, with an important source of revenue, and the brisk trade in timber and pitch helped to fund the king’s programme of reforms. (Perhaps appropriately, Greek money funded the development of Archelaus’ Hellenic court.) Overall, the lengths Archelaus went to in order to facilitate these trading partners were truly remarkable in the history of relations between the two states. For example, in addition to harmonising the weight standard of his coins to facilitate international trade,27 Archelaus even entertained Athenian traders and ship builders () at Pella. Archelaus accommodated these unusual guests in army quarters and furnished them with all necessary facilities and materials to ensure that the Athenians could rapidly rebuild their fleet in safety28. Finally, according to Xenophon, the Macedonian king also contributed money to the Athenian war effort, even though he was technically neutral29. Obviously such assistance was greatly appreciated by the Athenians, who honoured Archelaus as  5« λ $ !« in 406 in recognition of the support that he had given to the 30. The nexus between the two states, for a short and specific period, is striking: as Macedonian resources go south, Athenian merchants and ship builders, money and honours all go north. As do Euripides, Agathon, and those other artists who accepted Archelaus’ patronage, all arriving in the same place (Pella presumably), at the same point in time, as political, economic, and cultural interests align. This is the bustle of activity that provides the backdrop for Archelaus’ determined and ambitious drive to gain “respectability in the mainstream of Hellenic culture”, as Oliver Taplin puts it, and this is the context for the particular production of Euripides’ Archelaus31. Among Euripides’ final works, composed sometime around 408–407 during a stay in Macedonia, the Archelaus was the commission piece composed for the royal patron noted in the Diomedes passage above32. Although the story of Euripides’ ‘exile and death’ in Macedonia has been challenged recently, that the playwright at least visited Archelaus’ court was firmly established in antiquity and should still be accepted33. While there, presumably, Euripides supervised the performance of the Archelaus, although we can only speculate as to the nature of the production given that it is difficult to establish a satisfying

27

28

Athenians had little choice but to turn to Archelaus. In On His Return (2, 11) we learn how Andocides, exploiting family connections in Macedonia, persuaded Archelaus to allow him to cut and export timber on behalf of the Athenian fleet at Samos. See Borza 1987, 40–43. Greenwalt 1994, 112–114. It is an interesting feature of these coins, which may have been primarily intended for foreign trade, that their decoration also clearly reflected Argead mythological claims of a Hellenic origin (many depict the head and attributes of Heracles or the goat motif). See Hammond – Griffith 1979, 138; Borza 1990, 173. See Meritt 1936, 248 n. 8; Greenwalt 1994, 117 for the suggestion that these Athenians were received at Pella. Borza 1990, 169 points out that, with both harbour and timber reserves within easy reach, Pella was an ideal location for the on-site construction of a new Athenian fleet. See also Hammond 1972, 132. 153.

29

30

31 32

33

In 410 Theramenes and his fleet arrived for the battle of Cyzicus, having previously been in Macedonia collecting levies from Archelaus (X. HG 1, 1, 12). IG I3 117 honours the Macedonian king h« ] $ λ $6 Λ [ λ  6  Λ h]  $6[] (“because he is noble of nature and eager to do all the good possible”). Meiggs – Lewis 1988, 277–280 for a reconstruction of the decree plus commentary. Taplin 1999, 42. On the Archelaus in general see, Harder 1985; Harder 1991, 117–136. See, most notably, Arist. Pol. 1311b 30–34, also Plu. Moralia 177b. Scullion 2003, 389–400 is rightly sceptical of claims that Euripides abandoned Athens, but his arguments dismissing other aspects of the ‘Macedonian story’ are not as convincing. See Hanink 2008, 116–119 and the comments of Csapo 2010a, 114 n. 135.

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reconstruction of the play. Even though a relatively large number of fragments survive from the piece, many of the 37 fragments that remain are without obvious context and tend to be too general to be assigned to particular characters or scenes. However, the most significant theme we can identify was one established right at the very outset of the performance; two lengthy fragments survive from the Archelaus’ prologue, an opening preamble that went to great lengths to detail the genealogy of the Macedonian royal family34. (AUXEFAO8)

(Archelaos)

:μ« ² "  6! / κ N  Ω   † «† ]/ , [χ«  #    % .« A'6 « «, π ’ j   ) Ω †6 «† π ’ '6! ,] 6Ω « 5A « [ ’ #I)  · P (« ’ g!« μ  λ :« G6  R6 ’ $’ aE

(1)

Danaus, father of fifty daughters, left the most beautiful waters of the Nile †from the earth† [which fills its streams from the Ethiopian land of dark-skinned people, when the snow melts and the sun †drives his chariot† through the sky.] He came to the Argolid and founded the city of Inachus, and he established the custom throughout Greece that those who had been called Pelasgians before should now be called Danaans

(1)

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TrGF F 228. Text and translation presented here are taken from Collard et al. 2004, 338–341.

(5)

(5)

(5)

(10)

(15)

(20)

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Z« [ ] / G’, Ω  χ #A )[!] ) κ G … ..  ..[ ] … [ ] [

… did not touch: from Lynceus … Abas was born. His offspring was twofold: Proetus, father of the three daughters who were driven mad, and Acrisius, who once led … … Danae down into a bronze bridal chamber … Perseus was born of Danae from the golden-flowing drops, Having severed the Gorgon’s head, he went to Ethiopia and married Andromeda daughter of Cepheus. She bore Perseus three sons: Alcaeus, Sthenelus, who acquired Mycenae city of the Argive, and third Electryon the father of Alcmene. Zeus entered the bed of Alcmene and begat the glorious Heracles. His son was Hyllus, and from Hyllus was born Temenus, who resumed residence at Argos as a descendant of Heracles. Since he was childless, my father Temenus went to the fold of holy Dodona out of a desire for children, and the priestess of Dione, namesake of Zeus, said this to Temenus: ’Child born of the offspring of Heracles, Zeus gives you a child, I prophesy, Who must be called Archelaus …

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In this prologue, Euripides establishes a mythical ‘Archelaus’ as both the founder of the Macedonian royal line and a descendant of Heracles. In doing so, the playwright further develops the link between the royal house, Argos, and the Temenids that was first asserted earlier in the reign of Alexander I. We are guided here through eleven generations of the Macedonian royal line, a review that starts with Danaus and takes in the tales of, among others, Perseus, Alcmene, Heracles, Hyllus, and Temenus. The first section of this long chronology was traditionally accepted prior to the Archelaus, but here Euripides introduces two new elements: he lists Temenus as the son of Hyllus, and then establishes the mythical Archelaus as the son of Temenus – a birth prophesised by the priestess of Dodona at the end of the 25 lines of the second fragment, a birth that completes the early history of the Macedonian royal line. These are quite remarkable passages; establishing for Archelaus a Hellenic heroic heritage second to none, endorsing the claims of the royal line that they are Temenidai in exile from Argos. Even beyond Argos, the Macedonians can trace their line all the way back to Heracles, the greatest of all the Greek heroes, who is himself mentioned three times in the play’s prologue35. Overall, in the Archelaus, Euripides adds another chapter to the tragic 35

Heracles is also evoked in a number of the other surviving fragments that emphasise the  of our tragic hero and the promised glory that will result from these trials. In TrGF F 233 Archelaus is urged to overcome exile and poverty and rise from lowly social origins just

like his father Temenus and grand-father Hyllus; indeed Archelaus succeeds because of his adversities, he is poor but he is also “clever and energetic” in TrGF F 246. Finally, success comes from adversity in TrGF F 236. 237. 240.

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history of this most illustrious heroic family: while the Heracles and Heraclidae detail the rescue of Heracles from despair (and the liberation of his children), and in the Cresphontes, Temenus, and Temenidai the exiles are restored to the Peloponnese, now in the Archelaus the Heracleidai spread to Macedonia36. Again it must be stressed that all this was no idle flattery. Such foundation myths were especially important to the Macedonians in their external dealings with the rest of the Greek world, but the genealogy of the ruling house of the Argead kings was also a vital concern within the kingdom at the end of the fifth century. Comparisons perhaps can be drawn with the situation at Sparta, where king-lists were established almost as a special kind of “genealogical charter” that served to honour the Agiads and Eurypontids and confirm these families in their leading political positions37. Similarly, given the fierce competition between different branches of the Argeadae, those with rival ambitions for the Macedonian throne sought any grounds upon which they could establish their claim to power. Euripides’ Archelaus is an early example of the tactic of dynastic revision, which would later become a common practice among successive Argead monarchs who sought to make political capital out of such manipulations38. Nor were such attempts at mythic re-definition unusual in the works of Euripides39. Think, particularly, of the reworking of Athenian representations of their own ‘autochthonous’ origins that we find in the Ion40, or of the emphasis on the barbarian ancestry of the Theban royal house in the Phoenissae41, or, finally, of the affirmation of Molossian mythological credentials that we find in the Andromache42. At a time when Archelaus’ legitimacy, not only as king but also as a son of Perdic36

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The mythical Archelaus comes to Thrace and delivers the city from its enemies (see Hyg. Fab. 219, 1–2, and in TrGF F 229 the city is besieged, while TrGF F 242. 243. 244 all seem to belong to some military context), delivers the countryside from the threat of highwaymen (TrGF F 260), and then rescues the city from the tyranny of Kisseus (TrGF F 261). A comparison suggested to me by Paul Cartledge. See also Cartledge 1979, 343f. where it is observed that the Spartan king-lists served “to affirm the superior blue-bloodedness of the Agiads and Eurypontids against the claims of other aristocratic families and to distinguish the aristocracy from the commons”. Hammond – Griffith 1979, 5–11 suggests that Euripides’ tragedy was the prototype in this respect. Greenwalt 1985, 49 points out that in the first half of the fourth century (and especially in the 390s) a rivalry developed between three different branches of the Argead family, each of which seems to have been particularly “concerned with the official record of early Macedonian history. Undoubtedly, this interest derived from a desire to strengthen their claim to authority by appealing to the past. This suggests that individual Argead kings hoped to enhance their status by glorifying their royal heritage as much as possible”. Allan 2000, 10–13 observes, that while we must be careful not to overstate the extent of

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Euripides’ radical treatment of the traditions he inherits: “it is vital to bear in mind that the tragedian’s skill in inventing, adapting and reshaping myths is part of a well-exampled tradition in Greek poetry”; within this context Euripides “recasts [his] mythical data with especial zest”. As E. Hall 1997, 101 notes, a Euripidean tragedy based on “transparently patriotic myths”. See Saxonhouse 1986, 252–273. As Said 2002, 94 highlights: “This presentation of Theban history in the Phoenician Women deserves our attention because of its unusual character. To effect it, Euripides had to distance himself from the more common versions of the legend of Cadmus and make a complete break with the Aeschylean model”. Rawson 1970, 109–127 explores the many links between Thebes and Phoenicia that Euripides highlights, especially in the choral lyrics. See Easterling 1994, 79, and also Allan 2000, 152–155. Of course, the Andromache may provide a precedent for Euripides’ activity in Macedonia. Thetis’ prophetic speech (ll. 1243– 1250) details the fate that awaits Molossus, son of Neoptolemus and Andromache, who becomes the ancestor of the kings of Molossia. This prophecy establishes for the first time a link between the Molossians and the Hellenic heroic tradition, and a particular association with Achilles. Easterling wonders whether this passage can be connected “with the patronage

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cas II, was challenged (if we can accept the historicity of the presentation of the Macedonian in Plato’s Gorgias), the Archelaus presents a strong statement of a very specific royal pedigree, the point of which was aimed at a domestic Macedonian audience. Euripides’ work sought to establish (by association) his patron as the second founder of the Macedonian line. Given the divisions within his kingdom, no doubt the historical Archelaus was delighted with a piece that so strongly re-affirmed the superiority of his ‘right to rule’ over the claims of any domestic rival.

Philip Where any such presentation of the Archelaus may have taken place is uncertain43. Different arguments have been proposed in favour of each of the three main cities in the kingdom at the time. Pella, which was the centre for much of Archelaus’ Hellenic activity, immediately springs to mind, but no evidence of any theatrical activity has been found in or around Pella44. If we are prepared to consider a performance space outside of the theatre for this drama, then Birgitta Bergquist has noted that among the buildings that do remain at Pella there are what appear to be large sympotic spaces45. These may have provided the setting for a form of dramatic performance, as they did later with Alexander the Great. But if we insist on an established context for the performance of the Archelaus, then perhaps the city of Aegae is worth considering. The city certainly had not been totally eclipsed in importance by Pella at the time of Euripides’ visit, and in Hyginus’ account of the myth of Archelaus (Fabulae 219), which is probably Euripidean in origin, the hero eventually flees to Macedonia and founds Aegae at Apollo’s instruction46. If this was originally part of Euripides’ treatment of the myth then was it perhaps included in the plot as a compliment to the host city. But an immediate context for the performance of the Archelaus is perhaps missing here, which has led some to consider Dion, the kingdom’s religious centre from the fifth century, as the most suitable site. The patron deity of Dion was Olympian Zeus, venerated along with the Muses, and Karadedos gives details of a fourth century theatre (rebuilt in Hellenistic times) that may have been the setting for the religious festival instituted here by Archelaus47. Diodorus tells us how, in the spring of 334, Alexander the Great48

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of the Molossian king Tharyps, who was probably in Athens in the 420s and was granted Athenian citizenship” – the tentative suggestion being that Euripides accepted here another “encomiastic commission”, and attempted to create a favourable context for the reception of this ‘foreign’ royal. See also Stevens 1971, 19–21. It is generally agreed that, given the play’s patron and the subject matter, the place of performance was probably somewhere in Macedonia. See Harder 1985, 126, who notes further that there are no signs that the play was produced in Athens, but “all the relevant lists show gaps about the time when the Archelaus has been dated”. Plutarch Moralia 1098b does mention a theatre in a fourth-century context, but there is little beyond that testimony

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Berquist 1990, 53f. See Hammond – Walbank 1988, 481. A site in Aegae itself remains to be found; note that the small court-theatre here is part of a larger complex that was constructed during the last years of Philip’s reign. See below n. 72. Many thanks to J. Richard Green for his notes on the theatre at Dion. The structure visible still dates to the reign of King Philip V, with construction beginning ca. 200; this building replaced an earlier theatre going back to the late fifth century, although next to nothing of that survives. See Karadedos 1986, 325–340 and Karadedos 2005, 381–390. D. S. 17, 16, 3. Just. Epit. 24, 2, 8 refers to Dion itself as the most ancient and venerable sanctuary of Macedonia.

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/ « M « …  μ« « $-« 6«  G« G« !  :)

λ   « $-« : λ λ M «, ?« #A )!« ²  # «  -«

! 5.

… made magnificent sacrifices to the gods at Dion in Macedonia and held the dramatic contests in honour of Zeus and the Muses, which Archelaus, one of his predecessors, first founded. Archelaus’ Macedonian Olympia consisted of five days of athletic, musical, and dramatic competitions49, and it was a festival still going strong in the time of Cassander. A decree presented by Miltiades Hatzopoulos, dating to the last quarter of the fourth century, gives us a little more information about this festival: […  ]   G« [ ]G« $- λ  G« :  « λ μ @"φ  % $ @« '"  6 $6G  μ % %, κ ξ '    - ! % : μ« % #O,

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… prohedria at the gymnastic games and in the Dionysia, and having engraved this decree on a stone stele to expose it before the temple and to erect his statue in the temenos of Olympian Zeus …50. Unfortunately, the beginning of the inscription is missing, so we cannot tell who received the privilege of prohedria (‘front-row seats’) at the gymnastic games and in the Dionysia. Between Archelaus and Cassander, Philip II also celebrated the ‘national’ festival at Dion in 347. Diodorus, again, tells us51:  ξ κ Ϊ/  « #O6 #O   "« G« 6G«     G« 6« !· "  ξ  « λ  « $-«  "« « -  / 5!/ λ « d  «  #.

After the capture of Olynthus, [Philip] celebrated the Olympian festival for the gods in commemoration of his victory, and offered magnificent sacrifices; and he organised a lavish festive assembly where he held splendid competitions and afterwards invited many of the visiting strangers to his banquets. 49

This Macedonian festival was originally held over a five-day period, a format that was later extended to nine days by Alexander the Great, see Bosworth 1988a, 97. In the third century this festival may have been renamed the Basileia in honour of Zeus Basileus, see IG II2 3779 and Errington 1990, 264. Comparable festivals (in terms of the range of events) would perhaps be the Panathenaea and the Pythian Games, competitions from which the Macedo-

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nians may or may not have been excluded. Borza 1993, 242 argues that it seems unlikely that any Macedonian king competed in the Olympic festival prior to Philip II. If the Macedonians were excluded in such a way then that would at least explain why Archelaus felt a need to establish his own ‘Olympia’ at Dion. Text and translation from Hatzopoulos 1996, 2. 57. D. S. 16, 55, 1.

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Although none of our sources make particular mention of dramatic performances as part of the festivities here, such contests were a standard part of the programme established by Archelaus. In addition, Demosthenes tells us that Philip “gathered together all types of artists for the religious celebrations and festivals”, and there were certainly actors present at this celebration52. For the celebration of this festival provided the occasion for the ‘banquet of Satyros’; a famous symposium for the honoured guests where Philip granted the request of the comic actor Satyros (himself a native of Olynthus) for the restoration of two innocent captives53. Beyond this, the sources fail to provide any further clear and unambiguous details of Philip’s involvement with ancient drama; although, it is fair to note that, overall, there is a lack of detailed information on Macedonian cultural life in the period of his reign. Although J. R. Ellis speaks of the “central role of the theatre” during the reign of Philip II54, it would be nice to have more concrete examples of productions or performances in the kingdom during this crucial period. Certainly, there is much of the theatrical about the presentation of Philip’s rule, as perhaps one would expect in this period of Greek history where, as Peter Wilson has noted, “the line between theatre and politics became increasingly blurred”55. That, of course, owes much to the fact that our picture of the period, and of Philip, is shaped significantly by the accounts of the Athenian orators; accounts that present exchanges between the two states in a distinctly dramatic manner. And we noted above how Philip and the Macedonians tended to be portrayed in those sharp exchanges. These sharp exchanges and disparaging comments were not limited to the Athenian Assembly, as a fragment from Mnesimachus makes clear56: Θ ’ ρ6’ ² κ  μ« Ν «   ), θ  5φ  %   !, @ ξ » « π!« ; %6 $6«  φ!   " πG ² G«  G $ « K  «, —  #6«,  /  @

’, $« ξ   φ  λ 6(  « R),  μ« - ξ φ«

λ 5,   ’ φ(6

Don’t you know you fight against men, that dine on just-sharpened swords, and who eat up flaming torches as an appetiser? Straight after that, after dinner a slave brings on a dessert of Cretan arrows instead of chickpeas, and broken shards of arrows too; 52

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D. 19, 192: '« ξ κ 6  λ κ "  « « )« ". Hammond – Griffith 1979, 327f. maintain that Philip did engage “the leading actors of the day” to take part in the festival’s dramatic contests. Satyros won at the Lenaea, around 375, and tradition often links him to Demosthenes. Aeschines tells us that Demosthenes praised the

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comic actor for securing the release of his friends, who were captives and working in Philip’s vineyards (Aeschin. 2, 156). Demosthenes identifies the captives as two virgin daughters of Apollophanes of Pydna, see D. 19, 192–195. Ellis 1980, 152. Wilson 1996, 321. Mnesimachus PCG F 7 (i «) = Ath. 10, 421b–c.

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and we have shields and breastplates as cushions, with slings and bows at our feet, and we crown ourselves with catapults. The picture presented here of life at the Macedonian court is perhaps not as crude as some others we have considered, but it is striking nonetheless57. Even more so if the speaker here is, as Webster suggests, Philip himself represented on stage and addressing the Athenians58. Whether this was a crude caricature of Philip or not, still we see the court of another Macedonian king condemned. Although the company here is not quite as barbarous as the dG  in Theopompus, there is still a ferocity and an intemperance about these Macedonians59. Again we could concede that the Macedonians were aware of the potential impact of these presentations, and further note their considerable efforts to respond to and counter such negative parodies. Philip, like Alexander Philhellene and Archelaus before him, eagerly presented himself the panhellenic patron when required, cultivating an image of the Macedonian king as the aE (« of all Greeks, as Demosthenes 19, 308 puts it, as part of a sustained attempt to reconcile the cities to the south to the reality of a changing political situation60. Such a desire to court the Greeks was, of course, the point of the grand celebrations at Aegae in 336, where Philip was assassinated in the small theatre attached to the royal palace. There the Macedonian king sought to highlight a common identity with his allies prior to the invasion of Asia61. Philip used the opportunity that a royal marriage provided to display his newly acquired position as hegemon of the Greek world. Notably, on the night before the main ceremony: #E  ) - #  ) - ) / N« ²  ) /«,  // 9  φ/)  λ 9  59 ,  5« $) - % i   ! 6 -  !/  / λ   - $ /  μ« κ  - P -   …

At the royal banquet, Neoptolemos – preeminent in vocal power and in popularity – was enjoined by Philip to present some successful verses, and particularly any appropriate to the campaign against the Persians … According to Diodorus, Philip, delighted (π6«) with Neoptolemos, was swept up in the performance. In due course the fateful procession to the theatre began, which culminated with the Macedonian king stepping out before the assembled audience, dressed in a white 57

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We should also note that Mnesimachus revives another old standard here; as early as Aristophanes’ Frogs we see Macedonia(ns) associated with ‘feasting and dining’. For example, when Heracles asks Dionysus where Euripides has gone we are told: '«   / $/) (“to the banquets of the blessed” 85). See Long 1986, 163. 139–142. Webster 1953, 64, who also considers that the speaker here may be a Macedonian envoy sent south by Philip. See Davidson 1997, 303. See also Mnesimachus’ i «, PCG F 8, where one of the characters is delighted that no one from Pharsalus will be coming to dine; seemingly, the Thessa-

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lians are fiercer, and eat even more, than the Macedonians. Csapo – Slater 1994, 223 note: “Philip and Alexander’s active participation in the promotion of Greek culture went a long way toward reconciling other Greek states to the political hegemony of Macedon”. As Perlman 1976, 5 notes on such tactics: “during the classical period, the Panhellenic ideal served as a tool of propaganda for the hegemonial or imperial rule of a polis; it served to justify the hegemony and mastery of one polis over other states by proposing a common aim, war against the barbarians”.

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cloak, assuming the role of a latter-day Agamemnon as “theatre and life become metaphors for one another”62. Looking for other, more specific, uses of the theatre and theatre professionals within Macedonia during Philip’s reign, certainly, we can point to the presence of more men like Satyros (mentioned already) in Philip’s entourage. Indeed, if Archelaus’ reign was notable for the eminent playwrights that he managed to attract to Macedonia, then Philip’s was notable for the number of famous actors who visited the royal court. Aeschines tells us that the Macedonian king was “well-disposed” to actors purely because of their “artistry”63. But he was also quick to use members of the profession to play political or diplomatic roles on his behalf. As has been noted by both Brigitte Le Guen and Pat Easterling, Philip seems to have recognised the potential value of keeping these theatre professionals to hand, men who could claim immunity and free passage while touring the Greek world and were ideally equipped to conduct his diplomatic business64. Demosthenes, in particular, notes the important part played by Aristodemos of Metapontum and the great Neoptolemos of Scyros in exchanges between Macedon and Athens65. Thessalos was another actor heavily involved in Macedonian politics during the reign of Philip66; according to Plutarch at least, he was even part of the diplomatic mission negotiating a potential marriage alliance between Pixodarus, a Carian satrap, and the Macedonian royal family67. As Eric Csapo has recently noted, there are a number of significant developments in the history of ancient theatre to note in this flurry of ‘dramatic’ activity at Philip’s court. First, this king’s preference for theatre performers over playwrights highlights, and no doubt contributed to, the growing importance of the actor in the fourth century; we see nascent signs here of the increasing, and now international, demand for actors68. In addition, and more significantly, “it is in the court of Philip that we first hear of an actor performing an extract from drama in a private context”69. Neoptolemos’ recital of those select tragic odes at Philip’s state banquet was a performance within a wholly secular setting, detached from any established religious festival. As such, that performance represents a key break, although it was anticipated somewhat in the games Philip celebrated at Dion in 347 that we noted earlier. For that was an occasion that combined the celebration of a ‘national’ religious festival with the celebration of Philip’s own personal victory (the fall of Olynthus) at the Macedonian Olympia. The new demands that Macedonian patrons made of ancient drama certainly contributed to a change in the way in which performances were produced; from the 62

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Easterling 1997c, 220. For the full account of events at Aegae see D. S. 16, 91–93.   κ -  λ φ 6 / « !)« (Aeschin. 2, 15). The evidence is collected in Pickard-Cambridge 1968, 286–319, while Ghiron-Bistagne 1976 remains the standard work on this topic. Le Guen 2001 offers the most complete account of the activities of theatre professionals in the Hellenistic period. See also Easterling 1997c, 217–219. Aristodemos was also part of an Athenian embassy that visited Thessaly and Magnesia in 343/2 (D. 3, 83). See Hammond – Griffith 1979, 537.

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Thessalos twice celebrated victories at both the Dionysia (in 347 and 340, see IG II2 2318 and 2320), and the Lenaea (for the second time in 347 according to IG II2 2325). Plu. Alex. 10. Although the episode did not end well for Thessalos: when Alexander tried to highjack arrangements his father responded severely, Alexander was reprimanded and five companions exiled. On Philip’s instructions, the hapless Thessalos was returned to Macedonia in chains for his part in the affair. See Badian 1963, 245; Hammond – Griffith 1979, 679f.; Bosworth 1988b, 21f. See Csapo 2010a, 86 f. on these early signs of “a developing star system of Hollywood proportions”. Csapo 2010a, 172.

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end of Philip’s reign, Greek theatre had to prove itself a resilient and adaptable medium if it was to retain a place at multiform celebrations that offered an increasingly diverse content. Philip’s festivities, part religious ritual and part secular celebration, were significant in the history, in the evolution, of ancient theatre; for, as Peter Wilson notes, the Macedonian “practice of establishing Dionysiac-style games principally to celebrate and solemnise their own achievements helped to dislodge drama from its fixed festival moorings”70. And it is key to note a continuity here that stretches back even to Archelaus’ celebrations at Dion, a link between festivities more than fifty years apart. They remain Macedonian. As Wilson distinguishes, we see Dionysiac-style games here, but the Olympia at Dion was no Dionysia. Even though the Macedonian kings appropriated Athenian dramatists and a variety of Greek performers, they did not appropriate the Athenian performance context. No doubt they were aware of potential options, and even though the Athenian context was so successful, that is not what the Macedonians opted for. These royal patrons established their own context for the performance of theatre, and it was this flexible festival structure that endured. Greek theatre remained a crucial art-form, and a vital part of the celebrations; but beyond Athens, dramatic performances were no longer assured of centre stage. They did not dominate at the Macedonian Olympia, as patrons there offered an eclectic and exuberant mix of performances even alongside their Euripides.

The Macedonian Court But this Macedonian mix of entertainments was staged for whom? What audience awaited the Greek performers when they visited the royal court? It is worth noting again that the festival, games, and marriage celebrated at Vergina/Aegae in 336 were staged by Philip for a select audience of international guests71. This was somewhat unusual; typically the critical audience for Macedonian kings up to Alexander the Great remained a domestic one, even as they were drawn into political and military action beyond the borders of their own kingdom. Court concerns were often the most urgent, and it is this close ‘court context’ for theatre performance that is perhaps the most striking feature of the Macedonian engagement with Greek theatre. Consider again the small theatre at Aegae; perhaps second to Dion in terms of its significance as a venue, but still a key performance site in the kingdom from the end of Philip’s reign72. Part of the larger palace complex at Aegae, the king’s court theatre was a multi-purpose space designed for performance and religious and political gatherings73. 70 71

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Wilson 2000, 288. Diodorus tells us that the “many people from all over streamed” (- )6  /) to Macedonia, with notables from most of the important cities represented at court. D. S. 16, 92, 1. See also the Philip’s celebration at Dion in 347, noted above, where after the festivities the king “invited many of the visiting strangers to his banquets” (D. S. 16, 55, 1). On the excavations at Vergina/Aegae see especially Andronikos 1988, 46–49 figs. 21–23. For further reports see: Andronikos 1982, 26–38; Andronikos 1988, 1–16; Andronikos

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1990, 83f.; and more recently Kottaridi 2002, 75–81. On the theatre itself see Drougou 1997, 281–305; Wiles 1997, 38. The theatre at Aegae is remarkable for its small cavea, but unusually large orchestra (28.5 m in diameter). For Borza, formal dramatic performances did not require such a large structure, and so the “evidence suggests that a variety of rituals were held here, that is, the theatre acted as an amphitheatre” (Borza 1990, 255f.). Not quite the Theatre of Dionysus – “a space designed for the express purpose of honouring the god at his festival”, as Wiles 1997, 48 puts it.

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Interestingly, in the cavea at Aegae there remains a single row of permanent seats, the front row that runs alongside the orchestra. The absence of more permanent seats is not problematic in itself; constructing stone theatres was an expensive business, and given that Aegae is in an area “rich in timber but poor in stone suitable for building purposes”74, presumably the rest of the audience after the first row sat on wooden benches. But Manolis Andronikos, who excavated the site, was somewhat troubled by the uniformity of the row of stone seats that does still survive; noting the absence of thrones or inscriptions marking any other kind of individual seats for dignitaries75. In answer, Borza suggests that the whole of the first tier of stone seats was used as prohedria, for this “single row of fixed seats could hold about one hundred persons, which was almost exactly the number who may have made up the king’s inner circle”76. If this were the case, then the composition of any audience gathered at Aegae may have reflected and represented the social and political hierarchy within the kingdom. One of the most striking features of that hierarchy was the presence of an influential band of ‘companions’ (dG  ) at the Macedonian court; originally formed to accompany the king on military campaigns, although membership was later extended to include all of the monarch’s close associates77. Philip II, in particular, was careful to induct nobles from throughout the extended kingdom (and beyond) as his companions in an attempt to tie them to his rule, and by the 340s numbers may have risen to some eight hundred members78. From this greater group, both Philip and Alexander the Great drew their more select company of dG  79. And it is this influential group, always close to the king, who are front and centre at the productions at Aegae (both dramatic and non-dramatic) and elsewhere. Although some have doubted whether the Macedonian subjects shared the Argead royal family’s fascination with Hellenic culture, the growing number of discoveries at Der74 75

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Kottaridi 2002, 76. Andronikos 1988, 48, who suggests that “portable wooden thrones” were used for the king and his company when they chose to attend performances. Borza 1990, 255. The privileged access dignitaries had to seats right at the front of the theatre,   , was a notable feature of theatre production in Athens for example; there distinguished guests from both home (see Isoc. 5, 46f., Ar. Knights 573–576 and Th. 834) and abroad (see Hdt. 1, 54 and D. 18, 28) were honoured with the award of ‘front-seats’ in the Theatre of Dionysus. In addition to these seats, other parts of this theatre were reserved for archons, members of the Boule, ephebes, and generals, while each of the ten tribes may also have had its own block of seats. See PickardCambridge 1968, 269f. for the evidence. Goldhill 1997, 61 observes: “As the audience of the Great Dionysia constitutes ‘the civic gaze’, so the audience is seated in ways which map the constitution of the civic body. The Great Dionysia, ceremonially and spatially, puts the city on display”. For an assessment of the relationship of theatre-seating to the far more hierarchical Roman society see Rawson 1991,

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509–545. For the award of prohedria, in a Macedonian context, see the inscription from Dion considered above. Most of the information on the Macedonian dG  comes from the reign of Alexander the Great, so we must treat the evidence carefully. Errington 1990, 243f. argues that the small band of king’s companions (originally only Macedonian) was extended to include all of the monarch’s close associates. Anaximenes (FGrHist 72 F 4) maintains that both the Macedonian hetairoi (cavalry companions) and pezetairoi (infantry companions) were instituted during the reign of Alexander I, but Hammond – Griffith 1979, 158–160 argue that the latter was formed during the rule of Alexander II (i. e. 369–368). A figure (perhaps exaggerated) proposed by Theopompus, see Theopomp. Hist. FGrHist 115 F 225b. As mentioned, this ‘select’ circle of dG  seems to have been almost exactly 100 in number. Between 65 and 70 individual hetairoi are identified as Alexander’s Philoi in Berve 1926, 31. Hamilton 1969, 37 adds another name to the list. Undoubtedly, there are several others as yet unknown to us.

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veni, Lefkadia, and Vergina do indicate that members of both the wider monarchy, and an extended aristocracy beyond that group, also delighted in the same cultural imports80. Indeed, one way in which Macedonian kings seem to have fostered a united ethos among the ruling elite – among the aristocratic group around the ruling dynasty – was to exploit this shared interest in appropriated forms of Greek culture. As we have noted already, even the curt pictures of the courts of Archelaus and Philip in the literary sources presents kings and their entourages delighting in the theatrical: this was an elite that accepted Euripides into its ranks, that made a number of theatre performers welcome in Pella, and (if we can believe accounts of the campaigns of Alexander the Great) was even in the habit of trading tragic barbs amongst each other81. Such ‘play’ in the Macedonian court was far from frivolous, but tended to mark and maintain key divisions within this highly-stratified society; social and political divisions that were also manifest in arrangements at Aegae, where performances in the royal theatre were staged primarily by, and for, the benefit of an elite audience; an audience that considered it advantageous to promote a distinct cultured identity for itself as a select, but dominant, ruling elite. A love for, and performances of, Greek theatre became a key part of the elite’s ‘culture of exclusivity’ (or ‘culture of reinforcement’), helping to define significant social and political divisions within the kingdom82. While we are dealing with a very different setting, beyond the more-established performance centres, that the makeup of theatre audiences in Macedonia might also physically reflect and represent hierarchies within the kingdom is not such a radical proposal in itself. But some caution is still necessary, and given the poor nature of the surviving material one must avoid being too dogmatic on these points. Trying to establish what the degree of cultural separation between the Macedonian elite and non-elite may have been is difficult, for we lack clear archaeological evidence for the sections of Macedonian society outside of the leading dynastic and aristocratic groups. In particular, we must not deduce from the lack of cultural material that those outside the Macedonian elite were uninterested in such matters, a conclusion that would simply be a slight variation on the old uncultured Macedonians theme. Certainly, our sources tell us that the great celebrations of the Olympia at Dion were widely popular; numbers are hard to come by, but we could note that when Alexander dismissed his Macedonian veterans from the Persian campaign 80

81

For Badian 1982, 37, although Macedonian kings may have been devoted to Greek culture, there was little indication that this interest permeated through the rest of the kingdom. However, as Borza 1990, 253–276 details, archaeological finds are now revealing to us the lives of the wealthy Macedonian elite, and the tastes they also developed for Greek artefacts and culture. It is absolutely the case that the historical accounts of the Macedonian kings are laced with tragic quotations and theatrical anecdotes. In and of itself, this tends to tell us more about the stylistic techniques of our sources than the place of theatre in Macedonia, see Mossman 1988, 83–93. However, if successive Macedonian kings were positioned at the heart of such cultured groups in the kingdom, then this was an elite that could indeed operate on a ‘learned’ level. See Carney 2003, 61–63.

82

See Archibald 2000, 231. Hammond – Griffith 1979, 152 maintain that the Argeads asserted a Hellenic ancestry to distinguish themselves from other noble families, and that the success of the clan owed much to this particular ethnic identity: the members of the ‘Greek’ “royal family were held in reverence by the ordinary Macedonians, and the cohesion of the state resulted from this reverence”. J. Hall 2001, 169 also argues that “conceiving of their subjects as non-Hellenic offered distinct advantages to the ruling house of Macedon in justifying its right to rule”. Though we can accept the general principle here, it must be pointed out that these Hellenic ties were neither ‘natural’ nor exclusive to the Argead group. Consequently, we can suppose that these same cultural criteria were also employed by the wider nobility to exclude inferiors.

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in 324 he awarded the privilege of prohedria, at “all public contests and in the theatres”, to some ten thousand troops83. However, more evidence is needed to continue with any ‘bottom up’ review of the cultural interests of the greater Macedonian group. But even if large numbers were present at, and partaking in, such celebrations, we would still see public spectacle used to affirm local political and social hierarchies; with these festive occasions serving as a means to reinforce the relationship between king and court and helping to establish and maintain bonds between the wider nobility and the Argead royal family84. It would still be the case that upon each occasion when the court staged and attended performances of theatre at Dion or Aegae, it was apparent to all in the audience exactly who was included in the king’s clique of selected dG  . Far from being barbaric brutes, with little concern, feel, or time for such matters, for the Macedonian ruling elite (at least), culture was key at court; it represented one of the criteria by which social prestige and position was determined among the king’s company.

Conclusion Outside of Athens, and on into the fourth century, theatre remained a hugely important medium, prized and valued by an ever-growing audience. If many do now accept that theatre was a cultural product that had appeal all over the Hellenic world, there is still much work to be done to establish how the medium may have worked in its different settings. And while scholars may not need to drastically redefine ideas on the central place and continued importance of Greek theatre, we do need to add nuance to that understanding85. Crucially, in the supposed wilds of the northern kingdom of Macedonia we find traces of a significant, and very different, context for the production of ancient drama. Even if theatre went on to develop into one of the “defining indicators of Greekness”86, that general process is not the key background against which to consider the Macedonian engagement with the medium. Instead different values, different structures, different traditions must apply: Macedonian kings sponsored Greek theatre, for Macedonian reasons87. The elite there were enthusiasts and committed patrons of ancient drama, but they did insist on their own performance contexts and settings. Kings such as Archelaus and Philip II sponsored dramatic productions, entertained playwrights and actors because the form could facilitate their rule in different ways. Ultimately, a review of how Macedon’s royal sponsors worked with Greek theatre again proves the enduring truth of Richard Green’s observation that “the uses to which theatre were put were never static”88. It is because the medium could be so variously exploited, and adapted, to meet such different needs, that it lived so very well beyond classical Athens. 83

84 85

See Plu. Alex. 71; Arr. An. 7, 12, 1; and D. S. 17, 109, 1. Following Borza 1983, 44–55. Ceccarelli 2010, 100: “Needless to say, tragedy abroad became part of the contexts that differed from each other just as such as the various traditions, cults, rituals, and political and administrative cultures of the individual poleis did – changes in context surely also influenced how the genre was perceived (and performed)”. See also Wilson 2007b, 2f., introducing a vol-

86 87

88

ume that “advocates the recognition of the specificity and complexity of the material conditions of dramatic production as they varied over time and place”. Goldhill 1999, 23. See Borza 1990, 172 (following Hammond): “The significance of the Greek-Macedonian cultural conjunction was that the Macedonians adapted and exploited philhellenism for purposes that were uniquely Macedonian”. Green 1994, 12.

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Theatre, Religion, and Politics at Alexander’s Travelling Royal Court1 Brigitte Le Guen

Today scholarship is paying ever more attention to the special interest Macedonian monarchs felt for the Greek theatre, from the end of the fifth century, as well as to the part they played in its diffusion beyond the borders of ancient Greece2. If archaeology dates the first theatre building in Dion of Pieria from the end of the fifth century3, Diodorus of Sicily tells us that scenic contests were there first inaugurated in honour of Zeus and the Muses by King Archelaus, who reigned from 413 to 3994. We also know that the monarch invited to his court, among other artists, Agathon and Euripides, and that the latter composed an eponymous tragedy for the monarch that was possibly performed at Aegae5. Afterwards, Philip and Alexander organised in turn dramatic competitions, one after the destruction of Olynthus in 3486, the other after the sack of Thebes in 335 and just before his departure for Asia7. Some scholars believe that by doing so Philip and Alexander profoundly transformed theatrical activity by detaching it from its religious roots for the first time8. In attempting to judge the validity of such a claim, I propose to examine Alexander the Great’s use of theatre during the course of his expedition. In doing so I intend first of all to determine as precisely as possible the number of dramatic spectacles he initiated, to describe the context of each, and then to study the manner of their organisation. Unfortunately, we know nothing of the dramas produced here, not even their names, with one exception, a ‘small’ satyr play (‘dramation’), Agen, which survives in title and a few verses9. I will therefore make use of the latter as a basis for considering the nature of the works that might have been produced during the royal campaigns. Armed with the collected data, and the conclusions and hypotheses supported by such information, I will then try to explain the monarch’s fascination with the theatre; a fascination that seems to have increased as his empire expanded. In doing so, I will pay particularly close attention to the religious and political dimensions of the theatre practiced at court and/or on campaign in the years 334–323. 1

2

3

I would like to warmly thank Eric Csapo, Dick Green and Peter Wilson for inviting me to the colloquium they organised in such an exciting manner and more particularly Eric Csapo for translating my paper. Cf. Wilson 2000, 287–289; Revermann 1999– 2000, 451–467; Csapo 2010, especially chapters 3 and 6; Moloney forthcoming and in this volume. Csapo 2010, 99, n. 132. According to G. Karadedos 1986, 340 the Classical theatre would have been located in the same spot as the later theatre.

4 5

6 7

8 9

D. S. 17, 16, 3; D. Chr. 2, 2. Csapo 2010, 99; contra: Jouan – Van Looy 1998, 281. On the theatre at Aegae, see Wiles 1997, 38f.; see Moloney, this volume. D. S. 16, 55, 1; schol. D. 19, 192. D. S. 17, 16, 3–4 locates the festivities at Dion, while Arr. 1, 11, 1 locates them at Aegae. See the discussion in Mari 1998, 137–167. Cf. Rehm 2007, 190; Csapo 2010, 173. Ath. 13, 586d. 595e–596b (= TrGF 91 T 1).

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I. Theatre and theatrical events held during Alexander’s expedition I.1 Sources and problems Although the figure of Alexander the Great has been studied and reinterpreted through the ages, and although works on his divinity are numerous10, there are surprisingly few synthetic analyses of the Macedonian conqueror’s piety11. Fewer still address, even in a superficial manner, the entertainments that were periodically held over the course of his expedition, whether athletic, musical (i.e. ‘mousikos’: musical stricto sensu and/or dramatic) or a combination of the two. These topics have received little or only occasional passing comment, apart from Helmut Berve’s magisterial book12 and several recently published articles by Edmund F. Bloedow13, Winthrop Lindsay Adams14, and Lawrence A. Tritle15. However none of them asks the fundamental question: what meaning or significance did the theatrical contests really have and how did they differ from the athletic and/or equestrian contests? Further, none of them provides a link between the artistic competitions that took place and the function the Macedonian king hoped the theatre would perform. In short, theatre has never occupied a central place in these discussions. One has to begin by admitting that the sources that document the agonistic (and especially the theatrical) activities that took place during Alexander’s expedition are generally problematic in character and limited in utility. Exclusively literary,16 the sources are at times contradictory, and mostly highly allusive; they usually indicate only that games were held and say nothing of their true intentions or purposes. To limit myself to one example, in his Life of Alexander17, Plutarch evokes the many tragic, auletic and citha/- λ $- λ 6 ) /roedic games (« !  6λ« $-« $   )

10

11

12 13

14

See Worthington 2003, 236–272, which gives the basic bibliography and summarises the major articles of Tarn (1948), Badian (1996) and Cawkwell (1994) on the divinity of Alexander. One should add Badian 1981, 27–71 and Worthington 2004, 199–206. That is to say, Alexander’s relations, whether as an individual or in his capacity as monarch, with the realm of either the Greek pantheon or the gods of conquered people and places (cf. Fredricksmeyer 2003). Berve 1926, especially, I 89–96. Cf. Bloedow 1998. He starts collecting (not without lacunae) all the games occurring between 334 and 324. But he limited his study to the two sets of games that Alexander staged in Memphis, being only interested in the time of the departure from Greece of the ‘most famous’ performers that the king invited (or summoned) to his celebrations. Cf. Adams 2007. His principal aim is to demonstrate that Plutarch is wrong when he asserts that Alexander disliked the Olympic Games or, at least, the ‘professional’ athletes. For that, he concentrates his analysis on the athletic and

15

16

17

equestrian games, to which sometimes torch races and ‘musical’ contests were added by the king, and interprets them as visible instruments of his policy. Cf. Tritle 2009. He tries to elucidate the place and function of some artists and athletes of Greek origin who are associated with Alexander through all or part of the campaign. In so doing, he brings a new perspective to the longstanding debate on ‘pro- and anti-Macedonian Greeks’, namely the reasons why some Greeks joined Alexander’s cause, while others vigorously opposed him. The testimonia are preserved by the following authors: Diodorus Siculus, Library of History; Quintus Curtius Rufus, The History of Alexander (with Atkinson 1980 and 1994); Plutarch, Life of Alexander (with Hamilton 1969) and On the Fortune or the Virtue of Alexander the Great; Arrian, Anabasis of Alexander (with Bosworth 1980 and 1995; Sisti 2001; Sisti – Zambrini 2004) and Indica; Athenaeus, The Deipnosophists (with Cherubina et al. 2001). Plu. Alex. 4, 11 (= 666e).

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-), which the king sponsored, by a simple statement of the fact with no further detail. Though scarcely less laconic, Arrian of Nicomedia is nonetheless one of our most valuable sources because he scrupulously notes the different occasions on which Alexander organised contests, as well as the nature of the contests on each occasion. Thus, after mentioning that the monarch proceeded to conduct sacrifice(s), he notes if the contests that followed were gymnic (‘agones gymnikoi’), or, if relevant, included horse races (‘agones hippikoi’) and/or torch races (‘lampades’), and also if they were accompanied by ‘musical’ competitions (‘agones mousikoi’). The value of this information is so much the greater because the stereotyped manner of its formulation might indicate an origin in a primary source such as the Royal Diaries, which Arrian would have copied without embellishment18. The facts, however, are far less clear than one might hope. The adjective ‘mousikos’, which Arrian uses systematically and exclusively in such cases (either after or before the adjective ‘gymnikos’), in fact designates both musical contests, strictly speaking, and contests that combine music and drama. At times it is impossible to determine the exact nature of the competitions attested in our sources and we are forced to resort to pure hypothesis. Let us take a closer look at the situation and, for clarity’s sake, let us tabulate the available information on all the competitions held by Alexander. Grouping the data in this way will allow us to reflect more easily on the reasons that prompted Alexander, at a given time and place, to inaugurate one type of competition in preference to another.

Table 1 (see also pl. 10) Place and date19 Arrian 1. Soli (Cilicia) Early summer 333

19

Plutarch

Anabasis 2, 5, 8 A. sacrificed to Asclepius • procession of the entire army • torch relay race (‘lampas’) • athletic and ‘musical’ contest ($Ω  μ«

λ  «)

2. Tyre Anabasis 2, 24, 6 (Phoenicia) July/ A. sacrificed to August 332 Heracles. • procession of the army • naval review • athletic games • torch relay race ‘en toi hieroi’ ($Ω  μ«

λ «)

18

Diodorus

Curtius

Athenaeus

3, 7, 3–4 A. Aesculapio et Minervae ludos celebravit20.

17, 46, 6 A. carried out magnificent sacrifices to Heracles

Adams 2007, 130. I adopt the chronology used in the volume of Heckel – Tritle 2009, IX–XIII.

20

On the goddess Minerva/Athena, not mentioned by Arrian, see the commentary in Atkinson 1980, 173f.

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Place and date19 Arrian 3. Memphis (Egypt) End 332 or beginning 331

Anabasis 3, 1, 4 A. sacrificed primarily to Apis and to the other gods. • athletic and ‘musical’ contest ($Ω  μ«

λ  «)

4. Memphis (Egypt) Spring 331

Anabasis 3, 5, 2 A. sacrificed to Zeus Basileios • procession with Alexander’s forces under arms •athletic and musical contest ($Ω  μ«

λ  «)

5. Tyre (Phoenicia) March/April 331

Anabasis 3, 6, 1 A. sacrificed a second time to Heracles. • athletic and musical contest ($Ω  μ«

λ  «)

6. Susa (Susiana) Anabasis 3, 16, May/June 331 9 A. sacrificed with the traditional ceremonial () -  ) / ) /) • torch relay races (‘lampas’) • athletic contest ($Ω  «) 7. Zadrakarta (Hyrcania) July 330

Anabasis 3, 25, 1 A. Sacrificed to the gods according to custom (³« «). • athletic contest ($Ω  «)

Diodorus

Plutarch

Curtius 4, 7, 4 Mazakes delivers more than eight hundred talants of gold with the royal furniture.

Life of Alexander 29, 5; On the Fortune or Virtue of Alexander the Great 2, 334e. • no mention of the athletic games • procession • contests of “dithyramb” and tragedies • “choregoi” • actors of tragedy

4, 8, 16 no mention of games • dedication of a gold krater and thirty pateres to Tyrian Heracles •

Athenaeus

253

Theatre, Religion, and Politics at Alexander’s Travelling Royal Court Place and date19 Arrian

Diodorus

Anabasis 4, 4, 1–2 A. sacrificed to the usual gods (³« « $) -). • athletic and equestrian games ($Ω ¹ μ« λ  «) 9. On the bank Anabasis 5,3, 6 A. sacrificed to of the Indus the gods to River (India) whom he usually Late winter offered sacrifice 327/6 (Ρ « $) «). • athletic and equestrian games ($Ω  μ« λ ¹ «) 10. Taxila Anabasis 5, 8, 3 (India) A. offered the Beginning 326 customary sacrifices (Ρ ¹ «). • athletic and equestrian games ($Ω  μ« λ ¹ «) 11. On the bank Anabasis 5, 20, 1 17, 89, 3 of Hydaspes A. sacrificed to A. sacrificed to River (India) the gods the cus- the Sun. May 326 tomary thanksgivings for victory (  1   ). • athletic and equestrian games ($Ω  μ« λ ¹ «) 12. On the bank Anabasis 5, 29, of the Hyphasis 1–2 River (India) A. sacrificed, acLate June 326 cording to his custom (³« «), to the twelve gods for which altars had just been built. • athletic and equestrian games ($Ω  μ«

λ ¹ «)

Plutarch

Curtius

Athenaeus

9, 1, 1 A. sacrificed to the Sun.

Ath. 13, 586d–595e?

8. On the River Tanaïs (Scythia) Summer 329

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Place and date19 Arrian 13. On the bank of the Hydaspes River (India) End of September 326

Plutarch

Curtius

Anabasis 6, 3, 1–2 Indica 18, 11–12 A. sacrificed and poured to different gods and to three rivers. • musical and athletic contests ($-«  λ λ  )

Anabasis 6, 28, 1–3 A. sacrificed thanks-offerings (“kharisteria”) for his conquest of India, and on behalf of his army • musical and athletic contest ($Ω  μ«

λ  «) Indica, 8, 36, 3 A. sacrificed thanks-offerings for the safety of his host to Zeus Soter, Heracles, Apollo Alexikakos, Poseidon and all the gods of the sea • procession • athletic and musical contest ($Ω  μ«

λ  «)

Athenaeus Ath. 13, 586d–595e?

17, 106, 1 • seven days: komos in honour of Dionysus.

14. After crossing the desert (Gedrosia) September/ October 325

15. Salmous (Karmania) Late December 325

Diodorus

17, 107, 4 •   «

$-«  ) 6 ) /

9, 10, 2, 4–29 Life of Alexander 67, 1–8 • seven days: (702c–d) ‘Bacchanalia’ • seven days: komos in honour of Dionysus • ‘panegyris’ is at the royal palace of Gedrosia • choral competitions ($-« ) -) with victory of Bagoas

Karystios of Pergamon = Ath. 10, 434f Dicearchus, fr. 23 Wehrli = (Ath. 13, 603a–b)

255

Theatre, Religion, and Politics at Alexander’s Travelling Royal Court Place and date19 16. Near the borders of Persia and Susiana February? 324 Kalanus’ suicide

17. On the road to Susa (Susiana) March 324, when Alexander’s and Nearchus’ forces met.

Arrian

Diodorus

Plutarch Life of Alexander 70, 1 • drinking contest

Anabasis 7, 3, 2 • procession (horses and men)

20. Babylon Early 323 Hephaestion’s funeral

21

Athenaeus Chares of Mytilene (Ath. 10, 437a–b) In honour of Kalanus • athletic and musical contest ( μ« $Ω

λ  μ  ( ) • drinking contest

Indica 42, 6–8 • A. sacrificed for

the preservation of his fleet and those who had embarked in it • contests (without specification)

18. Susa, weddings (Susiana) April 324

19. Ecbatana (Media) October 324

Curtius

Anabasis 7, 14, 1 A. offered a sacrifice, as he usually did after some successful event (— $) - λ 5φ G« $6G« «). • athletic and musical contest ($Ω  μ«

λ  «) Anabasis 7, 14, 10 A. ordered sacrifice always to be offered to Hephaestion as a hero (Anabasis 7, 14, 7). • athletic and musical contest ($Ω  μ«

λ  «) • 3000 competitors in all

7, 110, 4 “agones thymelikoi”

•

17, 115, 6 • sacrifices to Hephaestion as god coadjutor (Alexander’s decree). • Hephaestion should be worshipped as a god (response from Ammon)

See also, with a less complete description, Aelian VH 8, 7.

Life of Alexander 72, 1 (704e) • A. was busy with theatres and festivals ( 6  « λ   ) • three thousand artists coming from Greece

Chares of Mytilene (Ath. 13, 538b–539a)21 • performances (7 6) • actors of tragedy • actors of comedy Ephippos (Ath. 13, 537e–538b) festival in honour of Dionysus (6)

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This gives rise to several observations: 1. If I am not mistaken, there are in total nineteen instances (Dion or Aegae excluded) when Alexander set up ‘agones’22, not counting the extraordinary wedding ceremonies held in Susa in April 324 (no. 18)23. In the latter instance the tenth book of Chares of Mytilene’s History of Alexander24 records that numerous artists were summoned from all corners of the Greek world, among them three actors of tragedy and three actors of comedy. Nonetheless Alexander’s Great Chamberlain (‘eisangeleus’), who, in his official capacity, must have been responsible for the preparations of the ‘wedding’, never at any time employs the term ‘contest’ (‘agon’) when describing the festivities or the part played in these festivities by the various invited artists. On the contrary, he has recourse to the appropriate technical verbs that evoke the precise activity of each artist: thus “hypokrinesthai” for the actors or “kitharoidein” for the kitharodes. And as he uses, in the case of the rhapsode Alexis of Taras, a form of the verb “epideiknunai”, which refers precisely to a display outside a competition, one has to suppose that, if theatre had a place in the magnificent wedding at Susa, it was uniquely in the form of individual performances by stage artists25 and not plays performed by troupes in the context of a competition26. 2. On one single occasion (no. 17, at the time of the reunion of Nearchus and Alexander on the road to Susa in March, 324) we are completely ignorant of the nature of the competitions organised, because Arrian, our only authority, contrary to his usual practice, provides no details. 3. No contests appear to be exclusively ‘musical’ (‘mousikoi’). 4. Sometimes there are no ‘musical’ contests at all and three different sorts of competitions appear27: entirely athletic games28, athletic games and torch relay races29, athletic and equestrian games30. The choice of competition clearly depended on both the specific place in which they were carried out and their intended purpose and effect31. The Macedonian king had no difficulty initiating athletic competitions, given the soldiers at his disposal. For these soldiers, competitions afforded an opportunity to show off their physical prowess and to claim the prize of victory. Alexander could just as easily have 22

23

24

25

I thus correct the mistaken figures given by Bloedow 1998 and Adams 2007. Arrian (An. 7, 4, 4–7) explains that the marriages were celebrated according to Persian custom and he also names some of Alexander’s companions who were given foreign wives, but he does not mention any competition. Diodorus’ mention of the wedding (17, 107, 6) is extremely brief and also makes no reference to an ‘agon’. The same is true of Plutarch (Alex. 70, 2) and Quintus Curtius (10, 3, 11–12). All we know about the work of this Greek, who was in Alexander’s service from the beginning of the expedition, we owe to the fragments preserved by Athenaeus (cf. Payen 2007). According to Diodorus (16, 91, 5) Philip II wanted to organise ‘musical’ competitions at the wedding of his daughter Cleopatra in order to celebrate the gods in a way that would at-

26 27

28 29 30

31

tract the largest number of Greeks. In this case there is a clear link between competitions and religious practices (cf. my part III below). In my view the very nature of the mixed marriages at Susa made the production of whole plays in competition impossible, as part of the audience would not be able to appreciate them fully. Cf. below. Sometimes connected to other events like processions (nos. 1. 2. 4. 5. 15. 16) or a naval review (no. 2). At Zadrakarta (no. 7). At Soli (no. 1); Tyre (no. 2); Susa (no. 6). On the bank of the Tanaïs River (no. 8); on the bank of the Indus River (no. 9); at Taxila (no. 10); on the bank of the Hydaspes River (no. 11); on the bank of the Hyphasis River (no. 12). Cf. below.

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had recourse to professional athletes, some of whom are securely attested as participants in the expedition, either in its entirety or in part32. Dramatic competitions were a much more complicated matter, as he could not have relied entirely on members of the army. 5. As for the ‘musical’ contests (‘mousikoi agones’), there are eight documented instances: in some of them theatrical competitions are assured, in others they are only probable or very uncertain. Let us review all the attested ‘musical’ competitions in order, reserving the much-debated case of the Agen for last.

I.2 The agones mousikoi A. Certain Instances of Dramatic Competitions Tyre, March/April 331 (no. 5) Returning from Egypt, which he took at the end of 332, Alexander stopped at Tyre once again in spring 331 (he had taken Tyre after a long siege the previous summer) and although he had, at that time, celebrated his victory with every manner of festivity, including a gymnic contest and a torch race (no. 2), on this second visit he organised somewhat different competitions (no. 5). While Arrian records the setting up of musical contests, employing as usual the adjective “mousikos”, Plutarch mentions some dithyrambic and tragic contests33. He also informs us that, in this city, Alexander staged games resembling the Athenian Great Dionysia. Similarities can be found, looking at the overall organisation of the event itself, in the presence of judges34 and ‘choregoi’ (they were two Cypriot kings newly allied to Alexander: Nikokreon of Salamis and Pasikrates of Soli)35. Similarities can also be seen in the nature of the competitions, which included choruses and tragedy, as is clear from the presence of the two famous actors of tragedy, Athenodors36 and Thessals37. Even comedy was performed, but apparently separately from the official contests, as Plutarch refers to the comic actor Lykon of Skarphea38 at the end of his narrative in both the Life of Alexander and in his work On the Fortune or the Virtue of Alexander the Great.

32

33

34

E.g. the Athenian Dioxippos, star ‘pankratiast’ and Olympic champion. Cf. Tritle 2009, 124f. Plu. Alex. 29.5; Moralia 334e. If the two works give nearly the same information, the perspectives are nonetheless different. In On the Fortune or the Virtue of Alexander the Great (Moralia 334e), Plutarch uses the dramatic entertainments at Tyre as much to emphasise the king’s esteem for and interest in the fine arts as to draw a moral from the story: after the defeat of his favourite actor, he shows Alexander to be “a man who imposes his law on all men, but submits himself to the law of justice”. In On the Fortune or the Virtue of Alexander the Great (Moralia 334e), it is made clear that they are the most renowned of the Macedonian generals (“¹  ( -  -”).

35

36

37

38

Cf. Wilson 2000, 287–288. Quintus Curtius mentions neither sacrifices nor games, but he does speak of the embassies and the payment they received. He also explains that the kings of Cyprus “who deserted Darius to come over to his side and who sent him a fleet at the time of the siege of Tyre, received the honours they deserved”. Berve 1926, no. 30; O’Connor 1908, no. 11. 13; Stephanis 1988, no. 75; Heckel 2006, 61. Cf. Berve 1926, no. 371; O’Connor 1908, 103, no. 239; Stephanis 1988, no. 1200; Heckel 2006, 264f. Berve 1926, no. 478; O’Connor 1908, no. 319; Stephanis 1988, no. 1567; Heckel 2006, 152.

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Karmania, Sept/Oct. 325 – late December 325 (nos. 14 and 15) The events that followed the debilitating crossing of the Gedrosian desert are particularly difficult to reconstruct because of an apparent contradiction in the available documentation. Methodical analysis indicates, nonetheless, that the conqueror at first resided in the regional capital Pura. Afterwards he reached a part of Karmania, which Diodorus alone calls Salmous39, which is today most easily placed at the western side of the valley of the Halil Rud, in the general vicinity of the modern town of Khanu40. The gymnic and ‘musical’ competitions that took place there (no. 15) were marked by the arrival of Nearchus, the commander of the fleet, whom Alexander was impatiently awaiting41. Though begun in his absence in commemoration of the successful crossing by the army of the desert of Gedrosia42, these festivities continued in public jubilation as thank-offerings for the safe arrival of the fleet43. There is no doubt that theatre had a prominent place in the celebrations because Diodorus specifically uses the term ‘skenikos’ to specify the nature of the competitions. One should not however suppose the existence of a permanent theatre there: at that date, in fact, the theatre which Diodorus mentions three times could only have been a temporary construction44. Still, these festivities offered a fitting epilogue to the famous episode of the Bacchanalia (no. 14), for which Paul Goukowsky has advanced excellent arguments to show that the testimony of the vulgate tradition should probably not be rejected. Despite Arrian45, a ‘komos’ in honour of Dionysus could probably have taken place between Pura and Salmous, even if it did not shine with all the éclat conferred by later tradition46. 39 40 41

42 43

44

D. S. 17, 106, 4. Cf. Bosworth 1988b, 150 n. 386. The king sent scouts daily to meet him as soon as he was informed by the hyparch of Harmozeia that he was on his way (Arr. Ind. 8, 34, 4). Arr. An. 6, 28, 3. Arr. Ind. 8, 36, 3. It is probably one and the same place, since Arrian mentions no change in Alexander’s location from the moment when, after his stay in Pura the capital of Gedrosia, he arrived in Karmania (according to Aristobulus, FGrHist 139 F 50) and the moment when Nearchus joined him (according to Nearchus, FGrHist 133 F 1). D. S. 17, 106, 4–5. Pace Revermann (1999/2000, 457) who considers the ‘theatron’ of Salmous a ‘remote theatre’. In doing so he takes the theatrical practice evoked by his source documents to imply a permanent building. This is why he makes the error of doubting the claims of J.-C. Moretti (1992) and D. de Bernardi Ferrero (1966/1974, IV 9) for whom theatre in the Near East is born only after Alexander’s conquest. The two specialists in theatre architecture speak only about archaeologically recoverable buildings; their claim says nothing about theatre practice in these regions. Others have also mistaken the term ‘theatron’ as it is used in descriptions of Alexander’s conquests: e.g. Pretagostini 2003, 173 and Sbardella

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2003, 190 n. 24 who thinks a ‘theatron’ “nella città della Media non doveva mancare”. In using the term ‘città’ (‘polis’) he implies the presence, at that date, of the building whose presence Pausanias considers a necessary condition for a settlement to be considered a Greek ‘city’, which the Achaemenid royal capitals were not. For the record, Babylon had an important Greek community before 300 and its theatre, excavated by Robert Koldewey in 1904 and attested in cuneiform documents (Van der Spek 2001, 445–446), shows three principal phases. The first phase, unfortunately without discussion, was associated by Mallwitz (Wetzel, Schmidt, Mallwitz 1957, 19) with the very beginning of the Hellenistic period. The other two phases are associated with the mid-second century and with the reign of Mithridates II (123–86) respectively. In the second century A. D. the building, mentioned in a contemporary Greek inscription, was completely remade. Note that all the dates proposed by Mallwitz were based on political considerations (the assumption that periods of peace favoured major building programs such as that required for a theatre). Potts 2011 brings nothing new compared to Van der Spek 2001. Arr. An. 6, 28, 3. Cf. Goukowsky 1981, 47–64.

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Ecbatana, October 324 (no. 19) and Babylon, early 323 (no. 20) With regard to the celebrations at Ecbatana (no. 19) that followed the mutiny at Opis, our sources once again offer inconsistent reports. According to Arrian, a ‘musical’ contest was set up after Alexander arrived in this town and a week before the death of Hephaestion, which brought a premature end to the festival. However the games here seem not to have been dramatic, as Diodorus uses the adjective ‘thymelikos’ which means exclusively musical, as opposed to theatrical. Plutarch, for his part, relates that after taking care of urgent business, Alexander “immersed himself once again in spectacles and festivals” (  6  « λ   ), for which three thousand professionals came from Greece to participate47. Though the expression he uses contains the word ‘theatron’ (a usage echoed in other passages of his work)48, it doubtless designates every manner of artistic display that could be performed in a ‘theatron’, whether musical or dramatic49. The scale of the gathering of artists nonetheless seems to me to indicate a large variety of specialisations, or, in other words, to suggest the joint presence of musical and dramatic artists50. Nonetheless, Arrian associates this massive convocation of ‘technitai’ not with Ecbatana, but with the city of Babylon and with Alexander’s decision to arrange Hephaestion’s funeral there with “a gymnic and musical contest, much more magnificent than any of the preceding, both in the multitude of competitors and in the amount of money expended upon it”51. Two interpretive possibilities present themselves as a priori equally likely. The first is to trust Diodorus and to allow that Ecbatana had only athletic and musical competitions in the strict sense. The second is to suppose that Diodorus (i.e. his source) wrongly employed the term ‘thymelikos’ and that both musical and theatrical contests were indeed celebrated in the Median capital. These contests would probably even have finished by the seventh day of the competitions, which, according to Arrian, was also the seventh day of Hephaestion’s illness and the time when the ‘paides’ confronted each other in the stadium52. On this hypothesis, Arrian (or his source) chose to locate the mass-arrival of artists from Greece in Babylon rather than in Ecbatana with this sole aim: adding splendour to the funeral celebrations of one of Alexander’s dearest companions, in Babylon, rather than in Ecbatana53. In this way he gave special emphasis to the depth of Alexander’s affection for Hephaestion. I am nonetheless aware of the weakness of such an interpretation: all of our sources agree that the funeral of Hephaestion was an unusual event, for which the gathering of three thousand competitors would be particularly appropriate. The artists would also have had more time to reach their destination. In addition, one might say that an event 47 48

49

50

51

Plu. Alex. 72, 1. Cf. Plu. Moralia 341a. 817b; Ant. 57, 1, 3; Oth. 5, 5, 3. In his treatise Non posse suaviter vivi secundum Epicurum (Moralia 1104d), Plutarch makes careful distinctions between ‘khoroi’, ‘theatra’ and ‘Mousa’. When he makes a clear reference to spectacles of his own day (e.g. Brut. 10, 6, 4), he is careful to distinguish between spectacles (‘theatra’) and gladiatorial combats (‘monomachiai’). The exact number reported by Plutarch is of little importance: he testifies to an event of memorable amplitude. He adds the following: “It is said that these men, a short time after, also competed in the

52

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games held at Alexander’s own funeral”. Hephaestion’s body was conveyed by Perdiccas and the army to Babylon at some time in the months following his death (Arr. 7, 14, 1–10; D. S. 17, 110, 7–8; Plu. Alex. 72; Just. Epit. 12, 12, 12). The funeral took place after the second group of ambassadors came from the Greek cities (Arr. 7, 23, 2; D. S. 17, 114, 1). Their category is the ‘agon gymnikos’ mentioned by Arrian. At the wedding in Susa, Alexander expressed his wish to have as his nephews and nieces Hephaestion’s children. For this reason he gave him as wife a daughter of Darius and a sister of his own wife (Arr. An. 7, 4, 5).

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on this scale seems better justified in the context of a ‘national’ funeral than as a celebration of Alexander’s political success in the aftermath of the mutiny at Opis. However, other scholars use a passage of Ephippus of Olynthus to argue that theatre formed part of the contests at Ecbatana. Ephippus followed the expedition in the capacity of an overseer of the mercenary force54. Making a point of denouncing the drunken Alexander’s taste for luxury, he reports that the Macedonian king organised a sacrifice in honour of Dionysus at Ecbatana, that the sacrifice was very expensive and that it was followed by a spectacle offered by the satrap Satrabates for the entertainment of the army which attracted large crowds. It is true that nothing is said of any such competition in the preserved fragment, but the splendour of the ceremonies would be easier to understand if a large number of artists were actually present and if there were among them theatre professionals who had come to compete at the time. On the faith of a few verses of the Agen transmitted by Athenaeus55, still other scholars hypothesise that the play was performed at Ecbatana, and possibly on the occasion of the festival described by Ephippus. I shall come back to this56.

B. Nearly Certain Instances of Dramatic Competitions Memphis, end 332 or beginning 331 (no. 2) and spring 331 (no. 3) Dramatic contests are not formally proved for the Egyptian city of Memphis where competitions qualified simply as athletic and musical ( λ λ  ) were organised on two separate occasions, according to Arrian. The first occasion (no. 2) was just after Alexander’s arrival in Egypt and his bloodless occupation of the country. Arrian at that time mentions the arrival from Greece for the festival of the most famous (¹  ( ) ‘technitai’, but he gives no further detail and no additional clues can be found in the available documents. In itself the substantive ‘technites’ need not refer exclusively to men of the theatre: it refers to any individual who possesses practical know-how (or a ‘techne’). In addition, it is possible that the term, in the context of ceremonies referred to as ‘mousikoi’, refers only to musicians, instrumentalists or rhapsodes. In reality, however, the importance lent to the event by the adjective ‘dokimotatoi’ and the twinning of competitions from the two central institutions of Greek culture (the theatre and the gymnasium) suggest, in my opinion, that there gathered at Memphis not only the flower of Greek athleticism but also the best artists embodying the arts of the Muses in the theatre, a mixture of musicians and scenic artists57. Among them I would very readily include Thessalos58, because of his already close ties with Alexander, as well as Athenodoros, though probably for more strictly professional reasons. I would add, following Bloedow59, that there seems no need to suppose that Arrian’s text is at fault and consequently to allow only the existence of the celebrations of spring 331 (no. 4), as some have argued, on the pretext that this gives more time for artists to get to the ancient capital of Egypt60. If two festivals were organised there in succession,

54 55

56 57

Arr. An. 3, 5, 2–3. Supra, n. 9. Athenaeus is the only author who tells us anything about the play. See below. This idea is already in Will (1986, 82f.) who nonetheless rejects the holding of a competition at the end of 332 or beginning of 331.

58 59 60

See below, at notes 86 and 92. Cf. Bloedow 1998. They could have come along with the many ambassadors that arrived from Greece, according to Arr. An. 3, 5, 1.

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it is because, far from being redundant, they probably did not perform exactly the same function. This much is demonstrated by the sacrifices that preceded them. In marking the Macedonian victory over Egypt, the first celebration manifested the new king’s attitude towards foreign and Greek divinities. The second celebration, no less politically important, was the consequence of the revelations made to the monarch by the oracle of Ammon61. Both sets of competitions were probably made possible by the rough seas that kept the same artists in the vicinity over the interim62.

C. Instances where Dramatic Contests are not Excluded Soli, early summer 333 (no. 1) The competitions attested at Soli at the beginning of the summer of 333 follow both the convalescence of Alexander after he fell ill at Tarsus and the victory of his troops at Halicarnassus under the leadership of Ptolemy and Asandros. No certainty is possible in this case as we have, once again, nothing more to go on than Arrian’s use of the term ‘mousikos’.

D. The Controversial Case of the Dionysia at Hydaspes On the bank of the Hyphasis River, late June 326 (no. 13) Myrtilos, one of the Deipnosophists of Athenaeus, twice mentions a satyr drama entitled Agen, whose presumed author would be Python of Catana or of Byzantium, unless it is a composition by Alexander himself. Myrtilos first mentions the play in the context of a general discussion about courtesans with important connections to statesmen and philosophers, and then when he specifically turns to the relationship between Glykera and the king’s treasurer, Harpalus63. The second mention occurs a little later, when Myrtilos, after being interrupted by a question from Ulpian, resumes his catalogue of the ‘fair women’64. Taking up the list of Harpalus’ mistresses, he draws heavily on material from Posidonius65, Dicaearchus66, Theopompus67, Philemon68 and Alexis69 to evoke two of them, Pythionike and Glykera once again. He then cites the Agen as a supplementary witness (“sunepimarturei”) of the favours lavished upon them by Harpalus. He begins by repeating exactly the same information about the play as earlier (name, genre, author) and he adds that the Agen was performed (“edidaxen” and “edidachthe”)70 on the occasion of the Dionysia celebrated on the banks of the Hydaspes after Harpalus had deserted (“apostantos”) and fled to the sea (“phygontos”)71.

61 62

63 64 65 66 67 68

Arr. An. 3, 4, 5. Alexander might have taken this into consideration when programming the second series of contests. Ath. 13, 586d. Ath. 13, 595e–596a. Ath. 13, 594e. Ath. 13, 594f. Ath. 13, 595a. Ath. 13, 595c.

69 70 71

Ath. 13, 595d. Ath. 13, 595e. I fully agree with Pretagostini’s (2003, 163–164 and n. 9) rejection of the hypothesis of Cipolla 2000, 144–152. It seems to me implausible to equate Harpalus’ flight (to use Athenaeus’ term) with the trip he made to Tarsos with his new mistress Glykera according to Theopompus’ Letter to Alexander (Ath. 13, 595d–e = FGrHist 115 F 254b).

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Scholars have been divided for many years on the question of the date (between 327/6 and 324/3) and the precise location of the play’s performance72 (from the banks of the Hydaspes73 to Ecbatana74, passing through Salmous75 and Susa76; it could even have been produced for the first time at Athens, as Tritle recently suggested77). The discussion centres on the apparent incompatibility of the two last pieces of information offered by Athenaeus: in effect it seems impossible that the play was performed in India and that at the same time Harpalus had already left Babylon. To complicate matters, the very dating of Harpalus’ flight has long excited controversy and a consensus has only recently formed in favour of the year 32478. We are indebted to Bruno Snell, an unconditional partisan of the year 327/6, for having untangled one of the knots surrounding the problem by providing an unassailable explanation of verse 4 ( !/   μ  » 7% φ"). The presence of the word ‘phyge’, joined with the substantive ‘pragma’, induced many past and present commentators (among them Athenaeus79) to detect an allusion to the flight of the corrupt treasurer, fearing for his life as a result of his criminal activity80. Snell insisted on the contrary that good philological method required that the verse in question be understood first and foremost in the context of the plot. In doing so he proposed the following translation: “he (=Harpalus) condemned himself to exile because of his love affair”. Here there is no other exile than that of a tearful lover who, from a desire to escape from the pleasures of this world, takes refuge in the sanctuary that he built for a deceased lover. This interpretation has the merit of releasing Athenaeus’ testimony from all suspicion, since it does away with its supposedly contradictory character. Nonetheless, for the satyr play to have some point and for the audience to derive some pleasure from this image of Harpalus81, one has to allow that, before the performance of the play, Alexander’s camp was well informed of the escapades of a man who generously spent the realm’s money on his darling courtesans. Unfortunately we are unable to date with any precision the letter sent by Theopompus to inform the monarch of the sacrilegious and reprehensible conduct of his treasurer82. We know only that when Alexander was on the banks of the Hydaspes, Harpalus displayed his undivided loyalty by providing 72

73

74

75

76

A convenient bibliographical list is in Krumeich et al. 1999, 594 n. 4. Add Cipolla 2000. B. Snell (1964, 113–117) dates the performance to 326 and locates it in the Punjab. This is the opinion of Berve 1926 (338f. s. v. Python) who discusses the other scholarly positions, Beloch’s among them. The latter assimilates the sacrifice to Dionysus mentioned by Ephippus to a full-scale Dionysia including dramatic competitions during the course of which Hephaestion died, and so he supposes that the play was performed at Ecbatana. He also takes the reference to Hydaspes to indicate the Hydaspes in Media (and not in Pujab) mentioned by Verg. G. 4, 221. Cf. Goukowsky 1981, 72f.; Bosworth 1988b, 149 n. 385, also locates the performance of the satyr play in Karmania “sometime before the summer of 324”. According to Droysen (1883) the play was performed during the weddings at Susa “because

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78 79

80 81

82

it was precisely the time of the Great Dionysia”, and Athenaeus confused the Choaspes (the river of Susa) with the Hydaspes. According to Tritle 2009, 128, two references in the play to the Athenian situation “suggest an Athenian debut”. This confuses the location of the events performed in the play and the location of the performance itself. Contrary to what he writes, there is nothing in the surviving verses that allows us to suppose that the drama “would have provided some good laughs, at both Harpalus’ and Alexander’s expense”. Cf. Krumeich et al. 1999, 594 n. 3. His conclusions are based on the few verses that he subsequently cites. Cf. D. S. 17, 108, 4–6. For the need to take account of the audience in establishing the date, see Pretagostini 2003, 172f. Cf. Theopomp. Hist. FGrHist 115 F 253–254b (=Ath. 595a–e).

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him with seven thousand footsoldiers83: at that time no division appears to have come between the two men. Besides, if we once again take up Arrian’s testimony we find that Alexander would have organised competitions on the banks of the Hydaspes on two different occasions. First, he celebrated his victory over Porus in May 326 by mounting an $Ω  μ« λ ¹ « (no. 11), which by nature appears to exclude all scenic contests; afterwards, in September of the same year, he inaugurated $-«  λ λ   (no. 13). Only the Indica, however, mentions the event; the Anabasis is content to mention only the performance of the customary propitiatory sacrifices that took place before the army went down river. Thus, although the presence of the adjective ‘mousikos’ might warrant the hypothesis of theatrical performances, the divergence between the two versions of the same episode, by the same author, considerably complicates the task of the Alexander historian, who has no criterion for privileging one source over another, as is often done, since the only documents at his disposal are literary texts. This first problem is compounded by two others: no military, political or even diplomatic success is present here to justify the organisation of ‘musical’ and gymnic competitions. Moreover, whichever date and agonistic context you take into consideration, the holding of a festival celebrating Dionysus, and under the name of Dionysia, seems highly improbable in May or in September, or at least contrary to general religious practice. Should we therefore give up on our Dionysia on the Hydaspes? Let us suspend the question for now and discover if it is possible to learn anything about the organisation and program of the various theatrical events whose places and dates we have attempted to determine.

II. Organisation and Program of the Scenic Contests We cannot be too cautious about taking the Great Dionysia at Athens as a model for the scenic contests put on by Alexander’s itinerant court, if only for the simple reason that the monarch had no theatre building of durable construction in the regions he traversed. Nonetheless, it required no great preparation to transform a space into a temporary showplace: one need only think of the way that at Delphi in the fourth century the Pythian stadium was provisionally fitted with a wooden ‘skene’ for dramatic performances. Scene decoration could be just as summary. I would like to adduce as proof the first verses preserved from the Agen, which are probably from the play’s prologue. On the right of the set there is an entrance to the underworld84, hidden by rose bushes (ll. 1f.); to the left the fa83 84

Curt. 9, 3, 21. If however one reads ! / with Sbardella 2003, 177–179 instead of the neologism φ!/ proposed by Snell in this corrupt passage and follows Sbardella’s interpretation that the word refers to the monumental tomb that Harpalus had built at Babylon for his mistress Pythionike, then we have to replace the entry to the underworld on the set with a massive wooden structure representing a ‘naos’. A device of this sort would present no difficulty. Sbardella 2003, 186–187, moreover, draws attention to the adjective Ν « (Agen l. 2), which also appears in a fragment of Sophocles (TrGF F 748) where it is used as a substantive

referring to Lake Avernus in Italy. The name was also given by the Macedonians to an imposing natural rock relief located near the upper course of the Indus and the site of memorable military engagements by Alexander’s soldiers (D. S. 17, 85, 1 and Arr. An. 4, 28–30). The adjective would have made a particularly striking contrast, and one desired by the author of the Agen, between two symbols: on the one hand the important site remembered by Alexander and his troops, and on the other, the building created by the dissolute ambition of Harpalus. About the archaeology of those monuments: Scholl 1994, 254–261.

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mous (“kleinos”) temple (l. 3) that Harpalus had built for his deceased mistress, Pythionike (l. 8). One had only to add a façade representing the temple to the natural landscape. As for the costumes, we can imagine that they were more or less elaborate depending on the circumstances and the time allowed to create them, unless the acting troupes who appeared during the expedition brought them with their baggage. But the recruitment of the theatre people needed for stage duty may, on the contrary, have been a far trickier matter.

II.1 The Recruitment of Actors The sources make it obvious that an important number of athletes and artists of every description gravitated toward Alexander during his campaigns and attended his court on a more or less long-term basis85. We know, for example, that he was accompanied throughout his expedition by seven or eight poets who were able to put his exploits into verse. Among them there was at least one tragic poet, Neophron of Sicyon. The Suda attributes one hundred and twenty plays to him and makes him a confidant of Callisthenes of Olynthus, whose unhappy fate he shared86. As for actors, there can be no doubt that they increasingly enlarged the army’s train as they learned of the king’s military success, of the competitions he organised and of the largesse he demonstrated. Some of them were not destined to return to their cities of origin until after the death of the king. One of this group may be the tragedian Thessalos whom Alexander held in such high esteem87 and whose presence is attested at Tyre in 331 (no. 5) and at Susa in 324 (no. 18) and seems likely for Ecbatana (no. 19) and Babylon (no. 20). This is a different case from his lucky rival Athenodoros, who probably came to Tyre with the Paralos or with another vessel belonging to the travelling fleet, and then returned to Athens where he won the Great Dionysia of 329 (IG II2 2318 l. 360). We nonetheless find him again among the artists invited to the wedding at Susa. His example suggests that if all artists did not reside continuously in proximity to Alexander, they nonetheless moved easily between their homes and the conqueror’s army88. Another noteworthy tragic actor, Aristokritos89, who was among the twenty-two named artists who performed at Susa90, may also have remained a permanent member of Alexander’s entourage, even though his presence is not noted at any other moment of the expedition. Nothing in fact prevents us from thinking that, after the example of Thessalos, he was content to offer his artistic talents to the monarch at competitions or at exhibitions and that he also offered his talents as an ambassador, whenever needed91. One recalls that 85 86

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88 89

Tritle 2009, 122–129. Snell (TrGF 15) strangely makes him a contemporary of Euripides (probably because it is said that the Medea of Euripides was attributed to him) and he brackets the part of the text of the Suda that connects him with Alexander’s expedition. The tradition claims that he would have given his kingdom to see Thessalos triumph over Athenodoros at Tyre (Plu. Alex. 29, 3). Tritle 2009, 129. Berve 1926, no. 125; O’Connor 1908, no. 65; Stephanis 1988, no. 352; Heckel 2006, 47.

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One could also name Lykon, Phormion (Berve 1926, no. 811; O’Connor 1908, no. 498; Stephanis 1988, no. 2579; Heckel 2006, 222) and Ariston (Berve 1926, no. 140; O’Connor 1908, no. 74; Stephanis 1988, no. 377; Heckel 2006, 49). Tritle 2009, 123. That Kittos and Ephialtes, who were recruited to bring the news of Harpalus’ defection to Alexander (Plu. Alex. 41, 8), were also themselves actors has by no means been demonstrated.

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in the recent past (spring 336) both Thessalos (in Alexander’s name)92 and Aristokritos (in Philip’s) were charged to negotiate with Pixodarus, the dynast of Caria, for the hand of his daughter (in the first case for Alexander, and in the second case for Philip’s bastard son, Arrhidaeus). Some actors might thus be at the king’s direct disposal93 to participate in various competitions, either alone, or at times with the aid of local artists94. This is easily imaginable in the case of the ‘agones mousikoi’ of Soli, since it was a Greek city where many citizens will have received the sort of education that would enable them to perform in a dramatic spectacle. On the other hand we might suppose that the dramatic contests of Salmous, celebrated at the end of 325, were made possible by the theatre personnel who were present in the army ranks, or at least not very far away from them. Awaiting the return of Alexander in one of the ancient Achaemenid capitals, they would have had no difficulty reaching his camp, simply by following the crowd of soldiers, generals and satraps that he summoned to Karmania95. Moreover, the available documents repeatedly report an invitation (or a summoning) of artists from Greece (Memphis, no. 3; Susa, no. 18; Ecbatana, no. 19; Babylon, no. 20)96. The king clearly wanted to add lustre (and publicity) to the ceremonies he planned: at times by emphasising the quality of the participants (the most famous artists are said to have come to Memphis), at times by stressing their number. The number three thousand is in fact mentioned both for Ecbatana and/or Babylon. Its historical accuracy is of less importance than its capacity to attest the power of attraction that Alexander hoped might be felt across the Greek world. Engaging artists from abroad nonetheless required organisation on an entirely different scale, since account had to be taken of the time needed for advertisement, for recruiting artists, and for transporting them to the place of their performance97. Because of our sources’ silence98, scholars are forced to resort to learned calculations that most often have no better foundation than their own guesswork. To take the analysis of E. F. Bloedow as an example, it would have been the very day after the Battle of Issus (in November 333) that Alexander, whose goal was clearly Egypt from the first hours of the expedition99, made it known that he desired the presence of reputed professionals in Memphis, the Egyptian capital. Had he waited until the fall of Tyre to take this decision the deadline would have been too soon, it seems, for the artists to arrive on time. 92 93

94

95 96

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Plu. Alex. 10, 1–2. The same goes for athletes. See Tritle 2009, 124f. Far from mutually exclusive, the two hypotheses can be combined. Arr. An. 6, 27, 3–6. For the divergent scholarly views on this matter, see Bloedow 1998, 132 n. 7–9. As they were doubtless sometimes forced to wait a long time for the king, some of them would certainly have tried to profit in the meantime by offering displays of their talents. For the sake of comparison, epigraphic sources for craftsmen indicate, for example, that during the course of the construction of the sanctuary at Epidaurus, the members of the commission in charge of the construction, along

99

with messengers and heralds, went to Athens, Corinth and Argos, cities known to be recruitment pools, to advertise the awarding of contracts. Something similar probably happened in the case of actors. Before the creation of the associations of the Artists of Dionysus, recruiters must have gone to the theatre capital, Athens, to make known Alexander’s intentions and to hire actors. Cf. Le Guen 2010, 516. Bloedow (1998) reminds us that not only does Arrian say this explicitly (An. 3, 1, 1), but that Quintus Curtius also makes it clear, when the resistance that Alexander meets almost impels him to give up the siege of Tyre (Curt. 4, 3, 3). Was it not also for strategic reasons (to secure the Mediterranean coast before pursuing Darius in the interior) that he came to the country?

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In the case of the mixed marriages of Susa, which involved, judging from the stated nationalities100, performers invited from Magna Graecia, from Central Greece and from Anatolia, there is no way of knowing when Alexander conceived of the idea or advertised the planned festivities. Nonetheless, as the journey on the Royal Road from Sardis to Susa took about two months by foot (reduced to a little more than a dozen days by horse101), two or three months at least were absolutely necessary to manage all the above procedures, with the further condition that the sea be continuously navigable. One can therefore assume that Alexander made known his desire to organise a sumptuous spring wedding in Susa, enhanced by the presence of famous artists, just as easily from Pura, the capital of Gedrosia, as from Salmous in Karmania, i. e. in the final months of the year 325. As for the competitions in Ecbatana, if one chooses to follow Plutarch’s version102, I tend to think that among the three thousand artists invited to come to the Medean capital in autumn 324, some must in reality have come directly from Susa or other royal residences, while others learned of the king’s invitation when they were in Greece, where they were recruited only once the weddings had taken place. From Ecbatana all would then have proceeded to Babylon for the ‘agones mousikoi’ that were put on as part of the funerary ceremonies in memory of Hephaestion. A little later, as Arrian stresses, the same artists would have been in a position to take part in the funeral of the Macedonian king himself. If some such scenario is correct, then we must suppose that Alexander took upon himself to institute contests that included dramatic competitions on two different occasions, but separated by only a relatively short interval, before his death.

II.2 The Dramas that were Performed It was not, therefore, too great a task for Alexander to attract – including from Greece – actors, or even dramatic poets to participate in the theatrical competitions that he decreed during his conquests, especially as he had highly persuasive financial resources at his disposal103. But what were the plays that they performed? To what genre did they belong? Were they new plays or re-runs from the repertoires of the troupes that presented themselves, or were they royal commissions? And did they require the participation of a chorus? We have to admit that we are very badly informed on all of these points. Plutarch twice mentions tragic performances: first in a generalisation104, and then when he depicts the competition at Tyre. At Tyre it is very likely that two tragic troupes confronted one another (and not three as at the Great Dionysia in Athens), seeing that we know the identity of the two protagonists and that these are the only actors traditionally mentioned by name in the documents. On the other hand we know nothing about the tragedies: who composed them; their titles; or their relation to the performance context. They must nevertheless have included choruses, after the fashion of tragedies performed in Classical Athens, since two Cypriot kings were appointed by Alexander as ‘choregoi’. Nothing, however, is said about the identity of the choreuts nor about their recruitment. I tend to 100

101

Cf. Tritle 2009, 126. They could be misleading, if some of the performers were already with Alexander. Hdt. 5, 52–54. These calculations are based on marching speeds of 25 km per day, with regularly interpolated rest days.

102 103

104

See above, at n. 47. In addition to war booty there was the wealth stored in the royal treasuries. Plu. Alex. 4, 11.

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think that, in the army of the conqueror, there was no lack of men with a Greek education who were able to dance and sing on the occasion, whether Greeks by birth or Macedonians brought up at court: there is no doubt that many among them knew their ‘classics’. Such are the men who very probably formed the indispensable chorus of satyrs impersonating Magae (l. 5) in the satyric ‘little drama’ (“dramation”) called Agen. But some plays could perhaps have been performed without a chorus, as is often supposed for the Hellenistic period, when there was no longer uniform practice in staging. In addition to tragedy and satyr play, the latter attested by the example of the Agen105, comedy must also have had a place in Alexander’s itinerant court, to judge from the presence of comic actors, connected with ‘musical’ competitions, in the monarch’s entourage. As to the contents of the works offered to an audience probably composed of soldiers and generals of the army and sometimes officers of state and ambassadors on diplomatic missions to the king, we know nothing beyond the 19 verses of the Agen that survive106. There is nothing to be gained here by revisiting the metrical characteristics of the play or its imitation in two places of Sophocles, all of which have been well discussed by Bruno Snell107. For us the important thing is the theme. From the two fragments that have come down to us through Athenaeus it emerges that the action takes place in Babylon108 and that the plot is not drawn from mythology, according to custom109, but from current events. The two main characters are in fact: Agen (l. 16), alias Alexander, simultaneously head of the army and of the theatrical troupe, and whose importance to the play is evident from the fact that he gives his name to the drama; and Harpalus (l. 16), also, according to Myrtils/Athenaeus, nicknamed Pallides (l. 3), i. e. “man of the race of Phallus”, according to Meineke110, who suspects an allusion to his personal penchant for the female sex, or “son of Pallas”, in the opinion of Dana Ferri Sutton, who sees there a malicious allusion to the relationship between Harpalus and Athens111. In the female roles we find his deceased mistress, Pythionike (ll. 7f.) and his new concubine, Glykera (l. 18). From the mouth of the character who stands alone on stage when the passage transmitted by Athenaeus begins we learn first of all that Harpalus, maddened by passion and grief, has taken refuge (l. 4) in a temple that he had built for Pythionike (l. 8) and that the Magae who found him in this miserable condition (l. 6) have succeeded in convincing him to allow them to bring the dead woman back to the upper world112. The exposition continues after a short lacuna. 105

106

107

It was perhaps performed independently of any tragedy in accordance with a practice that became normal in the Hellenistic period, as shown by several lists of plays and prizes. At Ath. 13, 595e–596a, we first find a group of eight verses, followed by a gloss by Athenaeus/ Myrtilus on the meaning of the name Pallides, then, after an apparently very short lacuna, another eleven verses, of which the last five are the same as those already quoted in Ath. 13, 586d. For a parodic allusion to Aeschylus’ Persians, see Sbardella 2003, 188–190. The chorus of Magae, the wretched Harpalus and the monumental tomb of Pythionike (cf. n. 84) echo the chorus of noble Persians, who together with Atossa bring forth the 4/ of the deceased Great King Darius, who appears on top of his imposing tumulus.

108

109

110

111 112

It is in fact at Babylon that Pythionike died and Harpalus erected one of the two monuments he had made for her, according to Theopompus, FGrHist 115 F 253. It is nonetheless difficult to generalise given the very small number of satyr plays for which we have enough verses, beyond mere titles, to gain an idea of their content. Meineke 1867, 280. His emendation of the manuscript (Pallides changed to Phallides) and his interpretation are accepted by Snell 1971, 109 n. 10. Sutton 1980, 96. This is a very common plot type, found notably on vases linked to satyrs, that has individuals emerging from out of the earth. Cf. Krumeich et al. 2001, 31. 56; Pretagostini 2003, 171 n. 31.

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A discussion takes place between two characters who occupy the stage, one of whom seems well acquainted with developments at Babylon (ll. 9. 14f.) where he is possibly a resident, and the other has just arrived from Athens, where, we learn, the economic situation has also grown considerably worse: Harpalus sent the Athenians a considerable quantity of grain in return for which he received Athenian citizenship. The grain however only represents a down payment (“arrabon”, l. 18) for the arrival of the prostitute named Glykera. Even though neither of the events mentioned (the famine at Athens113, the granting of citizenship to Harpalus in gratitude for his aid) can be dated with any precision in the years 326–324 (or help us determine the place of performance), the political tendencies of the drama are very clear. Harpalus is here openly ridiculed and his mercantile transactions with Athens, a city in revolt against Macedonian domination, are denounced. Moreover, the fact that the play is designated a ‘dramation’ suggests to me that it was composed quickly to address immediately current affairs. That Alexander could be suspected of authorship strongly inclines me to the belief that he commissioned the piece and that he requested that he be given the lead role as avenger of these injuries114.That the dramas themselves could directly serve his political projects in this way is a possible explanation for the monarch’s infatuation with dramatic competitions115. Do we find similar examples elsewhere? And can we articulate more precisely the reasons for Alexander’s promotion of the theatre in the course of his expedition?

III. Theatre, Religion and Politics at Alexander’s Travelling Court If we cast another glance at the chronology of the scenic competitions inaugurated by the king, we find two distinct periods of activity, at the beginning and at the end of his campaign.

Soli (Cilicia), beginning of summer 333: dramatic contests possible

next to the River Hydaspes, May or end of September 326: performance of the Agen?

Memphis (Egypt): • end 332 /beginning of 331 • spring 331 dramatic contests very probable

Karmania, 324: • between Pura and Salmous, Bacchic komos • at Salmous before and after the arrival of Nearchus: dramatic contests certain

Tyre (Phoenicia), March/April 331: dramatic contests certain

Susa (at the weddings), 324: dramatic entertainments Ecbatana, 324: dramatic contests possible Babylon, 324: dramatic contests certain

113

Raymond Descat (2004, 371f.) demonstrated that the famine lasted longer than usually thought, stretching from the 330s to 318, and consequently that it was related to structural problems affecting Athenian agriculture.

114 115

I concur with Pretagostini 2003, 163. See also Sutton 1980, 79f. and Cipolla 2000, 139.

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The first period is when Alexander closely follows the Mediterranean coastline; the second is when he has completed his conquests, at a time of the possible beginning of a second phase of activity more fully focussed on the administration of the empire. This second period generally coincides with a significant increase in the number of theatrical events, notably in the royal capitals of Susa, Ecbatana and Babylon. If Alexander was able to acquire actors without great difficulty, as we have seen116, during these two phases of his expedition, it is also because favourable circumstances converged at these times: in the first case proximity to the Greek world, the source of his entertainers, and in the other case, a cessation of hostilities followed by the development of the colonial foundations. It is not at all surprising that no dramatic contest is attested for the period beginning with the king’s return from Phoenicia in spring 331 (no. 5) and the stopping of his military advance in India at the end of June 325, on the banks of the Hyphasis (no. 12), when the war was in full swing, the army often divided into several columns and the enemy in various locations adopting the tactics of guerrilla warfare. Thus, as W. L. Adams has convincingly demonstrated, Alexander was not indifferent to the type or place of the competitions he organised117. His decisions, the fruit of careful consideration, took into account the current situation and the specifics of the places in which he made camp. Adams notes, for example, that he held torch-races because they were favoured by the Macedonians, as is evident from the Gymnasiarchal Law of Beroa118. He nonetheless put an end to torch-races when he entered the Iranian plateau, possibly out of respect for the religious sensibilities of the Persians (fire being sacred to the Zoroastrians). This implies that ‘agones’ – at least of this type – were set up with more than the desires of his soldiers taken into consideration. Several passages in our sources indicate as much. Equestrian competitions appear at a time in the campaign when the cavalry began to play a major role in operations against the Iranian and Scythian populations who were just as practised in horsemanship as the Macedonians. One can believe that the king neglected no opportunity to shore up his alliance with conquered peoples and no opportunity to train his soldiers by diversifying their sporting activities. Still, the competitions decreed by the king, whatever their precise nature (athletic or ‘musical’ in the broad sense of the term), all shared the common aim of providing the soldiers, whether they participated or merely spectated, with relaxation and leisure and a chance to forget for a time the hard realities of combat. The most striking example, from this point of view, is the competitions that were held after the formidable passage through the Gedrosian desert, competitions which A.B. Bosworth even took to be a form of therapy119. This being said, it remains to ask why Alexander decided to have recourse not only to ‘gymnic’ competitions, but also to dramatic competitions and to determine what specific virtues dramatic competitions might possess beyond other forms of competition.

III.1 Alexander, Champion of Greek Culture In acting as he did, the conqueror doubtless assumed the posture of a champion of Greek culture, and its two principal venues, the gymnasium and the theatre. In laying claim to an area of supremacy long held by the city of Athens, Alexander went far beyond the politics initiated by Archelaus, one of his fifth-century predecessors on the Macedonian throne. 116 117

See above, ch. II. 1. Adams 2007, 129–138.

118 119

Adams 2007, 132 n. 30. Bosworth 1988b, 147.

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The proof, apart from the direct involvement of his soldiers in the ‘gymnic’ and equestrian competitions, not to mention the professionals who sometimes joined them120, is the number of artists he attracted to his itinerant court and the very fact that musical and dramatic competitions could be held at all during his expedition. His desire to measure himself against the uncontested cultural capital of the Greek world in the Classical period is equally evident in the artists that he heaped with his favours: they were the best ones (¹  ( ), those already well known in Athens, due to their victories at the city’s Dionysian festivals. Such were Thessalos and Athenodoros, both of them present in Tyre and Susa. But also Lykon of Skarphea, who was a comic artist twice victorious at the Lenaea in the mid fourth century. Philodemus in the Rhetoric (I. 197, 9–10) portrays him as the equal of Kallippides and Nikostrats, who were the best among the actors of tragedy that performed at the end of the fifth century. We can also cite another comic actor, named Phormion, who took part in the celebrations in Susa and may have won at the Lenaea in the mid-fifth century. Another important point must be stressed regarding Athenodors. The Athenians, as reported by Plutarch in the passage in which he mentions the festivities at Tyre, fined him for his absence from the city. Even though the circumstances in which it occurred are unclear, it is crucial to know if that event took place at the same time as the Phoenician contest, since both took place in March/April. We could suppose that Athenodors preferred to perform in Tyre rather than in Athens and was therefore fined for breaching his contract. This could give us some idea of the incredible attraction coming out of the royal court, as soon as the military campaign began. Alexander’s desire to make himself the very incarnation of Greek culture is also evident in certain traits of his personality: he was so deeply infatuated with tragedy that he asked Harpalus to send him in the upper satrapies many texts produced by the three most famous tragedians of the fifth century BC, Euripides, Sophocles, and Aeschylus (in this meaningful order). In addition, our sources depict him quoting, on several occasions, verses from Euripides’ plays. For example, at the last symposion of Medeios, a series of performances culminated with the king himself reciting by heart a scene from Euripides’ Andromeda121. In the prelude to the ‘proskynesis’ he quoted the Bacchae (l. 266). This presupposes that the king knew by heart his ‘classics’ or large fragments of them. Doubt however remains about the historicity of all these stories, which could have been invented post eventum, in order to serve political purposes. Alexander could then have been portrayed as a man able to use his wide knowledge of drama to apply them in crucial political situations. Willing to set up dramatic contests, as I suggest, partially in order to compete with Athens (and win), the king also had them viewed by hordes of spectators. This is particularly true in Tyre, where ambassadors from Athens, Rhodes, and Chios, were, as we know, received in large numbers. This applies in Karmania too, where the crowd was composed of Craterus’ soldiers, many satraps, generals in charge of the army in Media, and sailors led by Nearchus. In Susa, where Arrian suggests that as many as ten thousand weddings were celebrated, the crowd could have also been enormous, and the same goes for Ecbatana and Babylon. It is no longer just the soldiers who fill the ranks of the audience, but the entire court.

120

Cf. Tritle 2009, 123–125.

121

Ath. 12, 537d, via Nikoboule.

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III.2 Theatre, Dionysism and royal ideology Let us turn our attention once more to the second time period that I distinguished and in particular to the increasing number of theatrical games that coincided with Alexander’s return from India. In my opinion, this did not happen by chance, but with a purpose. From 328 on, Dionysus is prominent in our sources; they draw many parallels between the god’s and the king’s conquests. However, some scholars have argued, generally, that Dionysus’ presence and achievements in India were made up and invented from the image of the historical Alexander, with the king merging with the god only after his death122. Far from being convinced by such claims, I totally agree with Bosworth’s arguments123. No sources refer to any sort of relationship between Dionysus and India before 325. Yet, the myth of Dionysus’ conquests became a reality at this date, after the army reached the north of the Syr-Darya and as it progressed on Indian soil. That is when soldiers discovered ivy, a symbol associated with the god, and considered it tangible evidence of the limits of Dionysus’ penetration in the country. Alexander surpassed even these boundaries. As he was coming back from his journey to India, a journey full of military exploits, he became the representation of Dionysus on earth124. In this move I recognise one of the chief reasons for the importance he gave theatre after this date. At his death the Diadochi and the Hellenistic monarchs followed in his footsteps, realising that through drama they could appropriate for themselves the image of New Dionysoi, endowed with all the qualities attributed to the god. Theatre therefore became a vehicle for highlighting or emphasising some of the main elements of the royal ideology, which we could briefly list as follows: –

–

122 123 124

125

The king is to be seen as a warrior – and a victorious one: almost all the games125, regardless of their kinds, were held after a victory126 or in commemoration of a victory127, and in one case (the victory over Porus, no. 11) the technical term “epinikia” appears. It is for this reason that the theatre also served as the place par excellence for the display of martial valour: it is highly significant that at the conclusion of the mutiny at Opis, Alexander ordered Antipater to grant to each of the veterans who might return to Macedonia both ‘prohedria’ in all competitions and in the theatre and the right to sit wearing a crown128. The king is to be seen as a saviour: the festivals held in Karmania (no. 15) are the best example of this, seeing that the sacrifices performed by the king are clearly described as ‘kharisteria’, i. e. thanks offering to the gods as much for the conquest of India as for the well-being of the army129. Among them Goukowsky 1981. Bosworth 1996a, 119–132. For Pretagostini (2003, 165–166. 169f.) as well Alexander is the incarnation of Dionysus and it is no coincidence that he plays the role of Agen. He supposes, moreover, that Dionysus appears as a deus ex machina in the final scene to punish Harpalus and his supporters. This is perfectly plausible. The most notable exception – already mentioned above, after n. 71 – is the competitions that would have been held before going down the Hydaspes (no. 13). For the ‘agones’ attached to the funeral of Hephaestion, see below.

126

127 128

129

Whether success in battle (nos. 1. 2. 7. 8), a surrender without the shedding of blood (nos. 3. 6. 9. 11) or the happy conclusion of troubles affecting the army (cf. the mutiny at Opis, which was followed by the festival at Ecbatana, no. 19; the cessation of conquests in India, no. 12). See nos. 4. 5. 10. 14. 15. Plu. Alex. 7, 8f. At Athens as at Rhodes, in the Hellenistic period, the theatre was in the service of civic ideology: before the start of the contests, war orphans were awarded a panoply by the grateful city. See also, supra, nos. 1 and 17.

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The king is to be seen as rich and generous: the evidence concerning the prizes given away by Alexander to victorious actors and poets is again deceptive and frustrating for us. We only know, for instance, that Lykon of Skarphea was offered ten talents after he made the king laugh, by asking him for this amount as he was performing. We are also informed that the winner in a drinking competition organised at Kalanos’ death was offered one talent, the second thirty minas, and the third ten (no. 16). On the other hand, the king’s generosity is abundantly documented. He compensated Athenodors for the fine he received for breaking his contract with Athens. Plutarch also reports that a gifted, but poor and unknown poet was told, a few days after Alexander’s death130: “If you had lived in Alexander’s times, you would have been offered a Cyprus or a Phoenicia for each of your verses”. Nothing would better suggest the huge and unparalleled economical appeal of the king’s travelling court for all the artists of the time.

From the foregoing discussion it emerges unequivocally that Alexander used the theatre for purely political purposes during his expedition. By this means he could immediately make felt the full extent of his power. This in my opinion is what is at stake in the Agen131. For this reason it is all the more regrettable that we are unsure of the time and place of the production, because the significance of the play is altogether inseparable from the context in which it was staged. It is context in the final analysis that gives whatever political meaning it may have. Given the documents at our disposal, the only reasonable stance is that taken by Bruno Snell when he urges scholars not to extrapolate beyond what appears in the surviving verses and to stay close to the plot that those verses allow us to broadly reconstruct. I cannot support him, however, when he takes for granted the truth of Athenaeus’ claims about the Dionysia on the Hydaspes. Indeed the clues provided by Arrian, along with other considerations132, sooner call Athenaeus’ claims into question. I therefore think that, until more information is available, we must limit ourselves to considering all the possible places where the play might have been produced and refuse to make any final judgment. From Salmous to Ecbatana and then Babylon, Alexander would have had three opportunities to produce the Agen. As on any of these three occasions Harpalus’ flight was known to everyone, the personal satire would have been more trenchant: added inevitably to the exile of the despairing lover who had lost all interest in life would be the historically verified fact of his inglorious departure. Moreover, between the end of the year 325 and the spring of 323, the question of the divinity of Alexander was a burning issue, and one has no difficulty imagining the public response to this portrait of a man so debauched as to devote a post-mortem cult to his mistress Pythionike, under the name of Aphrodite Pythionike133, at a time when only Alexander could lay claim to cultic honours. In the years 325–324 an audience would have experienced more pleasure than any earlier audience in seeing, at the end of the play, the punishment by Agen (king of the satyrs?) not only of a man who was guilty of having demanded such inappropriate displays of deference as 130 131

Plu. Moralia 333e. Pretagostini (2003, 162. 170–272. 275) rightly, in my view, explains that the form of a satyr play was adopted, in preference to comedy, because it was best suited to the allocation of the leading role to the character of Dionysus-Alexander, but also because it permitted recourse to the characteristic features of

132 133

Old Comedy that were no longer current in New Comedy: the appearance on stage of historical figures, ‘onomasti komoidein’, a focus on sexual excess, and the non-observance of Porson’s law. Cf. above, after n. 71. Theopomp. Hist. FGrHist 115 F 253 = Ath. 595a–c. Cf. Flower 1997, 258–262.

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‘proskynesis’ for his new prostitute, Glykera134, but of the eternally insubordinate Athens as well. The last preserved verse of the Agen in fact contains a veiled threat towards the city that may have had a double meaning: when the character who comes from Athens explains in what should be the expository prologue of the play that the grain sent by Harpalus was sent for Glykera, but that the deposit (“arrabon”) risked being for the Athenians the guarantee of their destruction, one suspects an allusion to an event which will take place before the end of the play. But one also immediately calls to mind the passages of Quintus Curtius135 and Justin136 which indicate that Alexander, enraged by the behaviour of the Athenians as much as by that of Harpalus, had ordered his fleet to prepare to sail to Europe and punish them. Let us add that a performance of the Agen would have had an incomparable success at Babylon in the context of Hephaestion’s funeral with the audience encouraged to measure the gulf between a heroic cult, created for a man of valour, in conformity with religious norms, one even legitimised by the oracle of Ammon137, and one of the most sacrilegious of all cults, given to a woman whose sole merit was to have, during the course of her life, made a business of selling her charms138. The essential point is that the Agen is a work with an undeniable political charge. The denunciation of the characters that it introduces and the virulence of the satire could only have had greater force if the play was produced in 324 and not two years earlier. By serving the statesman Alexander’s interests in this way, theatre allowed him both to conduct battles in a different, non-military, arena and to demonstrate his capacity to become the new director of cultural life in the Greek world. Theatre nonetheless remained fundamentally an act of piety, as in the past. All of the conqueror’s theatrical competitions during his expedition were organised within a religious framework139. At Babylon they formed an integral part of the rites paid to Hephaestion. They were, moreover, always preceded by sacrifices according to the strictest dictates of tradition, as Arrian repeatedly shows140. It is of little importance that some of them had no connection with Dionysus. At Dion in Macedonia the theatrical contest inaugurated by Archelaus celebrated Zeus and the Muses. But above all the ever-growing kinship that the monarch sought with Dionysus upon his return from India authorised and justified, in my opinion, a practice that only grew more widespread in the last three centuries before our era. The only exception that comes to mind is 134

135 136 137

138

Theopomp. Hist. FGrHist 115 F 254b = Ath. 595d–e. Curt. 10, 2, 2. Just. Epit. 13, 5. Arr. An. 7, 14, 6–7; Plu. Alex. 72, 3; Hyp. Epit. 21. The vulgate tradition (D. S. 17, 115, 6; Just. Epit. 12, 12, 12) speaks wrongly of worship as a god (cf. Bosworth 1988b, 288 n. 14). There is also a striking parallel between the participation at the funeral of Pythionike of a great chorus of illustrious performers () - -  /) according to the description of Poseidonius (Ath. 13, 594e) and the presence of the three thousand ‘technitai’ mentioned by Arrian at the funeral of Hephaestion. Moreover Sbardella 2003, 189–190 would also see in the incorporation of the scene of the Magae, once capable of calling forth the

139 140

spirit of the Great King for the benefit of the State but now involved in the resurrection of a woman who deserved three times over the name of prostitute, an intentional parody of the tragic model for the purpose of emphasising Alexander’s growing hostility towards the Babylonian priests and more particularly the Chaldeans, devoted to the cult of Baal, who begged the conquerer to give up his march on Babylon on the pretext of an inauspicious oracle delivered by their god, when in reality they feared they would lose, with the return of the king, the revenues from the temple that they shared in anticipation of its reconstruction (Arr. An. 7, 16, 5f. and 17). Contra: Mikalson 1998, 118f. See Table 1 above for all the forms of sacrifice performed by Alexander.

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the weddings at Sousa. But let us make no mistake: there were here no regular competitions, only displays by actors comparable to those widely attested in post-Hellenistic times outside of official competitions. If there were innovations in theatrical practice during the lifetime of Alexander it was, on the one hand, the birth of the royal Dionysism that forged, on the ideological front, the link between victory, theatre and monarchical power, and, on the other hand, the introduction of performances by theatrical artists in festive contexts, like banquets, where previously there had only been musicians, jugglers and other entertainers. Competitions retained their cultic connections with divinities or heroes intact. At the itinerant court of the Macedonian king, theatre in competition more than ever played a role that was every bit as political as it was cultural and religious.

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Cooking Up Rhesus: Literary Imitation and Its Consumers Vayos Liapis

Introduction The debate on the authenticity of Rhesus, a play traditionally attributed to Euripides, has been going on for centuries and shows no sign of abating1. In modern times, the controversy was kindled by the information, found in one of the ancient Hypotheseis, that some (unnamed and unknown) critics in antiquity found the play to “evince rather the marks of Sophoclean style”2. It is unclear whether those critics went as far as to attribute Rhesus to Sophocles, but modern scholars have been generally unwilling to assume Sophoclean authorship, and have looked elsewhere for evidence of the play’s spuriousness. Thus, they have pointed out, among other things, the play’s tendency to recycle, mostly as raw loans, memorable words or turns of phrase from fifth-century tragedy – mainly Euripides and Aeschylus rather than Sophocles3. They have also commented on the play’s verbosity, grandiloquence, and penchant for linguistic rarities – features that seemingly bespeak an overzealous imitator rather than a canonical playwright4. Defenders of the play’s authenticity have tried to explain away its idiosyncratic style by arguing, in essence, that it is not so idiosyncratic after all, since specific peculiarities of diction can be paralleled in fifth-century tragedy5. But this is to miss the point: as Eduard Fraenkel demonstrated, it is not the stylistic quirks themselves that are unusual; it is rather the play’s pell-mell assemblage of such curiosities, and its extravagant parading of purple patches, that are hard to reconcile with the usual style of Euripides, or of any other canonical tragedian for that matter6. This kind of ‘mosaic-like’ (“musivische”) technique, Fraenkel argued, is unparalleled in the three great tragedians, but often found in interpolated tragic passages, e. g. in the Seven or the Phoenissae – that is, in passages which conceivably originated in the fourth century or later7. Whatever position one takes in the controversy, the fact remains that, to quote Fraenkel’s memorable formu-

1

2 3

For overviews of the controversy see e.g. Hagenbach 1863, 51–61; Goodwin 1880, 13–20; Grégoire 1933, 107–115; Cataudella 1969, 324–328. 333–392 (a particularly thorough and helpful survey); Ragone 1969, 94–105; Iliescu 1976, 367–369; Burlando 1997, 105– 127. 129–160; Jouan 2004, X–XV. See further section D below. See Liapis 2012, LVIII–LXIV with further discussion and doxography.

4

5

6 7

Cf. Valckenaer 1767, 90f.; Beck 1780, 26f.; Hermann 1828; Fraenkel 1965; Fries 2010; Liapis 2012, LIII-LVIII. This is the kind of argument put forth by Albert 1876, 33–40 and, most energetically, by Ritchie 1964, 141–258. Fraenkel 1965, 231–233. See esp. Fraenkel 1965, 233; cf. Kitto 1977, 318f. This is something the majority of earlier critics, not just Albert or Ritchie (n. 5), had failed to grasp; cf. e.g. Matthiae 1824, 3.

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lation, it is no feather in the cap of classical scholars that the question of Rhesus’ authorship is still open to debate8. My purpose in this paper is not, of course, to settle this age-old question; this would require no less than a full-scale commentary on the play – an endeavour I have undertaken in Liapis 20129. Rather more modestly, I intend, in Part I, to catalogue and discuss some of the more characteristic instances of imitation of fifth-century tragedy found in Rhesus. By ‘imitation’ (or ‘plagiarism’) I mean, in this case, the more or less crude recycling of eyecatching words, turns of phrase, half-lines or even entire lines taken from, principally, Euripides and Aeschylus. In Part II, I propose to explore some of the ways in which the remarkably high percentage, in Rhesus, of linguistic and stylistic loans from classical tragedy may have been intended to proclaim the play’s respectable ancestry, and thus to tout it as a prestigious cultural commodity. As will become clear in the course of this paper, I consider Rhesus the product of a fourth-century man of the theatre, most probably an actor, who composed the play for performance before a Macedonian audience, no doubt in the court of Philip II or Alexander III. As has already been intimated, and as will be seen in detail in Part I, Rhesus is to an extent a medley of linguistic material filched from past masters; it would surely be possible for an accomplished actor, familiar as he must have been with the diction of classical tragedy, to stitch together such a play. Further, as I have argued in Liapis 2009a, Rhesus evinces an extensive familiarity with institutions and mentalities prevalent in fourth-century Macedonia, and may thus be considered in many respects a “manifestation of Macedonian identity and ideology, and a remarkable reflection of the historical conditions, the institutions, the mentalities and even the material culture that obtained in the northern regions of the Greek peninsula around the middle of the fourth century”10. Especially in its Trojan-centered viewpoint11, Rhesus seems to be consistent with the aggressive appropriation of the Trojan War and the entire epic past by official Macedonian ideology12. In the mid-fourth century Macedonian milieu, which (as will be seen in Part Two) was particularly favourable to the theatre, the author of Rhesus would have found an advantageous environment in which to fiddle with classical Greek tragedy.

I. Rhesus: Imitation under the Sign of the Three Tragedians The following overview does not of course list every instance that may be classified as imitation or plagiarism (in the sense described above), but rather attempts to answer two fundamental questions: 1. What prompts the imitation in the first place? Is it similarity of context, mere derivativeness, a nod to prestigious intertexts, or a combination of these and perhaps other factors?

8

9

Cf. Fraenkel 1965, 228: “Es ist kein Ruhmestitel der klassischen Philologie, daß die Frage, ob die erhaltene Tragödie Rhesos von Euripides stammt, noch immer diskutiert werden kann”. The question will doubtless be further elucidated in the forthcoming commentaries by Marco Fantuzzi and by Almut Fries. Feickert’s

10 11

12

commentary (2005), although exhaustive, is of uneven quality, excessively prolix, and all too often marred by errors. Quotation from Liapis 2009a, 72. See further Liapis 2009b for a discussion of select instances. See further Liapis 2009a, 80–82.

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2. Is the author of Rhesus trying to pass his drama off as the work of one specific tragedian, or is he merely compiling an omnium-gatherum of reminiscences from earlier tragedy, with little regard to uniformity of style? With respect to the second question, I shall argue for the latter alternative. While it is true that Rhesus has an especially high number of linguistic, stylistic, and metrical features that evoke the manner of Euripides, it is also true that, as I have already intimated, it includes a significant percentage of loans from Aeschylus, and more rarely from Sophocles (see further below, sections A to D). As for the former question, my contention is that the author of Rhesus was in all likelihood not a dramatist but a professional actor. The sheer frequency of allusions to classical drama in Rhesus is best explained as the hallmark of a seasoned theatre practitioner, whose extensive familiarity with canonical tragedy – and fifth-century tragedy was on the fast track to canonisation by the mid-fourth century at latest13 – would naturally prompt him to turn to his repertoire whenever in need of suitably ‘tragic’, i. e. lofty and grandiose, turns of phrase14. Admittedly, such extensive familiarity with the tragic canon would also be consistent with the assumption that the author of Rhesus was a playwright rather than an actor. The possibility cannot be excluded, although the putative playwright would have to be a very poor one, to judge by the apparently erratic fashion in which (as I intend to show below) he has jumbled together the fruits of his extensive pillaging of classical drama. If, as I have argued in earlier publications, Rhesus was composed and produced for a Macedonian audience, perhaps under the reign of Philip II or Alexander III15, it is conceivable that an established tragic actor enjoying high esteem for his stage skills in the Macedonian court16 could have got away with a one-off venture into playwriting, however clumsy the result. By contrast, a second-rate professional playwright, who would arguably find it hard to stay afloat in the competitive milieu of Athenian dramatic contests, would probably not have been a very strong candidate for a prestigious and lucrative invitation to the Macedonian court, where the likes of Euripides and Agathon had once been given a regal reception17. The tragic actor hypothesis receives further corroboration from another notable feature of Rhesus, namely its tendency to introduce imitative passages prompted by contextual similarities with the target passage18. To be able to dig up, presumably from memory, passages from fifth-century drama that may be relevant to the dramatic situation at hand surely requires an extensive familiarity with Classical tragedy, of the kind which an experienced professional actor would be most likely to possess. Moreover, in Part Two, I shall attempt to answer a further set of questions, regarding the possible uses of Rhesus as an imitative commodity. If Rhesus is an actor’s concoction, an important question is in which context that actor likely peddled his ware. As suggested 13

14

15 16

According to the so-called Fasti, or IG II2 2318 (TrGF 1 DID A 1 201–203 = 1009–1011 MO), reperformances of fifth-century plays (   ) /) were instituted in 387; cf. PickardCambridge 1968, 72. 99f. For the tragic actor hypothesis see further Part II below. See Liapis 2009a; cf. already Liapis 2004. The actor Neoptolemos would fit the bill rather nicely, as I will argue in Part II below.

17

18

For Euripides’ sojourn in Macedon see TrGF T 1 IA, 6. IB, 3; 2, 9; 3, 4; 4, 25–27. He composed an Archelaus (TrGF F 228–264) to celebrate his Macedonian patron’s mythical ancestor. For Agathon’s stay in Macedon see the scholia vetera to Aristophanes’ Frogs 85b (Chantry), and cf. Pl. Smp. 172c, Ael. VH 13,4. On the contestable tradition concerning Euripides’ death in Macedon see Scullion 2003. See for example below, A12, A13 and A14.

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above, Rhesus appears to have been produced with a Macedonian audience in mind. Perhaps the playwright, far from trying to pass himself off as Euripides (or any other particular tragedian for that matter), intended to flatter his audience by presenting them with a work that he hoped would pass muster as a tragic oeuvre worthy of the prestigious plays regularly produced on the Athenian stage. Such an effort may not have been out of place at a time when a sense of the tragic canon had already emerged; indeed, the common acknowledgement of a canon may have actually encouraged the creation of new work based on canonical dramas.

A. Rhesus and Euripidean Style I begin with instances in which the author of Rhesus seems to have tried to reproduce Euripidean style by adopting characteristic Euripidean locutions, or even by plagiarizing lines and half-lines found in Euripides. Such cases clearly constitute the majority of those Rhesus passages that can be pinned down as imitations of classical dramas. This no doubt explains, partly at least, the tenacity with which a number of scholars have defended Rhesus as a genuine Euripidean work. However, although the statistical preponderance of Euripidean reminiscences is indisputable, its probative value is slighter than what one might assume at first sight, and cannot be used, per se, as evidence of Euripidean authorship. For already in the fifth century, and no doubt in the fourth century too, “there were almost certainly some dramatists, such as those referred to in [Aristophanes’ Frogs] 89–91, who wrote in the Euripidean manner and tended, consciously or unconsciously, to reproduce some of his mannerisms both in language and in dramatic technique. … [I]f the rest of Attic tragedy had survived we might find that the style of Sophocles was more distinct from the tragic koine than that of Euripides (whose originality lies mainly elsewhere) and that a good deal of what now appears to be Euripidean would be seen as common at any rate to a group of dramatists”19. To begin with a rather striking example of plagiarism, (A1) Rhesus 80 ’ j φ#6λ« 46  /  (“if you are afraid of this, then know that you would fear anything”) is an almost verbatim quotation of Hippolytus 519 ’ j φ#6G’ 46 α   « ξ ;. However, the author of Rhesus is more often inclined to plagiarize half-lines. Thus, (A2)   6!6  repeats Heraclidae 157 (') Rhesus 655 (!  …  " ) 9 Ϊ)    6!6  ; likewise, (A3) Rhesus 779 (k $6Ω) σ6 « «

   recycles Alcestis 188 ( Ν @ 7κ) σ6 « «   . A rather striking instance is (A4) Rhesus 916 (i « G), « « W@/ φ «, in which a choice Euripidean locution20 is pillaged verbatim from Erectheus, TrGF F 370, 60 ( @« #E )6!) « « W@/ φ «;. Likewise, (A5) Rhesus 808 τ !  "’ 5 ! (“O you perpetrators of the greatest calamities”) is remarkably similar to both "     "’ 5 ! and Medea 1121 τ  μ R  Heraclidae 960 69  /« 5 !21 – the latter passage now commonly considered an inter19 20

Quotation from Stevens 1965, 270. Cf. E. Med. 1360 « « …  « $6@; Hel. 960 « …  « $6@ .

21

Cf. Feickert 2005, ad loc.

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polation22. One is tempted to speculate that the syntagma ‘neut. adj. + "’/R  + 5 !-’ could belong to a common stock of stylistic mannerisms shared by fourthcentury actors, hence its appearance in an interpolated line in Medea23. Much more frequently than lines or half-lines, the author of Rhesus utilizes individual words, turns of phrase or mannerisms especially associated with Euripides. For example, (A6) ²1  / -6 )!  occurs in Rhesus (23. 84. 99) more times than in any other single Euripidean play (Alc. 35, Or. 926. 1223, Ph. 267). For all his eagerness to emulate Euripidean style, the author has not avoided a certain stiltedness and dullness here: in his work, the phrase in question occurs mostly at line-end, with the verb always in the present tense. Another case in point is (A7) Rhesus 333  - φ   ]  # G (“I hate it when one is late in assisting friends”), repeated almost verbatim in Rhesus 412 φ/ / ] « # G« (“you are too late to succour your suffering friends”). The target-passage here is Phoenissae 1432 7!  # «, which must have seemed doubly attractive to the Rhesus author, since it contains a turn of phrase both precious and characteristically Euripidean: # !/ and # « occur no less than 11 times in Euripides (excluding Rhesus)24. Likewise, (A8) Rhesus 441 1  25 is a linguistic rarity found again only in Phoenissae 45 (although a third occurrence may be deduced from Hsch. s. v. 1  ,  4303 Latte) in the same grammatical form and in the same metrical position26. One may also note (A9) Rhesus 24f. Ν | "« (“I’m struck with admiration for his courage”), which contains both a uox Euripidea27 and a construction (Ν + genitive) otherwise found in serious poetry only in Alcestis 60328. As a further Euripidean mannerism, I mention (A10) the use of ) … /  = “team of horses” (rather than “chariot drawn by horses”) in Rhesus 621, a usage for which cf. Alcestis 66f. (with Dale 1954, ad loc.), Heracles 881, Andromache 277, Hippolytus 1229 (with Barrett 1964, ad loc.), 1355. 1356, Phaethon 173 Diggle (with his commentary 1970, ad loc.) = TrGF F 779, 6. Finally, an interesting imitation of a Euripidean phonological quirk is (A11) Rhesus 378 φ6:29 the apocope of the preposition (a phenomenon alien to Attic) is confined to Euripides30. 22 23

24

25

26

27

See Mastronarde 2002, ad loc. For further examples of the same tendency cf. Rhesus 278 ~ E. Andr. 314; Rhesus 122 ~ E. Or. 1568; Rhesus 974f. ~ E. TrGF F 885. Otherwise, # G occurs only once in a fragment ascribed to Aeschylus without much certainty (TrGF F 46c, cf. Radt’s apparatus criticus on TrGF F 451n); also in Lycophron 923, and in Ezechiel, TrGF 128 F 1, 232, no doubt by way of Euripidean imitation. 1  is J. J. Scaliger’s (see Collard 1974, 249) certain correction of the nonsensical mss 1 . Ancient sources claim that  1 !/ is Arcadian for  # !/ (Eust. 381, 19–21: I, 602, 10–11 Van der Valk); however, on the analogy of Arc. 1! 6  = # 6  or 1!  = #  (on which see Lejeune 1947, 43), one should expect * 1 !/ rather than  1 !/; see further Mastronarde 1994, on E. Ph. 45. Ν : cf. Alc. 603, HF 845 (corrupt, but $6 is surely sound), Ph. 1054, IA 28 (prob-

28

29

30

ably spurious, but significant as an imitation of Euripidean style). However, $ is attested for A. TrGF F *268, and $]-« is a probable supplement in S. TrGF F 314, 249–250. See Parker 2007, on E. Alc. 602–603; Olson 2002, on Ar. Ach. 488. For comic instances cf. Ar. Ach. 488, Birds 1744a; Eup. PCG F 349; Phryn. Com. PCG F 10, 1. That the seemingly colloquial Ν + genitive should be jarringly combined with the high-flown "« in the Rhesus passage bespeaks a faulty sense of tragic style. Thus Bothe 1803, 293 for the unmetrical mss

φ6. Cf. Su. 984, El. 1299; see further Ritchie 1964, 178f. For further instances of verbal imitation of Euripides cf. e.g. Rhesus 742–744 ~ Hipp. 1288f., El. 1190–1192 (antithesis between φ « and $φ"« / Νφ«); " /); Rh. 871 ~ Alc. Rh. 791 ~ El. 843 (69 380 (%6  «); Rh. 877 ~ Ph. 1660 (16).

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In a number of cases, imitation of a Euripidean passage seems to have been prompted by contextual similarities, that is to say, similarities in the dramatic situation between Rhesus and the Euripidean target-passage. A case in point is (A12) Rhesus 209, where Dolon describes how he will don a wolf-hide in order to infiltrate the Greek camp unnoticed: λ ) 6 μ« $φ’ ) - 6"/  ) , “and I shall fit the beast’s gaping mouth around my head”. This is modelled on Heracles 363  % ) 6 «: evidently, the wolf-head fitted around Dolon’s head has evoked the lion-head, a standard item of Heracles’ gear. That imitation of Euripidean style is at work here is further suggested by the fact that there are no further attestations, in classical literature, for ) = rictus, though the usage is common in later Greek31. Likewise, the vocabulary used in the arming-scene of Rhesus 70. 71. 90–94, bespeaks a strong influence from a Euripidean arming-scene in Heraclidae 726. 727. 720–725. Sometimes, however, contextual or situational similarities prove to be only superficial, and the imitative passages prompted by them are, as a result, odd. Consider (A13) Rhesus 85f., where a new arrival (Aeneas) is greeted by the chorus with the words λ κ Ρ’ A'!« λ  9  μ« | ) , !   »’ R)/ φ « φ  , “but here comes Aeneas posthaste, bringing some new report to his friends”. As has long been pointed out32, these lines are in all likelihood a mechanical adaptation from Hecuba 216.  « , | aE #,  !    μ« ξ - 217  λ  κ  #O« R ) 9 R«. But whereas λ κ … Ρ typically introduces a new character who brings news forwarding the plot (as it does e.g. in Rhesus 627)33, Aeneas’ character does not in fact bring any news at all; on the contrary, he has come to be briefed34. Because of the specious similarity between the respective scenes in Rhesus and in Hecuba, our author was too quick to transplant into his play a Euripidean passage which turns out, on closer inspection, to sit quite oddly in its new context. A similar example is (A14) Rhesus 870, where Rhesus’ charioteer, heavily wounded by the Greek marauders, is urged by Hector: κ 69 )’α Ϊ «  - 6 / )«, “don’t die; the throng of those who have already died is quite enough”. As was seen already by Valckenaer, this line is an incompetent imitation of Hecuba 278 ξ  (sc. !  )α - 6 / Ϊ «, “do not kill (my child): those already dead are quite enough”35. In Hecuba’s mouth, “enough have been killed already” is a powerful argument against further bloodshed, namely the sacrifice of Polyxena (cf. also Cyclops 304 Ϊ « ξ P  G’ )" /’ aE, again in a plead for one’s life). In its new context in Rhesus, however, this consideration loses its poignancy and becomes a near-absurdity: that so many people have already died may prevent one from killing others but not from succumbing to one’s own wounds. So far we have been looking at instances in which the Rhesus author seems to have plagiarised (half-)lines, phrases or words typical of Euripides. We shall now look at a much more striking example of imitation, namely an entire Rhesus passage based on a single Euripidean model. This is the stasimon sung by the chorus halfway through the play, namely (A15) Rhesus 527–537. 546–556:

31

32

In earlier Greek, the regular meaning of ) is hiatus. See von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff 1895, on E. HF 363; Renehan 1985, 156. See Beck 1780, 25 n. 9.

33

34

35

See further Denniston 1950, 356. 586; Diggle 1997, 98. Thus rightly Taplin 1977, 147 n. 3, as against Ritchie 1964, 251. Valckenaer 1824, 110. Cf. Fraenkel 1965, 238.

Cooking Up Rhesus: Literary Imitation and Its Consumers

« 4 φ ; « $#  ;  -  G λ d  P « '6!  α ! ’ A'μ« $ % » . R 6α  !;  » R5   μ« φ . $  « 4; $Ω« κ !« $Ω«    «   / Ρ ’ λ $" .

λ  $/α 8 « π! « φ « 7G ) )  " =  !/  μ $λ« ! . c ξ ! ’ 5I  α   #   « '  /. 6! ’ « n  ]«α Ϊ «  R# #φ  «  μ« $-.

281

530

535

550

555

“Whose turn is it to do guard duty? Who is to relieve my shift? The first signs are setting, and the Pleiades are aloft along their sevenfold path in the heavens. The Eagle is soaring in mid-heaven. Wake up! Why are you delaying? Get out of your beds and to the watch! Do you not observe the moon’s brightness? Daybreak, daybreak is approaching, and this star is one of its forerunners. […] Wait, I hear something! Sitting at the bloodied river-bank of the Simois, the nightingale, slayer of her own son, with its many-toned voice puts into song her music-making cares. The flocks are already grazing on (Mount) Ida; I hear the sound of a pipe played at night. Sleep is enticing the eye’s seat; for it is in the morning that it comes sweetest to the eyelids.” There are unmistakable similarities between this song and the ‘dawn-song’ in Euripides’ Phaethon (ll. 63–76 Diggle = TrGF F 773, 19–32). For one thing, they share a significant number of common images: the setting of the Pleiades in Rhesus 529. 530 corresponds to Phaethon 65. 66 D. = TrGF F 773, 21f.36; the mournful song of the nightingale for her lost son in Rhesus 546–550 is reminiscent of Phaethon 67–70 D. = TrGF F 773, 23–26; the piping shepherds leading their flocks to graze in Rhesus 551–553 recall Phaethon 71. 72 D. = TrGF F 773, 27f. Moreover, there is a striking parallelism in phraseology between Rhesus 551–553 c    ξ ! ’ 5I |     α   #  |    « '  / and Phaethon 71–76 D. = TrGF F 773, 27–32.    « ’ $ # | %      »   , … | c    ’ '« R  λ ) . And it is surely “no coincidence that the verb R 6 appears in both passages [Rhesus 532, Phaethon 73 D. = TrGF F 773, 29] but not again until the Alexandrian poets”37. There can be no dispute, and it has indeed been long acknowledged, that “the one ode was written with full knowledge of

36

P [/ !φ ) «] ex. gr. suppl. Diggle: P [«   )] von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff.

37

Quotation from Diggle 1970, 96 on E. Phaeth. 63–101.

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the other”38. But which of the two passages is to take chronological precedence over the other? We may well start our enquiry by pointing out that the term ‘dawn-song’ is a misnomer as far as the Rhesus passage is concerned. In Greek tragedy, a ‘dawn song’ is a song greeting the approaching daybreak. Elsewhere, such songs are found early in a play, and sunrise is imagined as occurring either during or immediately upon their performance: this is the most natural interpretation of, e.g., Euripides’ Ion 82f., Sophocles’ Antigone 100f., and Trachiniae 94f. This song, by contrast, is placed in mid-play and announces a sunrise that will not be forthcoming for another 450 lines (see Rhesus 985. 991. 992). Indeed, even as the coming of dawn is announced, we are made aware that we are still a long way from sunrise, for the moon is still bright (534) and the Morning Star has, presumably, appeared only now (536. 537)39. True, there is a comparable discrepancy in the dawn-song of Euripides’ Phaethon. As Diggle points out, the coming of Dawn is there heralded as early as 63. 64 D. = TrGF F 773, 19. 20 ($  φκ« | #A(«), but the Sun’s chariot will not be set upon its fatal course until, apparently, the end of (at least) the first episode40. But surely Phaethon is a special case: while the coming of day must occur early enough in the play for a number of important activities to take place in daylight (preparations for the wedding, Phaethon’s visit to the Sun’s house), the actual course of the Sun’s chariot must be delayed if we are to witness the crucial discussions Phaethon holds first with his mother and then with his surrogate father. A more crucial consideration is that the ‘dawn-song’ in Rhesus sits quite oddly in its context – a fact that should alert us to the possibility of incompetent adaptation. The chorus in Rhesus are concerned to establish that it is time for their relief to take up guard duty; this they do in the strophe, on the basis of the movements of celestial bodies. Such visual signs are more than adequate for their purpose, so that the section expatiating on the aural signs of the approaching dawn strikes one as superfluous. The first stirrings of morning activity in Troy’s environs are described in charming detail41, but are jarringly irrelevant to the urgency of the dramatic situation. There should be no time for lyricism when the enemy may be about to flee (Rhesus 53–55. 68. 69), the camp is threatened by potential ambushes (Rhesus 16), and the guards protecting it have been away from their posts for much too long. By contrast, the ‘dawn-song’ in Phaethon is comparatively well-integrated, and its picturesque vignettes (the rustics herding their flocks to their pastures, the hunters sallying forth with their hounds, the sailors getting ready to take to the sea) serve a valid dramatic reason: the matutinal bustle signifies to the chorus that it is time for them to perform the task they have set themselves, namely the singing of a hymenaeal song. Euripidean Imitation in ‘Rhesus’: Some Conclusions The cumulative effect of such passages as those cited in the previous section strongly suggests an overeager imitator, rather than Euripides or any other major tragedian, as the author of Rhesus. As was already seen by Hermann42, the play teems with specimens of choice or pompous or precious language (cf. below, section E), such as is used very infrequently, if at all, by other tragedians, including Euripides himself in his indisputably genuine plays. It would be methodologically unsound to suppose that a poet who is generally so sparing in his use of linguistic rarities in his extant plays should have composed, however 38

39

Quotation again from Diggle 1970, 96; cf. Macurdy 1943; Compagno 1963/4, 259–261; Ritchie 1964, 255f. Cf. Diggle 1970, 96 on E. Phaeth. 63–101.

40 41

42

Diggle 1970, 98. For the topos see Diggle 1970, on E. Phaeth. 63–101. Hermann 1828, 296.

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early in his career, a tragedy – and an extremely short one at that – in which the percentage of verbal pyrotechnics by far exceeds that of his other, longer works. As Hermann further pointed out, the author’s method of pillaging the whole gamut of fifth-century tragedy provides a valuable key to the dating of Rhesus43. The crucial observation here is that some of the most striking words or expressions in Rhesus have been pilfered from plays produced relatively l a te in Euripides’ career, i. e., after 420. Such words or expressions include e.g. ) 6 « in Rhesus 209 (from Heracles 363, see A12 above); ]  # G in 333 and ] « # G« in 412 (from Phoenissae " « 1432, see A7 above); 1  in 441 (from Phoenissae 45, see A8 above); 69 in 791 (from Electra 843, cf. n. 30 above); « « W@/ φ « in 916 (from Erectheus TrGF F 370, 60, see A4 above); Ρ «  in 993. 994 (from Phoenissae 861

6λ« Ρ « with Mastronarde 1994, ad loc., 1359 -’  "6’ Ρ «)44. A particularly noteworthy feature, as we have seen, is the extensive imitation of the parodos of Phaethon (A15 above), a play dating from the period ca. 420–41545. Remarkably, Rhesus even contains a couple of words which occur o n l y in late Euripides and/or in fourth-century drama (  G« 617;    937)46, and one word which occurs once in Sophocles but becomes popular with later tragedians ($) ! / 426)47. Such evidence might appear at first sight to be compatible with dating Rhesus in the latter part of Euripides’ career. This, however, would be an illusion: the play’s strict treatment of the iambic trimeter – i. e., its low proportion of resolved iambic feet – is compatible only with earl y Euripides48. That one and the same play can combine the metrical austerity of early Euripides with linguistic material taken from his later plays can mean only one thing: Rhesus is the work of a later imitator, who naturally felt free to adopt whichever features of Euripidean tragedy suited him, regardless of their date. The attempt to explain away the peculiarities of Rhesus as belonging to a period when Euripides’ style was as yet primitive and unformed cannot be taken seriously. As Hagenbach49 first pointed out, what little survives from Euripides’ earliest play, the Peliades (produced in 455, cf. TrGF test. I) seem to be “just in his ordinary manner”50. 43 44

45 46

47

Hermann 1828, 296. Heracles must have been produced in 416 or 414; Phoenissae is post-412; Electra seems to fall roughly between 420 and 415. The date of Erectheus is uncertain, but metrical evidence points to the period between Electra and Helen (412): see Cropp – Fick 1985, 79. See Diggle 1970, 47–49. Apart from E. Su. 841, Or. 1483, and IA 1588 (the last passage probably interpolated),   "« also occurs in later tragedy, namely Chaerem. TrGF 71 F 1, 2 #  ) †) (   . As for   G, it seems to be predominantly prosaic until at least the end of the fifth century, with only one occurrence in epic (Il. 5,614), one in E. (IA 1452), and one in comedy (Ar. Wasps 1018). By the late fourth century, however, the word seems to have been fully appropriated by poetry, since it occurs twice in Men. Dysc. (717, 807), i. e. as many times as it does in Rhesus. The Sophoclean occurrence is TrGF F 384.

48

49 50

Later instances include Theodectes, TrGF 72 F 17, 1, and Lyc. Alexandra 729. 1130. Cf. Ritchie’s 1964, 358 relevant conclusions: “The evidence of resolution in the iambic trimeter puts Rhesus with the earliest group of Euripides’ works, Alcestis (438), Medea (431), Heraclidae and Hippolytus (428). Its extreme conservatism […] and the extreme position which it sometimes shows in the statistical analysis of Euripides’ resolutions suggest that the play might possibly be even earlier than Alcestis.” Hagenbach 1863, 29. The argument was later repeated by Murray 1913, VIII, presumably without knowledge of Hagenbach’s dissertation. The hypothesis that the peculiarities of Rhesus are due merely to Euripides’ youthful inexperience was first put forth by Albert 1876, who was scarcely shaken by the obvious divergences between the style of Rhesus and that of the surviving Peliades fragments (Albert 1876, 19–21).

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B. Un-Euripidean Elements in Rhesus Whoever wrote Rhesus was an eclectic plagiarizer: not only did he pillage the entire Euripidean œuvre with little regard for chronological or stylistic consistency, as we saw in section A above; he also felt free to recycle linguistic elements (mainly words or syntagmata) that are not attested in extant Euripides, though they are found elsewhere in tragedy without necessarily being peculiar to a specific author51. Such elements include, for example, (B1) Rφ  (Rhesus 30), which occurs only in Aeschylus (Persians 25, Suppliants 674), Sophocles (Oedipus Coloneus 145), and in TrGF adesp. F 39, 1; (B2) φ  /  (Rhesus 55), otherwise found only in Aeschylus (Ag. 33. 490) and Sophocles (TrGF F 432, 6); (B3) 46/ (Rhesus 122), found again only in Aeschylus (Th. 447. 448, with Hutchinson 1985, ad loc.), Sophocles (Aj. 222, 1088), and several times in Lycophron; (B4) φ- (Rhesus 217), which occurs once in Aeschylus (Ch. 1001) and twice in Sophocles (TrGF F 314. 343 and 933); (B5) the rare plural   (Rhesus 274), which occurs again in Aeschylus (TrGF F 74, 7) and Theopompus Comicus (PCG F 26)52; and (B6) the equally rare ')1 « (Rhesus 444), found in Iliad 4,324, Aeschylus (Pers. c)« MSS: 9 W5« Reiske)53. Revealingly for 756), and Sophocles (Tr. 355, Aj. 97 9 this author’s eclectic practices, in this last example the non-Euripidean ')1 « can happily coexist with $ξ   «, a characteristically Euripidean idiom (cf. Supp. 584, Ph. 589).

C. Aeschylean Bombast in Rhesus After Euripides, it is to Aeschylus that the author of Rhesus turns for dollops of tragic grandiloquence. Eager to write in high-flown tragic style (cf. further section E below), he is evidently attracted by “the craggy grandiosity of Aeschylean diction”54. Aeschylean imitation ranges from single words to characteristic turns of phrase to entire passages. To begin with words or short phrases, (C1) the use of $( instead of φ « for “moat” in Rhesus 112 ( G $(/ #6«) may have been felt as characteristically Aeschylean55; the usage seems to have been imitated also by Carcinus (TrGF 70 F 1d), in a passage where the word signifies, as in Rhesus, the Greek trench described in Iliad 7. Further, (C2) R#1 in Rhesus 719 has four occurrences in Aeschylus (only one in Euripides, Hippolytus 119), and (C3) the precious 1/ in Rhesus 724 (cf. 805 1) is found again only in Aeschylus Agamemnon 131656. Likewise, (C4) R# 5’ in Rhesus 825 is a uerbum Aeschy-

51

52

53

54

Cf. e.g. Rolfe 1893, 79, tables IV, V; Ritchie 1964, 160–164 tables III–V. Cf. Ritchie 1964, 178. That   is never found in Euripides is obscured by Eysert 1891, 18, an advocate of the authenticity of Rhesus; cf. Wecklein 1891, 1614. See further Sideras 1971, 76. For a defence of W5« in Aj. 97 see, however, Liapis Reiske’s 9 2009c, 146–147. The happy phrase is from D. Mendelsohn’s “The Greek Way” (The New York Review of Books 49, 6 (2002/04/11) p. 78), as quoted by Podlecki 2006, 11. For bombast in Rhesus as a

55

56

botched imitation of Aeschylean style cf. already Morstadt 1827, 63; further on Aeschylean influence in Rhesus see Rolfe 1893, 90–97. For a recent reassessment of Aeschylean bombast see again Podlecki 2006, whose argument essentially confirms the orthodox view about Aeschylus’ proclivity for highflown language. Cf. TrGF F 419, with the editor’s commentary ad loc. and ad fr. dub. 465. For 1/ and the problematic middle 1 see Liapis 2012, on Rh. 724, 804f.

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leum, with no other instances in tragedy57. A comparable example is (C5)   in Rhesus 441: a hapax in tragedy, the word is here surely active, “causing to freeze”58, and doubtless an echo of Aeschylus’ Persians 501     , a passage again relating an army’s meeting with adverse weather in the Strymon area – the same area that is, apparently, referred to here59. A final, rather striking example of this sort is (C6)  in Rhesus 827: « is a characteristically Aeschylean word (no less than 25 instances), with no occurrences either in Sophocles or in Euripides (unless we are to read it in Helen 679 as suggested, after Kayser, by Diggle60). At the level of more extended verbal reminiscences, (C7) Rhesus 180 6G  $   μ«  « is remarkably close to Aeschylus’ Agamemnon 578. 579 6G« φ  …  « 61. Further, (C8) Rhesus 306–308, where “a Gorgon in bronze” (= ( … ) ) fastened on the horses’ foreheads is said to produce “a terrifying din from its numerous bells” (G  (/    φ#), seems modelled on Aeschylus’ Seven against Thebes 386 ) " 1 (/« φ# (for the phrasing cf. also Agamemnon 48 1« 5A )62. Interestingly, in one case, namely (C9) Rhesus 514, an entire half-line, - ’ 5  , is unmistakably borrowed from Aeschylus’ Seven against Thebes 58 (cf. Th. 33 - ’ 5 «) and placed at the same metrical position in the line. Further, (C10) in Rhesus 817 c   ’ ν   κ«  «, the author recombines eye-catching words from two different Aeschylean plays, namely Choephoroi 375  «   « and Eumenides 186    « (  φ )63. A final case in point is (C11) Rhesus 430. 431 R6’ ¹ μ« μ« « G 8 6« |  G )9  \ 9 κ5  κ« φ«, “there the spear drew thick Scythian blood into the ground, and with it Thracian gore too”. The idea of a bloody « being shed on the ground by the spear inevitably evokes Aeschylus’ Persians 816. 817 μ« ¹φκ« |  μ« 9  … )« ]64. However, ¹ μ« « itself seems directly borrowed not from Aeschylus but from Euripides, Alcestis 851 ¹ μ . This is evidence not of Euripidean authorship but of the author’s eclecticism. Further, Rhesus contains syntactic quirks characteristic of Aeschylus, which are even attested only rarely. Thus, (C12) in Rhesus 756 $λ G«  G  «, “and besides (faring) badly”, the pleonastic use of  « together with  + dative is found once in extant Aeschylus (TrGF F 146a  μ« ’ λ G« $φ φ "’ R)/ $6/)65. Likewise,   ) , “with anxious heart”, !/ is used absolutely, (C13) in Rhesus 770 9 i. e. without a complement. There are no certain tragic instances of this usage, except perhaps for two possible examples in which the subject of ! seems to remain vague: / ’ $) Aeschylus Persians 1049 !    and Seven against Thebes 287 ! , φ#) 57

58 59

60 61

See A. Ag. 275, Ch. 897 (where the sense is, as here, “to become drowsy”, see Garvie 1986, 896–898), and Eum. 280. Otherwise, # 1/ is an epic verb (Hom. Il. 4, 223, cf. Od. 9, 151. 12, 7). Cf. Kühner 1892, 289. Cf. Hermann 1828, 294; Fraenkel 1965, 233. For the Greek text see further Liapis 2012, on Rh. 440–442. Diggle 1994, 182. Contra Ritchie 1964, 199. That the simplex / is found only in Aeschylus is no reason for considering it an Aeschylean coinage taken over by Euripides (Ritchie 1964, 167);

62

63

64

65

compounds ( /,  /) occur also in Herodotus. Contra Eysert 1891, 34; Ritchie 1964, 199f. Admittedly, !/ is a uerbum Euripideum: 13 instances, as opposed to only four in Sophocles, including compounds, and no instances at all in Aeschylus; cf. Eysert 1891, 34. This was first pointed out by Hermann 1828, 295; cf. also Fraenkel 1965, 231. 233. Thus Fraenkel 1965, 232; contra Ritchie 1964, 200. See Fraenkel 1965, 238. Significantly,  « with  + dat. never occurs in extant Euripides.

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7( ! (see Hutchinson 1985, ad loc.). Especially in the latter passage, where ! is a response to Eteocles’ previous injunctions (especially 279–281), one is to understand something like !   (“I take to heart what you say”), not ! ! (“my heart is anxious”)66. But the passage is easy to misunderstand; indeed, Fraenkel mentions no less than three modern classical scholars who took ! to be the subject of ! .67 This may   )  in the Rhesus passage. well explain the origin of the curious expression 9 Finally, in one case, namely (C14) Rhesus 41–130, the author seems to have consciously alluded to Aeschylus with unmistakable (near-)quotations from the prologue of Agamemnon. Once again, it is the superficial similarities between the two scenes that seem to have prompted the intertextual connection: a guard or group of guards sight fires burnt at night, and are filled with excitement. The verbal echoes include Rhesus 41–42  ’ … » $’  φ ~ Agamemnon 21 H φ  «; Rhesus 53/87  ! ) / /    ~ Agamemnon 4  ! /; Rhesus 55/128 φ  /  ~ Agamemnon. 33 φ  / «; Rhesus 60/109  « /  « ~ Agamemnon 22 " ; Rhesus 66 π! « … φ« ~ Agamemnon 22. 23 π "  | φ«; Rhesus 77 $ 4  -« ~ Agamemnon 26 /  -«; Rhesus 95 « ~ Agamemnon 28  .

D. Sophoclean Elements We saw in sections A and C above that of the three canonical tragedians Euripides and Aeschylus are looming presences in Rhesus; traces of Sophocles, by contrast, are few and far between. And yet, as we saw above, one of the ancient Hypotheseis to the play (b 23. 24 Diggle) informs us that the authenticity of Rhesus was doubted by “certain” (R  ) ancient critics who found that the play bore “the stamp of Sophoclean style” (8φ   … )   ). This claim is inexplicable68. Even the most reasonable modern explanation69, to the effect that the story of Rhesus is closely modelled on Iliad 10, just as Sophocles’ own plays were famed for “following in the Poet’s (i. e. Homer’s) tracks”70, fails to explain the ancient Hypothesis’ emphasis on Rhesus’ supposedly Sophoclean s t y l e rather than on its plot or themes. Still, as intimated in the previous paragraph, there is s o m e evidence of Sophoclean influence in Rhesus. To begin with single words, (D1) Rhesus 383 features // «, an adjective found elsewhere in Greek literature only in Sophocles’ TrGF F 859    … // / . Likewise, (D2) $) ! / in Rhesus 426 occurs again in fifthcentury tragedy only in Sophocles TrGF F 384. It may however be significant for the date of Rhesus that $) ! / seems to have gained in popularity among fourth and thirdcentury tragedians such as Theodectes (TrGF 72 F 17, 1) and Lycophron (Alexandra 729. 66 67 68

See Fraenkel 1965, 238. Fraenkel 1965, 233 For modern doxography, and for a judicious refutation of proposed explanations, see Ritchie 1964, 11–15. 201–204; cf. further Liapis 2012, 60f. (ad Hyp. b 23. 24 to Rh.). It is impossible to establish the identity of those unnamed R  : von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1905, 132 = 1962, 185) thought of some “astute critic” active some time in the period “between Crates and Didymus”; Ritchie 1964,

69

70

58f. argued attractively that the critics in question belonged to the earlier era of Alexandrian scholarship. Pearson 1921, 60, endorsed by Porter 1929, XXXVI; see also Kannicht 2004, ad E. Rh. test. 1a 3 (p. 642). Cf. Sophocles TrGF T 1, 80: «   6« φ!  ’ 4)« %  %, and T II, b; see further Radt 1982, 199–202; Easterling 1984.

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1130). Further, (D3) /" « in Rhesus 624 (cf. 187) is otherwise found only in  ocAjax 549. Moreover, it is remarkable, and potentially significant, that (D4)   ) curs only in Rhesus 814 and Ajax 1014: in the former, “unmanliness” is attributed to the Trojans, while in the latter Teucer, whose name means “Trojan”71, sees himself as a potential target for accusations of   . A further uerbum Sophocleum, as well as a linguistic rarity of the kind our author is so fond of, is (D5) Rhesus 925 !, which is found again in Antigone 759 and Ajax 24372. Finally, a good example of our author’s eclecticism is found in (D6) Rhesus 920: φ « is a rare adjective, which occurs once in Aeschylus (Ag. 327), twice in Sophocles (OC 151, TrGF F 788), but never in Euripides. In a few cases, Sophoclean imitation extends beyond single words to whole lines and sometimes to whole passages. To begin with the former, (D7) Rhesus 773 / ξ φ-  %6’ π-   seems to have been composed with Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus 1254 in mind: $’ '«  G  %’ . A rarity in tragedy,  !/ occurs again only once in Euripides (IT 1455)73; still, Sophocles has   « (Ant. 1150). Likewise, (D8) Rhesus 799 H    $ !’ H 6% « evokes », again in a situation where the Philoctetes 820 μ   μ ’ $ !’ H 6%6 ’ ) speaker is about to collapse. As far as imitation of passages is concerned, an interesting example is (D9) Rhesus 770–772, where a minor character (Rhesus’ wounded charioteer) describes how he woke up before dawn to feed his horses “expecting to yoke them for an early-morning confrontation” (  - d/6 κ | 15  « $ "). The image recalls Sophocles’ Shepherds (P !«) TrGF F 502 d/6 μ«  ,    ’ $ - ² », | 6μ )   «  φ! / , | ρ  μ )   ! . Especially noteworthy here is the recurrence, in both passages, of d/6 «, for which there is no other tragic example74. An even more extended evocation of a Sophoclean passage 96 | % % is found in (D10) Rhesus 608. 609 ! ’ #A6, φ6!«    "6  , “my lady Athena, I recognized the familiar sound of your voice”. The similarities with the prologue of Sophocles’ Ajax are unmistakable, not only in terms of the dramatic situation (Odysseus recognizing his patron goddess by her voice) but also of the language used: cf. Rhesus #A6, φ6!« … % % ~ Ajax 14 φ6!’ #A6«; Rhe 6 … "6   ~ Ajax 15–16 ³« $6!«  … φ(’. However, eclectic sus 9 that he is, our author has also introduced here an echo of Euripides’ Bacchae 178 ³« κ     96 (, and also perhaps an allusion to Iliad 10, 512 5!  6»«  φ/«, where it is Diomedes (as opposed to Odysseus in the Rhesus passage) who recognizes the goddess’ voice (cf. also Hom. Il. 2, 182). As intimated above (cf. section B),

71 72 73

74

Cf. A. Ag. 112; Verg. Aen. 1, 625–626; 2, 281. Cf. Valckenaer 1767, 97. E. IT 84 ?« 5)6  - 6’ aE seems a repetition of 1455 and has been deleted by Markland (probante Diggle). It was partly on the strength of this verbal parallelism that von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1877, 12 = 1935, 13, and 1926, 282–286 = 1962, 409–413) argued that Rhesus’ principal model was Sophocles’ Shepherds (TrGF F 497– 521). Sophocles’ play too was set on the Trojan battlefield; it featured Hector and a bragging Cycnus among the dramatis personae (TrGF F 498. *501), just as Rhesus features Hector

and a bragging Rhesus; it mentioned a warrior (probably Cycnus himself) who was invulnerable to “bronze and iron” (TrGF F 500), just as Rhesus would become invincible if he managed to survive but one night on Trojan soil; and it had a chorus of shepherds and, possibly, a shepherd-messenger (TrGF F 502. 505), who may have inspired the shepherd-messenger in Rhesus, especially seeing that the former reported the recent arrival of an army. Although typically brilliant, von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff’s theory rests on the flimsiest of foundations: see criticisms in Porter 1913, 370 and Ritchie 1964, 81.

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the author of Rhesus, rather than attempting to pass himself off as Euripides, draws freely on the large gamut of canonical works with which he was evidently familiar, with little concern for maintaining consistency with the style of a single author.

E. Inflated and Faulty Diction in Rhesus The observation that the author of Rhesus was interested principally in producing grandiloquent tragic style, generally reminiscent of fifth-century tragic playwriting, rather than in reproducing the style of a particular dramatist is further corroborated by the numerous instances of empty bombast or even faulty, if high-flown, language found in his work. The play’s verbosity and its penchant for linguistic rarities have been repeatedly pointed out since the eighteenth century75; its use of inflated and obscure diction, evidently under the misguided impression that this is precious tragic style, was pointed out more recently by Fraenkel76. An imitator’s imperfect command of literary idiom may well give rise to obscurity and inflated diction, and similar features have been detected in at least one other pseudepigraphon, namely Pseudo-Demosthenes’ (= Apollodorus’) Against Neaera77. A particularly striking example of stylistic extravagance is (E1) Rhesus 8 % #φ /  /μ n , “loosen the fixity of your fierce eyes”, in an enjoinder by the entering chorus to the sleeping Hector. The intended meaning is, evidently, “open your fierce eyes, which are now shut fast (in sleep)”. However, %, “unfasten, slacken”, can hardly govern n , lit. “seat”, even if the latter refers to the eye-sockets, or “seats” of the eyes, which is far from certain78. Moreover, although n  can denote “inactivity” (Liddel – Scott – Jones s.v., II 2), one should be loath to special-plead79 that the “immobility” of Hector’s eyes evokes the idea of eyes shut (in sleep), and thus able to be “unfastened” (%). Such special pleading would, after all, fail to explain the equally artificial (]«) 6! ’ « n , “sleep entices the eye’s seat”, in Rhesus 554 – not to mention the fact that  #!φ  means “ cl o ses her eyes” in Sophocles’ Antigone 1302 (/ = “relax”)80, a usage consecrated by such epic formulas as % ξ G. All in all, the contorted phrasing is best explained as inept verbal borrowing: cf. esp. Euripides, Hippolytus 290 Hφ % , “loosening your (knitted) brow”81, and Electra 740 ) /μ n 82. The author’s proclivity for grandiose style also explains his inappropriate choice of  /. The epithet occurs four times in Euripides, always in reference to a fierce, sometimes even deranged look; see Heracles 131. 132. 868. 1266; Ion 210; cf. also Suppliants 322  μ ’ $#! (in contrast to 325    … #! ). In Rhesus, it is surely meant to evoke Iliad 8, 349 = %« ’ R)/, a passage whose context (Hector’s spectacular routing of the Greeks) provides the background to Rhesus (cf. Rhesus 56–75); we may further compare Heracles 990 $ /μ  = «83. However, whereas the Iliadic Hector, at the height of his battle-fury, can very well be envisaged as

75

76 77 78

See e.g. Valckenaer 1767, 90f.; Beck 1780, 26f.; Hermann 1828, 296; Strohm 1959, 274 n. 1. Fraenkel 1965, 238. See Kapparis 1999, 52. Another odd usage of n  in E. El. 458 (see Denniston 1939, ad loc.) is not comparable with the present passage.

79 80 81 82

83

As Paley 1872, ad 8 does. Cf. Jebb 1900, ad loc. With Barrett 1964, ad loc. Cf. Hermann 1828, 292; contra: Ritchie 1964, 213f. See further Bond 1981, on E. HF 131f.

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having “the eyes of the Gorgon”, his bleary-eyed counterpart in Rhesus is far less likely to assume a “fierce” look84. The Rhesus author has been following his epic model too closely. An equally striking example of misplaced bombast is (E2) Rhesus 111  μ«   85. Euripides uses  « no less than three times (Medea 1197, Hippolytus 1296, Phoenissae 1266)86, always in the sense ‘set form’ (Mastronarde 2002, on Medea 1197), “settled condition (i. e. normal state)” (Page 1938, on Medea 1197), or “present, current situation”. The Rhesus author probably intended  μ«  « to mean something like “when the night was (well) settled”, i. e. “at dead of night” ( n o t “in the stillness of night”, despite Liddel – Scott – Jones s. v., II 2). This however is problematic:

«  « normally has a verbal equivalent 6  : thus e.g.   « (S. Aj. 1247) corresponds to « 6 (E. Or. 892). For  μ«  «, however, there is no corresponding 5 6 . One is tempted to conjecture that the author was carried away by his reminiscence of the prologue of Aeschylus’ Agamemnon (cf. above, C14), in which (" )  μ« and () -)   occur in the space of two contiguous lines (A. Ag. 22. 23). The author’s verbosity and bombast have resulted, on several occasions, in bizarre expressions. A case in point is (E3) Rhesus 620. 621 $  R6’ Ρ |  ’ ) )6Ω ! 6 / , “or there is no place on earth that hides such a team of horses” (the reference is to Rhesus’ marvellous steeds). Now, )6Ω ! 6 should mean “the earth enfolds / conceals / holds in its entrails”87. Such a meaning, however, would sit oddly in the present context: Rhesus’ horses are not denizens of the underworld. Paley 1872, ad loc. imagined that “the idea of k e e p i n g , s t o ri n g u p etc. rather than of co n ceal men t ” is the prevalent one in 6/; but even if this were true it would still be impossible to envisage a horse team “stored up” in the earth’s entrails; contrast e.g. Hesiod, Theogony 505 =G  6 (i. e.   etc.) with West 1966, ad loc.; Homeric Hymn to Demeter 452 (σ6 $  «) R 6 … G  . It seems likelier that this is a faulty extension of such usages as Iliad 22, 118 Ρ   « W ! 6, said of possessions “concealed”, i. e. held inside a city; or perhaps an echo of Odyssey 3, 16 Ρ 6 G, where however Odysseus is presumed d e a d (cf. λ Ρ   ! immediately afterwards). This tendency to the grandiose borders on the ridiculous in, e.g., (E4) Rhesus 633 Κ  7 )   6 ) ";, “shouldn’t this man be the first to die then?”. When governing a participle, as here, 7 )/ means “take the initiative in, begin” (Liddell – Scott – Jones s. v., A 3); moreover, as Paley 1872, ad loc. observes, “7 )  conveys the idea of some wrong or benefit […] which serves as the motive for further action in requital” – an idea obviously unsuitable here. It would have sufficed to say, e.g., Κ  6G  (   ) ";, but the author was obviously at pains to write in precious style88. In his obsession with the recherché, the Rhesus author does not shy away from pilfering dialectal words – perhaps in the manner of Euripides, who included such dialecticisms as the Arcadian(?) 1  (see A 8 with n. 26 above), or the Aeolic / Doric R   in Electra 625. But he seems to have had no ear for non-Attic idiom, as is evident from instances in which he misuses his dialectal loans. A case in point is (E5) Rhesus 523. 524 7»« ξ 84 85

86

Cf. Kitto 1977, 318f. See Fraenkel 1965, 237, as against Ritchie 1964, 214. On the difficulties of Ph. 1266 (del. Fraenkel, probante Diggle) see Mastronarde 1994, ad loc.

87

88

See examples in Liddell – Scott – Jones s. v.

6/, I,1; add Hom. Il. 23, 83; A. Pers. 648. Cf. Fraenkel 1965, 238.

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#« ) κ   λ 5/ | φ  G  , “as for you, you must go in front of the ranks to play the guard wakefully”. According to the ancient scholia89, Parmeniscus claimed that   , which occurs only here in the whole of Greek tragedy, is a Boeotian word. Epigraphy has confirmed this:   occurs at least three times in Boeotian inscriptions90. However, in the inscriptions   is an adverb meaning “previously”, which indeed is consistent with the etymology of the word91. In the Rhesus passage, by contrast,    is a local preposition, “in front of”, evidently a misuse suggesting that our author may have been too quick to fish an eyecatching word from a dialect he did not know too well. Perhaps he even thought he was writing in good tragic style, given the precedent of  « in Aeschylus’ Choephoroi 1055 (with Garvie 1986, ad loc.) and Eumenides 282, as well as in Sophocles’ Antigone 849 and TrGF F 149, 5 (but never in Euripides!)92.

II. Rhesus: Imitation, its Perpetrators, and its (Macedonian?) Consumers Let us recapitulate our findings so far. We have seen that Euripides is the tragedian the author of Rhesus most heavily relies on for linguistic material; Aeschylus is a rather close second, whereas Sophocles is far more rarely pillaged. Further, as we have repeatedly seen, the author of Rhesus does not consistently emulate the style of a single author: he is very much an eclectic plagiarizer, cherry-picking lofty or eye-catching words and turns of phrase. More specifically, the play contains linguistic rarities that never occur in Euripides, although they may be found in other tragedians (see section B above), which suggests that its author was not consciously trying to pass himself off as Euripides, in spite of what e.g. Hermann and others thought93. The author seems rather to have aimed at adopting a literary idiom that would be easily recognisable as ‘tragic’. Exactly what constituted ‘tragic’ style for fourth-century audiences is, of course, impossible to say, although bombast and grandiosity were associated with tragic diction from an early age. For a number of authors, from Aristophanes through Crates Comicus to Plato the philosopher, tragic style is «, ‘solemn’, an ambiguous epithet not devoid of sarcasm94. This would nicely account for our author’s grossly inflated style (see above, section E) and his half-successful emulation of Aeschylean grandiloquence (see above, section C). If the author of Rhesus was not trying to pass himself off as Euripides, how are we to explain the preponderance of Euripidean mannerisms in his language and style? I suggest that this is to be attributed, partly at least, to the incomparable popularity Euripides enjoyed, posthumously, in the fourth century and later, as the epigraphic record attests. For instance, in IG II2 2320, which preserves parts of a list of participants in the Dionysia /) are from 342/1 to 340/39, all three entries for the ‘old tragedy’ contest (   ) 89 90

91

Schwartz 1891, 340, 3f. IG VII 1739, 11. 14, from Thespiae; restored by Dittenberger in IG VII 2406, 7, from Thebes. A fourth instance may be lurking in a Thespiae inscription published by Colin 1897, 554, 2 / 557, 2 7 ) ξ   [ ]λ [ ]  , presuming that the supplement by the editor princeps is correct. According to Buck 1955, §§ 123. 136, 1,    derives from   +  () », dative singular of the feminine demonstrative pronoun) +

92

93

94

, - (intensifier, cf. ²-), i. e.  μ  - $! ) “before this day”; cf. also the authorities cited by Ritchie 1964, 158f. Cf. Ritchie 1964, 176f., who follows Bechtel in deriving  « from (λ)  , although its etymology is uncertain. Hermann 1828, 279f., countered by Hagenbach 1863, 15. Cf. Ar. Frogs 1004. 1005; Crates Com. PCG F 28; Diph. PCG F 29, 3. 4; Pl. Grg. 502b with Dodds 1959, ad loc.

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Euripidean plays – Iphigenia, Orestes, and a third play whose title has been lost in the damaged portion of the inscription (but Wilhelm’s restoration E$] [ is certain)95. Likewise, in a third-century (ca. 276–219) dedicatory inscription (IG V 2, 118), an unknown actor commemorating his victories in various dramatic contests mentions as part of his repertoire no less than three Euripidean plays (Orestes, Heracles, Archelaus), the last two being repeated twice in different venues96. Repeats of Euripidean plays are also attested for the fourth century in Plutarch’s Pelopidas 29, 9 (Troades, after 367), in Demosthenes 18, 180 and 267 (Cresphontes, Hecuba, before 330)97, in Plutarch’s Fortune of Alexander 5 (Moralia 328d, after 330 at earliest: Euripidean tragedies ‘sung’ in Asia, probably as classroom readings), and in Lucian’s How to Write History 1 (Andromeda, certainly after 306). Given that many of its passages are little more than a medley of eye-catching morsels ferreted out from fifth-century tragedy, it would not be abusive to say that Rhesus is, to an extent, a pastiche. The practice, though uncommon, is not unknown in the history of Greek literature. One thinks, for instance, of the so-called Certamen Homeri et Hesiodi, or “Contest of Homer and Hesiod”, which contains recycled chunks from Homer and Hesiod placed in the context of a fictitious contest between the two poets98. The text may well go back to a fourth-century work, namely Alcidamas’ Museum, as was first argued by Friedrich Nietzsche in 187099. Even earlier, in the fifth century, Aristophanes had on a number of occasions stitched together short passages from Homer, Aeschylus, or Euripides for parodic effect100. Nonetheless, it has to be admitted that there are no early parallels for the kind of pastiche we find in Rhesus; the closest analogues are to be found in late antique and Byzantine times: I should single out the so-called Christus Patiens, a cento made up from Euripidean lines, and the Homerocentones by the Empress Eudocia, consort of Theodosius II, and by others101. In several cases, as we saw in the previous sections, imitation in Rhesus was prompted by contextual similarities between source- and target-passage (cf. A12, A13, A14 above), 95

96

97

IG II2 2320, 4. 21. 35 MO. Cf. also TrGF 1 DID A 2a, 2. 3. 18. 19. 32. 33; Ghiron-Bistagne 1976, 36–38. Cf. TrGF 1 DID B 11, 2. 4. 9. 10. 12; GhironBistagne 1976, 102; see esp. Revermann 1999/2000, 462–465. The definitive account of Euripides’ Nachleben has yet to be written, although the thorough exposé in Schmid – Stählin 1940, 823–832 is still valuable. However, the quotation of E. Hec. 1 in D. 18, 267, rather than alluding to a fourth-century re-performance, may be no more than a device meant to put the audience “in mind of tragedy and impending doom” (Yunis 2001, 260). Further, D. 19, 337 (Ρ ξ  \! λ - λ T )     /1, sc. Aeschines) may or may not refer to Euripides’ Thyestes. Finally, despite Snell / Kannicht (TrGF 1 DID A ca. a. 365, p. 18), D. 19, 246 seems to suggest that Euripides’ Phoenix was not usually acted in the fourth century, at least not before ca. 343/2: % ξ μ  » $( Κ \/ « Κ #A « 7  […]

98

99

100

101

$ M/ [a fifth-c. actor, Stephanis 1988, no. 1738]  /1 λ ' "  « Ν« -  - 7 -. See Graziosi 2001, with all the essential bibliography: 73f. See West 1967 and 2003, 298 n. 2 for bibliography (to which add Renehan 1971). Cf. e.g., Peace 1090–1093, a pastiche made from Homeric tags; cf. also Peace 1270. 1273–1276. 1280–1283 (in the last case the borrowing is from the Certamen Homeri et Hesiodi, itself a pastiche!). See also Frogs 1285–1295, a nonsense medley of Aeschylean lines. For pastiches in Greek literature before and during the age of Euripides see Stemplinger 1912, 193f.; more recently, Ziegler 1950, 1962–1976. Edition of Christus Patiens (whose attribution to Gregory of Nazianzus is highly dubious): Tuilier 1969; edition of Eudocia’s Homerocentones: Usher 1999; edition of the Ecloge Parisina, containing Homerocentones by Eudocia and others: Rey 1998.

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which testify to the author’s ability to conjure up at will relevant chunks of earlier drama. This, as we saw, surely bespeaks a thorough familiarity with classical tragic repertoire. That passages excerpted from classical tragedy are often only half-digested, and sometimes sit oddly in their new context (e.g. A13, A14, A15), surely indicates an inferior craftsman who trusts more to his recall than to his creativity. All of this is consistent with, and indeed best explained by the hypothesis (already intimated above) that Rhesus was concocted by a professional actor. As we saw above, Euripidean tragedy enjoyed remarkable popularity and numerous reperformances in the fourth century; if Rhesus was indeed composed by an actor, then the extensive familiarity with Euripides that is evident throughout the play (see section A above) could reasonably be the result of Euripidean tragedy featuring prominently in that actor’s repertoire – a reasonable assumption, given the remarkable popularity of Euripides in the fourth century and later, for which see again the last-but-one paragraph102. The possibility that the author of Rhesus may have been a professional actor was first raised by Ragone, who conjectured that the “attore di professione” who wrote the play could have been someone as important as Polos and Theodoros103. Unaware of Ragone’s speculations, I suggested, wholly tentatively, in Liapis 2004 that the author of Rhesus may have been the actor Neoptolemos104. If, as I have argued in earlier publications, Rhesus was composed with a Macedonian audience in mind at the time of Philip II or Alexander III105, then Neoptolemos becomes a very likely candidate, although of course his (or anyone else’s) authorship of Rhesus is impossible to prove on the strength of the available evidence. It is a fact that Neoptolemos was a distinguished Athenian actor106 who also thrived in the court of Philip II of Macedon. According to a report found in Diodorus Siculus (16, 92, 3), Neoptolemos was apparently able to conjure up at will tragic passages to suit any given occasion. Shortly before his assassination – so Diodorus’ account has it – Philip asked Neoptolemos to make a display of the most successful pieces of his repertoire, preferably anything relevant to the campaign Philip was about to undertake against the Persians107. The piece (TrGF adesp. F 127), which appeared to castigate 102

103 104 105

106

This should be argumentation enough against Ritchie’s objection (1964, 212) that “the possibility of imitation cannot be ruled out altogether, but it would be imitation of an unusually penetrating kind by a poet intimately acquainted with Euripides’ habits of expression.” Ritchie failed precisely to consider the possibility that an actor specializing in    ) / would indeed be “intimately acquainted with Euripides’ habits of expression” from having performed his tragedies time and again. Ragone 1969, 107f. Liapis 2004, 182–184. See especially Liapis 2009a; for an early statement of the Macedonian hypothesis see Liapis 2004; for arguments from religion in favour of a non-Athenian Rhesus see Liapis 2007 and 2011. On Neoptolemos see e.g. the second Hypothesis to D. 29; D. 5, 6 with schol. ad loc.; D. S. 16, 92; Ghiron-Bistagne 1976, 156f. 345;

107

Stephanis 1988, no. 1797; Easterling 1997c, 218. The ancient scholia to D. 5, 6 (I 123, 1 Dilts) refer to Neoptolemos as a Scyrian (² N« 8  « ), but as pointed out by MacDowell 2000, on § 12 (p. 210), “that does not mean that he was not an Athenian citizen, for Scyros at this time was an Athenian cleruchy”. As Stephanis (1988, no. 1797) observes, it is in Athens that Neoptolemos was active (both as an actor and as an ambassador), and it would be reasonable to assume that he was a naturalized Athenian. Perhaps ‘Neoptolemos’ was a stage-name referring (facetiously?) to the actor’s Scyrian origin: Easterling 1997c, 217. The story of Neoptolemos performing before Philip’s assassination is also found in Suetonius (Calig. 57,4): et pantomimus Mnester tragoediam saltauit, quam olim Neoptolemus tragoedus ludis, quibus rex Macedonum Philippus occisus est, egerat (this is listed as one of the omens portending Caligula’s death, cf. Csapo

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the arrogance of the Persian King, made a strong impression upon Philip, who “was totally absorbed by the idea of its relevance to the defeat of the Persian King”108. An actor of Neoptolemos’ rank – Diodorus terms him a “tragedian of the highest repute” /«,  // […] 9  59 )109 – would arguably be capable (N« ²  ) of stitching together passages from plays in his repertoire to construct a play like Rhesus. Interestingly, David Kovacs recently argued that this same Neoptolemos is to be held responsible for a number of interpolations in the received text of Euripides’ Orestes, inserted possibly with a view to commending Philip’s decisive military action in the Third Sacred War110. Neoptolemos, if indeed he is to be held responsible for Rhesus, will have found in Macedon a fertile ground for his plagiaristic experimentations with Classical Greek tragedy. Both Philip II and Alexander III were fiercely passionate about the theatre111, and known for their eagerness to entertain and ingratiate themselves with celebrity actors, to the point of using them (notably Aristodemos and Neoptolemos himself) as ambassadors in inter-state relations112. In particular, Euripides seems to have been extraordinarily popular both with Alexander himself and with his Macedonian entourage. Thus, in Plutarch’s Alexander 10, 7 the Macedonian king quotes Medea 288; in 53, 2 an unidentified Euripidean fragment; and in 53, 4 a line from Bacchae (266). Moreover, in 8, 3 he is said to have asked Harpalus to send him the tragedies of Euripides, as well as of Aeschylus and Sophocles; and in 51, 8 Alexander’s intimate Kleitos blurts out at him a calculatedly pungent line from Andromache (693). Indeed, according to Nikoboule (FGrHist 127 F 2), Alexander even acted a whole episode from Andromeda in the drinking party preceding his death113. Not each and every one of these stories has to be authentic for their main point – Euripides’ popularity in Macedon at the time of Alexander the Great – to be valid. In such a context, questions regarding the authenticity of the plays performed may have been unimportant, or even irrelevant. It is hard to imagine that the Macedonian kings, eager for cultural accreditation, were as finicky about assuring or regulating the

108

109

110 111

and Slater 1995, 235 no. 30I). According to J. AJ 19, 94f., the play Caligula was about to watch when he was assassinated was Cinyras; but this does not necessarily imply that this was the play performed by Neoptolemos before Philip’s assassination. For Neoptolemos as an eyewitness to the assassination of Philip II cf. also Stobaeus 4, 34, 70 (IV 2, 846 Hense). D. S. 16, 92, 4: ² ξ i « π6λ« λ G« $! « Ρ« (Ρ/« Fischer)  λ /« φ « 9   )   μ« κ % P - # !/«  φ" … I quote the paraphrase by Easterling 1997c, 218. For  ) /« = “actor with singing expertise” see Richards 1900, 210. See Kovacs 2007, esp. 265–269. For Philip II see D. 19, 192–195 (with MacDowell 2000, 192f.), where the king encourages Satyros the comic actor to request any favour he pleases. For Alexander III see Le Guen, this volume, and Plu. Alex. 8, 3. 10, 2–4 (Thessalos, Alexander’s favourite actor). 29, 1–6 (lav-

112

113

ish theatrical contests organized by Alexander in Phoenicia in 331; a summary of the same story in Plu. Moralia 334e). 72, 1 (at Ecbatana in 324 Alexander busies himself “once again” [ ] with theatrical performances and festivals, having invited 3,000 “artists of Dionysus” from Greece; see Le Guen in this volume). For Alexander’s fondness for the theatre cf. also Chares, FGrHist 125 F 4, an eyewitness account of the lavish wedding ceremonies Alexander organized for himself and for 92 of his friends in 324; celebrations included performances by tragic actors Thessalos, Athenodoros and Aristokritos, and by comic actors Lykon, Phormion and Ariston. See the second Hypothesis to D. 19 (I, 3, p. 397f. Fuhr); D. 19, 315 (with MacDowell 2000, on § 12); ancient Hypothesis to Aeschines’ On the False Embassy (2 Arg. § 1, p. 8 Dilts); Aeschin. 2, 15–19; D. 18, 21 (with Yunis 2001, ad loc.); D. 5, 6–7. See Hamilton 1969, on 51, 8 (p. 144).

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authenticity of tragic texts as Lycurgus is said to have been114, or as their Ptolemaic counterparts were to be115. What matters most is that Rhesus, with its extensive if often maladroit aping of classical literature, might well have tickled a Macedonian audience’s vanity by setting them up as consumers of high-quality theatre – theatre which, far from lagging behind the best that Athens had to offer, was even cast in the same mould as the plays of Euripides and Aeschylus, or was at least sufficiently redolent of the style of the old masters for some of their incontestable prestige to rub off on Rhesus’ second-rate author. In this regard, whatever pecuniary advantage or other material gain that author was hoping for, it was almost certainly not of the kind described, for instance, by Galen and John Philoponus, when they refer to mercenary-minded individuals who tried to capitalize on the Hellenistic kings’ zeal for book acquisition by forging literary and philosophical works supposedly by renowned authors116. If the author of Rhesus was trying to deceive his Macedonian audience, it was not into taking him for Euripides, but rather into taking themselves for Athenians.*

114

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According to a well-known passage in Plutarch’s Lives of the Ten Orators (Moralia 841f), Lycurgus introduced a law requiring the plays of the three great tragedians “to be written down and kept in the public treasury and the state secretary to give a public reading to the actors, as they were not permitted to act except in accordance with the texts” (transl. by Csapo – Slater 1995, 10 no. 14). On Lycurgus see Humphreys 1985, esp. 206 (on the authoritative texts of the three tragedians) and Csapo – Wilson in this volume. This of course rests on the assumption that we can trust the famous anecdote, preserved in Galen (Comm. II 4 in [Hp.] Epid. III 606 = CMG V 10, 2, 1, p. 79, 8), on how the Library of Alexandria, under “Ptolemy III” (which must be a mistake for Ptolemy II, cf. Lesky 1972, 72), borrowed the Lycurgan official text (cf. n. 114) but never gave back to the Athenians anything but copies thereof.

See Gal., Comm. II in [Hp.] De nat. 128 (15, 109 Kühn); John Philoponus, Comm. in Arist. Cat. (Comm. in Arist. Graec. 13, 7, 22–26, ed. Busse); cf. Richard Bentley’s Dissertation upon the Epistles of Phalaris 2(1699) in Dyce 1836, 82–87. * An early version of this paper was presented at the conference »Complicating Value: The Uses of Imitation in Ancient Greece and Rome«, organized by Mark Lawall and Peter Van Alfen at the University of Manitoba, Winnipeg, in December 2007. I am grateful to the organizers for their most helpful suggestions, and to participants for their comments. I am also grateful to Oxford University Press and to Hilary O’Shea in particular for allowing me to use in this paper material from my A Commentary to the Rhesus Attributed to Euripides (Oxford 2012). Last but not least, my warmest thanks go to the editors of this volume for valuable feedback. All errors are mine.

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Rethinking Choregic Iconography in Apulia

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Rethinking Choregic Iconography in Apulia Zachary Biles – Jed Thorn

Aristophanes’ Peace begins with two slaves scurrying back and forth between the stage and the stage-building, hauling loads of what they describe as excrement formed into cakes for a ravenous dung-beetle housed within. After forty-two lines, the stage business ends with the following exchange (Ar. Peace 43–50; transl. A. H. Sommerstein): Slave 1: Well, by now some young man in the audience, who fancies himself clever, may be saying, “What’s all this about? What has the beetle got to do with?” Slave 2: Yes, and then an Ionian fellow sitting beside him says to him: “My opinion is he’s using it to allude to Cleon – saying that he’s eating muck in Hades”. But I’m going to go inside and give the beetle a drink. Slave 1: And I’m going to explain the plot … As this exchange shows, the scene is meant to delight the audience by engaging their curiosity in the puzzle of the slaves’ activity1. The City Dionysia where Peace was performed was something of an international affair, so the one slave can reasonably imagine the effort of an Ionian visitor to solve the mystery2. Foreigner though he is, his suggestion that the foul creature alludes to Cleon is highly sensible when one considers Aristophanes’ putative hatred of the demagogue, particularly as it was handled in Knights three years before. And yet, this Ionian is wrong; the dung-beetle is just that – magnificent in size, it turns out, but a dung-beetle nonetheless. In its own comic way, however, the passage raises a point of interest for intercultural exchange and Old Comedy. On the one hand, this spectator, viewed as a generic foreigner, was led into error by his own eagerness to assume an Athenian mindset and, in so doing, ‘get’ the play. Additionally, according to one interpretation3, the stipulation of an Ionian is not incidental, but alludes to the vulgar comic tradition of personal abuse poetry native to that region, so that the Ionian’s guess about the stage business imports his home-grown literary sensibilities into a peculiarly Athenian context. What the Ionian might have made of the rest of the play is anybody’s guess; suffice it to say, his interpretation would have been a unique blend of cultural and social perspectives. But this general scenario, of rifts and reinterpretations spawned by degrees of cultural separation, reflects what must have been a fundamental dynamic of South Italian audiences’ response to Athenian theatre. The Choregoi Vase, for example, has generally been read as evidence for an Athenian comedy restaged in South Italy during the first quarter of the

1

2

Similar exposition formats are found in the openings of Knights and Wasps; cf. Olson 1998, 67; Kloss 2001, 266. See, e.g., Ach. 503–508. 643f.; Clouds 607–

3

609; Thphr. Char. 9, 5; cf. Pickard-Cambridge 1968, 58f.; Csapo – Slater 1994, 287; Roselli 2011, 118–157. Rosen 1984.

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Fig. 11.1. Naples, Museo Archeologico Nazionale (formerly Malibu, Getty 96.AE.29): Choregoi Vase: Apulian red-figure bell-krater attributed to the Choregos Painter, c. 400–380.

fourth century (fig. 11.1)4. Whether the image on the vase encapsulates the entire play or refers to a single scene is impossible to say; the implicit themes are, however, distinctly Athenian. The face-to-face encounter of comedy and tragedy in the opposed characters of Aegisthus and Pyrrhias alludes to the sophisticated interaction of these genres in Attic comedy5. Above all, the appearance of two choregoi suggests the interface of literary genre with the operation of the Athenian choregia. In a sense, the scene is shorthand for a full dramatic festival of the sort familiar to Athenians. And while the enjoyment of the play in South Italy may have been eased by familiarity with drama and even the choregia as it 4

Once Getty inv. 96.AE.29, now in Naples, MAN; RVAp 1/124; cf. Taplin 1993, 57–60; Revermann 2006, 105. 155f.

5

See esp. Taplin 1983; Taplin 1986; Silk 2000, 40–97 and passim; Bakola 2010, 118–179.

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spread beyond Attica, there can be little doubt that the original humour involved intricacies of Athenian theatre culture, so that a certain amount of free reinterpretation by the new audience can be assumed6. More importantly, although it is widely assumed that Greek cities like Taras were the epicentres of theatrical activity in South Italy7, this vase likely came from an Italic tomb8, so that an additional degree of cultural separation and reinterpretation must be taken into account; this is true whether this non-Greek’s choice to acquire the vase depended on personal familiarity with the play in performance or simply on fascination with the painted scene. In this paper, our interest lies in the cross-cultural reinterpretation of Athenian theatre that the Choregoi Vase seems to document. However, vases depicting staged performances are not our focus. Rather, we will examine Athenian choregic iconography9, exploring two related trends in its manipulation by red-figure vase-painters: 1) how Attic painters adapted a thoroughly Athenian choregic iconography for export to a non-Greek market in South Italy; 2) how Apulian painters took up this Athenian iconography and repurposed it for that same Italic market. The transfer of this representational tradition from Athens to Apulia was in many ways seamless. We suggest that, by carrying on this tradition on their own terms, so to speak, early Apulian vase-painters may illuminate the Athenian artists’ efforts to repackage choregic iconography for an Italic clientele. In examining the extent to which painters’ iconographic choices were dictated by their target markets, issues of archaeological context are critical. Consequently, it may be worthwhile to begin with a brief overview of what we know about red-figure distribution in Apulia during the decades around 400. The Spartan colony of Taras was the only Greekspeaking settlement in Apulia (fig. 11.2). As such, it has typically been viewed as the primary market and production centre for Apulian red-figure vases10. However, recent attempts to quantify the distribution of Apulian red-figure pottery suggest that Taras may have constituted a relatively small component of a broader regional market. Of the Apulian vases that concern us here – those classified as Early Apulian by Trendall and dated ca. 430–370 – Tom Carpenter estimates that roughly 15 % are known to have been found at Taranto11. The remaining 85 % were found at Italic sites in Apulia and, to a much lesser extent, in Lucania and Campania. So while the painted images on Early Apulian vases are often read as evidence for colonial Greek culture, Carpenter has reasonably suggested that they “may well reflect values, attitudes, and beliefs of the native people who obtained them”12. It should be noted that less than a quarter of the Early Apulian vases catalogued by Trendall have reliable archaeological provenances. While this could be viewed as a serious

6

7

8

See Wilson 2000, 260f., for the vase as possible evidence for a choregic system in South Italy. The spelling of the two identifying labels on the vase – khorêgos, with eta rather than Doric (= Tarantine) alpha – is a clue to the play’s original and abiding Athenian quality. See, e.g., Taplin 1993, 35; Taplin 2007, 14f.; Csapo 2010a, 98f.; Revermann 2010, 83. The intact condition of the vase all but confirms that it was found in a tomb, and Apulian red-figure bell-kraters were very rarely buried

9 10

11 12

with the dead at Taras (Hoffmann 2005, 19f.). Furthermore, the relatively late date of the vase’s appearance on the art market (1988) makes it highly unlikely to have been unearthed at urban Taranto (Carpenter 2003, 7; see also Elia 2001). See generally Biles 2007; Csapo 2010b. Trendall 1989; Green 1995b; Robinson 2004; Castoldi 2006; Denoyelle 2008. Carpenter 2003, 6. Carpenter 2003, 20.

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Fig. 11.2. Map of South Italy with ancient ethnic territories.

handicap for interpretation, recent studies have given us a much better sense of what types of Apulian vases were made for whom, and when. For example, Carpenter’s analysis of Early Apulian distribution revealed that certain shapes – namely the column-krater and volute-krater – have been found almost exclusively at non-Greek sites13. Similarly, Andreas Hoffmann’s recent work on Tarantine burials suggests that larger vases with the elaborate imagery so typical of Apulian production are rare at Taranto14. This last fact is important, since Apulian vases with theatrical iconography have generally been read as evidence for a Tarantine affinity with mainland theatre culture15. However, Oliver Taplin’s recent catalogue of vases with tragedy-related themes includes 21 Apulian vases with findspots, and of these only one is said to be from Taranto16. Additionally, Giuseppina Gadaleta identified 243 Apulian vases that may reflect Greek tragedy, 80 of which can be assigned a provenance. Only six of the 80 were found at Taranto, while the Italic sites of Ruvo and Canosa have yielded 39 and 15, respectively17. Taras, meanwhile, seems to have constituted a key market for vases depicting comic actors. But here too the issue of shape preference is important: The more elaborate scenes depicting the comic stage appear primarily on kraters, and the provenanced examples of this shape/scene combination have been found primarily at Italic Apulian sites18.

13 14 15

Carpenter 2003, 8–20. Hoffmann 2005, 19–20. See, e.g., Brauer 1986, 98f.; Green 1991a.

16 17 18

Taplin 2007; Carpenter 2009, 33 n. 61. Gadaleta 2003. Carpenter 2009, 34.

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Finally, since the aim of this paper is to explore points of contact between the Attic and Apulian adaptation of choregic iconography, it is worth pointing out that the transition from Attic red-figure importation to local Apulian production is better attested at Italic sites like Ruvo than it is at Taras. More than 1200 tombs containing Apulian red-figure vases have been excavated at Taranto, but, according to Hoffmann’s analysis, there is no record of any Tarantine burial having included Apulian red-figure of fifth-century date. Curiously, Tarantines seem to have preferred Lucanian red-figure for their tombs down to about 37519. As far as red-figure importation is concerned, Taras and Ruvo were the most active Apulian markets for Athenian pottery. As the fifth century progressed, however, Tarantine importation seems to have tailed off while Ruvo came to dominate the Apulian market. During the last quarter of the century, Ruvo is known to have imported no less than 63 Attic red-figure vases, compared to a total of 13 that can be verified for Taras. To summarize, recent research suggests that there was a downturn in the Tarantine market for red-figure pottery toward the end of the fifth century. This is precisely the period when red-figure vase-painters in Athens and Apulia were at their most creative in manipulating Athenian choregic iconography for new purposes. It now appears open to question whether this experimentation was driven by Tarantine theatregoers. But the question of why choregic iconography might have appealed to the non-Greek inhabitants of Apulia has proven difficult to answer. Any approach to it, however, must be grounded in the idea that theatre vases did not reach Ruvo as part of a haphazard circulation of ‘luxury goods’. By the end of the fifth century, Ruvo had benefited from a longstanding commercial relationship with Athens20. The intensity of this relationship has been amply illustrated by Andrea Montanaro, who examined local archival records to reconstruct burial assemblages from Ruvo’s necropolis21. One of these tomb groups – Montanaro’s Tomb 110 – is particularly useful for contextualizing Ruvo’s red-figure importation22. The original assemblage included at least 29 objects, 14 of which were vases imported from Athens. The earliest of these were a red-figure column-krater attributed to the Leningrad Painter and an oinochoe by a follower of Douris, both dated ca. 480–47023. Also early but more unusual in this context is an Attic white-ground lekythos depicting a crown-bearing Nike approaching a man at a grave stele24. White-ground lekythoi with funerary scenes were very rarely exported beyond mainland Greece, and the inclusion of such vases in export cargoes is not likely to have been random. This lekythos may have been shipped to Ruvo on the assumption that its end-user would be able to appreciate its role in Athenian funerary culture25. If this degree of Athenian concern with the residents of Ruvo seems farfetched, a set of six Attic red-figure kantharoi discovered in the tomb may shed more light on the relationship (fig. 11.3)26. These vases, which date to the later fifth 19 20

21 22 23

24 25

Hoffmann 2005, 22f. Jatta 1869; Lo Porto 1981; De la Genière 1989; Gadaleta 2002; Giudice 2004; Colivicchi 2006. Montanaro 2006; Montanaro 2007. Montanaro 2007, 492–522. Column-krater: Naples, MAN inv. 81403, ARV2 567/1. Oinochoe: Oxford, Ashmolean Museum inv. 1927.66, ARV2 815/4. Naples, MAN inv. 81267, ARV2 689/1. The earliest Attic white-ground lekythoi known

26

to have been exported to Ruvo date to the late sixth century: Naples, MAN inv. 81201, ABV 378.258, attributed to the Leagros Group; Edinburgh inv. L224.379, ABL 217.19, name vase of the Edinburgh Painter. They were found in the tomb of a warrior that contained at least 16 Attic figured vases and more than 40 pieces of bronze armour (Montanaro Tomb 103): Schnoeringer 1834, 36–40; Montanaro 1999; Montanaro 2007, 167–175. 440–488. Montanaro 2007, 513–516.

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Fig. 11.3. Ruvo, Museo Jatta inv. 81494: Attic red-figure kantharos from Ruvo, Class of Bonn 94, c. 420–400.

century, are of an unusual shape attested in only 29 known examples, dubbed the Class of Bonn 94 by Beazley27. 16 of the known examples have secure provenances; all 16 were found at Ruvo di Puglia. This concentrated distribution seems not to be an accident of preservation; as Ted Robinson has demonstrated, the Attic kantharoi were designed to mimic an Italic shape that had long been used in the area around Ruvo28. In this case, an Athenian workshop was clearly working with a nuanced knowledge of an export market’s local traditions and tailoring its production accordingly. In addition to the quantitative increase in Attic export to Ruvo during the late fifth century, the vases of Tomb 110 reveal an increasingly sophisticated Athenian response to this target market. It is against this contextual backdrop that we should attempt to understand the bestknown artefact from Tomb 110 – the Pronomos Vase (fig. 11.4 a–b; pl. 11)29. Interest in this vase has been ample, to put it mildly, particularly in its more complex scene, which clearly evokes Athenian theatre culture in its depiction of a cast from a satyr play. The vase’s underpinnings in Athenian society are richly explored in the recent volume dedicated to this vase, edited by Oliver Taplin and Rosie Wyles30. Without necessarily questioning those discussions, our contention is that a different, or even parallel, understanding of the vase and its imagery emerges when we heed the implications of its status as an export object – not only in outcome but in conception31. In this approach, we follow the lead of Eric Csapo, who ends his study of the vase’s reliance on Athenian choregic iconography by noting its peculiarity, and even inadequacy, as a memorial of dramatic performance32. 27

28

29 30

ARV2 1167–1168. 1360–1362; Todisco – Sisto 1998, 574–577. Robinson 1990a, 254–264; see also Colivicchi 2006. Naples, MAN inv. 81673, ARV2 1336/1. Taplin and Wyles 2010. The volume’s papers were originally presented at a 2006 conference in Oxford.

31

32

With few exceptions (esp. Griffith 2010 and Csapo 2010b), when the contributors to the Taplin – Wyles volume say “viewer” (vel sim.) they mean, whether emphatically or implicitly, to refer to an Athenian viewer steeped in the symbolic logic of Athenian choregic iconography. Csapo 2010b, 119–124.

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He expresses the need to consider the impact of the vase’s destination market – an area in which Dionysus’ association with the afterlife had been well developed33, and where the fusion of Dionysiac and epinikian themes may have been particularly well received. Csapo’s explanation permits elaboration, aimed at specifying the Pronomos Painter’s effort to recalibrate choregic iconography for funerary purposes. While the vase’s imagery has rightfully been the object of much attention, its interpretation must also consider the object on which it appears: a volute-krater (pl. 11). This shape was, in the Pronomos Painter’s day, made almost exclusively for export: Of the 33 provenanced examples dated ca. 430 or later, only two were found at Athens, while 22 of the 33 come from Italy. Narrowing the focus to Apulia, Carpenter argues that the area around Ruvo constituted a special market for red-figure volute-kraters34. Indeed, late-fifth century volute-kraters with Apulian provenances are only known to have been found in that region. At least 13 red-figure volute-kraters of late-fifth century date have been unearthed at Ruvo, and this represents the highest concentration of the shape at any site during that period. Irrespective of painted decoration, the Pronomos Vase was a volutekrater designed for export to a hotbed of volute-krater demand. Perhaps the greatest visual impact of the painted scenes lies in the proliferation of satyrs. They form the largest demographic on both sides of the vase, as we see genuine satyrs in the mythological scene and a chorus caught between human and satyr identities in the other. The Athenocentric explanation for the abundance of satyrs begins with this latter group (fig. 11.4 a. b; fig. 11.5–6; pl. 11), emphasizing the role of satyrs in the world of Athenian theatre: For example, it has been suggested that a satyr chorus encapsulates the festival performance insofar as it represents both the culmination of a tetralogy and the most Dionysian dramatic genre35. Certainly artistic choice is a factor; Athenian iconography provides examples of choruses from satyr play, tragedy, and comedy, no one of them necessarily having a corner on the market for generating theatrical meaning per se36. However, the artist’s target market may also have been a factor in his selection of a satyr chorus. Satyrs appear frequently on Early Apulian vases, which led Carpenter to ask of the Pronomos Vase whether a resident of Ruvo would have “assumed that the actors and satyr-chorus were simply a different type of thiasos”37. Moreover, the prevalence of satyrs in Apulian red-figure is widely thought to stem from their funerary connotations in that re33

34 35

The funerary significance of Dionysus in Apulia receives broad support from the iconography of Apulian grave vases, but see Carpenter’s warning against over-interpreting this evidence (Carpenter 2009, 34f.). Carpenter 2003, 8f. Easterling 1997; Calame 2010, 66. 71–73; Junker 2010, 142. Alternatively, some have suggested that tragedy and satyr play are intertwined on the vase in a hybrid representation: Griffith 2010, 49–52; Hall 2010, 163f. 174. The number of choreuts poses a problem for any attempt to connect the vase with an epinikian purpose for an Athenian performance: The vase has eleven (on Silenus as actor, see below), whereas the choruses of tragedy and (presumably) satyr play contained 15 members by the end of the fifth century.

36

37

Examples and discussion in Csapo 2010a, 5–23; Csapo 2010b. For choregic commemorative purposes a satyr-chorus is in some ways the least useful, being the most generic and thus offering little particularity. Carpenter 2005, 226, who notes further that scenes that can be linked to satyr play taper off in South Italy after ca. 375. But Carpenter (226–231) expresses doubt as to whether these earlier vases must in fact depend on staged satyr plays, as opposed to demonstrating a tendency shared with satyr play toward humorous recombinations of satyrs and serious contexts. Such a view sits well with the approach to the Pronomos Vase pursued here; i. e., that an Italic funerary interest in satyrs per se drove the vase-painter’s interest in satyr play rather than vice versa.

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Fig. 11.4 a. b (p. 303): Drawing of Pronomos Vase from Ruvo: Attic red-figure volute-krater, attributed to the Pronomos Painter, c. 410–390.

gion38. This makes sense of the programmatic use of satyrs on the Pronomos Vase as destined for the tomb. Indeed, the assemblage of Tomb 110 included other representations of satyrs in addition to those on the Pronomos Vase: a gold necklace with 21 satyr-head pendants39, as well as the six Bonn 94 kantharoi with moulded satyr-heads at the interior joins of handle and rim. These last are particularly interesting because they were undoubtedly crafted in Athens with the Ruvo market in mind. This line of inquiry suggests that the choice of a satyr-chorus might itself depend on the mythological scene on the other side of the vase (fig. 11.6; pl. 11.2), and that the painter’s creative stroke was to join choregic and funerary motifs. Certainly the artist executed the scenes so as to allow integration of the two sides – not just by the repetition of Dionysus and his consort, but also by interaction between the satyr groups40. On the mythological side, the left-most satyr finds himself at the rear of the thiasos, which moves to the right. As he looks over his shoulder his attention is directed toward his emulators on the theatrical side; not only that, but he raises his kantharos and pours out a stream of wine, in a gesture of encouragement for them to follow and join the eternal thiasos on his side of the vase41. It is perhaps toward the same overall effect that the one actor in full costume has become nearly indistinguishable, in appearance and behaviour, from the genuine satyrs42. His ec38 39

Carpenter 2005, 234. Naples, MAN inv. 24883. See Montanaro 2007, 502f. with bibliography. Montanaro classifies the necklace as Etruscan, but see also Scheich 2006, who postulates a local Apulian school of itinerant goldsmiths (73–79).

40 41

42

Cf. Calame 2010, 76; Griffith 2010, 55f. Compare Dionysus (as groom) inviting Ariadne to leave her house and join him by extending his kantharos to her: Tarquinia inv. RC 4197, ARV2 1057/96. Cf. Griffith 2010, 59; Csapo 2010a, 20.

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static state is signalled further by his right foot, which breaks the ground-line, and by the grapevine appearing to spring from his head. Even the inscribed ‘identifications’ of many (though not all) of the choreuts and other human agents of the dramatic performance may contribute to the interplay43. While the incompleteness of the labelling effort points up the vase’s insufficiency as a memorial of an actual dramatic performance44, the impression that these are true-to-life humans, with individual identities, underscores the transformation that awaits them when they join the timeless thiasos on the other side of the vase. Csapo explains the vase’s integration of choregic and funerary themes by citing their shared emphasis on victory, whether in the theatre or in the “agon of life”45. The symbol of victory is the garland crown46, and it is perhaps relevant that the painter chose to decorate the vase’s neck with one. While common as a stylized decorative band on vases, in this case the garland approximates a genuine crown because it shows the point where the two ends are joined. Since one positions this knot at the back of the head, it is curious that the knot appears on what is generally regarded as the ‘front’ of the vase (fig. 11.5; pl. 11.1). This knot creates a firm centre-point just above Dionysus’s female companion – generally assumed to be Ariadne – who, with the winged Himeros beside her, also attracts 43

44

On the degree of authenticity for these names, see generally Osborne 2010 and esp. 157 for a related explanation of the point made here; cf. Csapo 2010a, 21; Csapo 2010b, 108f. There are a number of choreut rosters in which only 14 names are listed. However, Csapo has accounted for this by suggesting that the chorus leader was routinely omitted from such

45

46

lists, insofar as he was “a paid operative” whose services did not warrant public recognition. Csapo 2010a, 110f. n. 64 (following Wilson 2000, 353 n. 90). Csapo 2010b, 121. Cf. the white-ground lekythos from Tomb 110 mentioned above. See generally Blech 1982.

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Fig. 11.5. Naples, Museo Archeologico Nazionale inv. 81673 (H 3240): Pronomos Vase: Side A.

Fig. 11.6. Naples, Museo Archeologico Nazionale inv. 81673 (H 3240): Pronomos Vase: Side B.

attention because of her white skin. The configuration unfolds outward from this pair to include the two figures they face: Dionysus and the woman seated at the end of the couch. The integrity of this couch group is emphasized by the strong bracketing effect of the two male actors standing off either end of the couch and facing outward47. While the grouping of Dionysus, Ariadne, and Himeros poses no problem, the inclusion of the female extra is more difficult to explain. That she holds a mask suggests to some that she is an actor48; 47

For the centrality of the Ariadne/Dionysus union, see: Carpenter 2005, 223–225; Griffith 2010, 54–57.

48

See, e.g., Carpenter 2005, 223; Csapo 2010a, 21; Csapo 2010b, 106. Griffith 2010 (60) identifies her as Aphrodite, but the presence of the mask is not consistent with her iconography.

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however, this would seem to create too many actors for an Athenian production49. In any event, her gender, her position on the couch, and her integration with the couch group put her in an exclusive position relative to the other actors, who are configured in their own interactive groups. The ambiguity of her status is accentuated further by the painter’s failure to label her as he did the easily recognizable figures of Dionysus and Heracles50. Her identity continues to be one of the vase’s greatest mysteries51. This enigmatic figure appears on an Athenian vase and looks like an Athenian actor, but the key to her interpretation may lie in the vase’s South-Italian context. Among the contents of Tomb 110 were several elements of gold jewellery, including three necklaces and five fibulae52. While speculations on the gender of the deceased based on grave goods should be advanced with caution, Montanaro’s assumption that this tomb contained a female burial finds support in one pair of gold artefacts in particular. Often referred to as ‘Apulian rings’, their circulation is limited to south-central Italy, with production encompassing the sixth–fourth centuries53. The function of these objects has been disputed, but Montanaro notes that they have been found behind the skulls of the deceased54. Moreover, in at least one case they were found behind the head of a girl whose gender was confirmed by skeletal analysis55. These objects were almost certainly a type of hair fastener, and the pair found in Tomb 110 points strongly in the direction of a female burial56. In further support of this assumption, a hydria depicting the rape of Oreithyia by Boreas is one of several late-fifth century Attic vases found in the tomb with scenes emphasizing female figures57. In light of this evidence, it is possible that the identity of the woman at the end of the couch was left ambiguous intentionally, opening the door for the deceased to be written into the scene. In other words, the omission of a label for this central figure was not the result of carelessness on the part of the painter; rather, it was a deliberate decision made with a target market in mind. The effect of this omission may have been tantamount to labelling the figure ‘your name here’. This degree of forethought about Italic end-use has rarely been considered for Attic vases, but it has frequently been acknowledged for Apulian red-figure. Luca Giuliani, in studying the allegorical function of Apulian mythological scenes in the funerary sphere, emphasizes the opportunities they offered for their users to equate the stories with their 49

50 51

Silenus is played by an actor, exclusive from the chorus, in E. Cyc., and while this may represent a development of the genre over the course of the fifth century, it would have taken place by the time the Pronomos Vase was created; cf. Krumeich et al. 1999, 24f. Osborne 2010, 154. The suggestion that she embodies a dramatic genre – Paidia (for satyr play) or Tragoidia (see Hall 2010, 176–179) – falters on the problem of the intended (i. e., non-Athenian) viewer’s ability to decode the image, particularly without the help of an inscribed name. This is not to say that her iconography could not share something with or draw inspiration from personifications of genres; but without a nametag, such figures are indistinguishable from actors and choreuts. See, for example, the fragmentary but thematically related vase in Barcelona

52 53

54 55

56

57

(Mus. Arch. inv. 33) on which the literary personifications Komoidia and Paidia are named, as may likewise have been true for a third figure on a damaged fragment tentatively identified as Tragoidia. Montanaro 2007, 502–507. De Juliis 1994, 550f.; Montanaro 2006, 95; Montanaro 2007, 177. Montanaro 2006, 95. Braida di Vaglio (Basilicata) Tomb 102. Bottini – Setari 2003, 32–39. 106. Montanaro 2007, 517. Gadaleta has speculated that the women depicted in the wellknown ‘Tomb of the Dancers’ panels (found in Ruvo and now in Naples) may be wearing cerchi apuli. Gadaleta 2002, 132. Naples, MAN inv. 81834, ARV2 1412/50. For the other vases see Montanaro 2007, 509–521.

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own experiences and hopes for the afterlife58. This user-centric tradition in Apulian redfigure culminates in the naiskos vases59, in which the vase’s end-user is rather unambiguously enshrined and heroized. On the Pronomos Vase (fig. 11.4–6; pl. 11), several details seem to reinforce the seated woman’s separateness from the rest of the human figures. Unlike the other ‘actor’ figures, her gaze unites her with Dionysus and Ariadne. The artist made a curious decision to keep this association intact, as the treatment of Himeros shows. This figure corresponds to a winged Nike in Athenian choregic iconography, who typically alights to place a crown on a victory tripod or the like60. Himeros’s flight pattern is different: He is static, crouching in attendance beside the seated woman to hand her a crown61. She is thus the only ‘actor’ figure to receive a crown, so that the specific moment of choregic glory captured on the vase focuses on her alone62. This departure from the more natural arrangement of having a winged figure place a crown on her head can be explained by the fact that Himeros would then block her gaze, whereas now he manages to evoke her glorification without interrupting her concentration on the couple at the other end of the couch. Striking too is the closely similar rendering of the seated woman and Ariadne. Their heads are similarly aligned; their hairstyles and hair accessories are nearly the same; the sweep of their postures echoes each other, down to the crossing of their legs. The one is a carbon copy of the other – almost. The difference is, of course, that Ariadne’s skin is white, while that of the female extra is brown. With choregic conventions in mind, this could suggest her true identity as a male actor63. However, it is worth noting that all the actors’ masks are white; thus the artist’s depiction of different skin tones may have had less to do with gender distinction than it did with an implied distinction between natural and assumed identities, as in, for example, the actor playing Heracles ‘becoming’ that hero64. As for the relationship between the female extra and Ariadne – herself a mortal who obtained a semi-immortal status by incorporation into Dionysus’s thiasos – the implication may be that in taking up her white mask she will become that much more similar to Diony58 59

60 61

62

Giuliani 1996, 85f.; Giuliani 1999. See, e.g., Lohmann 1979 and Pontrandolfo et al. 1988. Generic, boilerplate versions of these vases – ‘heroic male’ or ‘elegant woman’ – were probably deemed sufficiently personalized in most cases; but the rarer examples including young children or men with theatrical accoutrements point in the direction of commissions. Biles 2007, 21; Csapo 2010b, 107. Himeros’s nearly identical pose as he unbinds the sandal of a seated female in ARV2 1037/2 (5) reinforces the impression of his immediate attendance on the seated female on the Pronomos Vase. Differently, Csapo 2010a, 44; Csapo 2010b, 109. Not only is she the only one of the four ‘actors’ to receive a crown, but of the five figures comprising the central group around Dionysus and Ariadne, only she and Dionysus have crowns. Not even Ariadne is depicted with one. The painter’s decision to turn Himeros away from the woman he normally attends in order to de-

63 64

liver the crown to the female extra suggests a bestowing of s t a t us – not merely the bestowing of an epinikian accessory. The implications of this are explored more fully below. For the equation of crown with status, see, e.g., the comic treatment at Ar. Knights 1250–1254: The Paphlagonian slave (= Cleon) finally admits defeat in the contest for Demos’s affections and simultaneously hands over his crown to the Sausage-seller, who is immediately hailed as an athletic victor (cf. Biles 2011, 127f.). Csapo 2010a, 21. The painter of the choregically inspired volutekrater from Samothrace (Samothrace inv. 65.1041, near the Pronomos Painter; cf. Dinsmoor 1992, 506–513) was inconsistent in his rendering of the skin colour of women with masks in the same scene; the same may be true of the fragmentary volute-krater in Würzburg discussed below (Würzburg inv. H 4781, ARV2 1338, also near the Pronomos Painter). Cf. Csapo 2010b, 110–115.

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sus’s consort65. Her implicit emulation of Ariadne thus parallels that of the choreuts populating the scene, as avatars of their mythological counterparts. Himeros too may signal this transformation. As an embodiment of ‘Desire’ his presence depends on the union of Dionysus and Ariadne; Himeros or other Eros figures regularly attend the couple in Greek art66. More particularly, in these scenes his attention is often directed at Ariadne, a connection expressed on the Pronomos Vase by their shared white hue. On this level, Himeros’s association with Nike figures of a choregic stripe gives way to one with Eros figures who bestow crowns in romantic scenes67. Himeros’ gesture thus enables the viewer to think of the anonymous female as somehow poised to attain Ariadne’s status – on the verge of assimilation with her. The allusion to shifting states of being culminates on the vase’s other side, where ‘Ariadne’ – now garlanded and with undifferentiating brown skin – appears beside Dionysus as a Himeros figure attends them. This reading finds support in a volute-krater found in Bari and now in Brussels – near the Pronomos Vase in date, but made in Apulia (fig. 11.7; pl. 12)68. The funerary ideals handled with such complexity and nuance on the Pronomos Vase are expressed more starkly on one side of this krater. The central scene depicts the Apotheosis of Heracles. He rides in Athena’s chariot surrounded by symbols of his victory: Just ahead of him flies an owl carrying a garland, while two flying Nikai flank the chariot. Above and below Heracles are two Dionysian scenes: A thiasos marches across the neck of the vase, and below the chariot Dionysus lounges with a female consort, both of them framed by a satyr and maenad who stand on either side, much like the bracketing of the couch group on the Pronomos Vase. Heracles’ victorious apotheosis is thus given an emphatically Dionysiac spin – a point that is driven home by two details. The leading Nike bears in her hand a kottabos stand, as if to complement the symposium with Dionysus, who himself holds a kantharos. More importantly, the flanking maenad and satyr gaze up toward Heracles and fall back in surprised reaction to what must therefore be his epiphanic arrival into this Dionysiac setting69. In other words, a certain equivalency is suggested between Heraclean apotheosis and Dionysian afterlife – a consideration that may help to account for Heracles’ inclusion in the cast of performers on the Pronomos Vase70. The evocation of revelry and victory, in a Dionysian ambience, is the common denominator of this vase and the Pronomos Vase. But the connection runs deeper, insofar as there appears to be a similar representational strategy at work: Both painters fused disparate iconographies with an eye toward delivering a cohesive, purposeful message about life, death, and afterlife. This shared approach to funerary iconography may have been more than coincidental. The workshops that produced these kraters can also be linked by their approaches to pot65

66

A related eschatological significance may exist in the use of the ‘actor’ with mask representations on contemporary Attic grave monuments; but if, as Csapo points out, the relative frequency of this motif suggests that participation in a chorus rather than training as an actor is at issue, civic identity may be the emphasized ideal, which says more for an Athenian than a South Italian clientele (Csapo 2010a, 22). See, e.g., Athens, National Archaeological Museum inv. 12488 (LIMC s. v. Dionysus 750); ARV2 1057/97. 1447/3. 1459/45 bis.

67 68

69

70

See, e.g., RVAp 2/1; LCS 197/3. Brussels inv. A1018, RVAp 2/9. On this vase, see Hurschmann 1985, 71–75. The combination of Heracles’ apotheosis and Dionysian thiasos recurs on separate sides on RVAp 16/13. His identity there is made doubly emphatic by his wholly unnecessary label. Cf. Griffith 2010, 61f.

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Fig. 11.7. Brussels, Musées Royaux d’Art et d’Histoire inv. A 1018: Apulian red-figure volute-krater, attributed to the Painter of the Birth of Dionysus, c. 410–390.

ting and marketing. Both kraters were made around 400 for customers in the central Apulian region known in antiquity as Peucetia71. As mentioned above, this area seems to have been the single most active market for red-figure volute-kraters at that time. The forms of the two vases are not identical, however. The Apulian krater, attributed to the Painter of the Birth of Dionysus72, is interesting in that its potter added swan heads to the shoulder of 71

For a summary of the ancient literary evidence see Greiner 2003, 15–24 with maps.

72

Trendall – Cambitoglou 1978, 33–43; Trendall 1989, 27f.

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what was otherwise a typical volute-krater shape. The choice was not whimsical; the vase documents a potter’s attempt to replicate a type of bronze krater made in Athens at the time73. Other Early Apulian volute-kraters take this emulation a step further by incorporating both the swan heads and the more complex handles of the Athenian bronze type. Another volute-krater attributed to the Painter of the Birth of Dionysus leaves little doubt that he was working with potters who were creatively reinterpreting Athenian metal vases (fig. 11.8)74. Found at Ruvo and made around 400, the krater features the swan heads and floral handles of its bronze model; its potter also included the unusual feature of wide reeding on the body of the vase. This pseudo-metallic treatment of a volute-krater body is unique in Early Apulian. There are a few parallels in contemporary Attic, however, one of which was attributed to the Meleager Painter – a close associate of the Pronomos Painter responsible for two of the red-figure vases found in Tomb 11075. In addition to the stylistic and contextual associations linking these painters, there is also evidence suggesting that they collaborated in a workshop with a flair for reinterpreting metallic vases. For example, the Meleager Painter’s pseudo-metallic krater included moulded heads of Africans at the joins of handle and shoulder – an extremely rare feature in Attic pottery, but one that appears in several examples of the Bonn 94 kantharoi76. Robinson has raised the possibility that the moulded heads of the kantharoi could have been imitating now lost metallic vases, an explanation that would account for the lack of precise South Italian parallels77. In any case, the association of the Meleager Painter with this unusual motif in two separate contexts is not likely to be coincidental. The Pronomos workshop’s interest in metallic vases is also suggested by a fragmentary volute-krater in Würzburg78. One of its fragments depicts a metal dinoid volute-krater where a choregic tripod ought to be; its form is virtually identical to that of the Meleager Painter’s krater. The ‘pastiche’ approach to iconography shared by the Pronomos Painter and the Painter of the Birth of Dionysus is thus mirrored by the efforts of their potters, who cre73

Barr-Sharrar 2008, 47–72. See also: Pfrommer 1983, 250; Tarditi 1996, 201f.; Gaunt 2002, 362–367. The Apulian krater discussed here is a ceramic adaptation of a metallic volutekrater shape recently classified as ‘A-type’ by Beryl Barr-Sharrar. Pfrommer and Tarditi have suggested a Tarantine production of the bronze kraters, while Gaunt has argued that the longevity of the type suggests both Athenian and South Italian workshops. However, Barr-Sharrar has argued convincingly for strictly Athenian production. The primary evidence in support of this attribution is: 1) the progressive adaptation of the metal shape by the Attic Niobid Painter’s workshop during the second quarter of the fifth century; 2) the depiction of the metal shape on Theban coins dated ca. 456–446; 3) Barr-Sharrar observes that the extant A-type kraters “are clearly based on a common design and are identical in elements of construction”, making it unnecessary to postulate the existence of multiple regional workshops.

74

75

76

77 78

Ruvo inv. 1494, RVAp 2/7. Sichtermann 1966, K 38 pls. 56–59. The pseudo-metallic krater: Getty inv. 87.AE.93; Burn 1991; Todisco – Sisto 1998, 584f., 602–605. The vases found in Tomb 110: Naples, MAN inv. 81834. 82510; ARV2 1412/50. 1414/86; Montanaro 2007, 516f. Todisco and Sisto suggest that this motif may have been selected with the Ruvo market in mind, citing its appearance in several examples of plastic rhyta (Attic and Apulian) that have been found there (Todisco – Sisto 1998, 592). The findspot of the ‘Getty krater’ is not known, although its initial appearance on the art market in the mid-1980s makes a South Italian provenance likely (see Elia 2001). Robinson 1990a, 259. Würzburg inv. H 4781, ARV2 1338 (“akin to the work of the Pronomos Painter”). See also Carpenter 2003, 8 n. 48 for the provenance of the fragments, given as “from Taranto” in the ARV2 entry.

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Fig. 11.8. Ruvo, Museo Jatta inv. 36925, formerly inv. 1494: Apulian red-figure volute-krater from Ruvo, attributed to the Painter of the Birth of Dionysus.

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atively adapted and recombined elements from one artistic tradition and fused them with another. Rather than two parallel trends arising independently in two peninsulas, it is likely that this correspondence of style and strategy arose from the continuing immigration of Attic craftsmen down into the fourth century. In the case of choregic iconography, an approach that recognizes a continuity of purpose linking Attic and Apulian experiments may be able to shed new light on its development in South Italy. The evolution of choregic iconography in Apulia after the period of the Pronomos Vase is exemplified by the Tarporley Painter79, whose importance in this regard was noted recently by Csapo80. Active by the end of the fifth century, the Tarporley Painter may have been one of the last Apulian painters to begin his career in Athens. His work and that of his immediate followers illustrates which elements of the Attic tradition were brought over to Italy, which were maintained, and which were not. In several cases the Tarporley Painter seems to follow the Pronomos workshop’s lead in using Athenian choregic motifs for funerary purposes. However, his theatre-themed vases never approach the iconographic complexity of those attributed to the Pronomos Painter and his circle. This was due in part to his preference for bell-kraters, which offered a smaller painting surface than volute-kraters. Certainly, his work reveals a sort of filtering process on his part. For example, in a bell-krater in London the Tarporley Painter seems to be distilling a broad choregic vocabulary down to the symbols he finds most useful (fig. 11.9)81. The central figure of the principal scene is a Nike, shown in the act of crowning a nude youth. A horned satyr stands to her right, and the youth holds a tragic mask with its face turned toward him. Both the garland-bearing Nike and the man contemplating his mask find parallels in the theatre-related relief sculpture of Athens, as well as in the Pronomos workshop’s choregically inspired vases82. However, while the core messages of the Pronomos krater were embedded in a dense web of theatrical imagery, here they are front and centre: victory and thiasos. The young man on the vase has been identified as an actor or choreut83, though it is difficult to judge whether his mask was meant to evoke theatrical life or Dionysiac afterlife84. If the latter, the mask’s primary role was as a symbol of thiasos and its transformative qualities – a role that seems to emerge from a survey of similar bell-kraters painted by the Tarporley Painter and his followers. A vase in New York employs the choregic element of the man contemplating his mask, but in this case the world of Dionysus has been played up while the victory theme has been omitted entirely (fig. 11.10; pl. 13.1)85. A nude male figure usually thought to represent Dionysus stands at left holding a mask and thyrsus, while at right a horned satyr dips an oinochoe into a bell-krater. If Dionysus, this would be the earliest known vase-painting depiction of the god holding a theatrical mask, as Csapo has observed86. It would also be a rather forceful departure from Athenian choregic art, which is not known to have depicted masks in the hands of Dionysus. In any case, with this krater the Tarporley Painter condenses the choregic tradition even further into a single Dionysiac symbol.

79

80

81 82

Trendall – Cambitoglou 1978, 44–55; Trendall 1989, 74–76. Csapo 2010a, 40–52; cf. Lissarrague 2008, 440–442. London, BM inv. F163, RVAp 3/12. Cf. Csapo 2010a, 22f.; Csapo 2010b, 110–124.

83 84

85 86

Csapo 2010a, 43f. For vase-painting depictions of masks in nontheatrical contexts see Green 1995b. New York, Met. Mus. inv. L.63.21.5, RVAp 3/2. Csapo 2010a, 42; cf. Lissarrague 2008, 440.

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Fig. 11.9. London, British Museum inv. 1836.02–24.175 (F 163): Apulian red-figure bell-krater (detail), attributed to the Tarporley Painter, c. 400–380.

By this time the choregically inspired man-with-mask motif had already developed funerary associations in Athens, as evidenced by its appearance on grave stelai87. In order to ascertain whether this motif carried similar connotations in Apulia, its appearance needs to be viewed within the context of a whole series of bell-kraters that adopt a similar schema – two or three figures with special emphasis on an ideal male individual. Very few of these vases depict theatrical masks. Consequently, the vases in which the mask was deemed superfluous may tell us something about the rationale behind its inclusion in other vases. Another bell-krater by the Tarporley Painter – his name vase, now in Los Angeles (fig. 11.11; pl. 13.2)88 – can be considered a close parallel to the krater in London discussed above (fig. 11.9). The general formula of man/crowning figure/satyr is repeated, as are certain iconographic details such as the horned satyr holding a bird and the man grasping a garment draped over his left arm. There are, however, some subtle but important 87

See, e.g., the relief from Salamis in the Piraeus Museum inv. 4229: Slater 1985b, 340–343; Junker 2010, 146–148. See as well Goette in this volume, 91 with fig. 2.12.

88

LACMA inv. 50.8.29, RVAp 3/10.

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Fig. 11.10. New York, formerly coll. Mitchell, with the Metropolitan Museum of Art L.63.21.5: Apulian red-figure bell-krater, attributed to the Tarporley Painter, c. 410–390.

modifications. For one, the more ‘choregic’ Nike figure has been replaced by a maenad with narthex and situla. The Tarporley Painter’s attempt at a more thoroughly Dionysiac ‘feel’ is also suggested by the inclusion of thyrsi for the figures at left and right. But the key iconographic decision for our purposes is the substitution of a theatrical mask with a kantharos. We no longer have a figure that could reasonably be interpreted as an actor; the man at left has generally been read as a youthful Dionysus. However, given the proximity of the vase’s overall scheme to that of the London vase – two bell-kraters painted by the same painter around the same time for the same market – one might suggest that the artist has simply swapped out one symbol of Dionysiac transformation for another. Both the donning of the mask and the consumption of wine entail a displacement of identity. These allusions to altered states of being could evoke the transition from normal consciousness to Dionysiac consciousness – a transition that had distinct funerary connotations in Apulia89. 89

The Tarporley Painter may also be evoking this transition in his well-known bell-krater in Sydney, NM inv. 47.5, RVAp 3/15, which depicts three satyr choreuts. One performer holds his satyr mask at waist-level, while another

raises his as if to contemplate it face-to-face. The third choreut wears his mask while dancing. He would be virtually indistinguishable from a satyr were it not for his shorts.

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Fig. 11.11. Los Angeles, County Museum of Art inv. 50.8.29: Apulian red-figure bell-krater, attributed to the Tarporley Painter, c. 400–380.

The issue of reception is admittedly complicated by the fact that none of these bellkraters has an archaeological provenance. However, recent research has put us in a much better position to make educated guesses as to where these vases were found and made. As mentioned above, we now know that something like 85 % of all Early Apulian material was found at Italic sites in Apulia. We know that complete, intact bell-kraters like the ones discussed here could only have been found in tombs. We also know that bell-kraters were virtually never buried with the dead at Taras during the late fifth and early fourth centuries. Consequently, it is difficult to avoid the conclusion that the bell-kraters under consideration were made for an Italic Apulian market. The London krater (fig. 11.9) is one of only a few theatre-related vases to have been subjected to chemical analysis90. The study used reference material to investigate whether Apulian red-figure vases were potted with a demonstrably Tarantine clay type. The chemical compositions of 14 Apulian vases confirmed their Tarantine origin, but 22 of the Apulian samples seem to have been made elsewhere. The London krater registered in this latter group. This cluster of vases exhibits important links to the non-Greek market, and it is 90

Thorn – Glascock 2010.

91

Robinson 2004 and in this volume.

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Fig. 11.12. Karlsruhe, Badisches Landesmuseum inv. B 9: Apulian red-figure bell-krater, attributed to the Painter of Karlsruhe B 9, c. 390–370.

possible that the London krater was made at an Italic site for an Italic buyer. While South Italic interest in theatre has been well established by Robinson91, still, one might reasonably question whether the Tarporley Painter’s selection of the man-with-mask motif bears any meaningful connection with dramatic performance92. One final example – a bell-krater attributed to one of the Tarporley Painter’s followers – may be instructive insofar as it carries on the choregic tradition but in an even more stripped-down, essentialised way (fig. 11.12)93. The early work of the Painter of Karlsruhe B 9 so closely resembles that of the Tarporley Painter that Trendall viewed them as workshop colleagues, with the late vases of the latter painter providing the models for the former94. Indeed, this vase seems to amalgamate the primary scenes of the Tarporley Painter’s man-with-mask kraters: A Nike holds a phiale in her left hand and offers a garland to a nude male with her right. The male’s handling of his drapery recalls that of the

92

It should be noted that the Tarporley Painter and his followers were forerunners in the ‘snapshot’ depiction of staged comic performances. In these cases, there can be little doubt that the evocation of actual theatrical productions was important to both painter and patron. The arguments advanced here cannot

93 94

readily be applied to these more direct references to theatre, which – though frequently buried with the dead as the choregically inspired vases were – seem to have been conceived with substantially different purposes in mind. Karlsruhe inv. B 9, RVAp 6/8. Trendall – Cambitoglou 1978, 135.

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man on the London vase, while his long hair and thyrsus find a closer parallel in the Dionysus figure of the New York vase. As for this figure’s identity, the ambivalence expressed by Trendall and Cambitoglou in their RVAp entry may itself lend support to the line of interpretation we have pursued throughout95. Indeed there is no attribute that would allow the conclusive identification of this man as Dionysus, although the thyrsus often seems to swing interpretations of such figures in his favour. For example, the bell-krater in New York depicts a long-haired young man with thyrsus and theatrical mask. If we view this figure as having been extracted from the choregic tradition, as we probably should, then it would almost certainly not be Dionysus, since no precedent for the god holding a mask exists in choregic art. Beyond the vague identity of the male figures, the common thread that binds them is an emphasis on the individual. The straightforward compositions in which they appear serve to spotlight them at the moment of victory, or on the verge of assuming a new identity – or both. This emphasis is consonant with the user-centric bent of Apulian red-figure vasepainting, and it suggests that the ambiguity of the men in such scenes may have been intended to facilitate identification with them. The bell-krater by the Painter of Karlsruhe B 9 follows in the footsteps of the Tarporley Painter’s choregically inspired vases, yet there is nothing overtly theatrical about it. Nonetheless, it expresses – with great economy – the same ideas that the choregic imagery was intended to express: victory and thiasos. The Tarporley Painter introduced the manwith-mask motif to Apulian funerary iconography, but his legacy reveals that it was by no means an essential component. Contextualising the Tarporley Painter’s choregic vases within the overall output of his workshop thus clarifies what it was about choregic iconography that Apulian artists found useful. The anticlimactic answer to this question would seem to be that it was not deemed useful – at least not for its original purpose of evoking Athenian theatre culture. So what are we to make of the fact that choregic iconography’s most vibrant ceramic expression was made for export to Ruvo? Any answer to that question must bear in mind that the really bold red-figure experiments with choregic iconography were a short-lived phenomenon, apparently confined to the period right around 400. In other words, whatever was driving the production of such vases, their workshops failed to establish a longterm demand for them. It is particularly strange that they were unable to find a consistent market for such vases at Ruvo, the leading consumer of theatre-themed vases in all of Italy96. One possible conclusion is that the Pronomos Vase was simply an exceptionally creative guess at what an Italic Apulian might want in a funerary krater. The fusion of epinikian and Dionysiac themes, the choice of the volute-krater shape, and the proliferation of satyrs confirm that it was a highly-educated guess, made with a solid knowledge of the target market. But its iconographic approach did not catch on. Apulian workshops produced dozens of volute-kraters and theatre vases, but none of them, so far as we know, attempted anything quite like the Pronomos Vase. The choregically inspired vases of the Tarporley Painter seem to reveal a more grounded understanding of the nature of the Apulian market. The choregic noise of the Pronomos Vase found no place in his approach, which excised the supporting cast and fo-

95

“(a) Nike with phiale in l. hand holding out wreath to nude youth with thyrsus (Dionysus?)”.

96

Gadaleta 2003.

Rethinking Choregic Iconography in Apulia

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cused on the individual’s moment of victory and Dionysiac transformation – in other words, on the themes expressed by the ‘couch group’ on the Pronomos Vase. The fate of choregic iconography in Apulia may thus be explained by its failure to find a niche within the context of Italic funerary culture. But it may also be explained by more mundane considerations of marketing and commerce. Volute-kraters were rare in Attic, and the Pronomos Vase pairs this exceptional shape with an extraordinary scene. It may well have been specially commissioned for export to a specific non-Greek elite. The Tarporley workshop, in contrast, specialized in the serial production of bell-kraters for a regional market. Like the Pronomos Vase, these were Italic grave vases; unlike the Pronomos Vase, they were designed to appeal broadly to a broad socio-economic spectrum. The role of choregic iconography in this context was dictated by its ability to speak to the beliefs, hopes, and values of its end-users.

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Zachary Biles – Jed Thorn

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Greek Theatre in Non-Greek Apulia Edward G. D. Robinson

Introduction That there was a market for images of Greek theatre in non-Greek areas of South Italy is abundantly clear. Biles and Thorn quote figures on the find-spots of vases connected with comedy and tragedy in South Italy1, and while the distribution of such vases is certainly affected by the relative sobriety of grave-offerings in the Greek cities, the number of theatrerelated vases recovered from Italic sites is impressive. The pressing question, especially given the theme of the current volume, is the extent of comprehension of these theatrical images by their Italian consumers: were the vases viewed by a sophisticated, knowledgeable audience or by uncomprehending barbarians in search of symbols which conferred status through reference to glamorous foreign practices in the manner of a cargo-cult? The question has received a surprisingly wide range of answers, encompassing virtually this entire spectrum. I intend to discuss some of them below, but it is worthwhile firstly to insist that there should be no single answer to the question. While naturally one seeks to generalise, sight should not be lost of the fact that the Italic world was far from monolithic: beyond the likely ethnic and linguistic variation, Italic centres were of dramatically different sizes and levels of urbanism; they varied in proximity to Greece, to the Greek colonies and to trade-routes; they contained people of very diverse levels of status and wealth and foreign contacts; and finally these settlements and their inhabitants changed profoundly through the course of the Late Classical and Hellenistic periods, and at different rates2. While the c o n t e x t of theatre-related objects in South Italy from the middle of the fifth century onwards is therefore clearly going to be of paramount importance, it is also worth bearing in mind the wider context of ‘Hellenisation’ in South Italy, where the process has often, in the words of Irad Malkin, been “… understood as one superior culture pouring itself from its overflowing cups into the empty containers of the receiving, inferior culture”3. While I certainly do not intend to deny the pre-eminence of Athens in most aspects of theatrical culture, it is surely incumbent upon theatre specialists to join the general postcolonial project of the last several decades and consider: the extent to which South Italians may have selected specific elements of Greek theatre and incorporated them into their local systems; whether the uses and contexts of Greek theatre were fundamentally different there; whether new, hybrid theatrical forms emerged; and the possible effect of this nonGreek market on the production of theatre-related objects, and perhaps even on theatrical productions, in Greece and the Greek cities of South Italy. It is important to recall that by the late fifth century there was already a long history of self-aware cultural exchange between South Italy and Greece going back at least as far as the Late Geometric and Early 1

Biles – Thorn, in this volume.

2

3

For a good synthesis of the changes: Purcell 1994; Purcell 2005. Malkin 2002, 153.

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Archaic periods, when there is good evidence that the Messapians of the Salentine peninsula were actively selecting certain Greek pottery shapes (wine-cups, pouring vessels) and actively rejecting others (mixing bowls, perfume-vessels); the market was evidently important enough and well-enough understood by early Corinthian potters that a version of a local ritual shape – the dipper (attingitoio) – was produced in a Greek version for export to Messapia4. Many later examples of such exchanges could be cited in the history of relations between indigenous South Italians and both mainland and colonial Greeks, as one would expect between populations that had been living in close proximity for hundreds of years before the development of Greek theatre. But seeking complex interactions, and finding them, is not always the same thing, and the search for a sophisticated reception of Greek theatre looks rather unpromising when one examines certain aspects of the material culture of indigenous South Italy. For example, in the later fourth century Gnathia pottery, which was first made in Taras ca. 370, began to be produced in the Messapian settlements of the Salentine peninsula5. One quite common motif on late Gnathia vases is a theatre-mask suspended from some kind of support. Richard Green has looked at some of these late, Italic productions which feature representations of theatre-masks, and noted that the masks often have strange peg-noses and barely open mouths and seem like misunderstood caricatures of the canonical masktypes of comedy, which are well-known from the nearby Greek cities in both terracotta figurines and on vases. Green’s conclusion: “the way the mask-types are confused, and the way that some can hardly be said to be masks at all, suggests that these painters were copying blindly and had no familiarity with the theatre. Although so close to Taranto, they had still not felt any cultural impact at this level”6. But what is “this level”? The context is of small, low-quality vessels, mass-produced and quite possibly made solely for the tomb; the painters were either ignorant of or uninterested in depicting Greek comic masks in a realistic fashion (if one sets aside the possibility that the Messapians had developed variants of Greek comic masks which w e r e shown realistically). To what extent should this finding condition our general assessment of the understanding of Greek theatre in Italic settlements? If this level of ignorance existed amongst some producers of vases at the end of the fourth century, what possibility might there be that there were indigenous Italians who were sophisticated consumers of Greek theatre at the end of the fifth? The possibility is very high, in my opinion, with the existence of different strands of understanding of Greek theatre to be explained by the different social contexts in which the activities took place. Consideration of social context has become a significant part of the study of the theatre in fifth-century Athens. As greater attention is paid to the growth of the theatre industry and to its expansion outside Athens, especially in the fourth century, many more and varied social contexts (some of them non-Greek) will have to be understood if we are to make full sense of this important phenomenon.

The tomb of the Pronomos vase at Ruvo, and Peucetian elites Let us turn back to the end of the fifth century and to the most famous theatre-related object ever excavated in South Italy: the Pronomos vase (fig. 11.4; pl. 11). Biles and Thorn have produced an extensive analysis of the vessel above, and of the likelihood that it was 4 5

D’Andria 1997b. Giannotta 1996; Green 2001, 60f.

6

Green 1986, 184f.

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produced especially for a Peucetian consumer who was highly literate in Greek mythology and theatre. The argument is convincing; the volute-krater shape alone would suggest that the vase was produced in Athens for a non-Greek market7, and the fact that potters and painters in Athens were producing specifically for a Peucetian market is very strongly indicated by the six kantharoid vases attributed to the Painter of Munich 2335 and the Group of Bonn 94 that were found in the same tomb (see above fig. 11.3). That such vessels, with their unusual shape, were produced in Athens for a Peucetian market has been known for some time8, and more recently Colivicchi has elucidated the long history and ritual importance of the kantharoid vessel in Peucetia9. The Pronomos vase came from a tomb excavated in Ruvo in 1835, one of a group of three semi-chamber tombs which contained the remains of people of elite class10. We are fortunate that there are records which have survived of the excavation of a tomb almost two centuries ago, but can only wonder what information has been lost. The tomb is highly unusual in a Peucetian context11. It probably contained at least two depositions, since there is a cluster of objects contemporary with the Pronomos vase, and another which dates more than half a century earlier12. Montanaro reports that the skeleton found in the tomb was not buried in the crouched position, which was almost universal in Peucetia, but rather was laid out supine13. The skeleton is logically connected with the final deposition, with the bones of the earlier deposition(s?) presumably pushed to the side, or taken from the tomb, both normal practices in Peucetia14. Tomb 110 is interpreted by Montanaro as the burial of a foreigner, one of a number in Peucetia which have been identified on the basis of unusual burial rites (supine inhumation or cremation) and/or grave goods15. Montanaro sees the deceased in Tomb 110 as an Etruscan, and while there is danger inherent in distinguishing ethnicity on the basis of material culture, especially here where the Etruscan gold necklaces and fibulae are far outnumbered by other objects from Athens and elsewhere, in this case the identification looks highly plausible. The Etruscan bronze candelabrum (probably from Vulci) found in the tomb bears an inscription, in Etruscan: s´u6ina (for the tomb)16. The candelabrum was therefore either made for the tomb or, more likely, inscribed at the time of burial so that the object would be definitively taken out of circulation, a practice familiar especially for bronze mirrors in Etruria17. Put 7 8 9 10 11

12

Carpenter 2003, 8–10. Robinson 1990a. Colivicchi 2004. Montanaro 2007, 492–528; also Burn 2010. The extent of its divergence from the Peucetian norm will become clear once a recently-submitted Sydney PhD is published: O. Kelley, Intersecting Identities: the Burials of Peucetia in the Sixth to Fourth Centuries. Burn 2010, 29, considers the possibility that the earlier objects in the tomb were ‘heirlooms’. This is not impossible, and indeed seems plausible at first glance, considering that the gold necklaces and fibulae are amongst the earlier material. It is however not often realised that Etruscan gold jewellery from tombs was almost always made of extremely thin sheet-gold and was therefore probably manufactured especially for the tomb. These are not the sort of objects that are likely to have been passed down as heir-

13

14 15

16

17

looms. The proposition that three painted Attic vases remained above-ground for 70+ years also seems highly implausible, especially considering that one of them is a white-ground lekythos, which is unlikely to have been used outside the funerary realm. In my opinion there must have been more than one deposition in this tomb. Montanaro 2010; see also Montanaro 2006, 93–99. De Juliis 2007, 14; Ciancio 1997, 197. Montanaro 2010; there are many more such burials at Ruvo than in the rest of Peucetia combined. Fontaine 1995 on s´u6ina inscriptions. The candelabrum seems to be contemporary with the later cluster of objects from Tomb 110, on stylistic grounds. The practice is particularly common in northcentral Etruria: CSE New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art 40–43 (L. Bonfante).

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together with the supine skeleton and the other Etruscan material in the tomb, it seems likely that Tomb 110 contained the remains of a family of Etruscans who resided in Ruvo over two or three generations, rather than those of a Peucetian family with a taste for Etruscan objects. Montanaro’s recent book, re-assembling a number of tomb groups excavated at Ruvo in the nineteenth century, clarifies and documents what had long been apparent: at Ruvo there was a significant stratum of elite inhabitants between the seventh and third centuries, and many of their tombs contained complex mythological and theatrical scenes on vases made by Attic and Italiote vase-painters18. It is unclear the extent to which the site was exceptional, within Peucetia, in any of these respects. One suspects that the site was exceptional in all respects, although it is very difficult to know how the vagaries of discovery, publication, and looting have affected our perceptions. At Rutigliano, for instance, the recently-published necropolis of around 90 burials, excavated in 1978, contained no tombs with the types of highly elite contents that one sees at Ruvo, and allusions to the theatre are non-existent19. But glimpses of the as-yet unpublished area of necropolis found nearby and excavated 1975–1977 reveal astoundingly wealthy burials, including fifth-century tombs with Apulian red-figured vases bearing tragic themes20. Many fewer tombs have been published from Monte Sannace and theatre-vases are again absent21, but clearly there were residents of the site of very high status from the sixth century onwards, living on the acropolis in a ‘palace’ decorated with architectural terracottas and incorporating elite burials; further monumental semi-chamber tombs were built in extensions to the structure in the fourth century when the area seems to have become a locus of ancestor-cult22. The tombs had been robbed in antiquity, but it is at this social level that one would expect to find objects decorated with theatrical themes, as indeed one sees at sites like Ceglie del Campo, Altamura and Gravina in Puglia23.

18 19

20

21

Montanaro 2007. De Juliis 2007. It is worth mentioning that in the 1979 season at Rutigliano, a probable Etruscan burial of the late seventh century was discovered: De Juliis 1981, 468f.; also Montanaro 2010, 185. The supine burial contained bucchero pottery, otherwise very rare in Peucetia; there are no other likely foreign burials at Rutigliano. A few tombs are illustrated and discussed by F. G. Lo Porto in his annual reports to the Convegno di Studi Sulla Magna Grecia in Taranto between 1975 and 1977. Tomb 24/1976 contained large quantities of bronze and iron vessels and weapons and a volute-krater attributed to the Painter of the Berlin Dancing Girl which has been connected with Aeschylus’ Psychostasia. For the tomb: Lo Porto 1977, 741f. pls. 112–114; attributed RVAp I 435; theatrical interpretation: Todisco 2003, 405. 521–542. The principal nucleus was excavated in 1957: Scarfì 1961.

22 23

Ciancio 1989; Ciancio et al. 1989, 29–63. Gravina: Chamber Tomb 1 of 1974 (late fifth century): Ciancio 1997, 181–186. Todisco 2003, 407–409 for the Aeschylean and Euripidean subjects of three large Apulian vases, RVAp 1/96–97 and 2/2. Mugione 2002, 93, thinks that the Attic vases from the tomb imply “una dialetta intensa delle communità indigene con Atene, non mediate dalle colonie greche”, and it is also clear that Italiote vase-painters were producing especially for this market (although there is not the space to elaborate on the question here). At nearby Altamura another elite tomb shows that large red-figured vases with theatrical themes continued to be acquired by the highest-status Peucetians of the second half of the fourth century: Lo Porto 1975, 344–346; Todisco 2003, 560–562 for the tomb and 462 for the tragic themes on the loutrophoros by the Darius Painter; also Taplin 2007, 102–104. For the tomb-contexts at Ceglie del Campo: Todisco 2003, 549.

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Knowledge of the Greek language and Greek ‘high culture’ in Italic centres Throughout Peucetia, in the major centres, there seems to have been a class at the pinnacle of Peucetian society that was consuming theatre-related material culture from the second half of the fifth century to the second half of the fourth24. But the question remains, to what extent was the subject-matter of these representations understood? In a famous book of 1995, Luca Giuliani argued that, particularly after the middle of the fourth century, some Apulian vase-paintings dealt with subjects that were so complex and obscure that they must have been directly inspired by texts25. While Giuliani was happy to accept that some Italic people must have had a good knowledge of Greek, the obscurity of the texts would, for him, have necessitated the presence of experts to explain the vases in the context of a funeral oration or performance. Luigi Todisco has recently taken up the question again, and come up with a surprising conclusion26. Todisco reviews the evidence for inscriptions in Daunia and Peucetia, and finds very few before the late fourth century, “a fact that can be explained not only by widespread illiteracy but also by a conservative resistance to any Greek influence beyond strictly material culture”27. So, the Italic elites still needed the vases to be explained to them, but for Todisco these explanations, to a population unfamiliar with Greek, can only have taken place in their mother language by bilingual intermediaries. “In conclusion, evidence available today suggests that it was first of all the painters of the mythological, and possibly theatrical, scenes themselves who explained, either directly to their purchasers or to those who conveyed the vases to the purchasers, in a simple, synthetic manner, or in certain cases in greater detail, the narrative content, religious message, and celebratory, consolatory symbolism of the vase images”28. I find this proposition highly implausible, for a number of reasons. The link between the epigraphic habit and the level of literacy of a population is anything but straightforward. For example, in the very same volume as Todisco’s article, Andreas Willi notes that “in the almost complete absence of epigraphic material from Archaic and Classical Syracuse, the Epicharmian fragments constitute our most precious source for the reconstruction of the local Doric dialect of the city”29. But more generally, we need to take a deep breath and consider the basis for the idea that the Italic people of South Italy were ignorant of Greek culture, and even language, in the late fifth and fourth centuries. It is a view that seems terribly anachronistic when one considers the history of colonial relations over the previous three centuries in South Italy. It has become clear that there were both Greek and Italic residents in many of the prominent settlements of the late eighth and seventh centuries in South Italy, including all of the Greek colonies30. Scholars generally have no problem accepting a multiethnic class of ‘princes’ in the Tyrrhenian in the seventh century, comprising Etruscans, Greeks, Latins and Campanians31, nor of ‘xenia’ relations between Greeks and Italians, which may explain some of the early Italian dedications at panhellenic sanctuaries such as 24

25 26 27

28 29

Todisco 2003, 784 table 8, illustrates the degree to which Ruvo dominates the proveniences of vases with tragedy-related subject matter. Giuliani 1995; also Giuliani 1999. Todisco 2012. Todisco 2012, 267; he directs readers to Todisco 2010 for a fuller version of the argument. Todisco 2012, 270f. Willi 2012, 57.

30

31

Yntema 2000 is an excellent synthesis of this information; more recently De Siena 2001, 17–22 for Metaponto, Burgers – Crielaard 2011 for L’Amastuola (in the later chora of Taranto), Berlingò 2005 for Siris, MaaskantKleibrink 2000 and Kleibrink 2004 for Francavilla Marittima near Sybaris. D’Agostino 1999.

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Edward G. D. Robinson

Delphi and Olympia32. Mention of Olympia recalls the bronze inscription found at the site which records a treaty between Sybaris and the Italic Serdaioi, guaranteed by Poseidonia33, and inscriptions recording alliances between Greek and indigenous cities in Apulia are not lacking either34. Many other strands of evidence for the eighth, seventh and sixth centuries render the absence of intimate and high-level links between Greeks and Italic people in the late fifth and fourth centuries breathtakingly improbable. There is one particular argument that speaks loudly for the deep familiarity of elite Italians with Greek language and culture: their involvement with the Pythagorean movement35. Alfonso Mele’s detailed analysis of the traditions which connect Pythagoras and Pythagoreanism with the non-Greek populations of Italy begins during the philosopher’s lifetime36, when his teaching began to attract non-Greek people from the surrounding areas, according to Porphyry, quoting Dicaearchus37. It is Italian aristocrats – the “basileis” and “dynastai” – who are specifically mentioned amongst Pythagoras’ followers; in the Greek cities his followers came from a similar social stratum38. While the surviving philosophical work attributed to the Lucanian Okkelos is widely regarded as a later forgery, notice of him comes from so many different sources that a genuine historical figure of around the middle of the fifth century is likely to have stood behind the stories. At the time of the general (democratic) revolution against Pythagorean rule, reckoned to have taken place around the middle of the fifth century, Philolaus is said to have escaped the flames of the Pythagorean meeting-house in Metapontion and found refuge amongst the Lucanians39, while Aresas the Lucanian soon afterwards assumed the direction of the Pythagorean school, the fifth successor of Pythagoras40. Messapians and Peucetians are mentioned amongst the disciples of Pythagoras41, and doubtless there were Daunians too, since a Daunian bear was famously tamed by Pythagoras42. The great Tarentine ‘strategos’ of the first half of the fourth century, Archytas, is said to have travelled into the mountains of Lucania to retrieve old Pythagorean texts43. Can all of these sources be apocryphal? There are so many indications of Italic people in the Pythagorean movement, and so few obvious reasons for the stories to be fabricated, that it seems very unlikely. The implications for Italian knowledge of Greek – and not just the pidgin-Greek of commercial transactions but the most sophisticated kind of written Greek – are profound. If it is accepted that some members of the Italic elite were fluent in Greek then a number of aspects of the evidence related to Greek theatre immediately make more sense. Taplin has noted the very high number of tragedy-related vessels from Italic sites that bear accurate and legible inscriptions in Greek, in Attic Greek when the dialect can be defined (rather than the Doric one might expect in Laconian Taranto)44. For Taplin these inscriptions alone are enough to be fairly certain that the elites of towns like Ruvo both knew Greek and had seen performances of Greek drama either in Greek cites or performed by the travelling troupes that were probably in operation already in the late fifth century45. 32 33 34

35

36 37

Malkin 1998; Malkin 2004, 349. Kunze 1961; Greco 1990. Lombardo 1991, 96–99 for the inscribed bronze caduceus symbolising the alliance between Brindisi and Thurii. The issue is dealt with at greater length in Robinson 2011, 59–64. Mele 1981; also Lepore 2000, 92–94. Porph. VP 19. According to Burkert, this passage is very likely to be a genuine quotation from Dicaearchus: Burkert 1972, 122f.

38 39

40 41 42 43 44 45

Iamb. VP 254. Plu. Moralia 583; Musti 1989; Musti 1990; Musti 1989. Iamb. VP 266. Aristox. Fragmenta Historica 171 W. Porph. VP 23 = Iamb. VP 60. Mele 1981, 64. Taplin 2012, 249. Taplin 2007, 6f.

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It certainly makes more sense of a vessel I shall take as exemplary: a volute-krater attributed to the Iliupersis Painter, excavated from a rich semi-chamber tomb discovered in Ruvo in 1836 and now in the National Museum in Naples46. The scene, of Orestes sitting on an altar between Iphigenia and Pylades, would make little sense to a viewer who did not know Euripides’ Iphigenia in Tauris and who could not read Greek47. I have chosen this volute-krater from a large number of theatre-related vessels from Ruvo simply because it might have left Taras for Ruvo on the very same day that Archytas left the city for the mountains of Lucania in search of Greek philosophical texts from the Italic disciples of Pythagoras! The implications are obvious, especially since Ruvo seems to have been larger, richer and better-connected with Greek culture than any town in Lucania. There is a clash between the large numbers of highly-sophisticated theatre-vases in Italic areas and the supposed lack of sophistication of their purchasers48. Taplin puts it succinctly: “so, while I agree with Giuliani that there is a new, closer attention to tragedies in these vases, I attribute this to the viewers, not the artists. The vases are evidence that audiences, even in northern Apulia, were ready and able to relate tragedy to the great issues of the human condition and of mortality”49. I take the statement to be valid, so long as we remember that the audiences were the Hellenised elites of the indigenous settlements.

Large-scale production of theatre-related vases specifically for Italic clients Martin Revermann has recently maintained that “while it is impossible to prove that every single theatre-related drinking vessel was in fact used at a symposium, the likelihood is very high”50. It is clear that he imagines symposia in Greek cities. The implication would therefore be that a vase like the Iliupersis Painter’s volute-krater came to Ruvo via a ‘second hand market’, after a primary use in a symposium in Taras where a theatre-literate audience was able to discuss its intricacies. In considering the proposition I shall, for the sake of simplicity, initially restrict discussion to a single shape: the volute-krater, which is the largest of the forms bearing images related to Greek tragedy and the one that tended to receive complex scenes which demanded a lot from viewers in order to be understood. The following table lists all vessels from Apulia with tragedy-related scenes. Almost two thirds of the vessels were found in Peucetia, and almost one half are volute-kraters.

46

Naples, MAN inv. 82113; RVAp 8/3; RVAp 150f. From a semi-chamber tomb in via Piave: Montanaro 2007, 357–381. In the same tomb, a situla with an image perhaps even more baffling to the uninitiated: the stealing of the horses of Rhesus by the Lycurgus Painter: RVAp 16/18. Giuliani deals with both vessels in a further article on the necessity of the oral explanation of vase-images by funeral orators (apparently without realising that both vessels came from the same tomb): Giuliani 1996.

47 48 49

50

Carpenter 2010, 338f. Taplin 2007, 22. Taplin 2007, 22. I would not like to do Giuliani a disservice: his argument principally related to those most erudite, obscure and ‘literary’ representations on vases of the second half of the fourth century. Revermann 2010, 87.

326

Ruvo

25

3 (1)

1

1 8

2

2

1

Total

Plate

3

Kantharos

1

Cup

Situla

Hydria

Loutrophoros

Amphora

Bell-krater

2 (1) 2 (2)

Oinochoe

1

Pelike

Taranto

Calyx-krater

Volute-krater

Edward G. D. Robinson

10 2

1

44

Ceglie del Campo

3

3

6

Gravina

1

2

3

Altamura

1

Rutigliano

1

1

1

Gioia del Colle Conversano

2

1

1

1

Irsina

1 1

1

Total: Peucetia

59

Canosa

5

Arpi

1

Salapia

5

2

2

2

1 1

1

Total: Daunia

18

Egnazia

1

Rudiae Lecce

1

1

1

1

1

Total: Messapia Total

16

3 40

8

4

18

6

1

2

2

5

2

1

2

90

Vessels with tragedy-related scenes from Apulia, after Todisco 2003: Figures in parentheses indicate the number of vases in the total which were decorated in the Gnathia technique. I have included only vessels with a specific provenience, and for which a specific shape could be determined.

The first thing to notice is that volute-kraters are almost entirely absent from Taranto; only one is known from the site, in fragments. It came from an illegal excavation, and it is not certain whether it was a tomb-marker or came from a sanctuary or some other type of context (but a domestic context seems unlikely, given the relatively good state of preservation). One thing is certain: vases of this size (and shape) were never found i n s i d e tombs in Taranto51. Is it possible that volute-kraters were suitable for symposia in Taras but not for tombs, so they could be shipped off to the indigenous sites once their novelty had worn off? This 51

RVAp 7/29 (Black Fury Group). Taranto Inventario Generale 127081, “Atto di immissione” 691 no. 17235: Fontannaz forthcoming. On red-figured vases found in tombs in Taranto:

Hoffmann 2005. Small kraters are occasionally found in tombs but large ones were only used as ‘semata’.

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too seems relatively unlikely, and in some cases was certainly not possible. Right from the start of the Apulian sequence some volute-kraters were made without a base to their bowls: they looked like functional volute-kraters with a foot, but the bowl of the vessel was open at the bottom so that liquid poured in would simply have flowed out inside the foot52. These vessels (of which there are quite a few in Apulian red-figure) could not have had a primary function in a symposium. They were made for the grave, with the opening at the bottom presumably left by potters who knew the funerary destination of the vessels and took the opportunity to increase the chances of a successful firing by allowing greater circulation of air in the kiln53. An even greater number of volute-kraters were not glazed on the interior, and it is presumed that they would have been unable to contain wine without leaking. In other words, the majority of Apulian volute-kraters could not have been used in a symposium or have had any practical function. They were made for the grave. Their potters and painters knew this, of course, and they also knew perfectly well what sort of graves they were destined for: n o t tombs in the Greek colony (with the conceivable exception of the occasional grave-marker) but for Italic, and especially Peucetian, tombs. This of course has significant implications for all the volute-kraters with tragedy-related scenes. While the occasional volute-krater may have been made for symposia or sanctuaries in Taranto, the vast majority of volute-kraters were evidently made for Italian tombs. This is clear from the defunctionalisation of the vessels, and from the proveniences. For the many unprovenienced volute-kraters with tragedy-related scenes, there is no type of context that would plausibly produce an intact Apulian red-figured volute-krater other than an Italian tomb. This will shock no one familiar with Apulian red-figure, in which it is clear that a number of shapes and scenes were produced solely for the Peucetian market; the bestknown example amongst shapes is the column-krater, but there were many others54. Amongst scene-types, the most obvious ‘export models’ are the many vases which represent people in indigenous Italian dress, initially ‘return of the warrior’ scenes but later broadened to include scenes of hunting, warfare, symposium, sacrifice, ‘komos’ and others55. They are never found in Taranto, and their proveniences are very heavily weighted towards Peucetia56. This is also true for the hundreds, perhaps thousands of red-figured vases which show naiskoi, funeral chapels with a representation of the deceased inside. While stonebuilt naiskoi containing statues of the deceased were a feature of the necropolis of Taranto57, vessels depicting naiskoi, very common in indigenous tombs, were never buried or used as grave-markers in Taranto58. In this context, the four known Apulian vases in which theatre-masks appear in the naiskoi of young men are surely relevant59. The producers in Taranto can have been in absolutely no doubt that these vessels were destined for Italic tombs, and indeed the only one of the four with a provenience was found in Ruvo60. I would agree with Richard Green 52

53 54 55 56 57 58

First known example: RVAp 1/51 by the Sisyphus Painter. For the phenomenon: Lohmann 1982. Giuliani 1999, 43. Robinson 1990a; Colivicchi 2004; Sisto 2006. Robinson 1990a; Frielinghaus 1995. Carpenter 2003. Lippolis 1994. Fragments of one vessel from Taranto depicting a naiskos appear to be from an unfinished vase, and have been interpreted as kiln-waste:

59

60

Fontannaz 2002; Hoffmann 2002, 177–179. Stone-built ‘naiskoi’ do not appear to have been used in Italic cemeteries. Three volute-kraters and an amphora (the latter, like the volute-krater, apparently a form made overwhelmingly for funerary use). These vessels are dealt with at greater length in Robinson 2004. The name-vase of the Painter of Lecce 3544: RVAp 15/69. CVA Lecce (2) 19 pls. 33f. (where the Ruvo provenience is stated).

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that the identification of these figures as actors is excessive61. Young men in naiskoi – and virtually all men in naiskoi are shown as young, as on Attic grave-stelai – are idealised representations with idealised attributes related to the putative interests and accomplishments of the deceased (weapons, armour, hunting-dogs etc.) or to cult (phialai, kantharoi etc.). But I would reject the suggestion that the theatre-masks in naiskoi are present simply as generic references to the cult of Dionysus, which is thought to have had a vital role in South Italian funerary beliefs62. On two of the four vases the masks are not hanging on the walls of the naiskos, but are in the hands of the deceased, and surely say something more personal about the aspirations of the deceased. Remarkably, on the volute-krater in Trieste, the youth holds not a comic mask but the long-haired mask of a female63, which ought to be a tragic mask, perhaps even a ch o ru s mask64. We are perhaps not all that far from Attic funeral monuments like that found in Vari (Goette above, fig. 2.4)65. If Athenian troupes were travelling by the late fifth century, they were probably recruiting local choruses66. The most speculative interpretation of this image would involve a vase-painter in Taranto knowing that an Italian client had done duty in a chorus, and was suitably proud of the fact. The minimalist interpretation is that a vase-painter in Taranto thought that an Italian client might like to define himself, in death, using the symbolism of Greek theatre. This absolute minimum already tells us a good deal. Apulian red-figured vases with scenes of comedy are, on the whole, less obviously funerary and less obviously made for the indigenous market67. Bell-kraters, calyx-kraters and choes are the shapes most often decorated with comic scenes68; none are ‘defunctionalised’ (i. e. the kraters are glazed inside and have no holes in the bottom) and all occur quite widely in funerary contexts in Taranto69. However, if such vessels may not generally have been made specifically for the Italic market, there is no reason to assume that they were not desired nor understood by the elites of Italian towns. There are bell-kraters from Ruvo with comic scenes and inscriptions in Greek, even lines of dialogue apparently in Attic Greek, which would have made very little sense to someone who had not seen Greek comedy in performance70. The kraters were clearly not delivering messages of consolation in a funerary context, so why and how did they arrive in Ruvo71? They could conceivably have arrived on the ‘second hand market’ and have been used as glamorous yet incomprehensible allusions to Greek culture, but given all that we have seen above there seems absolutely no reason a reach such a conclusion. By the early fourth century Ruvo had been strongly connected to the wider Mediterranean world 61

62 63 64

65 66

67

Green 1995b, 100. But the fact that they are not dressed in actor-costumes, as on the Pronomos vase, should not rule out the possibility entirely. Carpenter 2010; MacLachlan 2012. Trieste inv. S 383: RVAp 15/70. By the early fourth century most tragic choruses were female. Csapo 2010a, 22. Taplin 2012, 240, believes that the choreuts mentioned amongst the third-century guilds of actors represent a phenomenon which does not pre-date the Hellenistic period. Although I argue in Robinson 2004 that the red-figured askoi bearing comic figures are very likely to have been produced especially for the indigenous Italian market.

68 69

70

71

Trendall 1967. Especially the chous, which is very common in Tarentine tombs; bell- and calyx-kraters seem more often to have been tomb-markers: Hoffmann 2002. Discussed by Taplin 2012, 249, where he refers specifically to the so-called Milan Cake-Eaters and the New York Goose vases (but there are a further four Apulian comic bell-kraters from Ruvo). While one can imagine how certain tragic scenes could have been used to console the living or praise the dead at a funeral, Taplin delivers a very convincing rebuttal to the claim that most had that function: Taplin 2007, 43–46.

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for several hundred years and the people buried with these vases – not just vaguely found associated with them but buried with them, with all that implies concerning the making of ritual statements in a funerary context – surely had the potential to be intimately familiar with their meanings. There are contrary opinions: Richard Green notes, for example: “so far as we can tell, vases decorated with ‘phlyax’ scenes were made only in Taranto and not in other centres. … The observation that comic scenes were not normally used to decorate vases made in provincial Apulian centres is an important one for questions of interpretation, since it implies that this subject-matter was less in demand or not in demand at all outside Taranto”72. But there is a problem with the logic at the basis of this statement: at the time when red-figure and Gnathia vases were produced in some of the indigenous centres of Apulia, from the 330s to the early third century, comic scenes were not normally used to decorate vases made i n Ta r a n t o . They had, for whatever reason, gone out of fashion as images to be placed on vases, but it is inconceivable that comic theatre had gone out of fashion in Taranto. While simple statistics can be useful in the study of ancient theatre-related material culture, the qualitative evidence must balance (and sometimes override) the quantitative, and the principle that “absence of evidence is not evidence of absence” should be kept in the front of the mind. Otherwise, if red-figured pottery was our only yardstick, we would be forced to conclude that the Athenians were relatively little interested in comedy in the fourth century.

Elite Italians, and analogies with Macedonian society We know relatively little in detail about the organisation of the indigenous Italian societies, and thus about the Italic elites and their exercise of power. Kings and dynasts are mentioned in the ancient sources (more than I shall list): Pausanias, for example, records a Tarentine dedication at Delphi celebrating a victory over the Peucetians, showing Opis, “King of the Iapygians” who appeared in a bronze statue group by Onatas of Aegina (early fifth century)73. There is the celebrated passage in Thucydides which documents the progress of the Athenian fleet towards Sicily in 413: they “took on board their ships some Iapygian javelin-men, one hundred and fifty in number, belonging to the Messapian tribe; and after they had renewed an old alliance of friendship with Artas, who being a chieftain there had furnished them with the javelin-men, they arrived at Metapontum”74. Artas is called a “dynastes” (chieftain) by Thucydides, while Athenaeus has him as a “basileus”75. He was evidently well-enough known in Athens to have been mentioned in Old Comedy in Demetrius’ play Sikelia76, where a pun is made which derived its humour from the similarity of the name Artas and the word ‘artos’ (loaf of bread)77. Strabo, describing a war between the Tarentines and Messapians refers to the Greeks having the support of both the king o the Daunians and the king of the Peucetians78, while according to Justin, Alexander

72 73

74 75

Green 1991a, 51. Paus. 10, 13, 10. Two Tarentine dedications are recorded and remains of the bases for the statue-groups have been discovered at Delphi: Nenci 1976; Beschi 1982; Jacquemin 1999; Vollkommer 2004. Th. 7, 33, 3–4 (translation by C. F. Smith). Ath. 3, 108f.

76

77

78

Demetrius I PCG F 1. He was a writer of Old Comedy, according to Diogenes Laertius 5, 83. Storey 2011, 317 notes the intriguing (but presumably meaningless) coincidence between the name Demetrius and that of the tragic poet on the contemporary Pronomos vase. Strabo 6, 3, 4.

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the Molossian concluded a treaty with the “king of the Apulians” soon after arriving in Italy79. But there is nothing in the archaeological record in terms of settlement hierarchy or architecture or inscriptions that would suggest the existence of large-scale kingdoms amongst the indigenous Italians. Many individual towns are mentioned in the ancient sources, called either ‘poleis’ or oppida80, and a model of autonomous polities based on the major settlements seems most plausible81. Perhaps ‘kings’ were figures appointed in times of war, as Strabo records for the Lucanians82. But while there is no clear indication of large kingdoms in Apulia, neither is there any indication of systems like the ‘polis’ of mainland Greece, much less democracy. We should imagine centres ruled by a small class of aristocrats, whose ‘princely’ tombs declare their status from the seventh century onwards83. It is quite instructive to compare South Italy with other regions to which Greek theatre spread in the fifth and fourth centuries, and about which we have much more information: Illyria and (especially) Macedonia. While in both of those places large kingdoms emerged, there are some striking similarities. For example, elite Macedonian and Illyrian tombs of the fifth and fourth centuries contain the same sorts of riches, along with armour and weapons, that are familiar from Italic sites (but foreign to the cemeteries of central Greece and to those of the colonies in South Italy). The many links have been explored in depth at two of the annual conferences in Taranto84; a burial of astounding richness discovered at Timmari (in eastern Peucetia) may be the tomb of a Molossian general, or even of the Molossian Alexander himself85. The links may be deeper than simple trade contacts and military alliances: the local language of Apulia is not Italic but Illyrian in origin86, and the origin-myth of the Iapygians which mentions Illyria may not be without some foundation87. Already at the end of the fifth century, such was the interest in the Athenian theatre that figures of the stature of Euripides and Agathon could be enticed to Macedonia88. Euripides in his Archelaus invented for the Macedonian king a lineage going back to Herakles, and he may have received a commission to perform a similar type of service for the Molossians in his Andromache89. Moloney’s excellent paper in this volume questions whether the Archelaus was performed in a theatre in Macedonia, and wonders instead about the large sympotic spaces discovered at Pella. The decoupling of theatrical performance from regular festivals by the Macedonians, whether through the performance of extracts from plays in symposia90 or the creation of ad hoc festivals to celebrate victories, weddings or 79

80 81

82

83

84

He is said to have had his capital in Brindisi: Just. Epit. 12, 2, 5–12. Lombardo 1992. The ethnics on the city-coins from the late fourth century point in the same direction: Stazio 1987. Strabo 6, 1, 3 (C 254); Isayev 2007, 130. Note that all of the passages listed above refer to kings in the context of warfare. Bottini 1982; Serra di Vaglio in northern Basilicata has the best claim to be the seat of a kingdom, but this is far from certain: Bottini 2007. Magna Grecia, Epiro e Macedonia 1985; Alessandro il Molosso e i ‘condottieri’ in Magna Grecia 2004.

85

86 87 88 89

90

Alexander died in battle at the Italic site of Pandosia in 331. For Timmari Tomb 33: Canosa 2007. De Simone 1989. Lombardo 1991. Csapo 2010a, 99f.; Moloney, this volume. Moloney above, where he notes the possible link to the Molossian king Tharyps, resident in Athens in the 420s. A Ruvan dynast’s trip to Athens would probably have cost less time than Tharyps’. Documented from the time of Philip: Csapo 2010a, 173.

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funerals was a conscious decision and one that would have enormous ramifications for the performance of Greek plays. These and other perspectives on Macedonian theatre – such as the production of theatre primarily for an elite and its use to define social and political divisions – may be useful in understanding developments in South Italy. Perhaps most relevant is the potential for theatre to enter the private sphere. Csapo notes the appearance of aspects of drama in private symposia in Athens from the late fifth century, but rather than the small Athenian symposium in which intimate and egalitarian pleasures were shared amongst peers, it is the mass banquets documented for Greek kings and tyrants that seem to have encouraged and given space to theatrical performance91. While Greek symposium vessels were imported into indigenous south Italian sites in large numbers from the sixth century onwards, it is anything but clear that the institution of the Greek symposium accompanied them. An immediate counter-indication is the fact that Italic women were often buried with symposium vases92. The consistent presence in elite tombs of very large metal vessels and meat-hooks for the boiling of meat and spits and andirons for roasting give much more the impression of a large banquet than a symposium93. And one can imagine too that the politics of these banquets were more like those of the Persians and Macedonians, as described by Csapo: “the bonds formed at banquets like this worked vertically, between guest and host, not horizontally between guests. Royal banquets formed part of a gift economy that tended to isolate the recipient in a one-to-one relationship that connected them to the king. The royal gift economy is, however, a profoundly unequal exchange: designed to bind the receiver with a duty of loyalty and service, without binding the giver to more than a discretionary undertaking to reward continued loyalty and service”94. This is the political economy into which private theatre entered in the Macedonian world, and it would not be hard to imagine a version of the same system in Italy, where the patron/client set of social relationships (and dining practices!) is so well documented. The relevance of the Macedonian situation does not end there. If, at Ecbatana in the time of Alexander the Great “three thousand independent performers were apparently ready to drop everything at a moment’s notice and travel for weeks into the desert to perform in a hostile and barbarian land for troops few of them would consider Greek, let alone sufficiently cultivated to appreciate the subtleties of their art”95 it is very far from implausible that actors were able make the much less arduous journey from Taranto or Metaponto to Ruvo96. It is hard to disagree with Revermann that “a big and exciting story awaits to be told about the shift from whole-length, public, outdoor presentation of drama in front of a heterogeneous crowd of spectators to the fragmented re-contextualisation (mostly) indoors by individuals or troupes to small homogeneous groups with strong socio-economic and ideological bonds”97. Moloney’s view, expressed above, that theatre’s 91

92 93

Csapo 2010a, 170–177; note the hundredcouch tent used at Alexander the Great’s wedding celebration in Susa, at which comedy and tragedy were performed: Le Guen, this volume. Herring – Whitehouse – Wilkins 2000. Giorgi – Martinelli – Osanna 1988, 241–254; Kohler – Naso 1991; the banquet was already well-known amongst the Etruscans and Romans, e.g. Rathje 1995, Zaccaria Ruggiu 2003. Homeric overtones: D’Agostino 1999.

94 95 96

97

Csapo 2010a, 176; Dietler 1999; Dietler 2001. Csapo 2010a, 174; Le Guen, this volume. That such actors existed and were highly mobile cannot be doubted: according to Demosthenes (3, 83) the actor Aristodemos of M e t a p o n t u m (who had already won at the Lenaean Festival around 370) was a highly-paid member of an Athenian diplomatic delegation to Macedon in the 340s: Csapo 2010a, 87. Revermann 2010, 93.

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success beyond Classical Athens lay in the fact that it was adaptable to meet very different needs, is one with which I fully concur when the South Italian evidence is considered. The indigenous inhabitants of South Italy show a consistent interest in acquiring vases showing complex, theatre-related scenes from the second half of the fifth century until the end of the fourth, but these objects are almost entirely restricted to the burials of those at the apex of Italian society. The producers (mostly in Taranto and Metaponto) were aware that the only possible destination of many of the vases (e.g. large volute-kraters) was the indigenous Italian market. The consumers were a group that is likely to have been able to speak and read Greek. If there was a need for images of complex, ‘literary’ representations of myth or theatre to be explained, it would have been felt just as keenly by most Greeks. Italic societies were organised in a much more hierarchical fashion than those of the Greek ‘poleis’, and displays of wealth and status are frequent in Italian tombs. Some Italian aristocrats surely saw Greek theatre in performance, either in Athens or in the South Italian (or Sicilian) colonies, perhaps on visits undertaken as part of ‘xenia’ relationships. If Greek theatre was performed locally, it is unlikely to have been in a festival context, as much as the cult of Dionysus appears to have been wildly popular, since a large proportion of the population would not have understood Greek. Local performances, perhaps by troupes of Greek actors, were likely to have been much more private affairs more on the Macedonian model, aimed at enhancing the status of the society’s most powerful and binding the invitees deeper into a web of obligation. As an epilogue I’d like to consider briefly the trajectory of Greek theatre beyond the elite level of society in South Italy. The process through which high-status objects and practices are emulated by non-elites (often resulting in their abandonment by elites) has been well documented by anthropologists98, and is visible in operation in South Italy: a number of types of objects (for example, perfume-vessels such as squat lekythoi and alabastra) are restricted to elite Italic tombs in the fifth century, but become widespread in cemeteries in the fourth. But the process does not seem to be particularly marked for Greek theatre. Even when red-figured vases begin to be made in Peucetia and Daunia, from the 330s99, theatrerelated subjects continue to be confined to the large forms like volute-kraters, amphorae and loutrophoroi, and to be found in the now-enormous chamber tombs of the elite. The social and linguistic gap may have been as large in 300 as it had been in 450. Appropriation of Greek theatre further down the social ladder may have seen important information ‘lost in translation’, leading to the misunderstood theatre-masks on Gnathia vases referred to at the start of this paper. Translation, of course, was just over the horizon: just after the middle of the third century it seems that plays were performed in Rome in Latin100, and the practice of performance in Italian languages may well have begun earlier, to the south101.

98 99 100

E.g. Appadurai 1986. Robinson 1990b. Feeney 2005.

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The intriguing half-masked figure in late fourthcentury Paestum tomb-paintings may be an indication in this direction: Pontrandolfo 1992.

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Regional Theatre in the Fourth Century. The Evidence of Comic Figurines of Boeotia, Corinth and Cyprus J. Richard Green

We are inevitably athenocentric in our view of Greek theatre, and we tend for example to think of so-called phlyax vases in a direct relationship to Attic; but many other centres produced comedy in the fourth century. This paper attempts to explore, albeit in a preliminary way, some aspects of the bigger picture of fourth-century theatre through a quick glance at a selection of regional material. It is concerned in part with defining the style of comic performers, mostly terracotta figurines, of some non-Athenian centres, and then with using that evidence in assessing the possible degrees of independence of their local traditions in the face of the sophisticated Athenian product. As a first example we may glance at a fragment of red-figure pottery in Olympia. It has been known for some years but has only recently seen publication (fig. 13.1)1. The man depicted on it is clearly a comic actor, not far from Athenian in style, complete with his curving, knobbly staff. It is hardly surprising since the red-figure of Elis seems likely to have arrived with the people around Phidias when he went to Olympia to construct the Zeus or with others who came to join them soon after2. The piece should in any case be dated within the fifth century. One supposes a vase-painter would not have created such a scene for sale to a public that had no idea of the subject-matter. It implies a knowledge of theatre performance. What is important too is the motif, of an actor in company with a person who is not an actor, a female piper, rather like a satyr pursuing a maenad. It is possibly our earliest example, I should think a little before our earliest South Italian example, a piece associated with the circle of the Amykos Painter3. Another early site of theatre performance to bear in mind is that of Cyrene in North Africa, and here again it seems to come directly from Athens. In this case we are dealing with a figurine that is an absolutely straightforward depiction of a hetaira in a popular

1

2

For the initial publication of the piece, see Froning 2009, 117 fig. 5. McPhee 1990; note also Trendall – McPhee 1984; Trendall – McPhee 1986. One may also note the 15 Attic white-ground lekythoi from Elis published by Serbeti 2001: such objects normally imply the presence of Athenians. M. Bentz 2009. 2013 has published important Attic pottery from throughout the fifth century, of which there is less than one might have expected, and there are other items in Yalouris

3

1996 fig. 176f., together with a piece of local red-figure at fig. 178. Fundamental is Schiering 1964. Note also Sinn 1978 and Georgiadou 2009. Once Freiburg i. Br., Galerie Günter Puhze: Kunst der Antike 11 (n. d. [1995]) no. 205 (colour ill.); Puhze calendar for May 1995 (detail). On the nature of the motif, see Green 1995b. Bakola 2010, 112 with n. 102 and Taplin 2011 failed to observe the early examples and came to misleading conclusions.

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Fig. 13.1. Olympia, Archaeological Museum: Red-figure krater fragments from Olympia.

type from the so-called New York Group (fig. 13.2)4. The important thing about it is that it is made of local clay. Someone in Cyrene thought it worthwhile to make a careful copy from an imported figurine, and while it is of course possible that this was a random, meaningless exercise, there is surely a good chance that it is evidence for local theatre production. And the chance is increased by the now well-known relief which Chamoux is certainly right to believe shows Heracles leading back Alcestis and that it is inspired by Euripides’ play at a date that cannot really be much later than 4005. 4

Paris, Louvre inv. MN 642. MMC3 AT 10e (with earlier refs); Green 1994, 36 fig. 2.14; Jeammet 2003, 133 no. 79 (colour ill.); Jeammet 2010, 74 no. 36 (colour ill.); Hart 2010, 126 no. 67. One may note that at 8.5 cm high, it is smaller than the example in New York (AT 10a: 10.7 cm) or the one in London (AT 10c:

5

9.5 cm), in this respect revealing its secondary nature. Chamoux 1998. See also Ceccarelli – Milanezi 2007 with their further references to trade between Athens and Libya. The relief, Cyrene, Museum inv. 15003, is well illustrated in Wünsche 2003, 205 fig. 31.2. On the pottery trade,

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Fig. 13.2. Paris, Louvre inv. MN 642: Hetaira from Cyrene. Ht 8.5 cm.

Another piece from Cyrene that seems to be a copy manufactured locally is a figurine of a brothel-keeper (fig. 13.3)6. It is again of a purely Athenian type, and it happens to be in better condition than the example preserved in Athens, which is more worn as well as from a tireder mould and without the detailed modelling in the face (fig. 13.4)7. Note that she has a yellow chiton, a purple-red himation, and of course a whitened face that is typical

6

see Elrashedy 2002. The presence of small choes and the occasional loutrophoros may well suggest the existence of Athenians there at this period. Note also the Exeter pelike with the scene at the Tomb of Agamemnon; difficult as it is, it may suppose knowledge of theatre. Paris, Louvre inv. MN 638 (N 4878). MMC3 AT 70a (with earlier refs.); Besques 1992, no.

7

C 647; Hughes 2006, 51 fig. 5; Jeammet 2010, 74 no. 35 (colour ill.). Athens, National Archaeological Museum inv. 6074 (P 398). MMC3 AT 70b pl. IVc–d. This preserves traces of red on the face (thus showing up a different aspect of her character), blue on the chiton, and white and red on the himation. For earlier versions of the type, see MMC3 AT 17.

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Fig. 13.3a–b. Paris, Louvre inv. MN 638 (N 4878): Old woman (brothel-keeper?) from Cyrene. Ht 8 cm.

of these sorts of women7a. One supposes that it dates to somewhere in the first half of the fourth century, the Athens example perhaps nearer the middle. From here on we shall concentrate on terracotta figurines, looking at their subjectmatter and style. Athenian is of course dominated by the New York Group although we should remember that there were a few, but not many, others. The series begins at or a little before 400 and they are still important numerically by the time of the sack of Olynthus in 348. They have often been thought to derive from metal figurines and one has to admit that the late fifth century is a high period for metalwork, especially in relief, but the care and fine detail is perhaps better thought of as being an aspect of the so-called Rich Style, applied to something as improbable as figurines of something so crude as comic actors. It is curious too that the New York Group is still a self-contained series, without any hint of similar material for any other class of material outside these theatrerelated pieces. 7a

Among the comic poets see, for example, Eubulus PCG F 98.

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Fig. 13.4a–b. Athens, National Archaeological Museum inv. 6074 (P 398). Old woman (brothel-keeper?). Ht 7.3 cm.

Well known as they are, those who rely on photographs have only a poor idea of their actual character. This is in part because most examples are known only from frontal views, and one rarely sees three-quarter, side or back views8. The figurines were conceived in the round and there is in fact no single good viewpoint from which to look at them. The drapery is reasonably subtle in its contrast between complex and simple, and in the interplay of tension points with folds. Notice too the tilt of the head which offers a certain engagement with the viewer, as the character surely did on stage. We shall see that this technique was employed in other centres as well.

8

Notable exceptions are Jeammet 2010 and another useful exhibition catalogue, Trofimova – Piotrovskij 2005.

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Fig. 13.5. New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art inv. 13.225.28: Young adult male, his head covered, Attic, from Athens, New York Group. Ht 10.8 cm.

The point about their being conceived in the round is even more obvious with pieces such as a standing male in New York (fig. 13.5)9. Again there is a tilt in the head and the departure from the vertical is continued down in what one might call a series of sub-Polyclitan shifts right down to the feet. The detail is fine but not exaggerated. One might even discern an Attic grace in the handling even of so gross a figure. These are all elements that characterise the Attic style.

Boeotia Much more difficult is the case of Boeotia. Although there has been considerable discussion of Kabirion vases in recent years, the terracotta figurines of what are clearly comic 9

New York, Met. Mus. inv. 13.225.28. MMC3 AT 18a (with refs.). In addition to AT 18b (Athens, National Archaeological Museum inv. 4463), there is now a further example of the type in the Goulandris collection inv. 143, from

Thera: Doumas – Marangou 1978, 323 no. 196; Marangou 1985, 135 no. 202 (ill.); Marangou 1996, 136 (ill.); Kahlau – Rügler 2006, 79 fig. 173. Worn and battered, missing below the knees, but once a good version with crisp detail.

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actors have largely been ignored, ignored in fact since the time of scholars such as Koerte10. The overall pattern is reasonably straightforward. The earlier figurines are of a local style that make the Attic look almost couth, and they imply a local style of comedy. The later figurines, as we shall see, are atticising and suggest that Athenian comedy was becoming dominant as one approaches the later part of the fourth century. But there is the distinct possibility of overlap, when the two styles were competing. One should also bear in mind that different regions within Boeotia may have been doing things slightly differently. I am conscious that Violaine Jeammet is beginning to distinguish Theban from Tanagran in her recent catalogue of figurines in the Louvre, but there is some way to go yet on these issues, particularly where comic figurines are concerned11. From the history of terracottas as a whole in a slightly later period, one might expect Tanagra to be more inclined to Athens than was Thebes12. The most popular type (six examples are listed in MMC3) is of a somewhat heavily built male standing with his legs apart, his right hand held within his himation up near his chin (figs. 13.6–7)13. He is bearded and wears a wreath or fillet on his head. He seems to hold a torch (rather than a club) in his left hand14. He is given a prominent belly and a large, flaccid phallos: it is unclear if it is attached to the outside of the himation or if the garment is somehow parted to expose it15. The face is shown as coarse and unattractive by normal Greek standards: the beard is straggly – so far as this can be shown in a terracotta – the nose is large and pendulous, the eyes are made prominent. There is some change of detail within the series; for example they become slightly neater in their handling. I would suppose that they begin early in the fourth century and that they continue for some time. A somewhat later type, though still from within the first half of the century, is represented by a well-known figurine in the Louvre (fig. 13.8)16. From the fact that he has a polos and wears effeminate dress, the figurine should surely be Dionysus. This pose, with the weight on one leg, is typical of all the Boeotian series. So is the tilt of the head; it is somewhat exaggerated by Athenian standards. The drapery is fairly complex. A figurine in Copenhagen (fig. 13.9), though classically Boeotian in its style, is showing Athenian influence in the looped phallos and to some extent the form of the mask

10

11

On Kabirion vases, see more recently the illustrations and brief comments in Boardman 1998, 258 and figs. 506–510; Maffre 2000, together with a fuller study by Daumas 1998, also Daumas 2001. She sees them as reflecting ritual performances with elements of parody and burlesque, rather than formal, scripted drama, a view in which she is generally followed by Maffre. Note also Stansbury-O’Donnell 2009, although he does not claim that the scenes represent comedy, and Schachter 2003 who sees no connection with comedy. Körte 1893 represented a major step in the development of our subject, and it was he who inspired Webster’s interest when the latter worked with him for a while in the later 1920s (and indeed became a family friend). Jeammet 2010, 111–131 and the section by Bouquillon et al. in it, 228–231.

12

13 14

15

16

See for example the opinions of Kleiner 1984, and more recently Lönnqvist 1997. MMC3 BT 1a–f, with refs. Jeammet takes it as a club and the figure therefore as Heracles; also Wünsche 2003, 379 fig. 61.11 (colour) on Munich inv. 5391 (MMC3 BT 1b). He would make a somewhat improbable Heracles. For an example of a phallos seemingly attached to the front of a himation, see the type of MMC3 AT 1 and the plastic vase AV 2, e.g. Trumpf-Lyritzaki 1969, pl. 13d. pl. 31c. The plastic vase is illustrated in colour in Grewenig 1998, 72. It dates to about 400. Paris, Louvre inv. CA 1627. MMC3 BT 10 (with refs.).

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Fig. 13.7. Once [1976] London, market: Reveller with torch, Boeotian. Ht 13.4 cm.

Fig. 13.6. Munich, Staatliche Antikensammlungen und Glyptothek inv. 6929: Reveller with torch, Boeotian. Ht 16 cm.

which approaches the Athenian mask H17. We may note the disposition of the legs as well as their individual construction from rolls of clay. In terms of style, note too the browlines, the fussy hair, the outlined eyes, and yet relatively simple treatment of the beard. The drapery tends to be complex and at times fussy without the overall structure of the Attic. Compare fig. 13.5 from which it seems to be derived. The Heidelberg hetaira (fig. 13.10), similarly, could never be taken for Athenian, but there are clear echoes of Athenian in the conception of the type18. The drapery is very like that of the Dionysus-figure in the Louvre (fig. 13.8) and it is tempting to see them as products of the same workshop. The treatment of the face of the mask also betrays the figurine’s Boeotian origins.

17

Copenhagen, Nat. Mus. inv. 4738, from Boeotia. Ht 9.2 cm. Breitenstein 1941, no. 328 pl. 39; Hjortsø 1980, 51 fig. 37c; MMC3 95 BT 7. Reddish brown clay, remnants of white slip and blue-green paint on mantle.

18

Heidelberg inv. TK 319 (no recorded provenience). Ht 15 cm. Pfisterer-Haas 1989, 147 no. VI.12 fig. 151. Not in MMC3.

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Fig. 13.8. Paris, Louvre inv. CA 1627: Dionysus wearing polos, Boeotian. Ht 13 cm.

341

Fig. 13.9. Copenhagen, NM inv. 4738: Local version of the type of Fig. 12.5, from Boeotia. Ht 9.2 cm.

Later pieces tend to have the phallos looped like the Copenhagen figurine (fig. 13.9) rather than hanging, again no doubt an influence from Athenian. The man with wreath or fillet carrying a young goat is apparently a popular type (fig. 13.11)19. What is evident in this series, and most obviously on the examples in Paris and Munich, is that the figures are now wearing leggings – like their Athenian counterparts. It could be dangerous to simply assume that the phenomenon is an element of stage performance borrowed directly from Athens: it is possible that actual Boeotian performers had worn them throughout but that the coroplasts had chosen not to make them explicit. One could imagine that Boeotians too had been in the habit of concealing a performer’s identity with full covering of the body except for hands and feet. It may be that the practice of showing them had been adopted from elsewhere, whether Athens or indeed Corinth (see below). This said, the style of this series is incontrovertibly Boeotian.

19

MMC3 BT 14a (Berlin inv. TC 8265, from Thespiae), BT 14b (Paris, Louvre inv. CA 239, “from Greece”), BT 14c (Athens, National Ar-

chaeological Museum inv. 12631, ex coll. Papadimas).

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Fig. 13.10. Heidelberg, Antikenmuseum of the University inv. TK 319: Hetaira in elaborate dress and with hair in topknot, Boeotian. Ht 15 cm.

Chronology is a major problem. A pedestal base is normally a sign of later rather than earlier, and it would not be surprising if these ram-bearers are contemporary with Athenian New Comedy. Similarly the man with knobbly knees carrying a tambourine is quite likely later than he looks (fig. 13.12)20. He was found in the same grave as some miniature masks which are patently of the early phase of New Comedy as we see it in Athens. And then, in the later part of the fourth century, as in so many centres, we have more and more direct copies of Athenian types, manufactured in a local clay. They surely indicate a comedy that is Athenian, of Athenian style, or something very like it. These are of the phase transitional to New Comedy. In brief, Boeotian theatre loses its independence steadily as the century wears on, even if it began by being quite different. The nature of the comedy represented by the earlier figurines (if comedy is the right word) would seem to have been festive, evoking 20

Paris, Louvre inv. CA 540, from Boeotia. MMC3 BT 24; Dugdale 2008, 17 left (shown in mirror-image); Jeammet 2010, 73 no. 33 (colour ill.). Jeammet takes the manufacture as Attic, presumably on the basis of the clay, but

the style as well as the provenience indicate Boeotia – which is not to say that it could not have been manufactured in provincial Attica under Boeotian influence.

Regional Theatre in the Fourth Century

Fig. 13.11. Athens, National Archaeological Museum inv. 12631, ex coll. Papadimas: Man with a goat on his shoulders, Boeotian. Ht 14.2 cm.

Fig. 13.12a–c. Paris, Louvre inv. CA 540: Man with tympanon from Boeotia. Ht 12 cm.

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Fig. 13.13. Athens, National Archaeological Museum inv. 5815 (CC 1927, old cat. 1391): Corinthian red-figure stemless bell-krater, said to be from Boeotia. Ht 24.5 cm.

happiness and the good times but otherwise relatively limited in its scope: ritual theatre if one wishes to use such a term21.

Corinth Corinth is exceptional in mainland Greece in having a series of red-figure vases with comic scenes in the fourth century. We all know the vase in the National Archaeological Museum, Athens (fig. 13.13; pl. 15.3), showing on its obverse a pair of slaves for some reason attempting women’s work, with pestles at a mortar, and being attacked by geese who know they don’t belong in what one supposes is a domestic courtyard22. The mortar has a row of white dots just above the lip, and the pestles held by the figures have marks near their ends, presumably representing the grain or the hulls of the grain they were pounding. What I don’t know is why there is a piece of string or a ribbon tied around the neck of the holmos: perhaps it was decorative and celebratory – the masks of the actors are fitted with elaborate wreaths, seen more easily from in front of the vase and in the drawing published by Körte than in 21

22

Nielsen 2001, and her briefer version (2000), although she is mostly concerned with the places of performance. Athens, National Archaeological Museum inv. 5815 (CC 1927, old cat. 1931), said to be from Boeotia. Stemless bell-krater. Ht 24.5 cm. PhV2 25 no. 14; Körte 1894; Bieber 1961, 48 fig. 203; Ghiron-Bistagne 1976, 244 fig. 94; Corinth, VII 4 34. 47 pl. 29, lower right; McPhee 1997, 118 no. 35; Froning 2002, 88

fig. 199; MMC3 98, CV 2. On the objects and their use, see recently Villing 2009, and, for comments on males at the mortar and this vase in particular, 326 and n. 45. For an additional representation of a woman at work at a holmos, see the terracotta figurine from Akanthos: Kaltsas 1998, 65 t. 1427. 70 no. 1119. pl. 72. It was found in the grave of a young woman along with figurines of bread-making and bread-baking. Also Tsoukala 2009. 2012.

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Fig. 13.15. Corinth, Mus. inv. C-70–380. CP-534. CP-2710: Fragments of Corinthian red-figure calyx-krater, from Corinth. Est. diam. lip 29.5 cm.

Fig. 13.14. Corinth, Mus. inv. C-70–380: Fragment of Corinthian red-figure cup, from Corinth. Max. dim. 4.1 cm.

Fig. 13.16. Corinth, Mus. inv. C-73–195: Fragment of Corinthian red-figure oinochoe (?), from Corinth. Max. dim. 3.3 cm.

modern photographs. The symbolism of the male pestle pounding the female mortar was not lost on fifth- and fourth-century Greeks, but whether it was made overt in the performance here, we cannot know. Their costume approaches Attic standards very closely with sleeves and leggings, phalloi, and some padding – but note that it is not as pronounced as in Attic. There are of course at least two more pieces with comic scenes. The one is from a cup and has a figure with a short chiton – therefore a slave? – carrying a jug (fig. 13.14)23. The other is from a calyx-krater and has a hunched, white-haired old man and his slave who is turned away from him (fig. 13.15)24. The slave has classically unkempt hair. The old man looks very like figures one sees in Sicilian. Indeed if it were not from Corinth and patently made of Corinthian clay, one might be forgiven for thinking it Sicilian25. The potential links are fascinating. In dealing with these sorts of issues, we have tended to forget Corinth’s close trading ties with the West, ties that had lasted over centuries. If we concentrate on the middle and later fourth century, we can point for example to the links evident in the copying of Corinthian metalware shapes in Gnathia pottery in Taranto, in the sharing of a particular form of bell-krater that appears only in Tarentine Gnathia (not red-figure interestingly enough) and in contemporary Corinthian, and then in even the importation of a certain amount of Gnathia pottery in Corinth26. The fragment C-73–195 (fig. 13.16), probably from an oinochoe, is likely to show a comic actor, and it was taken as such by McPhee, but there is not enough to be absolutely 23

24

Corinth inv. C-70–380, from Corinth. Max. dim. 4.1 cm. Corinth, VII 4 no. 176 pl. 29. PhV2 25 no. 15; MMC3 98 CV 3; Corinth, VII 4, 47 no. 73 pl. 14; McPhee 1983, 151 fig. 9 (the profile); McPhee 1997, 118f. no. 37 pl. 41.

25

26

For actual Sicilian red-figure found in Corinth, see McPhee – Pemberton 2004, nos. 1–2. McPhee 1997. For Gnathia pottery in Corinth, see for example Pemberton 1970.

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Fig. 13.17a–b. Groningen, University: Man with tympanon, said to be from Corinth. Ht 12 cm.

sure27. It has a bearded head shown frontal, with a spiked fillet done in white washed with dilute glaze. It should belong to the earlier half of the fourth century, perhaps the second quarter rather than the first28. Corinthian comic terracottas are relatively plentiful29. A series from the earlier part of the fourth century has a distinctive style. The example in the University collection in Groningen is a good example although somewhat more complex than most (fig. 13.17)30. We may compare with it a fragment found in the Potters’ Quarter at Corinth31. The most distinctive element is the bell-shaped chiton together with the fact that they were manufactured free-hand and not mould-made apart from the heads – and note the simple legs formed from rolls of clay. Even the phallos has its own style, but in terms of comparison with Attic practice, it may be important to note that some, and perhaps the earlier ones, 27

28

Corinth C-73–195, from Corinth. Max. dim. 3,3 cm. McPhee 1983, 151 no. 47 pl. 41. Two fragments from a small bell-krater were taken by Trendall as comic, but I see no sign of comic costume and I believe they are grotesque, funny in that sense but not comic in our sense, as one also sees commonly in South Italy: Corinth inv. CP-2577 + C 31.83.83, from Corinth. PhV2 25 no. 16; Trendall 1962, 22 no. 15 bis pl. 1, 1; Corinth, VII 4, 52 no. 87 pl. 15; MMC3 98 CV 4.

29

30

31

For a useful recent overview of Corinthian terracottas, see Merker 2003, but she does not give particular emphasis to the dramatic figurines. Groningen, University, no inv. no., said to be from Corinth. Ht 12 cm. MMC3 CT 3 (with earlier refs.). Corinth inv. KT 16–28, from the Potters’ Quarter. Pres. ht 3.9 cm. Corinth, XV 2, 145 no. 18 pl. 29; MMC3 CT 2c. A. N. Stillwell noted several other fragments of identical type.

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Fig. 13.18a–b. Athens, National Archaeological Museum inv. 12556: Woman leaning forward and holding a large skyphos with both hands, Corinthian. Ht 14.6 cm.

have the phallos hanging loose whereas others, including the piece illustrated here, have it tied up. The theme of the figures is fairly generic and the range of types limited, without the implication of a complex script with its multiplicity of roles that one sees in Attic32. The example in Groningen (fig. 13.17) has the figure playing a tympanon, but in the others, the arms (where preserved) are outstretched. In its subject-matter, but not its style, the figure reminds us of Boeotian33: at this point both communities seem to have had a comparatively simple kind of theatre when contrasted with Attic. When they begin to manufacture mould-made figurines, there is nonetheless something one could define as a Corinthian style. For one thing the modelling is more lively and has a plasticity that is less evident in Attic. The faces carry more expression, partly through the treatment of the eyes and brows, and beards tend to be rougher, more modelled, not surface-decorated in the way that they are in Attic. Among the more interesting figurines is one of a woman holding a large skyphos (fig. 13.18)34. The style is clearly Corinthian, as is the clay. There is blue on the himation,

32

33

Other examples include London, BM inv. 1867.2–5.22 (MMC3 CT 2a) and Boston, MFA inv. 01.8012 which is possibly the same as the one noticed by Körte 1893, 78 no. 17. Compare the well-known piece in the Louvre inv. CA 479. Bieber 1961, fig.179; MollardBesques 1971, 70 no. C 642 pl. 96b; MMC3

34

AT 63. Besques pointed out that the clay is neither Attic nor Boeotian. For the motif, compare here fig. 13.12 and also MMC3 XT 4. Athens, National Archaeological Museum inv. 12556. MMC3 CT 12. It was already compared there with the female from the painted scene in Würzburg.

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Fig. 13.19. Würzburg, Martin von Wagner Museum inv. H 5697: Apulian red-figure bell-krater. Ht 18.5 cm.

red for the skyphos and for her hair, flesh-colour for the face and arms and perhaps pink for the chiton. The immediate question that springs to mind is whether it has anything to do with the scene from Thesmophoriazusae (fig. 13.19)35. She is dressed much the same, with her himation coming over the back of her head, and, importantly, the fall of the drapery around her legs suggests that she is moving forward like the one in the scene in Würzburg. The equation is not impossible. Drink-crazed women are of course a topos of Athenian Old and Middle Comedy, and presumably a lowest common denominator of Athenian so35

Würzburg inv. H 5697. Ht 18.5 cm. KossatzDeissmann 1980, pl. 60; Beckel 1983, 134f. no. 60 (colour ill.); Trendall 1989, ill. 109; Csapo 1986; Taplin 1987a; Taplin 1987b; Taplin 1993, pl. 11 no. 4; Green 1994, 64 fig. 3.37; Green – Handley 1995, 52 fig. 27; Schmidt 1993, 29f. fig. 1; CVA Würzburg (4) pl. 4, 1–4 (with further refs.); Sinn – Weh-

gartner 2001, 114f. no. 50 (colour ill.); Moraw – Nölle 2002, 87 fig. 118 (Froning); McDonald – Walton 2007, 126 fig. 1; Denoyelle – Iozzo 2009, 132 fig. 191; Csapo 2010, 54 fig. 2.3; Hart 2010, 109 fig. 3.5; RVAp I 65 no. 4/4a. Attributed to the Schiller Painter and perhaps by him; ca 370. Note the small size of the vase and therefore the image.

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ciety in general. On the other hand this is the only dramatic figurine I know from any manufacturing centre with a woman holding a skyphos36. It would seem that the type did not become popular as a conventional character, and for that reason the probability of our figurine’s reflecting Thesmophoriazusae increases37. We are accustomed to the repetition of images with scenes from Menander, and so such a phenomenon should not be completely surprising in the context of Old and Middle Comedy. There are parallels of a kind. For example the series of reliefs on some South Italian (probably Lucanian) black-glaze gutti, though of the late fourth century, re-use metal reliefs of the late fifth century38. One could also point to other examples. I am very tempted by the possibility of Thesmophoriazusae in Corinth. Indeed it is difficult to see any other explanation for the figurine. And if it does reflect that scene, who took the play or the image from the play to South Italy, the Athenians or the Corinthians? Certainly there was a long gap in time between production of the play in Athens in 411 and the representation now in Würzburg which cannot be earlier than, say, 380 and could easily belong around 370. Furthermore one might reasonably claim that figurines imply a popular market with multiple sales. There are many other questions to be raised, and I hope to come back to them on another occasion. If we move on to figurines of Heracles, it is worth remembering that he is of course the commonest male figure. There are three main versions. The type of MMC3 AT 26, with him leaning on his club, is the most frequent in the Attic sequence. He stands cross-legged and carries his bow and quiver in his left hand. The lion-paws are knotted on his chest. The skin in this version is noticeably shaggy. His chiton is dotted (as regularly in the New York Group) and the phallos looped. The example from Delphi (fig. 13.20) is the best as well as the most detailed, and there is no supporting zone between his club and his legs39. The example in Berlin is also from fairly early in the series40. Pieces from further on in the sequence of the type have the legs reinforced by having them in relief against a ground. This is true already in the example from Melos in the British Museum which still preserves quite good detail41. In the better examples, there is fine detailing, for instance for the teeth of the lion above the brow, for wrinkles on the forehead, the dots of curly hair and beard, the knobs of the side of the club, and so on. The mouth is shown as extraordinarily wide, as seems to have been typical of the hero in comedy. 36

37

There are occasional non-dramatic ones such as Paris, Louvre inv. CA 2295, from Pantikapaion: Mollard-Besques 1971, no. D 323 pl. 70a, or the well-modelled piece published by Peredolskaya 1964, pl. 5, 1–2, but even they are surprisingly rare. Contrast the popularity of the drunken old woman with lagynos in Hellenistic and Roman sculpture, not to mention the red-slipped plastic vases from Roman North Africa. A figurine in Lipari (inv. 3243) seems at first sight to be a candidate for the motif, but on close inspection, the woman in fact holds a cooking pot: e.g. Bernabò Brea 1981, 95 fig. 140. On the other hand Lipari inv. 10782 (Bernabò Brea 1981, 93 fig. 132 colour pl. 15a) and inv. 15210k (Bernabò Brea 2001, 99 fig. 98b) have an old woman with an askos. At least the coroplast got the handles of the skyphos in the right position, whereas the vase-

38

39

40

41

painter, working in two dimensions, was more concerned to demonstrate that it was a skyphos, not a bowl. For a full discussion of this and related issues, see the forthcoming study by the author and Adrienne Lezzi-Hafter, but see in the meanwhile my comments in Green 1994, 66, and then in 2006, with further refs. MMC3 AT 26i, Delphi inv. 4320, from Delphi, ht 11.9 cm; FdD V 163 no. 294 pl. 22, 2 (Perdrizet); Bieber 1920, no. 73; Himmelmann 1994, 108 fig. 49; Maass 1996, 179 no. 91 (ill.). MMC3 AT 26c, Berlin inv. TC 8838, from South Russia, ht 13.5 cm; Bieber 1920, no. 73 pl. 67, 2; Bieber 1961, fig. 171. London, BM inv. 1842.7–8.752, ht 9 cm. MMC3 AT 26b (with refs.); Moretti 2001, 151 fig. 15. Probably of Athenian clay.

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Fig. 13.20a–b. Delphi, Mus. inv. 4320: Attic figurine of Heracles standing cross-legged with grounded club in right hand, bow and quiver in left hand, from Delphi. Ht 11.9 cm. (Type of MMC3 AT 26).

This type is known in at least 17 preserved versions including the mould from the area of the Pnyx in Athens42. Other known proveniences are Thebes, Larisa, Eleusis, Melos, South Russia and the Crimea, Taranto and ‘South Italy’43. We may note in passing that in this as in all versions he is shown in what was by then a remarkably old-fashioned style, as we know him from black-figure and earlier red-figure vase-painting (one thinks of the splendid versions by the Kleophrades Painter), not to mention architectural sculpture of the Archaic period. He is typically a strong-looking figure, with heavily-muscled arms and legs, wide shoulders, a markedly narrow waist and heavy thighs. His eyes are often shown as wide-open, even large, in keeping with the perception of his active, bold nature. His hair and beard are usually done in tight curls44. For the head, one might also compare the Late Archaic head-vases on which the curls are done with blobs of clay to simulate such curls45. It goes without saying that he is usually shown wearing the lionskin, with its head covering his46. Yet he is already beardless in the East Pediment of the temple of Aegina of about 480, and the slightly awkward rep42 43

44 45

MMC3 AT 26a. There are derivative versions in Boeotian and Corinthian as well as in Lipari. See Mackay 2002. For example those of the Cook Class, ARV2 1539.

46

Aside from the many representations in Attic black-figure, one thinks for example of his depiction in the bowl of Helios in the tondo of the Vatican cup in the manner of Douris.

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resentation by the Painter of the Woolly Satyrs on the calyx-krater in Palermo has him nude and frontal-facing as he rests after defeating the lion seen at his feet47. It should date to around 460–450 and is an attempt to show the ‘Classical moment’ rather than the action. By the late fifth century and into the fourth century, he is shown in non-theatrical contexts as a young hero, beardless, well-built but no more so than any contemporary athlete. He is often without the lionskin, identified simply by his club. He is popular in the late fifth century in this reinvented form, and he continues to look like this in Apulian red-figure well down into the fourth century48. The comic versions were remarkably old-fashioned by contemporary standards: it is a commonplace of the genre to seek its amusement through the use of old-fashioned standards. What is interesting is just how old-fashioned it was in this case, and the presupposition that the audience was familiar with such a version despite the way he was shown in depictions they saw outside the theatre. It should also be a hint on how we should perceive other figures. Another Heracles type in the Attic sequence is that of MMC3 AT 11. It seems to have been invented early but then to have been abandoned. The hero stands with his weight more or less evenly balanced but with his head tilted to the right and his finger in his mouth. Although he has a lionhead as part of the mask, the skin runs independently over his left shoulder and around his arm (as would a himation), and although the detail is indistinct, there seems to be another lionhead at its bottom, against his left thigh. His mouth is again shown as extraordinarily wide. As in the Late Archaic versions, his legs and arms are heavy. This terracotta type is known in only three examples, the one in the New York set and then two minor, secondary versions. Two certainly Corinthian figurines of Heracles belong to a slightly different tradition (figs. 13.21–22)49. They have him standing with his legs straight; his right hand steadies the club that stands on the ground by his right leg; his left hand comes to his waist, his arm wrapped in the lionskin, even if it is treated almost as a himation. The one, Corinth MF 1527, is missing from just below the knees, but the left leg looks slightly relaxed. There has been a serious attempt to show the curliness of the beard. The eyes are large and protuberant, the pupils indented. It gives a very lively, almost interactive expression. The phallos is small, suggesting that the piece is from fairly late in the Middle Comedy sequence. This figurine has no direct counterpart in Attic but it has very close links with a piece from the Cave of Pan at Chania in Crete and another that matches it from Butera in Sicily50. These two follow a somewhat earlier fashion, with large, looped and very obvious phalloi, but the type is the same. The distribution is interesting. There is another from a very worn mould in Naples but so far as I know without provenience, and yet another in

47 48 49

ARV2 613, 4, e.g. Wünsche 2003, 90 fig. 10.57. Compare also Tagalidou 1993. Corinth inv. MF 1527, from Corinth, MMC3 AT 56 pl. Xc (where not recognised as Heracles); Richardson 1898, 219 fig. 31; Corinth XII no. 337 pl. 30. Corinth inv. 5264, from Corinth. MMC3 CT 11a; Corinth XII no. 340 pl. 30. The latter was apparently found with a fragmentary female figurine, Corinth

50

inv. 5265 (Corinth XII no. 346 pl. 31) that is probably not dramatic. Chania: ADelt 22, 1967 B2, 497 pl. 370; MMC3 AT 27b. Gela inv. 6348, from Butera, Fontana Calda, club and feet missing, pres. ht 9 cm. Adamesteanu 1958, 643 no. 30 fig. 266; MMC3 AT 27d; Bernabò Brea 2002, 72 fig. 57; Todisco 2002, pl. 34, 1; Comella – Mele 2005, 719 pl. 3c (Todisco); Portale 2008, 34 fig. 32.

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Fig. 13.21. Corinth, Mus. inv. MF 1527: Corinthian figurine of Heracles, club in right hand, legs straight, from Corinth. Pres. ht 8.8 cm.

Fig. 13.22. Corinth, Mus. inv. 5264: Corinthian figurine of Heracles, club in right hand, legs straight, head to left, from Corinth. Ht 7.1 cm.

Compiègne, again without provenience51. This kind of distribution in the past prompted one to think of an Attic archetype, but the lack of Attic examples and their existence in Corinth may now suggest that we look to Corinth. Such a suggestion is strengthened when we look at examples of the type in Lipari, where it was popular enough to have developed sub-types. A key piece is Lipari inv. 3148 (fig. 13.23)52. The treatment of the mask is extremely close to Corinthian, so much so that one would suspect the mould was taken from a Corinthian original: compare for example the handling of the beard or the protuberant eyes with their central indentation. The treatment of the phallos falls between that of the pair from Chania and Butera and the one in Corinth. 51

52

Naples, MAN inv. 20820. MMC3 AT 27c. Compiègne, Musée Vivenel inv. V 795. MMC3 AT 27a. Photographs of both in the Dramatic Archive of the Institute of Classical Studies, London. Lipari inv. 3148, from Trench XXII. Most of the legs and the right arm and the club missing; pres. ht 7.7 cm. Bernabò Brea 1958, 137 pl. 51, 12; Meligunìs-Lipàra II 302 B 110a

pl. CLV 3; Bernabò Brea 1981, 73 E 1a fig. 71; Bernabò Brea 2001, 104 fig. 107b (colour), MMC3 ST 10a. (Some of these publications have the object in mirror-image: it is in fact the right arm that is missing.) Note also the head Lipari inv. 3149, from Trench XXIII, III: Meligunìs-Lipàra II 303 B 110b pl. CLXV 4; Bernabò Brea 1981, 73 E 1b; Bernabò Brea 2001, 104 fig. 107a (colour); MMC3 ST 10b.

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Fig. 13.23. Lipari, Museo Archeologico Luigi Bernabò Brea inv. 3148: figurine from Trench XXII. Pres. ht 7.7 cm.

Lipari inv. 3141 is a worn and battered example, its head and feet missing53. On the other hand it is clearly from the same series. Lipari inv. 3150 and its affiliates are poor, late versions, and as such smaller than the others54. Although worn and from worn moulds, they preserve enough to show the continuing influence of the Corinthian style, and they testify to the continuing popularity of the type. It is hard to believe we would see such a continuity if Corinthian influence itself had not continued. Corinth inv. 5264 is also from late in the sequence, and the handling is much more developed (fig. 13.22)55. There is something of a turn to the body, swinging to the left, the right leg relaxed, and the movement is emphasised by a strong turn to the head which is also tilted upwards. The detail of the mask is good. The curliness of the beard is conveyed by indentations in a typically Corinthian way – and one that is important for another piece we shall look at below. The eyes are treated in the same way as those of its companion figure. And then one sees the nose of the lionhead and the row of upper teeth. The implied movement and the turn of the figure leads me to suspect, in fact, that the piece was made about the turn of the century or even a little later, implying a degree of provincial delay or else a continued liking of rudeness with the inclusion of the phallos56. We should also note that its base is circular, not square.

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Lipari inv. 3141, from Trench XXIII, III F. Pres. ht 5.1 cm. Meligunìs-Lipàra II 303 B 112 pl. CLXV 2; MMC3 ST 11; Bernabò Brea 1981, 74, E 3a fig. 73 left. Bernabò Brea 1981 lists a further example of the type. Lipari, inv. 3150, from Trench XVII. Ht 6.9 m. Meligunìs-Lipàra II 303 B 111a pl. CLXV 7; MMC3 ST 12a; Bernabò Brea 1981, 74 E 2a fig. 72; Bernabò Brea 2001, 105 fig. 108 (col-

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our); Pugliese Carratelli 1996, 715 no. 239 VIII (ill.). Bernabò Brea 1981 and 2001 lists other examples of the type. MMC3 CT 11, ht 7.1 cm; Corinth XII no. 340 pl. 30. Gladys Davidson Weinberg in the Corinth publication had already commented on the difference in approach.

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Fig. 13.24. Tampa (FL), Museum of Art inv. 1988.34.2: Corinthian figurine of Heracles after the type of Fig. 13.20.

There is a good Corinthian copy of the type of AT 26 in Tampa, Florida (fig. 13.24; pl. 14.1), probably taken from a somewhat worn original or mould and therefore missing the fine detail of the Attic versions (very obviously in the club which has been left smooth), but the face of the mask had been worked up a little and (typically) the hair above the brow with its luxuriant curls57. Later versions are developments of the type AT 26. They have him with a more extreme lean towards his club. A Boeotian version in Bonn still keeps the bow in his left hand, but it is missing from the others58. We have two Corinthian examples, a complete figure in Munich (fig. 13.25; pl. 14.2), and a head in Corinth59. There is of course a considerable body of local copies of Attic types from Corinth, as there is from other sites. Three examples must suffice60. 57 58

59

Zewadski 2008, 53 right (colour ill.). Bonn inv. D 14, bought in Athens. Ht 13.5 cm. Gabelmann et al. 1971, no. 82 fig. 55 (q. v. for colour: traces of pink on mask and lionskin, blue on club, red on base); MMC3 AT 124c. Munich inv. 5393. MMC3 AT 106, pl. 1d; Hamdorf 1996, 154 fig. 182 (colour); Wünsche 2003, 420 no. 218. The height is given as 11.2 cm and the date, not unreasonably, as 340– 320. It is said to be from Athens: dealer’s provenience? The head from Corinth, MMC3 CT 11c.

60

We may also note that Corinth inv. 3394 seems to be a later version, in mirror image, of the type of MMC3 AT 19: inv. CT 5, pres. ht 5.7 cm. Standing man with protruding belly; right hand holding phallos. The upper body and legs missing. Corinth XII no. 341 pl. 31. Gladys Davidson Weinberg observed that it is made of “very fine soft red clay” which she took as “probably Attic”.

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Fig. 13.25. Munich, Staatliche Antikensammlungen und Glyptothek inv. 5393: Corinthian figurine of Heracles following the type of Fig. 13.20. Ht 11.2 cm.

The hetaira type seen in fig. 13.26 becomes popular over much of the Greek world and it is known in over 19 copies61. In the Athenian versions such as this she is fairly solidly built, at least by modern standards; she stands firmly and confidently (one leg is relaxed). The positioning of the left arm, with hand on hip, connotes a certain aggression or at least that she is ready to stand up to all comers62. In this copy as well as in others in which the colours are better preserved, she of course has her face plastered white63. We have seen the type already in Boeotia. The Corinthian versions are smaller and slimmer, but the patterning of her clothing makes it clear that the type is the same: note the twisted roll of drapery around the waist, the v-shaped arrangement over the chest, the semicircles over the belly before coming down in a triangle at the knee. The example in the British Museum (fig. 13.27) is a good one64. Corinth inv. KT 5–20 (fig. 13.28) is further away, from a worn mould, and the treatment is rather mechanical, but if one follows the series through, it is 61

62

63

Athens, National Archaeological Museum inv. 6070 (1198; P 304). MMC3 AT 113a. On the body-language of comic hetairai, see Green 2002. On them more generally, see recently Rodríguez 2005. These include a fairly early version found in grave 379 in the excavations of the Kerameikos metro station: Parlama – Stambolides 2000, 375 no. 420 (colour ill.). She has red-brown hair.

64

There is another with just the same colouring from the Bellon sale: Jack-Philippe Ruellan, Maison des Ventes aux Enchères, Vannes, Sale Cat., Les antiques de Louis-Gabriel Bellon (1819–1899), 4 April 2009, no. 341 (colour ill.). London, BM inv. 1951.7–31.1. Higgins 1954, no. 1530 pl. 206; MMC3 AT 113d. The clay pronounced Corinthian by Higgins.

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Fig. 13.26. Athens, National Archaeological Museum inv. 6070 (1198; P 304): Attic figurine of hetaira standing, left hand on hip, right raising veil, right leg forward. Ht 10 cm.

Fig. 13.27. London, BM inv. 1951.7–31.1: Corinthian copy of the type of Fig. 12.26. Ht 8 cm.

Fig. 13.28. Corinth, Mus. inv. KT 5–20: Corinthian copy of the type of Fig. 12.26, from Corinth. Ht 6.8 cm.

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Fig. 13.29. Corinth, Mus. inv. KH 47. KT 22–2: Corinthian mould and figurine of man wearing pilos, both hands under chin, legs together. Pres. ht of figurine 5.1 cm.

evident that the type is again the same65. But they expose a problem. At least three of them come from the Sanctuary of Demeter and Kore66, and it seems to me reasonable to ask if the donor still thought of them as hetairai from comedy or as something more in keeping with those goddesses. It is a difficult question that we might like to come back to. And then we find the same type dedicated in the Artemision in Thasos, where again they are made locally in very worn moulds67. Nicholls had already supposed that a Corinthian mould and a figurine made from it (fig. 13.29)68 derived from an Attic type, and he was of course right69. An example now in the Classics Department’s collection at the Australian National University, Canberra, is certainly Attic (fig. 13.30; pl. 14.3)70. It is worth looking at the differences: the folds on the chiton of the Corinthian version, the loss of the detail of the beard with its central parting, and of course the dots on the chiton. There is a weak, derivative version in Geneva that is said to have been found in Boeotia71. There is also a more distant version from the area of Livadhia, 65

66 67

68

Corinth inv. KT 5–20, from Corinth. Corinth XV 2, pl. 24 XVII 20; MMC3 AT 113c. Corinth XVIII 4, 244 nos. H 357–359 pl. 53. Muller 1996, 430. Compare more recently Muller 2009, especially 90 and his fig. 1 S5-P5. One needs to consider if he is right. MMC3 AT 45b–c, Corinth inv. KH 47 (the mould, Corinth XV 1 no. 49) and Corinth inv. KT 22–2 (Corinth XV 2, Group XIX 11), both of which are from the terracotta factory at Co-

69

70

71

rinth and are smaller local copies of the Attic type. R. V. Nicholls, JHS 78, 1958, 174: review of A. N. Stillwell, Corinth XV 2. The Potter’s Quarter: The Terracottas. Canberra inv. 75.19. MMC3 AT 45a pl. 1a; Green 1981, 84 (ill.); Green et al. 2003, 51 no. 18 (colour ill.). Courtois 1991, no. 4 (ill.).

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Fig. 13.30. Canberra, Australian National University, Classics Dept inv. 75.19: Original Attic version of the same type as the last. Ht 9.5 cm.

with bigger cloak, a turned head, and a smaller phallos72. It is later and in some respects typical of Boeotian. Another, variant example is in the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge73. Important if only because of their wide connections is the series of figurines of a man with his right hand to his brow. There can be no doubt that the original type is Attic. It belongs early in the sequence of comic figurines, and it is important to realise that it is independent of the New York Group stylistically. There is a good if rather worn example from the Coroplast’s Dump in the Athenian Agora, as well as a mould from a pit in the Agora and another fragment from the Pnyx, but the best surviving example is Amsterdam 881 (fig. 13.31)74. The figure is relatively slim, with long legs, a slight bend in the knees, and expressive hunched shoulders; his left hand seems to hang onto his cloak which comes round his body to bunch at the (high) waist. The beard is depicted as long and somewhat pointed, in fine strands, with an emphasis of a pair of parallel curls down the centre. An interesting minor detail is a small mark at the area of the navel. In these versions the right hand does not seem to be flat against the forehead but shading the eyes, the aposkopeuon pose75. 72

73

Karlsruhe inv. B 3037, bought in Livadhia. Helbing (Munich), Cat. 30–31 May 1905, 24 no. 324 (ex Margaritis); Schürmann 1989, 44–45 no. 97 pl. 21. MMC3 AT 45d (Cambridge). Chiton not dotted. Light red clay, brown paint on belly, and moustache and beard painted brown, not modelled.

74

75

Amsterdam inv. 881, MMC3 AT 5f pl. 12c; Griekse, Etruskische en Romeinse Kunst 2(Amsterdam 1984) 86 fig. 70 right. Those from Athens are listed as AT 5a–c. AT 5a has subsequently appeared in Ober – Hedrick 1993, 130 no. 21.2 (colour ill.). So in MMC3 under AT 5, with reference to Jucker 1956.

Regional Theatre in the Fourth Century

Fig. 13.31. Amsterdam, Allard Pierson Mus. inv. 881: Figurine of old man with right hand to head (aposkopeuon?). Ht 9.6 cm.

359

Fig. 13.32. Corinth, Mus. inv. MF-71–53. MF-75–54: Corinthian adaptations of Fig. 13.31, from Corinth. Ht of each 7.3 cm.

The Corinthian versions are a remodelling (fig. 13.32)76: the legs have less bend in them, and they are set slightly wider apart so that they give more support to the body77. The body is more thick-set, but there is still something of a bend in the knees. The beard is fuller and more curly but one could argue that the mask-type is the same, the change an element of Corinthian style. The folds of the drapery are the same on shoulder and waist, though the mark on the navel is missing. The right arm is now more comfortably modelled and so gains more emphasis. The hand is flatter against the brow and it may now be better to read the gesture as one of distress: if so it would be an interesting case of the type being taken up but with a different meaning. Very close to the Corinthian version and even exhibiting elements of Corinthian style, especially in the facial hair and beard, is an example of the type in Syracuse that has been known for many years (fig. 13.33; pl. 14.4)78. This is a very clear case of the type being transmitted from Corinth rather than Athens. 76

77

Corinth inv. MF-71–53, MMC3 AT 5g, and Corinth inv. MF-75–54, MMC3 AT 5h. From the same mould. Compare, however, MMC3 AT 49 and 50. I do not know the present whereabouts of the former and I have no notes on the latter (Athens, National Archaeological Museum

78

inv. 4423 [P 1692]) which could be Attic although Webster took it as Corinthian. Syracuse inv. 1527, probably from Syracuse or Akrai. Ht 6.7 cm. Kekulé 1884, 80 pl. 51, 8; MMC3 AT 5i; Bernabò Brea 2002, 54f. fig. 20; Bacci – Spigo 2002, 47 middle (Sardella). So far as I could tell when I was able to examine

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Fig. 13.34. Lipari, Museo Archeologico Luigi Bernabò Brea inv. 9725: Version of Fig. 13.31, from Lipari, trench XXX. Pres. ht 6.4 cm.

Fig. 13.33. Syracuse, Museo Archeologico Regionale Paolo Orsi inv. 1527: Sicilian version of Fig. 13.31, from Syracuse, contr. Fusco. Ht 6.7 cm.

I am not sure if a version of the type in Lipari (fig. 13.34) derives directly from the Corinthian or comes via the Syracusan79. I would suspect the latter, partly on grounds of geographical proximity but also because the cloak, as it comes over the left arm, has its folds at an angle (as in the Syracusan) rather than near-vertical like the Corinthian. The hair has a higher peak in the centre, and the beard comes down in four heavy curls to a square-cut bottom like a number of others in the Lipari series, but, perhaps more importantly in terms of chronology, like Mask 3 in New Comedy80. Lipari also has another, more typically local version81. These examples have been found in contexts of the last third of the fourth century. The modelling is simple, with an emphasis on key elements such as the frown-marks on the brow, the band of drapery round the waist, the large curling phallos, and so on. The legs are done in relief against a

79

80

this piece, the clay is Sicilian rather than Corinthian – i. e. it is a copy rather than a direct import. The back is not modelled. Lipari inv. 9725, from Lipari, trench XXX. Bernabò Brea 1981, 75 fig. 76 type E 5; Bernabò Brea 2001, 110 fig. 122. Lower legs and feet missing; pres. ht 6.4 cm. One may also compare an example in Locri although it lacks the right arm and lower legs. Compare for example MNC3 1 ST 1.

81

MMC3 ST 38a–d, with refs., and note that Bernabò Brea, in Meligunìs-Lipara II 304, mentioned other examples. MMC3 ST 38a is also published in Bernabò Brea 1981, 85f. E 42a pl. XIV 2c (colour); Bernabò Brea 2001, 89 fig. 85d; MMC3 ST 38b in Bernabò Brea 1981, 85f. E 42b fig. 111 pl. XIII 2 (colour); Bernabò Brea 2001, 90 fig. 87b (colour, mirror image); Todisco 2002, pl. 33, 2. Compare the style of MMC3 ST 39 which must be from the same workshop.

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Fig. 13.36. Corinth, Mus. inv. T 1055: Figurine of soldier with shield, right hand holding spear, from Corinth. Pres. ht 8.2 cm. Fig. 13.35. Corinth, Mus. inv. T 1062: Figurine of young man with left arm raised (cavalryman with spear?), from Corinth. Ht 9.5 cm.

supporting ground. The fingers of the left hand, for example, are not distinguished. The emphasis on the phallos is surprising at this date and in such a derivative version; it may well be an indication that it was by now seen as an amusing, traditional figure-type that had little direct relation to a performance seen on stage. A further example of Corinthian is a figurine of a man tied to a structure82. Stylistically it is close to the Corinthian versions of the series of man with hand to head, and one might guess that it should derive from Attic even though no Attic version survives. The specificity of the motif must relate to a particular scene in a particular play, and the derivation from Attic must also have been true of the play that it reflects. It is too specific to have been a general borrowing of an attractive character. There are two other figurines whose importance has not been widely appreciated (figs. 13.35–36)83. They must belong fairly late in the fourth century, let us say at the transition to New Comedy in Athens, yet they have a totally independent and in fact Corinthian style. One (fig. 13.36) is certainly playing the part of a soldier, with a shield against the upper part of his left arm, and the other (fig. 13.35) may well have been a cavalryman,

82

Corinth inv. MF 9658, MMC3 CT 7.

83

MMC3 CT 8 (Corinth inv. T 1062) and MMC3 CT 9 (Corinth inv. T 1055), Corinth XIII 96 pl. 82 × 113 and pl. 82 × 114.

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supporting a spear with his left hand84. They suggest that Corinth even at this date had a tradition of comedy that was somewhat independent of that of Athens – even if there are of course plenty of young soldiers as we enter Athenian New Comedy – and that its related coroplastic tradition was still very much alive. Hazel Palmer in Corinth XIII took them as belonging to the third century, but inv. T 1062 (fig. 13.35) seems to have a phallos and therefore a date just within the fourth century should be preferable, even if comic costume in Corinth was changing more slowly than that in Athens. It may be relevant that some have seen connections in the architecture of the theatres of Corinth and Syracuse, but the relevant phases in Corinth are badly preserved and the absolute chronology debatable. It would take us beyond our brief to examine the issues adequately here85. The part played by Corinth in fourth-century comic performance and its influence in the west needs fresh, unbiassed examination86.

Cyprus No one apart from Mrs Nicolaou has ever looked at the evidence for comic figurines from Cyprus at all seriously, although the recent treatment of Cypriot figurines in the Louvre is of itself important87. The first we know about theatre in the island from ancient written sources comes in Plutarch’s Life of Alexander [29] in the context of the dramatic festival that he put on for his troops in Tyre in May or June of 331. We are told that for this occasion the kings of Cyprus offered, or were persuaded, to be the principal sponsors – as it were the choregoi. The costs of gathering what was apparently an all-star cast cannot have been negligible, and one should add the need to construct some form of temporary theatre and all the necessary props. The troupes of actors presumably brought their own costumes and masks appropriate to the roles to be played; those costs must have been built in to their traveland appearance-fees. What on present evidence we cannot know is why the kings or regional lords of Cyprus undertook this burden. Was it that they were each of them passionate about theatre? Or was it rather, as one might see it after our experience of the pressure exerted on so-called allies to join the invasion of Iraq, that they were persuaded by Alexander to put up funding in exchange for his not invading Cyprus? Whatever one may hypothesise of the political pressures brought to bear in the particular circumstances, it is nonetheless worth examining the cultural background to this sponsorship. The kings are hardly likely to have made a joint decision along these lines for an event of a totally unfamiliar nature. We have no other evidence for theatre performance at this time in Cyprus preserved in ancient literature, and as a result, any discussion has to rely entirely on the material evidence88. No actual theatre in Cyprus is known to go back to this date: the one in Nea Paphos seems on present evidence to have been the earliest and to have been constructed near the 84

85 86

Note that there is no visible phallos. The mask is remarkably like those of the Cypriot figures, below. For a summary, see Gebhard 1973, 17 n. 19. For a suggestion that E. Tr. was intended for performance in Corinth (and elsewhere), see Easterling 1994.

87 88

Nicolaou 1989; Caubet 1998. We may note, however, that Easterling (1994, 80 n. 24) has suggested that E. Ba. may have had an intended performance in Cyprus.

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end of the fourth century – even if the fact that it was constructed then as an element of the new city may suggest a predisposition89. We may note, however, that there is little or no evidence for or against the theatre that must have existed in Kition: the evidence for one there rests in a reference in a much later inscription90. The earliest of the theatre-related pieces to consider is the black-figure olpe from Marion probably dating to the first decade of the fifth century91. The decorative panel on the front has an unusually dressed male facing left. He has a long beard and wears a himation together with a helmet, and he raises the himation before his face. The folds of the himation are alternately red, and black with a pattern of white dots in groups of four. This is unusual costume, and Beazley had already pointed out the similarity of this man to those on the oinochoe in Würzburg and the small amphora in Brooklyn92. The oinochoe in Würzburg has three such men, wearing the same costume, and the amphora in Brooklyn two pairs on one side and one pair on the other. In an article published some twenty years ago, I argued that these scenes represented chorusmen of an early Attic comedy93. Since then a contemporary black-figure skyphos bearing two sets of four similar figures has been published94. It is in a private collection in Pulsano (prov. Taranto) and was found locally, but its importance for us is that in this case the men carry castanets and dance before a piper. There can be no doubt that they represent a chorus. What we cannot know is whether the purchaser of the olpe took it back to Marion as a souvenir of a performance seen in Athens, bought the vase in Marion because it had a scene from a famous play (whether or not also staged in Cyprus, though at this date it seems on the face of it unlikely), or whether it was bought simply as an attractive and useful Athenian wine-vase without particular reference to the scene it carried. Some of the same questions can be raised about another vase from Marion, an Attic red-figure lekythos attributed to the Bowdoin Painter and datable to ca. 480–46095. The decoration is of a bearded male dancing between a tree (which Beazley described as an ivybush) and a thyrsos. Beazley felt sure that the figure is Dionysus, and, if so, we may guess from his costume that the vase was intended to remind the viewer of one of the satyr plays apparently popular at that period whose subject-matter parodied the participation of the god and his companions in the Battle of Gods and Giants96. The style of dance, with both arms akimbo and fingers at the waist, is one employed by satyrs, and we may usefully 89

90

91

92

For a brief overview and recent bibliography, see Green 2008, 75f. Yon 2004, 264f. no. 2044. She seems to accept Mitford’s suggested date of the late first century A. D. See also Nicolaou 1976, 138–140, for his views on where in Kition it was located. Nicosia inv. C 428, from Marion. Ht 20.7 cm. Dikaios 1934, 19 pl. 9, 2; Beazley 1948, 37f. [not illustrated]; Beazley 1989, 30f. no. VIII pl. 8, 3. Beazley noted that the folds of the himation are alternately red, and black with a pattern of white dots in groups of four (not indicated in Dikaios’ drawing in RDAC). It is unusual to have such a figure moving left. Würzburg inv. L 344. ABV 434, 3 (Painter of Villa Giulia M. 482); Beazley, Para 295; Beazley Addenda2 111; Langlotz 1932, no. 344 pl. 103; Brommer 1942, 74 fig. 10; Green 1985,

93 94

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96

101 no. 10 fig. 13. Brooklyn inv. 09.35; said to be from Thebes. Sotheby, Sale Cat. 19–20 July 1895, lot 55; Fifth Avenue Art Galleries Sale Cat. 16 January 1909, lot 104; Green 1985, 101 no. 9 fig. 12a–b. Green 1985. Pulsano, coll. Guarini, from between Pulsano and Lizzano (Taranto). Fedele et al. 1984, 45f. no. 14 pl. 43. Nicosia inv. C 739, from Marion. Ht 24.8 cm. ARV2 683, 122; Beazley Addenda2 279; Beazley 1948, pl. 5, 3; Beazley 1989, 30f. no. VIII pl. 15, 1. For a recent study of Attic imports in Marion together with further references, see Padgett 2009. See Krumeich in Krumeich et al. 1999, 58, with refs., although this vase is not mentioned there.

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Fig. 13.37. Paris, Louvre inv. AM 260: Figurine of traveller with bedroll on his shoulders, Cypriot, from Kition. Pres. ht 4.9 cm.

compare the dancing, masked satyr-player on the well-known cup in Munich decorated by Makron, or of course the young chorusman on the Tarporley Painter’s bell-krater in Sydney97. We seem to have no other theatre objects of the fifth century, but the picture changes rapidly when we enter the fourth. In looking at terracottas, I have so far been concentrating on issues of style, and the same will be true here, but what strikes one first when looking at those from Cyprus reflecting Middle Comedy is the high proportion of figures playing the roles of travellers. They immediately raise the question of whether they indicate a high proportion of plays that included travellers – as one might be persuaded could have been the case given the island’s location – and/or if travellers were favourite characters with the audience, rather like Heracles in the communities of Greece proper. If there were local varieties of comedy, they could have provided good subject-matter for stupid behaviour on the part of strangers not knowing the dialect or local customs. In general the pattern of costume is Athenian but the style of many of the figurines is local. Among the earlier examples there is regularly something one might call a deliberate crudeness of features, especially in the face or mask: a very broad, partly open mouth, an emphasis on the eyes, and often a rather rough and unkempt beard. A fragment of a figurine of a traveller carrying his pack is Louvre inv. AM 260, from Kition (fig. 13.37)98. It has typically vigorous facial features. It is from the same mould as a figurine in the Cabinet des Médailles where one can see that the folds of the short chiton he wears are done in fairly naturalistic fashion and that it has a curved, tied-up phallos that should place it somewhere in the middle years of the fourth century99. A rather cruder piece but of much the same period is a figurine of a man carrying a cista on his head, a flask strung from his left shoulder and a chytra by his right hip 97

Munich inv. 2657, ARV2 475, 267; e.g. Denoyelle 1991, 18 fig. 13; Winkler – Zeitlin 1989, 230 pl. 7 (Lissarrague); Vierneisel – Kaeser 1992, 414 fig. 74, 9; Kunisch 1997, pl. 163, 507; Krumeich – Pechstein – Seidensticker 1999, pl. 2a; about 480–470. Sydney inv. 47.05, formerly in the Hamilton collection. Green et al. 2003, 40f. no. 12 (colour

98

99

ills.), with earlier refs.; CVA Sydney (1) pl. 2. See also recently Seidensticker 2010 and Biles – Thorn with n. 89 in this volume. Pres. ht 4.9 cm. Pottier 1879, 88 no. 35; Caubet 1998, 638 no. 1086 (ill.). Paris, Cab. des Méd. inv. 158, from Cyprus. MMC3 KT 2 (with earlier refs.), Biers – Green 1998, pl. 17, 3.

Regional Theatre in the Fourth Century

Fig. 13.38. Larnaka, Pierides Coll. – Laiki Bank Museum: Traveller loaded with equipment, Cypriot, from Cyprus. Ht 0.11 cm.

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Fig. 13.39. Paris, Louvre inv. AM 33: Traveller with yoke carrying bedroll and pot, Cypriot, from Kition. Ht 19.5 cm.

(fig. 13.38)100. Some features, such as the style of the legs and their arrangement, have elements of the grotesque, but his exomis is treated naturalistically. The face of the mask is in fact not all that far in its handling from that of the fragment in the Louvre (fig. 13.37). Well known is another piece from Kition (fig. 13.39; pl. 15.1)101. This too has elements of the grotesque, not least in the way that the right leg is raised and the drapery pulled up to reveal the phallos. The treatment of the mouth and eyes is closely comparable with that of the last two. On the other hand there is a convincing attempt to imply movement and liveliness, and the pose puts an emphasis on the yoke he carries over his left shoulder with the bedroll and pot behind. We see something of the same style in a group of a man and what may be his wife (fig. 13.40; pl. 15.2)102. The theme is one which tends to occur in South Italian comic vases about the middle of the century and into the third quarter: one might compare in particular the Apulian red-figure oinochoe Taranto inv. 54724 with its scene of a man in discus100

101

Larnaka, coll. Pierides, ht 11 cm. MMC3 KT 9 pl. 13d; Nicolaou 1989, no. 10 fig. 10; Karageorghis 1985, 242 no. 242 (ill.). Paris, Louvre inv. AM 33, ht 19.5 cm. MMC3 KT 10; Ohnefalsch-Richter 1893, pl. CCVIII 8; Winter 1903, 415/10; Bieber 1961, fig. 175; Mollard-Besques 1971, 60. 66 pl. 14, 1; Cau-

102

bet 1998, 636f. no. 1084 (ill.). It is curious that Caubet accepts Bieber’s idea that this is Cadmus. Paris, Louvre inv. AM 39, from Larnaka. MMC3 KT 8 (with earlier refs); Bernabò Brea 1981, 12 fig. 6; Caubet 1998, 640f. no. 1092 (ill.).

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Fig. 13.40. Paris, Louvre inv. AM 39: Group of man and woman, Cypriot, from Larnaka. Ht 10 cm.

Fig. 13.41. Larnaka, Pierides Coll. – Laiki Bank Museum: Figurine copying the type of Fig. 13.31, Cypriot, from Cyprus. Pres. ht 7 cm.

sion with what can only be his wife103. He has a short stick in his right hand; in Athens that would indicate that he is not well-to-do. When we look at local versions of Attic figurines, the series of a man clasping his head occurs in Cyprus in a quite well-preserved example in the Pierides collection (fig. 13.41)104. With this (and by contrast with the Corinthian and western versions) we are closer to the Attic originals, and we might guess at a date in the first half of the fourth century. Here again we see some naturalism in the drapery, and an emphasis on the eyes. The left hand is within the himation but does not hang onto its edge. What is curious is that the coroplast appears to have misunderstood the beard – as one can see he might have from the Agora figurine – and substituted a tongue. It is a local interpretation of an imported type. At the same time we may observe that in this case the man’s himation is shown as having a fringe, an indicator that he was conceived as being a distinguished gentleman.

103

Taranto inv. 54724, from Taranto, via Duca degli Abruzzi t. 50, PhV2 64 no. 121; Lo Porto 1964, 18 fig. 7; Touchefeu-Meynier 1968, 234 n.20 pl. 36; Alessio et al. 1990, pl. 6b (colour); Andreae – Presicce 1996, 440 no. 6.12 (colour ill.); Hoffmann 2002, 236 grave 252 no. 1 pl. 31, 2; D’Amicis 2004, 36 upper left.

104

MMC3 KT 1 pl. 12b; Nicolaou 1989, no. 11 fig. 11; Karageorghis 1985, 242 no. 241 (ill.). Interesting that the mark at the navel, noted above for the Attic versions, is preserved here though not in the Corinthian and western versions.

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We see a similar handling in the figurine of a man holding a jug or hydria in his left hand and with his right to the back of his neck105. I take as Attic or something very close to it an example formerly on the London market106. Here again it is the handling of the face of the mask that demonstrates its local character. These are from very late in the Middle Comedy sequence. Some six examples of the type are known to me. The seated man pondering is a popular type. There are at least 13 known examples from across the Greek world107. The Cypriot example is simply a copy from a worn mould, and as its small size shows (a mere 8 cm), from fairly late in a mould series108. Despite its quality, it preserves a remarkable amount of colour: bright blue and pink on the feet and at the sides of the feet, blue and yellow on the seat, pink on the face and arms. Such colouring, of course, does not reflect the stage but belongs to the toy-like quality of the figurine itself109. By the end of our period these local qualities disappear. The figurine of a traveller from Cypriot Salamis, which I published some years ago, is of a generic appearance at the transition to New Comedy110. If we did not know it had come from Cyprus, its origin would be hard to detect. Our last example, from Kition, derives from the earliest phase of New Comedy or even the latest phase of Middle111. It is a figure from what must have been a famous scene, with a slave tugging at his cloak as he sits on an altar. We have other, somewhat later examples of the same motif from Rome and from elsewhere in Italy112. And yet another, this time of the Magenta Group and in the form of a plastic vase, has appeared on the Swiss market113. The point here is that by 300, people in Kition were in fairly direct touch with the mainstream, and there is nothing local in the character of the piece114.

Conclusions By the end of our period we are in a much more united world – as indeed we know from many other sources. Earlier than that, Cypriot theatre figurines often had their own character and preferred certain themes, not least travellers. Whether Cypriots wrote their own

105

106

107

108

109

110

MMC3 AT 125a; Caubet 1998, no. 1130 (Louvre). Charles Ede Ltd. Greek and Roman Terracotta Sculpture XII (1992) no. 9 (ill.). With Ede earlier, in 1984. This is the same piece as MNC3 1AT 7, and the object in the left hand is clearly a hydria rather than a basket. Of the six examples now known, this is the only one to be complete. See MMC3 AT 21a–i. Another has appeared in Vierneisel-Schlörb 1998, 96 no. 287 pl. 55, 9; there are two in Cracow; a poor, late example in the Hermitage is published in VestnikDrevIst 1, 2000, 209 fig. 3. The Cypriot example is Paris, Louvre inv. AM 1184. Caubet 1998, 638f. no. 1087 (ill.). Provenience uncertain but Caubet takes it as being of Cypriot manufacture. Compare the case of Bonn inv. D 14 (supra n. 58). MMC3 KT 3, now Columbia (MO) inv. 84.57,

111

112 113

114

ex coll. Cesnola, from Salamis, Biers – Green 1998, pl. 16, 1–4. Paris, Louvre inv. AM 34, from Kition, ht 11 cm. Ohnefalsch-Richter 1893, pl. 208, 7; Winter 1903, pl. 419, 5; Bieber 1961, fig. 407; Caubet 1998, 639f. no. 1089 (ill.); MMC3 188 KT 13; MNC3 1KT 3. MNC3 2RT 13; MNC3 2TT 3a–b. Geneva, Phoenix Ancient Art, and shown on their website during 2008–2011; formerly (1984–1996) exhibited at the Getty Museum. It preserves many traces of polychromy and is a good example. I have excluded from my Cypriot selection the bronze figurine of a comic cook in the Cyprus Museum inv. D 266 (MMC2 AB 1b pl. 1e; MMC3 AB 1c), since it and the rest of the series to which it belongs seem likely to reflect comic theatre in a general rather than specific fashion, even leaving aside the problems of date.

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plays or modified Athenian, or both, is a question that it is difficult to be sure about from the evidence, but, as with Corinth and Boeotia, it is clear that that were not blindly following the Athenian model115. It is worth considering the role of theatre in Cyprus at this period, and we might ask ourselves if, as with Alexander’s theatre festival in Tyre in 331, there was an element of asserting Hellenic identity116. One thinks back over the history of the island to the main arrival of Greeks in the diaspora of the twelfth century, when, despite their numbers, they cannot have replaced all the pre-existing population; then the considerable influx of Phoenicians in the eighth and seventh centuries, and, nearer in time, the period of Persian domination. There must have been a continuing consciousness, too, of their potential isolation among the peoples on all sides except the relatively distant Aegean. And then the mainland-Greek attitude to Euagoras of Salamis and his dealings with the Persians early in the fourth century was not unambiguous even if the Athenians persuaded themselves to put up a statue to him117. The case of Cyprus was an individual one, and so in different way was that of Boeotia. Here there was no need to assert a Greek identity. Instead one may detect an effort to preserve local traditions in the face of influence from their Athenian neighbours, an influence that in the end proved overwhelming. The Athenian style of comedy had the advantage of a fully scripted performance with all that that must have involved in terms of dramatic subtlety and the development of interacting characters, and we see it reflected in the range of figurines representing sub-types of standard characters. Boeotians must also have seen how Athenian comedy was becoming popular in other regional centres, even without our taking on board, for the later part of the fourth century, the role of the Macedonians in reinforcing the popularity of the Athenian version in the years following Chaironeia, ironic as that may seem. And as for Corinth, it seems to me fair to believe that Corinth was not only influenced by Athenian comedy but was contributing both to the general picture and to the distribution of the medium. Despite their various military encounters, Corinth maintained cultural links with Athens over considerable periods of time, as one sees, for example, in the manufacture of white-ground lekythoi, or the phenomenon of the Suessula Painter near the end of the fifth century who seems to have worked in both centres118. The case of the figurine of a woman with skyphos, which seems very likely to derive from the key scene from Thesmophoriazusae, raises the question of how that scene may have been transmitted to South Italy as we have it on the little vase in Würzburg, whether as an image or as a performed scene on stage, and what Corinth’s role may have been in the process, especially given the delays involved. The manufacture of vases with comic scenes in both Corinth and the West can hardly be coincidental. What remains to be seen in this case is the direction of travel. There are hints in the admittedly limited range of evidence that the idea, or the will to pursue it, may have come from the West to Corinth, particularly given the lack of comic scenes from Athens at the time. If this should eventually prove to be the case, it could represent fasci115

Compare the assessment of terracottas of this period in general in Vandenabeele 2007. She notes (224) that the most important centres with Greek replicas or Greek-inspired figurines are Marion and Kition. We should bear in mind, however, that inhabitants of the Paphos region do not seem to have enjoyed clay figurines, and so one cannot draw sweeping conclusions about levels of hellenisation.

116

117

118

Cf. Moloney’s observations on theatre in Macedon in this volume. Earlier, note Revermann 1999 and Bosworth 1996b. See Rhodes – Osborne 2003, 50–55 on their document 11 of 394/3. For an earlier period they rightly refer to Reyes 1994, 11–13 on Cyprus as a foreign place. For an excellent survey of the links exemplified in pottery, see Pemberton 2003.

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nating possibilities in terms of the acting profession or even international, non-Athenian playwrights already by the middle years of the fourth century. Since preparing this paper I have noticed J. K. Papadopoulos’ suggestion that the widely-distributed Agrinion Group of vases from the Adriatic coast, for which McPhee considered Apulian links, has Corinthian origins119. They too belong to the earlier half of the fourth century. Re-assessment of the role of Corinth is beginning. To come back to the larger body of evidence, the comic figurines, the more one looks, the more one sees how many of those in the West, and especially in Sicily and Lipari, are taken directly from Corinthian models or developed from Corinthian archetypes, whether or not they in turn were derived from Athenian. Their quantity and the apparently systematic nature of the copying make it clear that this was more than a casual or intermittent activity. Corinth’s traditional role in transmitting materials and ideas to the west was maintained in what for us has been an unexpected area. The bulk of them belong to the second half of the fourth century, and especially the last third. In terms of connections at this period, it is not irrelevant to bear in mind the Syracusans’ well-known call to Corinth for help in their hour of need, the intervention of Timoleon of Corinth in 344, and his encouragement of Corinthian settlers in the years immediately following120. The mere fact that they called on Corinth is of itself significant inasmuch as it emphasises that the Syracusans still felt the connection to be important and viable. The old man’s intervention proved more successful than anyone seems to have imagined at the time (he died in 336), and it led to a general renewal in Sicily after the terrible years of the earlier part of the fourth century following the Carthaginian destructions of 405. This renewal has been well demonstrated archaeologically, not least through the work of Orlandini and then Adamesteanu121. The development of Gela alone was a staggering achievement. Timoleon is said to have encouraged the immigration of some sixty-thousand colonists, and although they cannot all have been Corinthians – there is indeed some evidence in Gnathia vase-painting for some Tarentine input – Corinthians must have been the dominant element if only for political reasons. On the basis of our evidence it is difficult not to believe that there must have been coroplasts among this number. While the activity of the vase-painters of the Manfria Group may be seen as a symptom of the general increase in the prosperity of the Sicilian cities, not least Gela, and of their interest in theatrical subjects as part of that same process, the specificity of Corinthian as distinct from direct Attic influence in the style of the figurines surely argues for the presence of manufacturers trained in Corinth. This acceptance in Sicily of Corinth as a prime source for the style of comic performance in the later period of Middle Comedy and then Menander is in this context not unnatural, and it is time we built it into our picture of the distribution of Greek theatre. At the same time it should not obscure the fact that Corinth was a key player from well before Timoleon.

119 120

Papadopoulos 2009; McPhee 1979. See more recently Sordi 1961, Talbert 1975, Smarczyk 2001. Dagasso 2006 is useful on the Corinthian end of the equation.

121

See amid much else, the excellent survey in Orlandini 1958 and now the more recent observations in Congiu et al. 2011.

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Theatre in the Fourth-Century Black Sea Region David Braund – Edith Hall

When Timotheos, ruler of Heraclea on the south coast of the Black Sea, died in around 336, he was sorely lamented by his brother and successor Dionysius. Dionysius “held horse races in his honour; and not only horse races, but theatrical and choral and gymnastic contests. He held some of the contests immediately and others, yet more splendid, later on”1. Our source for these ‘splendid’ Black Sea theatrical competitions is a history of the city written in later antiquity by Memnon of Heraclea, preserved in an epitome by Photius. Timotheos and Dionysius were the sons of Klearchos, the first man to make himself tyrant of Heraclea. Memnon reports that Klearchos had been educated at Athens by both Plato and Isocrates and was a sufficient advocate of culture to have founded a library at Heraclea, the first attested civic library in the ancient Greek world. An appreciation at Heraclea of the potential of applying theatricality to public life is also suggested by Memnon’s allegation, in the same text, that Klearchos “called himself the son of Zeus, and tinged his face with unnatural dyes, adorning it in all kinds of different ways to make it appear glistening or ruddy to those who saw him; and varied his clothing to appear fearsome or elegant”2. It would be fascinating to know whether the plays which were performed either at his son Timotheos’ funeral games, or at the ‘splendid’ subsequent events, addressed myths of particular relevance to Klearchos, his dynasty, and its legitimacy as the hereditary ruling family. Monoson has recently argued that another, somewhat earlier tyrant called Dionysius with a pedagogic link to Plato, Dionysius I of Syracuse, systematically used tragedy to promote and legitimise his regime3. This was certainly the case with some of the tragedies staged by and for tyrants outside Athens earlier and elsewhere in the Greek world, for example Aeschylus’ Women of Aetna, written and performed for Hieron of Syracuse (Life of Aeschylus 18). Euripides occasionally wrote dramas to be performed away from Athens, such as his Andromache, probably composed for performance in honour of the King of the Molossians4. Once Archelaus had succeeded the far less culturally aspirant Perdiccas II of Macedon in 413, Euripides also wrote plays about the Macedonian monarchy, which had strong links with the god Dionysus5. Indeed, one of the great advances in the study of ancient theatre over the last two decades has been the growing appreciation of the vitality and scale of theatrical activity outside Athens in Macedon as well as southern Italy and Sicily, in both the fifth and fourth 1

2

FGrHist 434 F 1, transl. A. Smith at . FGrHist 434 F 1, transl. A. Smith at . Heraclea certainly had a highly developed theatrical culture in later antiquity; perhaps it was even Pontic Heraclea that honoured the biologos Flavius

3 4

5

Alexandros Oxeidas of Nicomedia (Stephanis 1988, no. 1956; cf. Dana 2011a, passim). Monoson 2012. On Andromache see Hall 1989, 180f. and nn. 70. 74; more generally, see Taplin 1999. See Hall 1989 180f.; Revermann 1999–2000; Moloney 2003; and Moloney, this volume.

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centuries6. Questions have been put in relation to choral and at least proto-dramatic performances in the song culture of the western Greeks surrounding divinities such as Demeter and Kore and the Nymphs, also favoured figures in Greek Black Sea cult7. Yet theatre in the Black Sea has been almost completely neglected, at least by western scholars, who often find bibliographical items published by scholars working in countries of the former Soviet Union inaccessible if they are, as often, unavailable in translation. It is our intention in this article to survey the diverse available evidence and scholarship, including some exciting recent archaeological finds, and thus provide a new embarkation point for the exploration of fourth-century theatrical activity in the Black Sea. However, it should come as no surprise that evidence is rather sparse and that much remains uncertain in detail. After all, the rather better-attested theatre of the Aegean world continues to offer uncertainty enough, especially when we proceed much beyond Athens. We therefore offer an amalgam of literary and archaeological evidence as well as broader considerations which seem to us to be crucial to any understanding of that evidence. After some more general remarks on the literary cultural history of the Black Sea, and the way in which it was perceived by other Greeks, the remainder of the chapter is structured respectively around the archaeological finds at the Greek cities and settlements in Olbia, Panticapaeum, Nymphaion, Hermonassa, Tauric Chersonesus, and the western coastal cities. One reason for the prevalent western lack of interest in theatre in the Black Sea is that, until relatively recently, ancient drama and theatre were usually assumed to come under the heading of classical literary studies rather than archaeology or history. There is, in fact, ample evidence (if scattered) of literary and philosophical culture in the Black Sea8, as indeed for intellectuals who originated there, such as the mathematician Bryson (a pupil of Socrates who worked in Athens and was well known to Aristotle9), and the philosopher Bion of Borysthenis10. But in the case of poetry, it is undeniable that there survives less direct evidence than amongst the western Greeks for the activities of local individuals. There are no figures associated with Black Sea colonies known to have produced choral lyric writing precisely equivalent to the poetry of Stesichorus of Syracuse or Ibycus of Rhegium, let alone an indigenous genre of drama such as the Sicilian mimes written in Doric by Sophron of Syracuse. But insufficient attention has been paid to the terrible blow to ancient Propontic and Pontic Greek literary studies struck by the disappearance of all but a fragment of Aristeas of Proconnesus’ seminal seventh-century Arimaspeia, the influence of which is apparent in the ethnography of the far north throughout antiquity, notably in Herodotus (4, 13–27) and the Aeschylean Prometheus Bound11. Equally tantalising are the pithy ‘sayings’ of the sage Anacharsis, a few of which surely date to the archaic period12. Anacharsis’ literary personality, and identity as the bringer of the cult of the Great Mother from Cyzicus to Olbian Hylaia at the cost of his life, were both well known to Herodotus (4, 76; cf. 46). Our picture of Black Sea culture might also look very different if more had survived of Eumelus’ epic Korinthiaka, and all the other Argonautic sources connecting the area near the river Phasis to other places inhabited by Greeks: the dark-skinned Colchians and the family of Aietes were clearly well-known to 6

7

This development has produced important contributions including Taplin 1993 and 2007 and Bosher 2012, developing the seminal earlier work in Italian by such as Arias 1934, Pace 1935–1949 and Gigante 1966. Kowalzig 2008; Morgan 2012, 37f.; on the Nymphs in the Crimea, Braund 2007.

8 9

10 11

12

E.g. CIRB 118; Twardecki 2011; Dana 2011b. Arist. APo. 75b 4; SE 171b 16. 172a 3; Rh. 3, 2, 1405b 6–16. Kindstrand 1978. Especially at 803–806. See Griffith 1983, 214. 230f. Kindstrand 1981.

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the Cyrenean royal family far away in North Africa by 466, when Pindar composed his fourth Pythian: the Black Sea rivers, the Phasis and the Ister, are already named in Hesiod’s Theogony (339f.). In terms of fourth-century Black Sea culture, the most regrettable loss is perhaps that of Herodoros of Heraclea, a mythographer (and supposedly the father of the Bryson whom we have already encountered). Herodoros’ works treated the myths of the Argonauts and Heracles as well as the Thracian musicians Orpheus and Musaeus. In Herodoros’ fragments we can see that classical Heraclea developed its own readings of myths about the central Panhellenic heroes, readings which lent them far more local relevance. Prometheus, for example, was for Herodoros a king of the Scythians, chained up by them when they were inundated by a river, but released by Heracles who diverted the river into the sea (Fowler fr. 30). It is clear enough that by the fourth century Heracles was a key figure in both cult and associated story-telling elsewhere in the region: at Olbia we find him again as the progenitor of the Scythians, no less, through sex with the mysterious snake-woman who resides in a cave in the extra-urban area called Hylaia, to which Anacharsis had allegedly brought the Great Mother (Hdt. 4, 8–10). Meanwhile, in the city of Tyras, to the west of Olbia, there were no doubt stories about how a giant footprint of Heracles came to be embedded in the rock, for Herodotus makes it clear that the locals showed off the relic: they must have had something to say about its origins13. The cult-centre (as it seems to be) of the hero at Heraklion on the east coast of the Crimea doubtless had its stories about him, perhaps entailing his crossing of the straits from the Asiatic Bosporus or connecting with his role as Aphrodite’s companion in the aetiological cult-myth of Apatoura, about which Strabo happens to inform us (11, 2, 10). Such local traditions about the travelling superheroes of the Greek colonial imagination are reminiscent of the titles of lost dramas which were written about (and possibly performed in) the places colonised by the Greeks in the west: in Aeschylus’ Heliades, Phaethon fell into the Rhone in Iberia near Marseilles (TrGF F 73a = Plin. HN 37, 11, 31f.). Sophocles’ Camici, set in Sicily, probably dramatised the murder of Daedalus there (Hdt. 7, 169f.)14. Moreover, mythical bonds were forged by the late fourth century which linked the far western colonies with those in the Black Sea: several Greek foundations in Italy – Rhegium, Tyndaris, and even Cyme – claimed that the statue of Artemis which Orestes and Iphigenia had stolen from the Taurians ended up in their territory15. And an Apulian vase of the later fourth century shows Heracles and others in the company of a Rhodope. All stand before an enthroned king (as it seems) whose name appears clearly on the vase as Skythes16. It remains uncertain whether this image is related to a myth, a play or (as we may suspect) both, but the important point here is that the western Greeks’ concern with a story redolent of the Black Sea illustrates the potential for Greeks in colonial settlements to create stories which linked them not only with the mother country but with other colonies even further afield. It may be important, from both points of view, that Heracles roamed so far and wide. He could not only bind frontiers into Greek culture but, in so doing, bind one of those frontiers to another17. 13

14 15 16

Hdt. 4, 82; cf. Karyshkovskiy – Kleiman 1985, 132. Hall 1989, 166f. Hall 2012, 140–142. Schmidt et al. 1976, esp. 94f. Theatre audiences amongst the western Greeks certainly experienced performances of comedies featuring

17

the archers of Aristophanes’ Athens, including the extended role with its parody of accent in Thesmophoriazusae, to judge from the available vase-evidence: see Dearden 2012, 273f.; Green 2012, 303. On Heracles in Megale Hellas see Morgan 2012, 42, with further bibliography.

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The cyclic epic Aethiopis, known in epitome from Proclus’ Chrestomathy ii, would have filled out our understanding of the poetic construction of the Black Sea when it narrated the arrival of Penthesilea and the Amazons to support the Trojans; even more suggestive is the information that the same poem dealt with the translation of Achilles’ corpse to the island of Leuke in the Black Sea. Since the Aethiopis is attributed to Arctinus of Miletus, a city which had a vested interest in using myth to justify its colonial activities in the Black Sea, the loss of the Aethiopis is even further to be regretted. Alcaeus may even have written a hymn for the hero he referred to as “Achilles, lord of Scythia” (fr. 354 Campbell), perhaps to be performed in the Black Sea cult of this hero. The Black Sea Achilles is connected with the “shining island in the Euxine Sea” by Pindar (N. 4, 49f.) and haunts the only surviving tragedy set on the Black Sea coast, Euripides’ Iphigenia among the Taurians, especially in the references to racing tracks (Tendra), the White Island, and probably in the tradition that King Thoas himself was a swift runner (436–438. 32. 25). The myth dramatised by Euripides in that play appealed to the fourth-century inhabitants of the Black Sea sufficiently to feature in their grave gifts for the dead. It was near the coast, at the ancient city of Dionysopolis-Balcik not far from modern Varna, that a fourthcentury Greek or Hellenised Pontic barbarian once chose to honour a grave with a bronze krater, the relief of which depicted the story of Iphigenia’s adventures in Tauris18. It was, however, Heraclea, where the tyrant Dionysius staged theatrical competitions in the 330s, which also supplied the only Black Sea tragedian whose name we know. Spintharus of Heraclea produced tragedies at Athens in the last quarter of the fifth century, and enjoyed success (D.L. 5, 92), although he was mocked by the chorus of Aristophanes’ Birds for being a barbarous Phrygian (762f. = TrGF 40 T 2a). Given the lack of actual fragments, it is impossible to ask whether there was anything notably non-Attic about the language or dialect of this tragedian, who came from a Doric-speaking city, like the ground-breaking (because Doricising) tragic poet Rhinthon of Syracuse19. The themes on which Spintharus wrote plays nevertheless included Heracles, the hero most closely associated with his city of provenance (Suda s. v. Spintharos = TrGF 40 T 1). The ability of a man from the Euxine to engage in tragic theatre at the highest standard implies an upbringing in a context which had equipped him to do so, even if he had his performances staged far away in Athens, the destination of any sensible tragedian according to Plato’s Laches (183a–b)20. The same applies to Diphilus of Sinope, comic poet and actor, responsible for the Greek original of Plautus’ brilliant comedy Casina (of which see lines 32f., Diphilus / haec graece scripsit). In terms of originality and influence, Diphilus is admittedly no Black Sea equivalent of the Sicilian comic poet Epicharmus21. Nor do we have any explicit evidence that his comedies were performed near his place of origin (although there is no reason why they should not have been, given that they were apparently produced in the western Greek colony of Messina22). But he was a major figure in his medium, in antiquity regarded as one of the best dramatists of Menander’s generation, although most scholars think that his dramatisation of mythological subject-matter dealing with e.g. Heracles, and involving archaic poets such as Sappho and Hipponax, means that he should be placed rather earlier, bridging the gap between ‘Middle’ and ‘New’ Comedy in the late fourth century. In Diphilus’ case, moreover, some of the titles and fragments of his prolific output are indeed suggestive in terms of his awareness of the Black Sea: indeed, he wrote a comedy 18

19

Robinson 1932, 550, with further bibliography; Curtius 1934, figs. 1–2; Jucker 1988, fig. 17. Taplin 2012, 226f.

20 21 22

Easterling 1993, 562. On whom see now especially Willi 2012. Handley 1997, 194–196; Dearden 2012, 273.

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Amastris about the wife of the very Dionysius of Heraclea (PCG F 9 = Strabo 12, 3, 10) who had theatrical contests performed for his brother; another comedy by Diphilus perhaps reveals an interest in the Persian Empire derived from his youthful experiences, since it was called Tithraustes (PCG F 81), the name of a Persian satrap who had murdered Tissaphernes on the order of Artaxerxes II. Diphilus also wrote a comedy The Olive-Guardians, set in the sanctuary of Brauron, in which a character apostrophised Artemis as its “superintendent”, and as the “maiden archer goddess, born of Leto and Zeus, as the tragedians relate” (PCG F 29). This is a resounding reference to Euripides’ famous tragedy set on the coast of the Crimea, Iphigenia in Tauris. Diphilus’ Peliades must have featured Medea, the Colchian murderess (PCG F 64). The speaker of a fragment from his comedy Heracles (PCG F 45) is a man from Miletus (the city which founded Sinope). Diphilus also referred at least once to the city of Amisos, which lies to the east of Sinope on the Pontic coast (PCG F 127 = Phot. Berol. s. v. ‘Amisos’). Yet perhaps the most interesting individual in the story of the spread of performance culture in the fourth century is neither a dramatic writer nor an actor, but Stratonicus the citharode. Stratonicus was an exceptionally well-travelled professional performer, whose witty jibes were collected in later antiquity. In the collection recorded in the eighth book of Athenaeus’ Deipnosophists (8, 348c–352d), many of his put-downs were delivered to individuals he perceived as provincial, inhabitants of the far-flung Greek communities which he toured, including Cyprus, Rhodes and Cyrene. At Pella, he said that the water was undrinkable. He criticised the weather in Thracian Aenus, while Byzantium was “the armpit of Hellas”. But he saved his worst vituperation for the Greeks further into the Black Sea. The people of the Pontus, he said, had emerged from the depths of the ocean, but it might as well have been from death itself. He also claimed that he was ashamed of being seen on the way out of Heraclea Pontica, since it was equivalent to being seen leaving a brothel (351c–d). He insulted the man whom Athenaeus calls King Berisades, i. e. Pairisades I (ca. 344–310), having sailed to the northern Pontus to visit this monarch: “after a long stay there, he wanted to return to Greece”. When it seemed that the king would not allow it, Stratonicus answered him thus: “What?! You don’t intend to stay here yourself, do you?” (8, 349d). Regardless of the factual truth of the details of the tradition of the Athenian Stratonicus (arrogantly confident in his cultural superiority but nevertheless taking citharodic performances to the remotest parts of the Greek world), he certainly reflects antiquity’s indisputably correct cultural memory of the professionalisation and internationalisation of performed mousike during the fourth century. There is no reason to doubt that travelling actors as well as citharodes journeyed to the Black Sea, perhaps to act alongside locally trained amateur choruses, as they did elsewhere in the Greek world by the time that Plato’s Athenian described travelling players who set up their equipment in provincial marketplaces to declaim in loud voices to women, children, and the “entire throng” (Laws 7, 817b–c). Such cultural memories are summed up in Stratonicus’ response when somebody asked him why he roamed all over the Greek world, instead of staying continuously in one city: his answer was that he had received “all the Greeks” as toll from the Muses, and he exacted pay from them for their ignorance of the Muses (Ath. 8, 350e). Whatever their historicity, these anecdotes, therefore, nicely illustrate the conundrum of Greek culture in the Black Sea. The story is located in the later fourth century, but the nature of that conundrum seems little to have changed throughout antiquity and beyond. This is the coexistence and interplay of familiarity and strangeness. On the one hand, the extensive Black Sea coast had been settled by Greeks through the archaic period with the result (for example) that Greeks might explain the name ‘Euxine’

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in terms of the beneficial consequences of Greek colonial domination there. And the development of self-consciously Greek communities around its coasts was not all. The Black Sea world (both with and without Greeks) had featured prominently in Greek culture from at least the emergence of what we call ‘Archaic Greece’. By the time Herodotus described the region, around 425, the Greek cities there were sufficiently uninteresting as to earn very little attention from him: they were already members of the Athenian empire in the aftermath of Pericles’ expedition a decade or so before. On the eve of the fourth century there was a new impulse in Athenian relationships with the region, most visible in the Bosporan kingdom, which seems to have attracted prominent Athenians escaping from defeat in war and death under the Thirty23. The story of Gylon, maternal grandfather of Demosthenes, remains obscure, largely as a result of Aeschines’ dubious sketch in 330 of unspecified treason at Nymphaion in these years, long before. Most important for the present discussion, however, is Gylon’s presence in the city (in a capacity that is unspecified, despite modern talk of his command and even a cleruchy there) and his subsequent marriage into (as it seems) the Bosporan elite and control of the city of Kepoi. We are probably seeing here both cause and effect. The Bosporus was attractive to Athenian fugitives because of their earlier links to the place and its rulers, while their arrival and prominence can only have raised the profile of Athens and Athenian culture there. It is small wonder that in these years the speaker of Isocrates’ Trapeziticus formed the desire to set off from the Bosporus to visit Athens. Once there, he found a resident Bosporan community in close touch with their king at home24. In short, while geographically distant, the Bosporan kingdom and the Greek cities around the rest of the Black Sea were very far from being isolated from cultural developments in the Aegean. Indeed, three of our surviving tragedies show the fifth-century Athenian playwrights expending great energy on emphasising the mythical and aetiological links between the Aegean and the Black Sea worlds. The Prometheus Bound attributed to Aeschylus is set in Scythia, and explains the route that Io must take on her future journey, leaping from Europe to Asia across the sea that flows through the entrance to Lake Maeotis (728–735; see also IT 392–397) – that is, from almost exactly the stretch of coast linking the Greek settlements at Panticapeum or Nymphaion. But the lost plays of the Prometheia trilogy, to which the surviving Black Sea play belonged, explained the origins of a ritual far closer to home, perhaps the torch-races held at the Athenian festivals of Prometheus25. Euripides’ Iphigenia among the Taurians is of course set in the southern part of the Crimean peninsula, at a temple probably identified (not least locally) with the famous temple of the Parthenos at Tauric Chersonesus itself; the tragedy, however, provides an aetiology which binds the north coast of the Black Sea to important cult sites in Attica, in a story of problematic two-way ethnic and cultural interaction typical of the colonial imagination26. The same tragedian’s Medea, although set at Corinth, likewise connects the famous Corinthian cult of Hera Akraia and the Athenian forefather Aegeus, by guest-friendship, with the far eastern coast of the Black Sea, and Colchis; more importantly, it reminds us how many Classical plays we have lost which dramatised stories connected with the Argonauts’ Pontic voyage. Some of these were actually set in Colchis, such as Sophocles’ Colchian Women, in which Aietes had a speaking role and Prometheus was discussed (TrGF F 340f.). Others were set in Scythia or had a chorus, such as Sophocles’ Rhizotomi, which contained a terrifying prayer to Hecate (see TrGF F 535), and like his Col23 24

Notably, Mantitheos: Lys. 16, 4. Isoc. 17; cf. Braund 2003.

25 26

See Ath. 15, 16; Griffith 1983, 281–283. Hall 2012, chs. 3 and 7.

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chian Women and Scythians was almost certainly connected with the journey of the Argonauts27. Euripides wrote two plays, probably satyr-dramas, entitled Autolycus (TrGF F 282–284): this Argonaut was adopted in antiquity as foundation hero by the city of Sinope. Both Aeschylus and Sophocles composed tragedies about Phineus, the blinded seer harassed by harpies and also visited by the Argonauts on the coast of Salmydessus, which stretches from northern Turkey to much of Bulgaria’s coast. Aeschylus’ version was first produced as part of the same group as his Persians in 472. It may well have featured the blinded seer, visited by the Argonauts on their way across the Black Sea to Colchis, prophesying the Persians’ defeat when they invaded Greece, much as the ghost of Darius foresees disaster in Persians; the satyr play performed in the same group was called Glaucus, or according to some sources Glaucus Pontios28. The titles of plays attributed to Aeschylus also include an Argo (TrGF F 20–21). The tragedians thus used legend and cult history to bind the prehistory of the Aegean together with that of the Black Sea in serious mythical and theological ways. However, at the same time, the famous plays related to the region themselves contributed to perpetuating its often bleak reputation. When the African Christian Tertullian wanted to attack the heretical teachings of Marcion, who was a native of Sinope in Pontus, he opened his polemic by associating the character of his opponent with the savagery of both the weather and the mythology of the Black Sea (contra Marcionem I 1): Everything is stagnant and stiff with cold. Nothing there radiates with life, but with the savagery which has given to the stage its stories of the sacrifices of the Taurians, the passions of the Colchians, and the torments of the Caucasus. In Aristophanes and other, fragmentary comic writers we are presented with an image of real, contemporary Scythians which indeed portrays them as inherently inferior, barbarous, and ridiculous. The most important representatives of this stereotype are the archers in Aristophanes’ Acharnians, Lysistrata and Thesmophoriazusae, although there is evidence that other comic poets were interested in the archers and in other themes as well29. It is also difficult not to speculate that the place-name Myrmekeion for the settlement north of Panticapaeum, which indeed seems to have stamped the image of an ant on its early coins, was somehow related to Pherecrates’ Myrmekanthropoi or Ant-People, amongst the fragments of which the sea and eating fish are prominent themes (PCG F 117–131), regardless of whether theatrical performances ever took place there30. For we must also reckon with the ancient notion that it was not only the natives, but also the Greeks of the region, who were rather strange. In the little that Herodotus does say about them, there are hints of cultural affinities with Greeks of the Mediterranean (especially with Miletus, which most communities of the region claimed as mother-city), but these coexist with Greek traditions that he identifies as local to the region. Accord27 28 29

See Pearson 1917, II 172–177. 185–191. TrGF F 25a–34. See Hall 1996, 10f. If the fourth-century comedies by Antiphanes and Xenarchus entitled ‘Scythians’ had survived, much more could have been said about the projection of this ethnic group in Greek drama; the utopian vision of the Scythians as innocent and well-governed (eunomoi) is also apparent occasionally in dramatic fragments,

30

for example A. TrGF F 198 and Antiphanes’ comedy Misoponeros (PCG F 157). See Long 1986, 9. 16–18. No theatre has been found there, despite substantial excavation. The attribution of this ‘ant coinage’ to Myrmekion remains controversial, but seems inescapable, as Minns saw long ago (Minns 1913, 628).

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ingly, Herodotus, without discussion, employs “Greeks of the Black Sea” as a category which asserts both their Greekness and their difference and separation from Greeks elsewhere. As usual, Herodotus’ perspective is generously inclusive, but others through antiquity were quicker to make value judgments: for them the Greekness of the Black Sea was not simply rather different, but inferior and, in particular, tainted by the influence of the barbarian cultures among which Greeks had established themselves in the region31. The citharode Stratonicus’ jibe to Pairisades encompassed all that. The Bosporan kingdom was a place where he might come and perform, but it was not a place for a cultured Greek to stay. After all, Stratonicus was an Athenian, like the orator Aeschines, who sought energetically to deploy Demosthenes’ personal and familial connections with the Bosporus against him: Demosthenes was not an Athenian but a bloodthirsty Scythian, an enemy of the people and a barbarian (e.g. Aeschin. 3, 171f.). And yet, the Athenian democracy of the day was very willing to bestow citizenship and other major honours on those who ruled the Bosporan kingdom and sent grain to the Piraeus. Many Bosporans and others from around the region came and stayed in Athens, while Athenians and other Greeks might well find their way into the Black Sea in search of profit, refuge or adventure, an attitude encoded in the choral odes of Euripides’ Iphigenia in Tauris, especially 408–419: Was it the competitive urge to acquire ever more household riches which made them sail across the ocean waves in their ship, with its twin banks of surging oars, and linen sails billowing in the wind? People cherish hopes that can never be fulfilled to their own detriment. They amass a heavy load of wealth, drifting across the sea-swell, roaming through barbarian towns, all with the same ambitions. Among Greeks of the Mediterranean there abided a sense that the Greeks of the region were not quite properly Greek, while the Greeks of the Black Sea developed civic cultures in their colonial environments which, for all their local idiosyncrasies, were fundamentally Greek in language, religion and socio-political and economic practice. This is the context in which the material evidence for Greek theatre in the region needs to be approached. In view of the broader development of civic cultures across the region, both in themselves and in contact with Greeks elsewhere, it is a priori likely that the development of theatre in the region was similar in its nature and chronology to developments in the Aegean world. However, we may also expect particular local trends and tendencies, whether in particular cities or more generally across the Black Sea. Dionysus demands immediate attention in view of his importance in the historical development and performance of Athenian drama. Most of the cities of the Black Sea region were Ionian, like Athens. And Dionysus was of prime importance in the religious life of those cities, as at Athens and Miletus. However, although Dionysus was of limited significance among some Dorians (notably in Classical Sparta), he was important enough among others, as for instance in Megara. Accordingly, in the Black Sea region Dionysus was important not only in the Ionian colonies (Olbia, Panticapaeum, Sinope and so on), but also in the Dorian colonies which mostly traced their origins, directly or indirectly, to Megara. 31

Braund 1997.

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These included Heraclea Pontica and its colony at Chersonesus, as well as Byzantium on the margins of the region. The Megara connection, moreover, is inherently suggestive, since Megara is one of the mainland Greek cities other than Athens to which a whole tradition of theatrical anecdotes and associations was attached. Aristotle recorded that the Megarians claimed to have introduced comic performances at the same time that they introduced democracy (Po. 1448a31), and that comedy was still flourishing at Megara in his own time (EN 4, 2, 1123a 24); Euripides was said to have painted some pictures in his youth which were put on display in a Megara gallery (Life of Euripides 17 f.)32. Epigraphic evidence from Kallatis on the west coast, like Chersonesus a colony of Heraclea Pontica, itself founded by Megarians, shows not only the presence of Dionysiac thiasoi, but also their cult practices (with a cave in pride of place), attested from the third century onwards33. Meanwhile, the importance of Dionysus across the region serves also to illustrate the larger point that the Greeks of the Black Sea shared in Greek religious culture at large34. In consequence, although details remain obscure, they can only have shared in the development of theatre and performance among the Greeks of the Aegean and Megale Hellas, about which we understand most in the exceptionally well-evidenced city of Athens. The longstanding excavation of Olbia has furnished us with specific artefacts which suggest a community highly appreciative of theatre. One particularly important example of communication between the Black Sea and Aegean worlds in matters of theatre is a fragment of an Attic krater (produced ca. 425) found at Olbia, for it depicts masked dancers of a tragic chorus, as it seems, with the painter’s exuberant tag-inscriptions which assert that the musicians and dancers are kalos or kale. We have argued elsewhere that the image is generic, designed to evoke the pleasure of the audience for those who mixed their drink in the vessel, but even so the image is informed by real performances and possibly a specific performance in particular35: it has even been suggested that an Olbian had brought the vessel back with him after seeing the theatre at Athens36. But the volume of theatre-related vase-paintings found in the Black Sea is limited relative to those in South Italy, as is current understanding of them, especially in regard to the question of whether local productions differed from productions in Athens, a question seminally asked in relation to South Italy by A. D. Trendall37. The Olbia excavations have also provided important evidence of Dionysiac cult there from the archaic period onwards. In addition to the well-known bone plaques (SEG 28, 659–661) we should observe a bronze mirror from an archaic burial there, which is inscribed “Demonassa, daughter of Lenaios, euai, and Lenaios, son of Demoklos (sic), eiai (sic)”38. It could hardly be clearer that in classical Olbia Dionysiac cult was central to the civic religion and culture. It is no less clear that Olbia was in everyday contact with Greeks

32

33 34 35 36

See Hall 2006, 100. See also the claim Phaon the aulete made to Aristonikos, another aulete, that he “possessed a chorus at Megara” (Ath. 8, 350e). It is also intriguing that Bryson, the philosopher and son of the mythographer Herodoros of Heraclea, was said to belong to Euclid’s ‘Megarian school’ of philosophy. Jaccottet 2003, I 151–155. Esp. Dana 2011b. Braund – Hall (forthcoming). Skrzhinskaya 2010, 201.

37

38

Trendall 1990. So-called ‘Kerch vases’ (often with Dionysus) might repay more attention as a possible way into fourth century theatre culture, but they are Athenian products, found in many regions as well as the Black Sea, despite their familiar name (Lapatin 2006). Of course, mirrors were important in Dionysiac ritual and the name Lenaios is striking, but it is the early presence of the exclamation euiai/ eiai that has drawn particular attention to the object (Dubois 1996, no. 92 with valuable commentary and bibliography).

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of the Aegean, for example as a member of the Athenian empire after Pericles’ Pontic expedition of ca. 437, if not before. From the fourth century we have explicit testimony not only of the cult of Dionysus but of a theatre building in the city. An honorific decree for a certain Kallinikos, son of Euxenos, dated to about 325, enjoins that the crown awarded (with much else) to the honorand “be announced at the Dionysia in the theatre” (SEG 32, 794)39. The practice of announcing such awards at a Dionysia is attested at least from the end of the fifth century, in Athens40. At Olbia in the third century a certain Anthesterios was further rewarded by the Olbian democracy with a gold crown annually, which was also to be announced at the Dionysia in the theatre (SEG 34, 758). And such an announcement has been restored with some plausibility in another honorific decree of the third century (SEG 39, 702). Clearly (and unsurprisingly), the Dionysia was of sufficient importance to the community of Olbia to make it a suitable context for the announcement of major public honours in response to the benefactions of the city’s elite and its friends. Although there remains important uncertainty about the relationship of Dionysiac cult and theatrical performance in Olbia, let alone the historical development of that relationship, the epigraphic record and a priori probability seem both to indicate that there was such a relationship by the end of the fourth century (if not a good deal earlier), when the Dionysiac festival was located in the city’s theatre. Meanwhile, it is intriguing that the honorand bore a name as redolent of Dionysus as ‘Anthesterios’. For such names as Lenaios and Anthesterios both arose from and contributed further to the Dionysiac texture of Olbian society, as also Dionysodoros, son of Lenaios, who figures in a dedication by Molpai to Apollo Delphinios, ca. 45041. As these examples illustrate, the civic life and very identity of Olbia were bound closely with Dionysos, though there were of course other deities who were also of prime importance to the city. It is no surprise therefore to find months in the Olbian calendar named Lenaea and Anthesteria42. No surprise, either, to find coinage issued by Olbia in the second half of the fourth century depicting a prominent thyrsus43. Dionysus might well be at home in a city whose name suggests a colonial urge for Prosperity, while scholarly debates over the relative significance of religious impulses from the mother-city of Miletus and the political, economic and cultural powerhouse that was Athens44 seem to miss the point that there need be nothing exclusive about influences from either source and that in principle both are likely enough45. We must, however, take into account the peculiar context that Olbia offered for a cult of Dionysus in which wine was – as usual – to the fore (cf. Hdt. 4, 79 and below). By contrast with Miletus and Athens, Olbia was a city which did not produce its own wine. Archaeology indicates that it was not until the later Hellenistic period that Olbia developed a form of viticulture that could give any kind of wine harvest under its local climatic conditions. Indeed, the development of an agrarian economy to suit the conditions of the northern Black Sea was a substantial challenge for colonists from the Aegean, not only in wine but in oil, fruit, grain, livestock and more besides46. At Olbia there was something at 39

40 41

Vinogradov 1984, 75 mentions another unpublished inscription of Hellenistic Olbia which includes a theatre. Further, Wilson 2009. Dubois 1996, no. 3. Graffiti on artefacts, though usually taken to name festivals and the like, may well be further instances of this kind of personal name (pace Shaub 2007, 201; on months, see below).

42

43

44 45 46

E.g. Dubois 1996, no. 99, inscribed on blackglaze dated ca. 475–450. SNG IX, 401; Shaub 2007, 202 dates the coin ca. 400, without discussion. Briefly summarised by Shaub 2007, 201. Further, Ehrhardt 1988. Braund forthcoming.

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least idiosyncratic in celebration of a wine production that did not exist. Accordingly, we may wonder whether Olbiopolitans gave particular emphasis to the strand of Dionysiac myth which had the god arrive with goods by sea, as satirically represented in a famous comic fragment of Hermippus’ Phormophoroi47. For the arrival of wine by sea better corresponded to the experience of the citizens of Olbia, however critical they may sometimes have been about the quality of such imports (cf. D.Chr. 36, 25). As for theatres at Olbia, we should observe that it is only the chance survival of a single inscription which shows us the existence of a theatre there in the fourth century. The epigraphic record as a whole is much more substantial in the Hellenistic period. Moreover, it is only in the context of announcement of public honours to benefactors that we hear of the theatre at all: the inscribing of such honours (and possibly also their awarding) was much more a feature of the Hellenistic period than earlier. Accordingly, the absence of any theatre from the earlier historical record is a silence about which we must be cautious. There is every possibility that Olbia had a stone theatre well before 325, when first it is mentioned (if indeed the theatre of SEG 32, 794 was made of stone, as invariably assumed). Moreover, we must stress the simple but important point that theatrical performance did not require such an edifice. Indeed, even where a building was made, in some parts of the region the natural choice of building-material was not stone but timber, in which much of the region was particularly rich. In much of Colchis, for example, we should expect theatre buildings in timber, not stone. Temporary structures could be created easily enough. Dio Chrysostom happens to mention the hasty arrangements made to allow the Olbiopolitans to gather as an audience for his rhetoric there ca. 100 A. D. (36, 16). Certainly, there is much of the imagination in Dio’s account, and in particular an exaggeration of Olbia’s plight at the time, but the more important point is that he found it plausible that a city could swiftly find a way to exploit available public space for performance at its centre. Meanwhile, Olbia had immediate access to a fine supply of timber, not least in nearby Hylaia, so that a wooden theatre, stage or seating were certainly possible (cf. the wooden buildings of Gelonos: Hdt. 4, 108f., albeit elsewhere in the region). The situation would thus parallel that in South Italy, where “it is highly likely that there were … many substantial wooden theatres which have left no archaeological trace”, while the evidence of vase-painting offers “plenty of evidence of theatre-carpentry”48. No doubt, the progress of archaeology in Olbia will provide some enlightenment on these matters, especially through the further exploration of that part of the lower city which now lies beneath the estuary of the River Bug (ancient Hypanis), where the stone theatre has plausibly been imagined. However, while the physical form(s) of theatrical space in the city remain uncertain and elusive, we have seen that the honorific inscriptions chime with our other evidence not only to indicate the importance of Dionysiac cult and festival at Olbia, but also to suggest the real possibility that theatrical performance was important to the communal life and identity of the city in the fourth century and indeed very probably earlier. Far to the east of Olbia, in the Bosporan capital of Panticapaeum, the state of our evidence is peculiar. It includes an assortment of terracotta figures, including representations of actors, dating from the fifth century onwards. Some of these are imported from the Aegean, while others are of local production49. We might have expected Dionysus to be ap47 48 49

PCG F 63; see Gilula 2000. Taplin 2012, 229. Key terracottas of the region have been catalogued, with many illustrations, in the Moscow

series Terrakoty Severnovo Prichernomor’ya: on Panticapaeum, see especially Silant’yeva 1974 in that series.

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parent everywhere in the city. Its fourth century coinage, in particular, repeatedly shows a satyr-like head on the obverse and a griffin on the reverse. The griffin may have many evocations (among them Dionysus), but the satyr strongly suggests the deity. All the more so if we follow, as we probably should, the usual interpretation of the obverse as an image of Pan himself, whose name in turn suggests the name of the city, however weak the etymology. If that is right, we should no doubt imagine a mythological underpinning according to which Pan had a role in the creation of the community, presumably with regard to his ‘gardens’ (kepoi). Of course, Pan is not Dionysus, and, although a regular associate of the deity, he also had his own distinct identity. Remarkably, however, Pan seems to be wholly absent from the city’s considerable epigraphic record, while Dionysus occurs only very rarely, as in a dedication of a statue (of Dionysus?) to the god made in the third century50. But we may reasonably wonder if Pan featured on the stage at Panticapaeum, whether in connection with local cult or ranging far and wide, for example to Arcadia: Arcadians passed a decree for Leucon I, calling him “the Panticapaean” (CIRB 37, a very controversial document). Panticapaeum has been much over-built, and archaeology has yet to locate a stone theatre, though the slopes of its central hill (often referred to by moderns as ‘Mount Mithridates’) offer a range of attractive locations for such a structure51. However, there are significant indications of the existence of such a theatre in the city. In 1934 a marble relief was found on the northern slope of Mt. Mithridates. It was sculpted in the fourth century and has, perhaps rather boldly, been identified as Athenian workmanship, not least in view of its quality. It shows a Silenus, carrying on his left shoulder a long length of vine, complete with prominent grapes. He wears what looks like a goatskin, with a more regular himation on top. He is walking from left to right in profile, carrying in his right hand a walkingstick, with a hooked handle. This seems to be an elderly Silenus. However, the relief alone does not help us much. It has reasonably been suggested that it formed part of a larger composition which showed the Silenus with other familiar figures from the entourage of Dionysus, not to mention the god himself52. It has further been suggested that this composition was part of the decoration of a stone theatre at Panticapaeum53. That is certainly possible, but one might imagine other contexts for the relief, including the temple of Dionysus which has been identified at the foot of the hill in the southern sector of the city and boasted a fourth-century statue of the god himself54. Some two decades after the discovery of the relief, in 1956, a marble chair was found at Panticapaeum, which may well also come from a stone theatre there. It was found during the excavation of a building of the fourth century A. D. (sic), where it had been incorporated into the foundations. In consequence, its origins remain obscure. However, the notably smooth surface of its seat attests much use. As we have it, the chair, cut from a single block with simple grooving on the arms and frame of the back, measures 0.43m in height × 0.56m wide × 0.75m long in its lower part and 0.48m long max. in its upper part. With all due caution, it has been dated provisionally, to the fourth century. As for the crucial question of context, such a much-used marble chair would have been at home in a stone theatre55. These two discoveries, taken together, lend credence to the reality of the theatre which is mentioned in a story about fourth-century Panticapaeum. Our only source for the story 50

51

CIRB 24; cf. 15, unusual in naming the god as Dionysus Areios, that is in martial guise. Further on the search for a theatre, Blavatskiy 1957, 249 n. 6; Gaidukevich 1971, 175.

52 53 54 55

Gaidukevich 1949, 162. Skrzhinskaya 2010, 198. Gaidukevich 1971, 175. Blavatskiy 1957.

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is Polyaenus of the second century A. D.56 And this story also takes us back to Stratonicus. For, as Polyaenus has it, there was a kitharoidos named Aristonikos of Olynthus who visited the Bosporan kingdom under Leucon I, predecessor of Pairisades I. Aristonikos was part of a ruse designed to reveal the population and thus the military strength of the cities of the Bosporan kingdom. A trireme anchored off the coast and counted the audience members who turned up to the performances that the kitharoidos gave in the theatres of the kingdom (Polyaen. 5, 44, 1). There are strong reasons for thinking that this Aristonikos is an erroneous rendition of the name of Stratonicus57, but even if he is a separate individual, Polyaenus’ tale suggests not only a theatre at Panticapaeum, but also other theatres in the major cities of the kingdom, whose coastal locations made thinkable a ruse based on observation of theatres from an offshore trireme. Of particular interest is the assumption, central to the ruse involved, that the theatres of these cities looked out to sea, from where the audiences could be viewed and counted. Such a coastally located theatre complex, hitherto unknown, seems to have been revealed by current excavations at the city of Nymphaion, some 17 km south along the coast of the eastern Crimea from Panticapaeum. These excavations, led by O. Yu. Sokolova of the Hermitage, are still at a relatively early stage, so that it is premature to assert much about the complex. However, this sensational discovery further accords with Polyaenus’ account of the trireme-ruse. For it is already apparent that the spectators at Nymphaion will have looked out to sea from their rows of seats, which backed into the southern slope of the elevated ‘plateau’ there. Indeed, under reasonable conditions, their line of sight must have included not only the sea, but also the shores of the eastern (or ‘Asiatic’) half of the Bosporan kingdom, which bestrode the straits. These Bosporan theatres were presumably a striking sight for those sailing these waters, which may help to explain Polyaenus’ peculiar story. The situation provides a notable parallel with Marconi’s description of the way that the theatres of Sicily, cut into hillsides to provide a natural, monumental form of scenography, “would have been a spectacle of their own, particularly for travellers”58. Further excavation will doubtless clarify the nature of any relationship between the rows of seating and an entrance, whose monumental inscribed architrave of local limestone was found by the same expedition a little over a decade ago. Its large letters, picked out in red paint on a white background59, read as follows (SEG 52, 741): 56

57

Polyaen. 5, 44, 1; Burstein 1974, 408 sees the hand of Heraclea Pontica here. The ruse depends on the fame of the man, which resulted in eager attendance by the Bosporans. If this attempt to estimate population made any sense at all, the whole populace would have had to turn out for the musician. Accordingly, Polyaenus describes him as “the most famous of all citharoedi of his day among the Greeks” (Polyaen. 5, 44, 1). This is a plausible description of Stratonicus, but the ‘Aristonikos’ of Polyaenus’ account seems otherwise unattested, presumably because he did not exist under that name and is in fact Stratonicus. The renown of an earlier kitharoidos named Aristonikos (of archaic Argos) will have done nothing to assist clarity (on him, West 1992, 69). The tradition that Stratonicus was from Athens might seem an ob-

58 59

stacle to his transformation into this Olynthian, were it not for the fact that (a) his Athenian origins are attested only once (by Phaenias of Eresus) and so may be suspected, and (b) he might well be given an Olynthian origin erroneously in view of the central role of Callisthenes of Olynthus in the development of his legend (Gilula 2000). Meanwhile, a visit under Leucon suits Stratonicus’ legend rather better than a visit under his successor, for Stratonicus should have been dead before ca. 354, that is some five years before Leucon’s throne passed to Pairisades. Alternatively, we may wonder, in view of the uncertain chronology of Stratonicus’ life, whether the more famous name of Leucon has come to displace the less famous Pairisades. Marconi 2012, 189. Set in context by Buiskikh 2007, 135.

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Theopropides, son of Megakles, dedicated the entrance to Dionysos, being agonothete, while Leucon was ruling Bosporos and Theodosia and the whole of Sindike and Toretai and Dandarioi and Psessoi. This architrave belongs to what was a spectacular gateway, complete with Ionic capitals and other decorative features and painted in red, yellow and blue60. Mention of Leucon I gives a date to this entrance, in the years ca. 389–349, while this member of the Bosporan elite (presumably of Nymphaion) also displays his loyalty to the ruler by devoting about half the text to Leucon’s grandeur. That was wise (cf. Isoc. 17, Trapezitikos), while it also seems to reflect agonothetic practice under democracy, where the prominence of the demos has been noticed61. Meanwhile, Theopropides’ own elite credentials are indicated not only by his father’s resounding name, but especially by his very tenure of the position of agonothete. It is in that context that he makes the dedication to Dionysus, confirming his wealth and giving rise to a host of questions for us. In particular, are we to take it that the contest or contests (agon, conceivably agones), over which Theopropides was presiding and which he was no doubt financing in whole or in part62, belonged to the cult of Dionysus? The inscription is not concerned to say so, but that seems to follow from the agonothete’s decision to inscribe his current office in making this architectural dedication to Dionysus. In short, we may plausibly infer from this inscribed architrave the existence of a Dionysia in mid-fourth century Nymphaion. There was nothing unusual in referring to Dionysiac competition as an agon or to a presiding individual therein as an agonothete63. An inscribed decree of Hellenistic Byzantium enjoins that an award of crowns be announced at “the competition (agon) of the Dionysia” (IK Byzantion 2, ca. 150). Meanwhile, as at Panticapaeum, Dionysus has left some trace through terracottas and the like, but is notably hard to find in the epigraphy of the city as a whole. A simple dedication to Dionysus has been observed in a graffito (reading only :IONY) on a piece of black-glaze (ca. 400) from the city. It was found together with a group of similar dedications naming Demeter, which has raised the question of their relationship at Nymphaion64. The female head on the city’s coinage of this period remains to be identified conclusively, but the reverse has a design of grapes which may suggest the importance of the wine-god65. However, the splendid entrance-gate has changed our perception both of Dionysus’ prominence in the city and of the creativity and ambition of its elite in the fourth century, when such a structure looks strikingly innovative66. We should appreciate the ambition of Theopropides’s grand dedication: he could have dedicated something more modest and less costly. In the theatre at Megalopolis, also in the fourth century, a certain Antiochos dedicated a group of stone chairs and a drainage gully, evidently to Dionysus (IG V 2, 450; cf. later, 453, specifying Dionysus). A badly damaged inscription from Chaeronea shows a man dedicating a proskenion to Dionysus and to the city after he has been agonothete of 60

61 62 63

Sokolova 2002; on the inscription in particular, Sokolova – Pavlichenko 2002. Wilson 2007c, 171. Cf. Slater 2007, 33. Cf. Wilson 2009.

64 65 66

Tolstoy 1953, no. 118. Cf. Vinokurov 1999. Cf. Goette 2007b, 141 on later gates, with Buiskikh 2007.

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the Dionysia there (IG VII 3409, with his wife: no date is established, though surely after the fourth century). Of course, there was no difficulty in dedicating an entrance, as a certain Perikles did at Thisbe in Boeotia as well as its stoa and doors: he had been gymnasiarch and made the dedications to Hermes and Heracles (and to the city, IG VII 2235: date uncertain). Theopropides is only the second agonothete known from the Bosporan kingdom. The other is attested by a statue base from Hermonassa in the Asiatic Bosporus. He too was active in the fourth century, but we find him under Leucon’s successor, Pairisades I. He dedicated not an entrance but a statue (of Apollo?), whose marble base has survived for us, bearing the inscription (CIRB 1039): M"/ aI6!« 7ξ %  μ« $!6  #A/ $/6"«, Ν )« P « B 

λ \« λ # « 8/

λ M=- /.

Mestor, son of Hipposthenes, on behalf of his father, dedicated (this statue) to Apollo, having been agonothete, while Pairisades was ruler of the Bosporus and Theodosia and king of Sindians and Maeotians all. These two agonothetic inscriptions of the fourth century, though situated on different sides of the Bosporan straits, share a similarity of composition: the agonothete states the dedication, the divine recipient and his office and then devotes the second half of his text to the Bosporan ruler and his titles (which should not be pressed hard as a means for further precision in dating, as often attempted)67. However, the differences are also of interest. Mestor makes the dedication for his father, who will have been a man of importance in the Bosporan hierarchy. Mestor himself has been agonothete at some time in the past, very probably the recent past, though we do not know that and might consider the possibility that it is not only the office but an event regarding his father (his illness or death?) that has prompted the dedication at this juncture. In principle, therefore, although the dedication is made under Pairisades I, Mestor may have been agonothete even under Leucon I. The contest(s) over which he presided presumably entailed Apollo, though, as with our other inscription, the text does not tell us that much. Provisionally, however, the dedication suggests a festival of Apollo. The simplest hypothesis (though not necessarily the right one) is that this festival took place at Hermonassa, where Mestor seems to have dedicated his statue. Caution about location is particularly necessary because the great shortage of good stone in the Asiatic Bosporus has often caused stones to be moved around there over significant distances. A festival of Apollo would have been an appropriate location for Stratonicus to display his musical talents as a kitharoidos, like the god himself, so that we may well wonder whether Hermonassa featured in his prolonged tour of the Bosporan kingdom. The chronology is flexible, so that we may reasonably also wonder whether he had dealings there with either Mestor or his father, whether as agonothete or in some other capacity. How67

E.g. Yaylenko 2010, 48. 53f., a method which implausibly assumes close consistency of usage across a scatter of very different texts.

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ever, on our present evidence we have no way of knowing what occurred at this particular festival of Apollo, and in particular whether it was like the Thargelia of Athens, the festival of Apollo second only to the City Dionysia in its celebration of the arts. At the Athenian festival, ritual cleansing of the community on the first day was followed by procession with first-fruits on the second day, when there were contests in choral singing68. That is at least suggestive of Mestor’s responsibilities, while the Milesian origin of Hermonassa would make entirely unsurprising any similarities between its festival of Apollo and the better-attested Athenian counterpart. Of course, the physical space or constructions around which these activities were conducted remain well beyond our knowledge. The only theatre of the northern Black Sea which has been fully excavated was found at Chersonesus, located in the south-west Crimea in the environs of Sebastopol69. By contrast with the theatres of the Bosporan kingdom (as it seems), the theatre at Chersonesus is orientated so that its audience faced away from the sea. Nor would it have been very visible from the sea. However, the stratigraphy of the site shows that this theatre was not built until the third century (or, at a stretch, the very end of the fourth), so that we are left to consider the possible location(s) for theatre and performance at Chersonesus before that building was erected. It is important to realise that the major Byzantine remains which dominate much of the site make the exploration of the central area of the city very difficult and incomplete. The city was long thought to have been founded in about 422, through unsatisfactory interpretation of the meagre literary evidence, which in fact tells us nothing about a date of foundation, real or imagined70. However, archaeology has now shown that it was established much earlier, by around 50071. And we may be sure that the city enjoyed theatrical performance in the two centuries and more before the stone theatre was constructed. The importance of wine-production to the economy of Chersonesus can hardly be overstated, so that the presence of important Dionysiac cult there should not surprise. A civic decree of about 280 (around the time when the stone theatre was built) has often been taken to indicate a Dionysiac festival in the city which entailed procession into the countryside. However, so much of the text has been lost that Yu. G. Vinogradov was able plausibly (though by no means conclusively) to suggest a wholly different reading which mentioned not a festival of Dionysus, but emergency harvesting in advance of barbarian onslaught in the month of Dionysios72. In either case we glimpse the importance of the god at Chersonesus, but the old orthodoxy should not be abandoned quickly in favour of novelty. Vinogradov is quite explicit that his reading owes much to a grand conception of the history of the city and the region as a whole in the third century. And when we examine the excellent photograph which he provides, we should note that (to judge by the letter-cutter’s habit elsewhere on the stone) the notably empty space at the end of line 13 after the sigma of Dionys … is enough for at least a trace of the iota that Vinogradov’s reading requires, though probably not enough for the omikron that the traditional reading would require. Moreover, it remains insufficiently clear how this (notably problematic) month may fit into the train of events which Vinogradov describes, in such a way that it was included in the inscription. Accordingly, for all the uncertainty, the traditional reading is probably to be retained, and with it a Dionysiac procession. Once again, however, Dionysus’ significance to the city is hardly matched by his presence in the epigraphic record there, as we saw also in the Bosporan kingdom. 68 69 70

Wilson 2007c. See conveniently Mack – Carter 2003, 76f. Further, Braund 2007.

71

72

Zolotaryov 2007; Braund 2007, with bibliography. Vinogradov 1997.

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While there is as yet no specific evidence for dramatic or other performances at Chersonesus in the fourth century, we may compare the historian Syriskos, who was publicly honoured there in the third century for his work, in which the epiphanies of the city’s protecting deity, Parthenos, were a central theme73. There is a strong element of performance here, as the honorific decree for him demonstrates. Syriskos was himself a performer, in that he carried out public reading(s) of his historical work. Moreover, as we have seen with other honorands, he was himself to constitute a spectacle at the city’s Dionysia. The Syriskos-inscription is explicit about the announcement to be made there: “The demos crowns Syriskos, son of Herakleides, because he wrote of the epiphanies of Parthenos and composed the history of the kindnesses that have happened in regard to the cities and the kings, with truth and due dignity, for the city”. The historian is a benefactor, in that he has applied his skills and efforts to produce work that contributes substantially to the city’s culture and identity. This is praised as the right sort of work, combining the dignity that the city and the themes demanded with the truth that was vital in giving the whole undertaking meaning and validity. At the same time, we can see that Syriskos was able to combine in his work the mundane (though important and even grandiose) business of philanthropic actions with the remarkable interventions of the goddess in her city’s history. This is history and historian in performance, constructing and presenting the city of Chersonesus’ sense of its own communal identity, at once at a religious and (suitably elevated) human level. In the cities of the west coast of the Black Sea, the evidence for theatre and for Dionysus is a little better, but most of it is later than the fourth century, notwithstanding these cities’ location on the Pontic margin of Thrace, so important to myths of Dionysus74: an exception of sorts is the krater depicting Iphigenia’s adventures in Tauris, found at Dionysopolis (see above). At Istria, close to the south of the Danube estuary, we first hear of a theatre in the third century, when in fact a plurality of theatres seems to have been functioning. The Istrians honour their three envoys who have succeeded in bringing more than sixty hostages back from a ruler named Zalmodegikos, and enjoin that these envoys and their descendants be crowned “in all the theatres with a gold crown”, a process whose practicalities are less than clear (IScM I 8, esp. line 16). Archaeology has yet to locate a theatre at the site, even so. And the city apparently celebrated its own Thargelia in a theatre (cf. IScM I 25, very fragmentary). While our evidence for theatres at Istria is all later than the fourth century and the dates of theatre-construction there are unknown to us, it is probable that musical performances were enjoyed in the city from much earlier in its history, while the likelihood of permanent theatre buildings at Istria in the fourth century seems high75. At Kallatis, too. our earliest direct evidence for a theatre comes only in the third century. Like Crimean Chersonesus, this was a Dorian community, which traced its origins to settlement from Megara. As we have already noticed, it is possible that the Megarian 73

74

See Chaniotis 1988, 301; Braund 2007; Hall 2012, 22–24. Markos, a writer of encomia, is recorded on a later inscription listing victors in a competition found at Chersonesus, along with one Polydorus, of unknown specialism, and a trumpeter (IosPE I2 433 = Stephanis 1988, nos. 1615. 2093. 2406). Dana 2011a collects much of the later material. E.g. Pippidi 1962, 154–177, also on the Getae.

75

Note the teasing ostrakon from Classical Istria which seems to mention a tragedian: Dana 2011a, 59. It is also worth recalling that Skyles’ Greek mother came from Istria, where her own contact with and very possibly initiation in the rites of Dionysus may be of importance to his story, for that would help to account for Herodotus’ decision to specify her city of origin: further below.

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antecedents of these cities were expressed in theatrical culture there, at Heraclea Pontica and at Byzantium. Our third century inscription (IScM III 3) once more concerns an honorand who is to be crowned at the “xenika Dionysia in the theatre”, a festival attested elsewhere in the subsequent epigraphy of Kallatis, which seems to have concerned the xenismos of Dionysus (not a festival for foreigners)76. Meanwhile, at Tomis, nothing much is known of theatre, though we glimpse Hellenistic cult for Dionysus77. Further south, at Mesembria, an inscription of the third century shows the city bringing a Thracian ruler into its theatre and the Dionysiac festival there. Its close dating is disputed78. However, it emerges from the text that a treaty had been made with Thracian Sadalas I. In the aftermath of the agreement and no doubt to cement it, a remarkable spectacle was staged, for Sadalas was crowned with a gold crown as the city’s benefactor in the theatre during the Dionysia there. Indeed, he was to be crowned every year with a crown of fifty staters, though the text does not specify that this too would occur as such a spectacle79. However, the Thracian and his descendants were given both citizenship and the right of prohedria at the contests, which must be the agones of the Dionysia where first he received his crown (    G« $- : line 7). The treaty with Sadalas was of the first importance to the city: we should note the urgency expressed in the decree, though the incomplete text does not tell us exactly what must be done with Sadalas “as quickly as possible”80. It is very clear, however, that the Thracian ruler was brought within this key festival of the Greek community, both as spectacle and as prominent spectator. Taken together, the literary and archaeological evidence paints a consistent picture of theatre and performance across the region, which is no more than we should suspect. If the south coast of the Black Sea had been examined more archaeologically, then there can be no doubt that we would find at least as much – stone theatres and all – along this coast in the fourth century. There can be little doubt that Milesian Sinope, as well as Megarian Heraclea Pontica, for example, had competitive festivals of drama and other performance. Both these cities were renowned for their wine, traded extensively around the region, and we should expect a flourishing Dionysia in each of them in addition to the tyrant Dionysius’ funeral contests in drama81. Similarly, on the east coast, in Colchis, where the problem of evidence arises not from lack of archaeology as such, but from the difficulties of locating and excavating cities82, and the tendency there not to inscribe on stone, since metal and probably wood were preferred83. However, while we hear nothing in detail of Dionysiac festivals and theatre in Colchis, there is certainly enough in the material remains of the eastern Black Sea region to show the importance of his cult in this region of sustained viticulture84. By way of conclusion, it is worth reflecting on how the experience of Dionysiac myth and theatre actively shaped Herodotus’ seminal conception of the historical relationships between Greeks and barbarians (especially Scythians) in the Black Sea region. Herodotus 76 77 78

79

Further, Jaccottet 2003, II 123 n. 225. Jaccottet 2003, II 129f. IGBulg I2 307 with SEG 30, 701; cf. Peter 1997, 174 for judicious comment on the larger context of Thracian dynasts. On the earlier dynasts and cities, see Archibald 1998. Graham 1992, 68 n. 161, considers this annual tribute, which bears discussion.

80

81

82

83 84

IGBulg I2 307 ll. 2–3; cf. Wilson 2009, on issues of urgency at Athens, though these may be rather different. On Dionysus in these cities, Saprykin 2010, noting Amisus in particular too. Notably Milesian Phasis with its cult of Apollo Hegemon: Braund 2010. Braund 1994. Braund 1994; Kacharava – Kvirkvelia 2008.

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may well have heard the story he records about the king, Skyles, during his visit to Olbia; if so, we are privy to an Olbian story about Olbia and Dionysus (Hdt. 4, 78–80). And Skyles, insofar as he is king of a people hostile to Dionysus and his influence, embodies the recurrent theme of the tyrant who resists the arrival of Dionysus – a Lycurgus or a Pentheus: his story echoes a range of details to be found in Euripides’ Bacchae, which was itself modelled on the same pattern as the myth of the Thracian king Lycurgus’ resistance to Dionysus in Aeschylus’ Edonians of decades earlier (TrGF F 57–67). As a king, Skyles is necessarily hostile to Dionysus, for Herodotus’ account insists that the Scythians were set against mystery cults (the Great Mother is also mentioned, as we have seen with Anacharsis) in their religious conservatism. Otherwise the Greek pantheon might be assimilated in culture without great difficulty, it seems85. However, although a king, Skyles was also driven by a strange philhellenism (encouraged by his mother, from Greek Istria) to play the part of a citizen of Olbia for a substantial portion of the year. Having developed that side of his life in Olbia, while also playing the Scythian king for the rest of the year, Skyles decides that he must be initiated in the cult of Dionysus in the city. This he does, in the face of clear warning. He is duly discovered by his fellow Scythians and loses his head at the hands of a relation, after the manner of Pentheus, albeit in different circumstances. Skyles could not be both follower and enemy of Dionysus, while his desire for initiation further illustrates for us the importance of Dionysiac cult among the Olbiopolitans. However, the main point in all this for the present discussion is that the cult of Dionysus is both central to the life of the city and at the same time anathema to the city’s neighbours. It becomes both a symbol and a focus of the tension between transcultural interaction and interethnic conflict. North of the Black Sea, the ancient sources present us with a picture in which attitudes towards Dionysus distinguished Greek from Scythians in particular. It was that perception that caused Herodotus to insist that the inhabitants of Gelonos, deep in the interior, were by origin Greeks from the coast, for he believed them to have a festival of Dionysus (Hdt. 4, 108f.). While Scythians were eager to acquire wine, they used it in their own ways, apparently without concern for Dionysus and indeed with a sobriety and control that belies many a modern conception about their drinking-practices. On Herodotus’ account, evidently gleaned from Olbia itself, Scythians objected to Dionysiac cult in particular as the association of drunkenness with divinity. While we hear nothing of attitudes towards theatre as such, the Greek notion that they were hostile to music (other than the neighing of their horses!) combines readily with the more general Graeco-Roman idea that barbarians are not equipped, aesthetically or linguistically, to appreciate theatre. According to Philostratus (VA 5, 9), terror was the reaction of the outlying barbarians in Hipola (Spain) when in Nero’s time a travelling tragic tragoidos, complete with mask and buskins, performed in their vicinity86. Perhaps there is something of that in the brutal responses of Aristophanes’ Scythian in Thesmophoriazusae to Euripides’ parodies of his escape plays Andromeda and Helen. Scythians might be useful in maintaining order in the theatre, but they were not to be expected to appreciate theatrical performances87. We have seen that theatre certainly took place in the Black Sea in the fourth century at the latest, but in the present state of our knowledge it is impossible even to begin to answer the question of how far it was enjoyed by Greek-speakers’ barbarian neighbours, as some 85

Esp. Hdt. 4, 59; note also Zeus-Papaios as the progenitor of Scythians in tradition, according to Hdt. 4, 59).

86

87

Hall 2002, 36. See also Eun. F 54 in Dindorf 1870, I 246–248; Easterling – Miles 1999, 101f. Hall 2006, ch. 8.

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scholars have asked in relation to the evidence in Sicily and south Italy88. The only certainty is that theatre remained, tenaciously, a key conceptual marker of the uneasy distinction drawn in antiquity between Greek and barbarian in the Black Sea. The idea was still expressed centuries later in Lucian’s account of the half-Hellenised Pontic monarch who begged Nero to make him a gift of a distinguished pantomime (that is, silent) dancer. The semi-barbarian explained to the emperor, “I have barbarian neighbours who do not speak the same language, and it is not easy to keep supplied with interpreters for them. If I am in want of one, therefore, this man will interpret everything for me by signs”. Lucian’s conclusion is that this request was made because the Black Sea king had been “so deeply impressed by that disclosure of the distinctness and lucidity of the mimicry of the dance” (Lucian Salt. 64, tr. Harmon [1925])89. A form of Greek theatre, of exceptional aesthetic power, might make it possible for the most backward barbarians to communicate with one another, but the only actor they could ever hope to understand fully was one who used no words at all.

88

Todisco 2012.

89

Hall 2008, 7f.

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Section D: Finance and Records in Athens

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The Finance and Organisation of the Athenian Theatre in the Time of Eubulus and Lycurgus Eric Csapo – Peter Wilson

The claim that theatre died, or began to do so, at the end of the fifth century is nowhere so splendidly disprovable as in the financial sphere. It is only from about the mid-fourth century that our documents give us a sense of the importance of the theatre to Athens’ economy and it is only in the third quarter of the fourth century that the documentary record shows a real concern to develop what we might now call Athens’ cultural industry. This quarter century is generally divided into two phases, the first dominated by the financial stewardship of Eubulus (roughly 355–337), the second dominated by the financial stewardship of Lycurgus (336–324). The fiscal and cultural policies are less easily separated. Eubulus and Lycurgus dominated the politics of their respective eras by standing at the epicentre of a clique of politically active, mostly wealthy men with both inclination and talent for managing and increasing public resources. In this chapter, when we write ‘Eubulus’ or ‘Lycurgus’, it should be understood that we often mean the members of the broader circle, many of whom were active in both phases. The basic composition and orientation of this clique seems to have changed little with the death of Eubulus himself1. Perhaps Athens only prioritised the development of its internal material and cultural resources once its imperial ambitions had foundered with the loss of the Social War in 3552. The spirit of this age is nicely summed up by Xenophon in his Ways and Means, written at the beginning of the Eubulan period, in which he argues that the way forward for Athens is not the imperial war machine, but peace and economic development3: “For the happiest cities are said to be those that enjoy the longest period of peace. And of all cities Athens is best suited by nature to prosper in peacetime. Who indeed would not need her to remain in a quiet state, starting with the shippers and the merchants? Is it those who own olive orchards? Or those with many flocks of sheep? Or those who know how to do business using their wits and ready cash? Or the craftsmen, sophists, philosophers, poets and others who pursue such arts? Or those who love a good show or good music whether sacred or profane?” From the very beginning this period saw conscious innovation and improvement in financial practices and for the first time placed targeted growth in economic productivity at the front and centre of Athenian policy. We have a large dossier of evidence for the invention of new fiscal instruments, and for the pursuit of new sources of revenue as a deliberate – and suc1

2 3

Faraguna 1992 studies the personalities, though mainly focussed on the Lycurgan period. Badian 1995. X. Vect. 5, 2–4. Scholars have wondered

whether Xenophon’s treatise simply reflected the political mood of the day or actually influenced economic policy: see Dillery 1993, 1f.; Papazarkadas 2011, 65f. n. 216

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cessful – policy goal. Public monies were perhaps at their lowest ever in 355 at the end of the Social War, when annual reserves stood at a mere 130 talants4; by 341 they were up to 400 talants; and under Lycurgus reached an extraordinary 1,200 talants. Surprisingly, those who “love a good show or good music”, appear to be among the chief beneficiaries of that money. During the three decades in question we have evidence for the completion of the Theatre of Dionysus, the major refurbishment of Panathenaic infrastructure, and the creation or enhancement of some eight other festivals, including, not surprisingly, a festival of Peace5.

I. Eubulus 1. The Theoric Fund While it is possible that ‘theorika’, in the sense of ‘festival distributions’ go back to the time of Pericles, the ‘theorikon’ as a standing fund into which state revenues were deposited can be no earlier than the fourth century6. Despite some ambiguities in the evidence, there is now a broad consensus among scholars that the theoric fund was created by Eubulus and his associate Diophantus “probably soon after 355”7. Even if Eubulus did not create the fund, our sources most readily connect it with his name, a fact that at least reflects “his role as the mastermind behind the formal organisation of the fund”8. The Theoric Fund was a core, central treasury of polis revenues that, for a period, received all the state’s surplus revenue and disbursed resources to a wide array of important public ends, including an ambitious programme of building works: “pretty much the entire administration of the polis” ( λ )μ κ Ρ     ρ) « /«)9. It was managed by a ‘Board of the Theorikon’ (also generally believed to have been instituted by Eubulus around 355)10. Eubulus was in charge of it and re-elected to that office repeatedly over a long period, developing it into the civic equivalent of the Military Treasury, but taking powerful steps to ensure that the two were kept quite distinct. He strengthened the law that provided for all surplus public funds to go into the Theoric Fund, perhaps reinforcing it with another that imposed the death penalty on anyone who proposed to divert the Theoric Fund to military uses11. 4 5 6

7

8 9

10

[D.] 10, 37. See below, after n. 113. Roselli 2009; Wilson 2011b, 41. Harpocration’s mention of Agyrrhius (s. v. ‘theorika’) appears to refer to ‘distributions’ generally and is likely to refer to his involvement with Assembly pay: see Roselli 2009, 11–13. Beloch 1922, 343; Buchanan 1962, 53–60; Cawkwell 1963; Rhodes 1981, 514f.; Faraguna 1992, 208f.; Rhodes 1993, 514 (quote); Badian 1995, 100; Harris 1996; Roselli 2009, 7. Roselli 2011, 94. Aeschin. 3, 25. On the public works see esp. Hintzen-Bohlen 1997. Arist. Ath. 43, 1. 47, 2; Rhodes 1972, 235–240; Rhodes 1993, 514–516. Rhodes (1972, 235–240) may be right in arguing that there was a single officer in charge of the Theoric Fund – Eubulus or one of his associates –

11

until some time in the 340s, when it was administered by a board (¹ λ μ 6/  Arist. Ath. 43, 1) and in other ways had its powers reduced. See Ulp. on D. 1, 1; Lib. Arg. D. 1, 1. Harris 1996 is sceptical. However his discussion of Demosthenes’ comments on theorika well illustrates the extent to which the Athenian demos was required to weigh up the pros and cons of spending money on the theatre that it ‘should’ spend on military campaigns, particularly in the 340s. Harris (2006, 129) argues that Demosthenes is not criticising the Theoric Fund “as a dangerous welfare program that was corrupting the Athenian character and robbing the army of the funds it needed” but “he claims that as long as the Athenians use the Military Fund for its stated purpose, they can leave the Theoric Fund untouched”; cf. also Burke 2002.

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As the name ‘theorikon’ implies, a cardinal function of the Board was to handle the distribution of money to citizens to be spent on festivals12. Our sources specifically mention the distribution of a drachma to each citizen nominally to cover the cost of a seat in the theatre13. Eubulus certainly achieved a reputation for excess and populism in his promotion of civic doles, notably theorika14. But the scope of this new Board was far from being confined to issuing cash doles. Although detail is lacking, disbursements were made on a wide variety of public projects15. Some of this money almost certainly went toward construction in the so-called Lycurgan Theatre of Dionysus16. Indeed, the existence of the fund, and the stability and essential continuity of the clique that managed it, made possible, for the first time, a number of long-term investments in public infrastructure of which the theatre was only one, even if the most important17.

2. The Theatre Our literary sources tell us that the monumental fourth-century stone theatre was completed in Lycurgus’ day and this has inspired a common belief that it was built by Lycurgus simpliciter. This belief is sustained in no small part by the eulogistic rhetoric of Lycurgus’ own sons – preserved by Hyperides – who simply asserted that “[Lycurgus] led a sensible life, and when put in charge of the public funds he procured resources, he built the theatre, the Odeion, the dockyards, triremes and harbours”18. The mention of the Odeion suffices to show that the orator is none too punctilious in assigning credit. Other ancient sources are more precise about Lycurgus’ part in the construction of the theatre: the decree of Stratocles (307/6) says he “brought it to completion”19; Pseudo-Plutarch is explicit that Lycurgus took over a continuing project and brought it to fulfilment: “as overseer he completed the work on the theatre in the Sanctuary of Dionysus”20. Archaeology confirms that even Lycurgus is not the endpoint21. In chapter 1 of this volume, Chr. Papastamati-von Moock has shown that new discoveries in the Theatre of Dionysus now eradicate any doubts: the Astydamas monument was incorporated into the theatron at the time of the latter’s construction, and this fact gives us a terminus ante quem of some time soon after 340 for the completion of the west12

13

It is possible therefore that the choice to name the Theoric Fund after theoric distributions was driven above all by the popularity Eubulus had derived from association with such distributions, even if they formed only one and perhaps not a major element in the overall operation of the Fund (thus de Ste Croix 1964, 192). Philoch. FGrHist 328 F 33; Hsch. s. v.  )κ )1- ( 2351); Suda s. v.  )κ )1- ( 1491); schol. Aeschin. 3, 24; the Diophantos here mentioned is the close associate of Eubulus (the juxtaposition in schol. Aeschin. 3, 24 is significant) and not the Archon of 395/4 (see Roselli 2009, 12). The phrase  )κ )1-, “money (a drachma) descending as hail”, in Hesychius and Suda is presumably taken from a fourth-century comedy (= PCG adesp. F 950). As we know from Demosthenes (18, 28) that the cost of seating

14

15 16

17 18

19 20

21

was two obols (presumably per day) PickardCambridge (1966, 266) supposes the drachma was intended to cover the three days of tragic competition. Theopomp. Hist. FGrHist 115 F 99–100; Plu. Moralia 812f; Just. Epit. 6, 9. Aeschin. 3, 25. Justin’s apparatuque ludorum “the materials of public games” might conceivably conceal a memory of his work on the theatre (Epit. 6, 9). Cf. Leppin 1995. Hyp. In Defence of the Sons of Lycurgus fr. 118 (Jensen), delivered soon after their father’s death ca. 324. See n. 102 below. IG II2 457b, 6f. [Plu.] Moralia 852c (cf. 841c–d). See further below. Papastamati-von Moock this volume, after n. 230.

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ern parodos retaining wall22. This in turn implies the completion of the western section of the theatron by the same date. But if the stone construction of this section of the theatron was complete soon after 340, then it must have begun early in the Eubulan period; Papastamati-von Moock suggests “ca. 350”23. Part of Eubulus’ vision for the economic resuscitation of Athens, then, paradoxically included a very bold plan to build a larger and permanent theatre. This was a major expense: consider the more than 6,800 tons of Piraeus limestone that needed to be quarried, hauled and worked for the benches alone; the technically demanding working of the bedrock to lay the seats and the enormously difficult reshaping of the Acropolis rock to produce the sheer vertical cutting (katatome) at the back of the extended theatron24. No building on this scale had been tried in Athens since the fifth century, and as Moretti makes clear, it was one of the first attempts, and probably the very first, to translate a building designed for the entertainment of the masses into a ‘monument’25. But the circumstances under which the Eubulan building program was begun were very different from the Periclean: Pericles’ Athens had unprecedented wealth; Eubulus’, to start at least, was bankrupt. We may doubt that the program was undertaken simply for the beautification of the city. The historical circumstances suggest that the construction began, not in spite of Eubulus’ (successful) attempt to revive the Athenian economy, but because of it. Eubulus presumably recognised that theatre was, or was potentially, an industry that promised returns worthy of an investment on this scale. The new dating for the beginning of the construction of the theatre is consistent with Csapo’s inference that the Athenian state created a new official, the architekton, largely to manage the beginning of stone construction in the theatron26. Earlier the theatron had been managed by private entrepreneurs, known as ‘theatropolai’ or ‘theatronai’, who leased the theatre and provided seating in return for entry fees (or more properly seat sales). But by 346 this situation changed and the publically elected architekton now took charge of the provision and sale of seats27. Yet even though the responsibility for the provision of seating had been assigned to a public official, theatre-goers were still required to pay two obols each for a seat. The easiest guess is that the money collected by the architekton contributed to the cost of constructing the seats (as had happened in the time of the theatropolai), whether or not this was again recycled through the Theoric Fund28. If this is right, then the Theoric Fund at least indirectly funded the construction. The amounts generated were not insignificant. By the time of the completion of the theatron a 2 obol fee × 16,000 seats × 5 days could yield as much as four and a half talants for the Dionysia alone29. We do however have evidence of direct use of the Theoric Fund for the monumentalisation of the theatre, though this comes only later, from the time of Lycurgus. A fragment of a speech by Philinos, Against the Statues of Sophocles and Euripides, seems to have op22 23

24 25 26 27 28 29

Papastamati-von Moock, this volume, at n. 80. Papastamati-von Moock, this volume, after n. 73. Papastamati-von Moock, this volume, n. 79. Moretti, this volume after n. 3. Csapo 2007, 108–115. D. 18, 28; Aeschin. 2, 55. Cf. Wilson 2008, 95. Cf. Wilson 2008, 95; Roselli 2011, 98. Csapo – Wilson forthcoming will argue that the evi-

dence in fact indicates six days of performance at the Dionysia, so our figure may be about a talant short. Theoric payments appear to have been made at festivals other than the City Dionysia: namely the Panathenaea (Hsch. s. v. 6/  ) " “theoric monies”; D. 44, 38); and possibly the Choes (Plu. Moralia 818f and see below). Seat sales in ikria or in the theatre for these festivals are not unlikely.

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posed Lycurgus’ proposal to use the Theoric Fund for the statues of the three great tragic poets30. In it Philinos asserts that Eubulus created the fund for the distributions at the Dionysia: i G« ξ    μ« 8φ !« λ E$  ' «  λ E$# !/ φλ “ "6 ξ 6/ μ, Ρ - : / 7/ /  !  EΚ#« '« κ 6, 3 « d 1/ λ « 6/ « λ« -  - $  ’ $6!  - '/”.

Philinos, in the speech Against the Statues of Sophocles and Euripides, says, in connection with Eubulus, “It was called ‘theorikon’, because Eubulus made a distribution for the sacrifice at the approach of the Dionysia so that all could take part in the festival, and no citizen should be deprived of the spectacles (6/ ) because of their lack of private means”. Although no other fragments of this speech survive, it is probably a safe inference that the potted history of the Theoric Fund was relevant to the issue of the statues because Lycurgus was proposing to use theoric money to fund them. Philinos’ suggestion that Eubulus’ original intention was to restrict the use of the fund to cash distributions was in any case false31, and clearly unpersuasive, as we know that Lycurgus succeeded in erecting statues of the tragedians in the theatre’s east parodos32.

3. The Use of Public and Sacred Land The careful management of public and sacred land accounted for much of the new revenue generated by Eubulus and his associates. A large part of it came from what might have amounted to the privatisation of public land throughout Attica. We deal with this in the discussion of Lycurgan reforms because most of the evidence comes from the later period, but this process, attested by a series of inscriptions known as the rationes centesimarum (or hekatostai inscriptions), began in the Eubulan period. As we will see, proceeds from these transactions could be directed to the enhancement of religious festivals33. Much of the wealth generated by Eubulus came from the leasing of public and sacred lands. These included such lucrative properties as the silver mines in Laurium, which Crosby (hesitantly) guessed yielded 20 talants in 367/6 and 160 under Eubulus in 342/134. An inventory of sacred properties leased by the city (now surviving in six non-joining fragments of a series of stelae35) was erected in the Athenian Agora in or around 343/236. It appears to represent an attempt to establish a permanent record of lands that could be leased by the city37. One recent estimate puts the original list at at least 400–600 properties around Attica38. The creation of the inventory seems designed to help the city’s financial 30 31 32

33 34 35

Harp. s. v. 6/  “theorika”. See above, at notes 10–17. Papastamati-von Moock, this volume, after n. 84; and see below at n. 105. See below at n. 108. Crosby 1950, 204. Agora 19 L6a–f. Walbank 1983 assigns the fragments to a single large stele; Tracy 1995,

36

37 38

94f. to two large stelae of similar nature; Williams 2011 to four large stelae. Williams dates all six fragments to 343/2. On Tracy’s view only the first stele necessarily belongs to that date. Williams 2011, 284f. Williams 2011, 284.

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officers gain some control over their budget by facilitating the projection of income from these sources. The inscription lists sacred properties belonging to “Athena Polias and the Other Gods” that have been leased, probably for a period of ten years, to the highest bidder. Previously the leasing of sacred properties had been managed by two separate boards, one for Athena Polias and one for the Other Gods; but the two seem to have been united very shortly before the time of our inscription, probably ca. 346–34439. Money gained from the leasing of sacred land normally went to support the city’s temples and ritual activities40. The proceeds from sacred leases had also in the past been earmarked for major building projects: an inscription from 437/6–433/2 (IG I3 462, 24; 463, 74; 466, 146), for example, records income from a house belonging to Athena Polias being put towards the construction of the Acropolis Propylaea. The union of the two sacred funds into a single large fund no doubt provided for greater flexibility and a larger pool of resources. Given the ambitious building project in the Sanctuary of Dionysus and the fact that, by 332/1 we find building on the Panathenaic Stadium well under way41, we might guess that the union of the funds was aimed at providing the means to pursue ambitious (and probably simultaneous) building projects to enhance the main venues of the city’s major festivals. Papazarkadas suggests the income recorded on the stelae from the Agora was specifically aimed at payment for the Great Panathenaea of 342/142. We would tentatively suggest, perhaps among a variety of projects, that some of this money was destined in the long term for the monumental construction of the Theatre of Dionysus and possibly already earmarked for the Panathenaic Stadium43. Other innovations can be connected to the use of property. Eubulus seems to have anticipated Lycurgus in another major social and economic advance: the harnessing of metic wealth44. The inscription from the Agora gives the earliest evidence we have that metics could rent sacred land, and Papazarkadas has suggested that part of the restructuring of the mid 340s included new provisions permitting the enlargement of the pool of potential lessees by the inclusion of metics45. Eubulus was also responsible for a major innovation in the leasing arrangements affecting the Theatre of Dionysus itself. As mentioned above, we have clear evidence for the leasing of the Athenian theatron by entrepreneurs (‘theatronai’) who collected entrance fees in return for providing seating46. But by 346, the appearance of a new elected officer 39

40

41

42 43

Papazarkadas 2011, 30; the date has been disputed (see Papazarkadas 2011, 22 n. 30). Harp. s. v. $μ  6// “from the rents”; Williams 2011, 282f. See also below n. 113. IG II2 1627, 374–397; 1628, 533–544; 1620, 1010–1020; 1631, 237–249. Shear 2001, 837. See also, below at n. 129. Papazarkadas 2011, 30. Phanodemus, a colleague of both Eubulus and Lycurgus, and a major figure in Athens’ fourthcentury cultural renaissance, authored a decree after the Dionysia of 342 (IG II3 306) honouring the Council for its part in arranging the $  % 6 , “eukosmia of the theatre”. This is the first epigraphic appearance of the term eukosmia, and though the term is usually thought to refer to policework (see

44 45

46

below n. 88), not a very likely activity for councillors, the Greek word can mean “decorous arrangement”, “decoration” or simply “beautification”. If this is the meaning here, we may have direct testimony of ongoing construction in the theatron for which the Council took direct responsibility. For the Council’s role in overseeing public works see Rhodes 1972, 122–127. See, below after n. 150. Papazarkadas 2011, 65. The action is significant even if its success in this case was limited: see Papazarkadas 2011, 323–325. Csapo 2007. Slater 2011 adds (or subtracts) little. His attempt to show that the Piraeus lease (Agora 19 L13) is in every way unique is not, in our view, successful.

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called the arkhitekton shows that the leasing arrangements are at an end47. The arkhitekton (perhaps already from the beginning styled, as later, the “Architekton in Charge of Sanctuaries”), is a salaried civic employee who is responsible for the construction and upkeep of sanctuary buildings, though his most frequently attested responsibilities relate to the theatron of the Theatre of Dionysus48. He belongs to a class of officials called “arkhitektones” who are first attested in the Eubulan and Lycurgan period: a plurality of arkhitektones are mentioned in an inscription of 337/6, and we know the official titles of some of them: there is an “Arkhitekton to Look after Ships” and an “Arkhitekton in Charge of the Construction” created for the building project at Eleusis in 333/2, and others whose official title we do not know49. As the name “arkhitekton” literally means “chief-builder”, it seems likely that these elected offices were created initially to oversee important construction projects such as the theatre and the dockyards (which were also begun under Eubulus but finished by Lycurgus)50. This is certainly the case in other Greek cities: official arkhitektones appear in Delphi and Delos in the periods of major civic construction in the fourth and third centuries51. It is then surely no coincidence that the sudden appearance of an arkhitekton in the literary record in 346 closely coincides with the newly established date of ca. 350 for the beginning of construction on the theatron. Yet even though the responsibility for the provision of seating had been assigned to a public official, theatre-goers were still required to pay two obols each for a seat. The creation of the theoric distribution, which seems to have been closely connected with the cost of seating (see above), also roughly coincides with this date. This is probably not simply coincidental. It seems designed to compensate the Athenian public for the apparent injustice of having to continue to pay entrance fees even once the provision of seating was put into the hands of a public official. In this case Eubulus seems to have presided over the termination of one form of leasing arrangement in favour of what is effectively another, far more profitable, leasing arrangement: our ancient sources speak not of people paying for entrance into the theatre, but of people “renting a seat”52.

4. Private Donations The harnessing of private money for public works is another area in which the Lycurgan period excelled, but there is some evidence to suggest that once again some initiative in this area came from Eubulus. The lease inscription from the Agora, mentioned in the last section, gives evidence for what appears to be a private donation to the theatre by Eubulus himself. 47

48 49

50

D. 18, 28; Aeschin. 2, 55; Csapo 2007, 108– 115. Csapo 2007, 108–113. IG II3 429; Arist. Ath. 46, 1; IG II2 1673; Csapo 2007, 109 n. 46. Hyp. In Defence of the Sons of Lycurgus fr. 118 (Jensen): [Lycurgus] g  μ 6! , μ g G,  ( ,  "  «  ",  !« “he built the theatre, the Odeion, the ship-sheds; he had warships made, and harbours”; [Plu.] Moralia 852a–e:  μ« ξ  « π   #Ω «  / « λ

51 52

κ  6"  λ μ 6!  μ :   μ 5  λ ! … “And in addition he finished work on various unfinished projects that he took over and brought them to completion, the ship-sheds and the arsenal and the Dionysiac Theatre …”. Csapo 2007, 108f. See the passages collected in Csapo 2007, 90 n. 5. It is likely that Pl. R. 475d plays on the same concept. See Wilson 2008, 119; Wilson 2010, 39f. 61.

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The inscription employs a highly standardised formula: the divine owner of the property is listed first, followed by a very brief topographical description identifying the location of the leased site, and finally, by the leasing formula, consisting of the name of the lessee, the annual rent, and the name of a guarantor (two, if the annual rent exceeded 600 drachmas). All persons are identified by name, patronymic and demotic. The order of the listing of the properties seems vaguely topographical: with some of the language suggesting a kind of periegetic or ‘guide-book’ sequencing53. Our particular interest is in a single entry on Stele III fr. c 25–30 in Williams’ text (= SEG 33, 167; Agora 19 L6, col. 3 fr. c ll. 145–149): 26 [...8 ... !]« : μ« #O -

stoich. 29

[.....15 ..... ] κ J EΚ#[« .....16 ......]FION % 6[ ,  6/: #A!5 ]« #A5 5 O30 [4: ·······17········]« X [] 26–28 e.g. |[  μ g G k π ] κ J EΚ#|[«  !6  μ  ]  % 6|[  28 FFION or AFION lapis “Also possible are [  μ ]  and [μ P ] ” Walbank ] ? Shear ]  Pitt  ]  Walbank, Williams [!/  or  !6  or  !) μ  ] ? Wilson 30 « X  Pitt

“[A pre]cinct of Olympian Zeus [? by ........ where (stands) the s]tage-building (‘skene’) to (or: for) which Eubulu[s ........ the ? ]llion of the theat[re; lessee: Alexandro]s son of Alexias from the deme O[ion; .... (annual rent); (guarantor): name -]tos son of Charisos.” Though very fragmentary, two words are arresting. In line 27 we have KHNH, which can only be ] " (skene), and in line 28 we have TOY\EAT which can only be % 6[ ] (of the theatre), and both of these words are connected with the name Eubulus. The Greek word skene need not of course refer to a stage-building. Though it normally has a theatrical meaning, skene can refer generally to any temporary building54: but a temporary building is not likely to be used as a landmark for the identification of sacred properties in an official register of (probably) ten-year leases. Similarly, 6!  (theatre) can also mean theatron in the sense of a seating area. Papazarkadas has suggested that the theatron of the Panathenaic stadium is meant and translates “stadium of the theatre”, and thinks the latter might refer to the Panathenaic Stadium, but (I) whereas one may speak of the “theatre (= seating area) of a stadium” (IG II3 352a, 16–18 and below) it is difficult indeed to imagine a theatre (or theatron) equipped with a stadium, and (II) it is difficult to produce a restoration that links the beginning of this sentence “… [s]tage where Eubulu[s] …” to its end “… stadium of the theatre” when understood as the Panathenaic Stadium55. There is the additional problem that so far as we know the Panathenaic Stadium is not yet built56. 53 54

Wallbank 1983, 111f. and n. 13. “Skene” in a non-theatrical sense seems to appear in IE 177, 433, a list of items consumed in the year 330 and not available for hand-over to the next board of epistatai. Ll. 433–438 are in a sub-section of wooden materials including “logs” (“kormoi”), presumably squared. Clinton (IE 2008, 176f.) translates: “Of these (sc. hylaton Makedonikon) one (presumably

55 56

squared) log (was used) for the tent together with those sawn in half and the one lying on the ground: 20”. A “skene” is used for storage in an inventory-account: IE 52 A II 40. B II 51. For use as “booth” in non-Attic inscriptions, see, e.g. SEG 28, 330; SEG 38, 380, 6. Papazarkadas 2011, 29 n. 60. See above, n. 41 and below, n. 149.

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Surely skene in close conjunction with theatron is unlikely to refer to anything but the stage-building of the theatre. There is of course no reason why the properties of Zeus Olympios should be near his temple. Some divine properties were quite remote from their cult centres: Artemis Agrotera, for example, had a house in Kollytos (Williams’ Stele II, ll. 25f.), over two kilometres from the goddess’ cult centre in Agrai57. On what is probably a different column of the same stele58, some four or more other properties of Zeus Olympios are listed together. One of these other properties belonging to Zeus Olympios was a building “by the Dionysion”, probably the Dionysion associated with the theatre of Dionysus Eleuthereus59. Zeus may have owned a number of rentable properties near the theatre. One oddity about this particular entry is the description that identifies the location of the property of Zeus Olympios. The identifying descriptions of leased sites elsewhere on this inscription tend to be very brief. This description extends over more than two lines, from the last letter of l. 25 (– the pi –) to the end of the word “theatre” in l. 27. Another oddity is the fact that Eubulus, unlike every other person in the list, is named without patronymic or demotic (there is no room for either because the 16 letters that follow his name require a verb and part of a noun object). The explanation of this irregularity is that this Eubulus is the one who is too well known to require further specification. Just possibly the importance of the man (probably the driving force behind the restructuring of the leases) clarifies the generous length of the location-description in this entry. But what does the entry tell us about Eubulus and the theatre? The precise relationship between the temenos of Zeus Olympios being leased and the skene is lost in the lacuna of l. 27. But we can be fairly confident that the relationship, however expressed, involved quite close physical proximity: the temenos was very likely “alongside” ([ ]) something to do with the skene. Unless there is an error on the stone, we must have something like “property of Zeus Olympios alongside something where stands the skene”. “Skene” is in the nominative case. This means that it must be preceded by another relative pronoun, most obviously k “where”. And if it is to demarcate a specific spot, it must have an article. So must the noun that follows [ ]. This leaves only seven or eight letters for a noun depending on whether it is neuter or not. We could by way of example suggest something like |[  μ 6!  k π ] " “… alongside the theatre where the skene …” (which would be inelegant given what follows) or |[  μ g G k π ] " “… alongside the Odeion where the skene …”. As for the theatre (theatron), which is certainly referred to in ll. 27f. since there is no room for further qualification in l. 29, the Theatre of Dionysus must be intended. “The theatre”, used without further qualification in a polis document, is very unlikely to refer to anything else. The juxtaposition of the word skene with the name Eubulus is striking. But unfortunately another lacuna (l. 28) conceals the nature of Eubulus’ connection with the skene. The structure of the phrase is however pretty clear: a verb is needed in l. 27 that describes what Eubulus did “to” or “at” the skene. He most probably added something to it. Given the dative case of the relative – J – we might expect a word like !/  “he donated”, although this would make the skene the recipient of the donation when we would expect a personal indirect object. More probably the gap in l. 27 conceals a verb like  !6  “he placed alongside” or “furnished”; or  !) “he provided”. 57 58 59

Papazarkadas 2011, 28f. Williams 2011, 276. Walbank 1983, 118 suggests the Dionysion in Limnai which Travlos 168f. thought close to

the Olympieion (but see Binder, in: Walbank 1983, 118 n. 35 where the reference should be to IG I3 84, 35).

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Fig. 15.1. Athens, Agora Museum inv. I 7062: Fragment of a list of leases recorded on a large stele from the Athenian Agora (detail).

What then might Eubulus have “donated to the skene”, or “placed alongside” it, or “provided it” with? It is something that belongs to the theatre, % 6[ ]. That ‘something’ has, since Walbank’s first publication, ended in - , though he notes that the uncertain delta could as well be a lambda. Julia Shear and Robert Pitt have both very kindly looked at this stone for us and both are in agreement that the letter, as cut, is probably a lambda. There is no indication of the bottom horizontal line. One can see this in the photograph supplied by Robert Pitt (fig. 15.1). In fact there is no sign of the crossbar of the first letter either, though enough remains of the upper part of the letter that we might have expected to see it. Unfortunately, there are very few words ending in -  (a phrase with

 , e.g. “skene for which Eubulus provided an X more beautiful than the theatre” is obviously inappropriate). Unless the stone-cutter made an error it is likely that some diminutive in -  is required (generally formed from masculines in -«, feminines in -« or epsilon-stem neuters in -«). Among attested words,   ‘workshop’, a hapax legomenon in Herodas (7, 83) is the closest fit. Words ending in -  yield nothing even vaguely appropriate (whence Walbank’s desperate conjecture [μ P ]  “sanctuary of the hero Paralos”). Unless we are to accept any of these, we have no choice but to suppose the stonecutter has made a mistake, either in geminating the lambda60, in which case a

60

Threatte 1980, 532–534.

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word like 5  “wooden gateway” is an option61, or in failing to cut the lower horizontal of a delta. In the latter case, Walbank’s conjecture [ ]  (which should probably be read as [ ] , if not [ ] ) is the most likely option. He translates this as a “vestibule”, without further specifying just what or where this “vestibule of the theatre” might be. The word is the diminutive of the much more common  «, which means “pillar”, “pilaster”, “door jamb” (cf. Pollux 1, 76), hence also “pillars in antis” (cf. Vitruvius 3, 2, 1), pillars or even columns juxtaposed to a wall (cf. Hsch. s. v.  «) and hence also a colonnade (as in IOrop. 290, 43f., a Lycurgan period contract for works to be done on the spring and baths of the sanctuary of Amphiaraus at Oropus where the parastades are to have capitals and an architrave set above them)62. If [ ]  is a possible supplement then one could think of the colonnade around the paraskenia63, or the jambs on the side of the monumental Doric gateways in the eastern or western parodoi64, but there are other possibilities. What is most striking is that this “parastadion” must, if it is a correct supplement, be singular. As such it should refer to one pilaster or column or even one jamb, not a set65. Enough remains of this inscription to show that Eubulus engaged in some activity in relation to the theatre and most probably as a donor. Whatever the object that Eubulus donated or dedicated, it appears to have been only a minor, if perhaps conspicuous feature, within the overall construction. The inscription thus appears to attest that already in Eubulus’ day a part of the construction of the Theatre of Dionysus was paid for by donation/dedication, with Eubulus himself leading by example. This is a form of theatre-finance we will see exercised later by Lycurgus, but also around the same time at deme theatres such as Euonymon (ca. 330–320) and Rhamnus (second half of fourth century)66. One such dedication erected, between 347/6 and 343/2, is the monument that has come to be known as the Fasti67. It was, as Millis shows, a wall composed of inscribed rectangular blocks approximately 2.7 m wide by 1.8 m tall “most likely originally erected somewhere in or near the theatre and the precinct of Dionysus”68. Given the date and the location, we cannot rule out the possibility that it is this monument that is referred to in the 61

62

63

See above, Papastamati-von Moock, this volume, n. 107, and SEG 25, 226, 34. 36. Hellmann 1992, 322–324. Cf. [] « “pilasters” in a fragmentary inscription from the second c. theatre of Bargasa further encourages this line of interpretation (Robert 1980, 368). Inscribed on blocks of architrave that incorporates a Doric frieze, this reports the dedication of the [] « by an one Dionysikles. A number of parallels from cities of Asia Minor lead Debord and Varinlioglu ˘ (2010, 150f.) to argue that the styloparastades in the Bargasa theatre were a series of half-engaged columns of the proskenion that could be closed up by panels (pinakes) or grilles. Papastamati-von Moock, above, this volume, after n. 180 and figs. 1.41f. Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, 59–70 pls. 1f. and Townsend 1986 supposed a colonnade running across the entire front of the skene.

64

65

66

67 68

Papastamati-von Moock, above, this volume, n. 99 and figs. 1.20 and 1.41f. This is perhaps an even more likely reference if % 6  here means “of the theatron”. There is a singular “parastas of the theatre” in a decree of Teos honouring the technitai: the decree is to be inscribed '« κ  [|] % 6  (Le Guen 2001, 1, TE 39, 23f.), but this still refers to a single pilaster somewhere, presumably in a conspicuous place, where decrees of this sort are generally advertised. Euonymon: Tzachou-Alexandri 2007; Goette, this volume; Csapo – Wilson forthcoming. Rhamnus: IRham. 82; Csapo – Wilson forthcoming. For the finance of the construction of theatres in general, see Moretti 2010, esp. 156–160. Millis, this volume, after n. 15. Millis, this volume, n. 26.

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gap of Stele III fr. c l. 28, of the sacred leases69. The Fasti seem designed as a conspicuous advertisement of Athens’ great cultural past. It celebrates a tradition of competitive lyric and dramatic performances that stretched back more than a century and a half. The contents of the inscription suggest both an external and internal purpose. It is the first overt evidence we have for an active promotion, through its demonstration of the antiquity of the competition and the fame of its competitors, of the primacy of the Athenian Dionysia among dramatic festivals70. But it also the first monument that attempted a complete list of victors in all competitions of the Dionysia, and so seems directed inwards to the Athenian citizenry, pour encourager les autres71. Many regard the Fasti as essentially a document expressing the interest of fourthcentury Athens in its literary past. This is much truer of the Didascaliae and Victors Lists, but to look for literary motives behind the Fasti risks misidentifying its function as essentially a production history72. More revealing of its purposes is the stress the inscription places, not on the great poets and actors, but on the contribution of more ordinary Athenian citizens, the choregoi and choruses. The Fasti begin with an archon date followed by the name of the victorious tribe for the boys’ choral competition, then the name of the choregos, then the name of the victorious tribe for the men’s competition, and its choregos. One of the many purposes of the monument is to celebrate and stimulate the public spirit of the Athenian tribes and choregoi that gained victory through a willing expenditure of their effort and money73. The prominence given the tribes as the agents of the victory and their placement in the list before the choregos is particularly revealing; it reverses a trend attested by choregic monuments from the early fourth century onwards, whereby the choregoi, who sponsored the monuments, tended to assert for themselves the primary responsibility for the victory74. The Fasti’s re-emphasis upon the tribal role was likely aimed at reinvigorating the contest by creating a diachronic dimension to the tribal competitions. The widely accessible public document for the first time allowed direct comparison of the tribal results over more than a century and a half of lyric competition at the Dionysia75. A final anticipation of Lycurgan policy is the rewarding of donations to the theatre by foreigners, whether monetary or in service, with civic honours and at times even with citizenship. The tragic actors Neoptolemos and Aristodemos are conspicuous early examples 69

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Could the monument, if it had the form of a small open building, have been called a  ? The various contributions to this volume stress both the rapid expansion of the theatre industry in the fourth century and the claims various regions, such as Sicily and Macedon, made upon it, disputing origins and even laying claims to their sponsorship or ownership of the remains of its greatest poets. See also, below, after n. 182. Lists of choregoi (only) were published by some tribes and demes, judging from our remains. IG II2 1138 a tribal decree of 403/2 announces an intention to publish the names of victorious choregoi of Pandionis and in fact publishes names down to 359. The inscription of the deme Thorikos, SEG 40, 167, listing choregoi by year, cannot be dated except to the

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second half of the fourth century. It presumably served a similar purpose: see Summa 2001; Summa 2006, 84. Cf. Millis, this volume, at n. 66. It is perhaps not entirely a coincidence that the one piece of direct evidence we have for the difficulty in finding willing choregoi, Demosthenes’ Against Meidias (21, 13), was just before the erection of this monument, in 348. Wilson 2000, 215. The publication of the data had the desired effect. Plutarch’s Sympotic Questions (Moralia 628a) preserves the observation that the tribe Aiantis never in its history took last place in the competitions. The observation can be traced back at least as far as to the early third-century historian Neanthes of Cyzicus (FGrHist 84 F 10).

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of this policy. If our information is correct, Neoptolemos was a foreigner from Scyros76. Aristodemos came from Metapontum. Both evidently acquired great fame and wealth from their profession. Both participated in Athenian embassies to Philip in 348, and Neoptolemos is described by Demosthenes in 349/8 as being about to (or bound to) perform liturgies in Athens77. The fact that both these actors represented Athens on embassies must indicate that they had acquired citizenship78.

5. Restructuring the Dramatic Competitions Comic choruses were also made tribal sometime before Aristotle wrote the Constitution of Athens, where we learn that “formerly (the Eponymous Archon) appointed five (choregoi) for comic choruses, now the tribes have the responsibility for them”79. Some have thought, wrongly, that Demosthenes’ Against Boiotos (39, 7) permits a more precise dating of this change to the Eubulan era80, but it is in any case likely that Aristotle’s words refer to a change that took place in the Eubulan or Lycurgan period, and there is other possible evidence that points to Eubulus. The traditional form of choregic memorial for a victory in drama was the dedication of a mask or of a pinax (relief or painting). We have a number of surviving marble reliefs for tragedy, but most if not all of them are dedications from the demes81. Although such pinakes are reflected on Attic pottery, the absence of any remains from Athens suggests that the dedications were mainly paintings on perishable material and, unlike choregic monuments for lyric choruses which lined the Street of the Tripods (and only later encroached upon the margins of the Sanctuary), were all concentrated in the Sanctuary of Dionysus, where the long reuse and pressure for space ensured their eventual destruction. The exceptions are two fragmentary marble relief monuments for comic victories dating to the decade 350–34082. Remarkably, the fragments were all found close to the beginning of the Street of the Tripods: not in the sanctuary, but on a street whose boundaries had long been reserved for the erection of monuments for tribal victories in men’s and boys’ lyric choruses. There is, moreover, no sign that these reliefs were technically dedications (indeed the location suggests otherwise). Like choregic tripod monuments they were notionally at least primarily memorials of victory not gifts to the gods. The appearance of the comic victory monuments suggests that these too are monuments for tribal victories, that is to say monuments of far greater public importance than the merely ‘private’ choregic victories of earlier years.

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See Stephanis 1988 nos. 332 and 1797; schol. D. 5, 6 Dilts. D. 5, 6–9. Even if we reject MacDowell’s (2000, 210) bold assertion that Neoptolemos of Melite is the naturalised identity of Neoptolemos the actor. Davies’ (1971, no. 10652) Athenian ancestry for Neoptolemos of Melite is largely conjectural, but the profiles of the two Neoptolemoi are not easy to reconcile. See further Wilson and Csapo 2012, 315 and Liapis, this volume, at n. 104. On Neoptolemos of Melite, a pillar of the Eubulan and Lycurgan circle, see Faraguna 1992, 211–243, esp. 220f.

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Arist. Ath. 56, 3. On the authority of Keaney (1970, 330) and Rhodes (1981, 624), Csapo and Slater (1995, 143) wrongly claim that Demosthenes’ Against Boiotos (39, 7) refers to the phyletic organisation of comedy: it refers most obviously to the phyletic organisation of lyric choruses only (Wilson 2000, 51). Csapo 2010b; Csapo – Wilson forthcoming. Athens, Agora S1025 + S1586 (= SEG 28, 213; MMC AS 3) and Agora S 2098 (MMC AS 4). The date is stylistic. The monuments are thoroughly studied in Csapo – Wilson forthcoming.

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What does the transfer of choregic responsibility to the tribes imply? The fact that some time after 311 a sixth comedy was added to the Dionysian competition83 is most easily explained as an adjustment made in 307/6 when the city added two new tribes, Demetrias and Antigonis, to honour its ‘liberators’. We can most easily explain the appearance of six comedies at the Dionysian competition (probably continuously) through the third and second centuries on the assumption that the tribal organisation of comedy continued even when the choregia was abandoned (in 308/7, see below)84. If this is so, what exactly did the tribes supply, since by that time the agonothetes had taken over the financial burden? The answer must be that the tribes supplied the choreuts (as they did for the lyric competitions of the Dionysia and the Thargelia) and that the six comedies were maintained for the sake of the tribally based choral competiton. If the Thargelian model was followed, then we would expect (if the change happened after ca. 370), tribes in fixed pairs that each year provided a choregos and choreuts from their combined membership85. What then was achieved by this shift of the burden of choosing comic choregoi from the Archon to the tribes? The Archon’s responsibilities were not significantly reduced: he still had to pick up the far more grievous task of dealing with claims for exemptions and antidosis procedures as well as all the costs for poets and pipers. Nor is there any obvious change in the financial burden for the choregos. More probably the change was designed to transfer to comedy the benefits of a system that had long been tested in the organisation of men’s and boys’ lyric choruses, which were numerous. Tribal attachments demonstrably encouraged the spirit of public voluntarism upon which the choregic system depended. The tribe offered an immediate peer-context for more effectively eliciting the sacrifices made by choregoi: Demosthenes’ words make it clear that tribal honour was a factor in his taking up the choregia for the men’s chorus in 348, at a time when no one else could be found to shoulder the burden86. The phyletic apparatus appears also to have given active support to the choregos in training a chorus and probably also provided advice and support in the identification and selection of potential choreuts87. Tribal allegiance also encouraged choreuts to take up the burden. The tribes themselves seem to have kept records of service, and it is not unlikely that they kept a register of potential choreuts (such as that implied, at deme level, in a decree from Ikarion88). Tribal affinities also doubtless greatly 83

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IG II2 2323 l. 112 MO shows six comedies at the Dionysia in 215 and IG II2 2323 l. 279 shows a sixth comedy at the Dionysia in 185. Demetrias and Antigonis were not abolished until 200, but at that time another two new tribes had been introduced, Ptolemais in 224/3 (in honour of Ptolemy III of Egypt) and Attalis (in honour of King Attalus I of Pergamon) in 200. Cf. Wilson 2000, 51. Rhodes’ claim (1981, 624) that “in spite of the change comic choruses remained, like tragic and unlike dithyrambic choruses, non-tribally organised” is unargued, arbitrary and renders the administrative change purposeless. At the Thargelia the tribes were paired, first by (annual?) lot, and then beginning sometime 379–365, in fixed pairs (Wilson 2007c, 156). We know that after this administrative change the Dionysia continued to have five comedies only (IG II2 2323a shows five comic poets at

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the Dionysia of 312 and 311). Were the ten tribes simply divided in groups of five that shouldered the responsibility in alternating years? Or were the tribes paired as for the Thargelia? There is no direct evidence that can help resolve this question. The one possibility that can be excluded by our evidence is a synchoregia system in which choregoi would have been paired for a single production. The Fasti show a single comic choregos at least as late as 330 (IG II2 2318, 1679–1681 MO). It is most reasonable to assume that the administrative change simply adopted the established administrative model of tribal funding for the five annual choral competitions at the Thargelia. D. 21, 13f. Antiphon, On the Choreut 13; Wilson 2000, 82f. IG I3 254, 9; Wilson forthcoming; Csapo – Wilson forthcoming.

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increased audience support and enthusiasm in the theatre and provided a medium for reciprocity in gratitude and more tangible encouragements afterwards. (On the reliefs mentioned above, it is notably the chorus as a body that is the focus of attention.) This creative micromanagerial transformation is not unsuited to the Eubulan or Lycurgan period where attention seems to have been paid to the enhancement of the Dionysia at every level. One last institutional adjustment that we can attribute to Eubulus is the creation of a board of “Overseers of the Dionysian Parade” (also known as “Overseers of the Dionysia”, “Overseers of Choruses”, and “Overseers of Order with Regard to the Theatre”89). The board of ten (originally) elected officials90 is first mentioned in Demosthenes with reference to the activities of Meidias in 349/891. That it is a Eubulan creation is suggested by the fact that we can date the creation of a parallel board, also elected, to oversee the processions of the Eleusinian Mysteries to ca. 35092. Judging from the inscriptions the epimeletes of the Mysteries were created “to help the basileus in managing the public part of the festival and in maintaining order”93. Their role in the processions to Eleusis and public sacrifices is particularly stressed, and they are empowered to bring fines of up to 50 (?) drachmas against disorderly participants (μ« $ ô«)94. Our sources indicate that the preparation and orderly running of the procession was also the main duty of the “Overseers of the Dionysian Parade”(Pompe). The potential for public disorder during the Parade was far greater than at any other public festival. An enormous crowd, perhaps 50,000–80,000 Athenians and foreigners, participated in the Parade either as performers or spectators. Moreover, the festival atmosphere of the Dionysia encouraged the abuse of alcohol and a transgressive attitude to ordinary behavioural codes, even licensing displays of aggression, ideally of a ritualised and playful variety, but which sometimes did get out of hand95. Since the main body of the Parade was formed by probably hundreds of choruses, it is easy to see why the epimeletes of the Parade might also be characterised as “Overseers of the Choruses”, particularly if the lexicographical tradition is drawing, as is likely, upon a literary and not a documentary source. The preparation of the Parade also necessarily involved preparation of the Theatre and the Sanctuary of Dionysus, the final destination of the Parade, which may explain why one source identifies them as “Overseers of Order Regarding the Theatre”: it is this aspect of their activity that is relevant to the service rendered by the honorand of the decree.

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D. 21, 15; IG II3 359; Arist. Ath. 56, 4, 1–5; Thphr. Char. 26, 2; Suda s. v.   “Overseers” ( 2467); IG II2 668, 23; IG II2 896, 34. Diggle has recently (2004, 33 n. 104) reaffirmed the view of Pickard-Cambridge (1968, 91) that the overseers of Suda s. v.   ( 2467) are a board of theatre-police mandated to suppress dramatic choruses and to be distinguished from the “Overseers of the Parade”. He also cites IG II3 359 as evidence for this separate board of overseers (despite Diggle, Pickard-Cambridge 1968 [see 70] is far from explicit about the relationship). We will deal with Diggle’s arguments in greater detail in Csapo – Wilson forthcoming.

90 91 92

93 94 95

Arist. Ath. 56, 4, 1–5. D. 21, 15. Agora 16, no. 56, 29–33: “on grounds of spelling and of style of lettering it should not postdate the middle of the 4th c.” (Agora 16, 95). Cf. D. 21, 171 (347); Arist. Ath. 57, 1; IG II2 1191 [321/20]; IG II2 661, 19–29 [283/2]; IG II2 683, 9–16 [274/3]; IG II2 807 [mid 3rd c.]; IG II2 847 [ca. 215/4]). Clinton 1980, 275. Agora 16, no. 56, 32f. Csapo 2013.

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II. Lycurgus 1. The Theatre and Theoric Fund More than any other Athenian politician before or after, Lycurgus realised the value of the Athenian theatre, even if, as noted above, we are now in a much better position to say that the first monumental stone Theatre of Dionysus – commonly known as ‘Lycurgan’ since Dörpfeld96 – was conceived and begun under Eubulus, on a foundation already laid by Pericles97. But the association of Lycurgus with the first stone theatre is a product not so much of faulty scholarship as of the success of the Lycurgan publicity machine98. It is clear that he took special pains to identify himself with the building project, and with a broader program to place the theatre as an institution at the heart of his vision for the city in the wake of Chaeronea. Lycurgus authored the law to erect the statue group of the Three Classical Tragedians in the eastern parodos and to commission the making of an official state copy of their texts99. He may have overseen the construction of some of the new stone seating100. Our sources repeatedly talk of “completing work half-done”, and it is likely that this rhetoric goes back to Lycurgus himself. Rather than being an oblique reference to his immediate predecessor, Eubulus (under whose primacy, and perhaps direct involvement, we have seen that major new works were undertaken) we might imagine that Lycurgus wanted to project a view of himself as resuming an undertaking and fulfilling a vision of the High Classical age, finishing work left undone not by Eubulus, but by Pericles himself. This would certainly fit with the Classicising tenor of the Lycurgan law on the Tragedians. The rhetoric of completing work left undone first appears in the favourable tradition fostered by the leading figure of the restored democracy, Stratocles of Diomeia, author of a decree awarding posthumous honours to Lycurgus and his descendants in 307/6101. In the version of this decree preserved as an appendix to the Life of Lycurgus, the statesman is explicitly said to have “finished work on various unfinished projects that he took over and brought to completion”, among them “the Dionysiac Theatre”102. Stratocles had mined 96 97 98

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Dörpfeld – Reisch 1896, 36–40. Papastamati-von Moock, this volume. In a fragment of a speech of Hyperides composed in defence of the sons of Lycurgus (fr. 118 Jensen) that dates very soon after Lycurgus’ death, perhaps to 324, we find the flat claim that Lycurgus “built the theatre” (g  μ 6! ). The fact that this is put in the mouth of an imaginary mourner at his tomb may well be a strategy to distance the forensic speaker from making an assertion well-known to be a half-truth or less. The same fragment ascribes the construction of the Odeion to Lycurgus. This untruth may conceal some refurbishment (Faraguna 1992, 267) or other development of this building so closely connected with the theatre. [Plu.] Moralia 841f. For the archaeological evidence see Papastamati-von Moock, this volume. The earliest item of potential literary evidence that Lycurgus claimed credit for the seating of the ex-

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panded theatron is the presence of the word d/  in the sense of “to seat together” in his own speech Defence of His Political Activities (Lycurg. 1 fr. 2 Conomis) with Conomis 1961, 80–82; Faraguna 1992, 259. IG II2 457 fr. b, 5–7: κ ξ |[ 6"  λ μ 6!  μ] :   μ 5 |[] “And he finished the works on the a[rsenal and the] Dionysian [theatre]”; SEG 31, 84; SEG 49, 107; Matthaiou 2007. On the relationship between the versions of the decree known from the epigraphical and the literary traditions see Faraguna 2003, 487–491. [Plu.] Moralia 852a–e: π   #Ω …

λ μ 6!  μ :   μ 5 

λ ! “he finished work on various unfinished projects that he took over and brought then to completion, … and the Dionysiac Theatre”; similar language at 841c–d: μ  :  6!   - ! “as overseer completed work on the theatre in the Sanctuary of Dionysus”. The last phrase has

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the many public documents contemporary with Lycurgus, especially the honorific decrees, to compile the catalogue of his achievements and qualities, suggesting that the rhetoric goes back to Lycurgus’ own era103. There can be little doubt that large sums of public revenues also funded the Athenian theatre104. And it is virtually certain that the Theoric Fund was one of the principal channels employed for that purpose by Lycurgus, as it probably had been by Eubulus before him, though detail on the operation of the Theoric Fund in Lycurgus’ time is sorely lacking. Lycurgus may have had other mechanisms to hand to enable the use of central polis funds for the project. In the course of his three successive four-year terms as “treasurer of the public revenue of the city” (the title used in the decree of Stratocles) Lycurgus is at any rate said to have disbursed 18,900 talants105. As we have seen, at least one very high-profile component of the new theatre that was the brain-child of Lycurgus himself appears to have been paid for from the Theoric Fund – the statues of the Three Tragic Poets. The creation of the polis copy of the texts of the poets was part of the same law, and may have been funded by the same mechanism. Even if the cost of copying the more than 300 plays involved may not have been high (given the availability of slave labour) the symbolic value of this action will have been enormous. Both of the law’s components reflect a desire to monumentalise the Classical tragic canon, the existence of which is observable, at least in inchoate form, from 405, the date of Aristophanes’ Frogs, and appears as an object of scholarly attention with the On the Three Tragic Poets of Heraclides Ponticus (fr. 179 Wehrli), which can however only be dated to the broad period from ca. 360 to 320106. More importantly, the legislation launches a claim on theatrical primacy as definitively Athenian at a time when other powerful centres, most notably Syracuse and Macedon107, were making inroads on that claim.

2. Public revenues The Lycurgan period saw an explosion of fiscal inventiveness directed at the funding of festivals more generally108, even if many of the techniques we associate with Lycurgus to generate new revenues for festival financing had precursors under Eubulus, if indeed they were

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the air of an official title and may reflect tenure of an office as “overseer of public works” ( « - / R /) a post attested by e.g. Aeschin. 3, 14. If it was a specific office held by Lycurgus it probably predates his twelve-year period of primacy that began in 336, since whatever view one takes of the office(s) through which he exercised control over the city’s finances (Lewis 1997, 221–229), it was certainly not as “overseer of public works”. Much later Pausanais (1, 29, 16) modeled his own variant on the decree: ' " ξ ! ξ μ 6!  d! / 7 5!/, … “As for buildings, he completed the theatre that others had begun, …”. Stratocles’ decree mandates that new copies of these decrees be set up on the Acropolis: [Plu.] Moralia 852e.

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See above, after n. 29. [Plu.] Moralia 852b: λ « «  «   « 9   λ  G«  « λ  «  «  «     λ H  )  λ     … “And after becoming the city’s public treasurer over the course of three four-year periods he disbursed from the public revenues 18,900 talents …”. Nervegna, this volume. See Moloney and Le Guen, this volume. Important studies of Lycurgan financial and administrative reforms: Mitchel 1970; Burke 1985; Faraguna 1992; Parker 1996, 242–255; Humphreys 1985, reprinted with addenda in Humphreys 2004, 77–129.

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not his own invention. For instance, we have already seen that new financing was derived from the mass leasing of sacred lands109. Another fiscal project shows how neglected public or semi-public lands were put to work to generate revenue. There is controversy over what was going on in this case. At the heart of the problem is the series of four fragmentary stelai known as the rationes centesimarum of which two have been dated by their most recent editor to the Eubulan period and two to the Lycurgan110. They list the 1 % sales tax accruing to the treasury of Athena and the Other Gods on leases or sales of land, mostly in the borderlands of Attica, by demes, phratries, gene and other organisations, to men of liturgical class. Lambert argued that they represent a wide-scale privatisation of public land111. Since the tax amounts to about three talants, such a sale would account for some 300 talants increased revenue. More recently, however, Ismard has interpreted these documents as reflecting not the sale but the use of these public or semi-public lands as a means of securing loans by the state from wealthy citizens, which would make them examples of a collaboration between the state and private individuals of substance112. On this interpretation the lands and their potential revenues are put into the possession of the lending individuals until the repayment of the loan. In this way the lenders are entitled to receive income from the land until the loan is paid. In any case we have direct epigraphic evidence that the money from the lease or sale or transfer of private and sacred land on security helped to pay for many festivals. The general practice was of long standing but was pursued with far greater energy and exactitude in the Lycurgan period than ever before113. New fiscal instruments make their appearance at this time. One is the use of an endowment fund to ensure the longer-term financial security of festivals. In the first four years of his stewardship, we have laws and decrees proposed by associates of Lycurgus for the funding of four festivals by such means: the proceeds of the leasing of land and the sale of import duties from a spot called the “New Territory” (“Nea” – probably the Oropia) supplied the sacrifices at the Lesser Panathenaea, probably on the basis of a sophisticated endowment fund that drew on a combination of protected rental and tax revenues114; leasing rights to this New Territory seem also to have funded the newly established Amphiareia (this was the idea of the hyper-Athenocentric Atthidographer Phanodemus [FGrHist 325], Lycurgus’ “minister of public worship and education”115); while in 332/1, Lycurgus’ as109 110

111

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See above, section I 3 (after n. 32). Lambert 1997, esp. 217 dates two of the four stelai to ca. 343–340; the other two to ca. 330–325. Humphreys 2004, 121 n. 37 expresses some doubts over the prosopographical arguments used to separate the two pairs. Lambert 1997. See also Papazarkadas 2011, esp. 132–135. 183–186. 197–199. 235f., who concurs with Lambert’s general interpretation. Ismard 2010, 178f.; Humphreys 2004, 121. 125 already raised some doubts over the sale theory. For the general principle of rental income funding cult: Didymus in Harp. s. v. $μ  6// ( 196); cf. Arist. Pol. 1267b; Ath. 47, 2–4; X. An. 5, 3, 7–13. IG II3 447, ca. 335–330, law and decree on the Lesser Panathenaea: the nomothetai resolve that boards of officials let out Nea, with rent and 2 % tax to underwrite the celebration of

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the festival. The land under lease is probably the Oropia newly recovered (Lewis 1959, 242f.) rather than a small volcanic island of that name in the northern Aegean (Langdon 1987). Papazarkadas (2004, 17) adds the important qualification that by “new” was probably meant newly consecrated to Athena. Sosin (2002) ingeniously interprets this law as creating an endowment, permanently encumbering two sources of revenue – property under lease and taxable assets – to do so. In 335/4 Lycurgus collaborated with the proposer of this law, Aristonikos, to combat piracy: IG II2 1623, 276–285. The description is Jacoby’s, 1954, 172. Phanodemus was also active in the time of Eubulus: see above n. 43 on his role in securing honours for the Council for its work in the theatre and at the City Dionysia of 342 and further below, at n. 183. In 332/1 Phanodemus is hon-

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sociate Moirokles116 supplied the festival of Heracles in the deme of Eleusis with sacrifices through the purchase of a quarry lease for a five year period, donating an extra 100 dr. on top;117 and Sosin has argued persuasively that the musical and athletic games for the entirely new Peace festival of (probably) 335/4 were also similarly endowed118. Lycurgus’ ability to identify income in apparently unpromising corners of the festival economy can be glimpsed in two brilliant inventions of his fiscal micro-management, known solely from the inscriptional record. The first is the creation of a standing fund into which the Athenians deposited the revenue from the sale of the skins of the numerous sacrificial victims consumed at their major festivals119. It is clear that Lycurgus devised this fund with the intention of using it to pay for new festival “adornments” (“kosmoi”)120. In 334/3 the fund received close to one talant. The meticulous stewarding of resources involved is characteristic of Lycurgan fiscal policy. The second Lycurgan innovation is a kind of agonistic stamp duty, the requirement placed upon liturgical ‘losers’ to make an extra dedication of a phiale (bowl) worth 50 drachmas121. The money went to Athena and the Other Gods on the Acropolis or the city’s coffers more generally, rather than the deities of the respective festivals at which the liturgists had served122. For an extra drachma the dedicant could have his name inscribed on a permanent public list123. This last detail points most clearly to Lycurgan authorship124. A large inscribed

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oured for his legislation to raise revenue for Amphiaraus’ cult (IOrop. 297). The phraseological similarity with the law on the Lesser Panathenaea leads Papazarkadas (2009, esp. 179f.; Papazarkadas 2011, 44–49) to deduce similarity of content and purpose, namely consecration of the land to fund the festival; see also Sosin 2004, 5. Ampolo 1981; Faraguna 1992, 233f.; Sosin 2004, 5. IE 85, 8f.; Whitehead 1986, 427f.; Humphreys 2004, 1001; Alipheri 2009; Papazarkadas 2011, 151–153. Moirokles was honoured by decree for his efforts in maximizing the deme’s revenue (ll. 14–17); so too was one Philokomos, for proposing the plan (the 100 dr. for his honorific crown was supplied by Moirokles himself). This looks rather less like an endowment arrangement, but see Sosin 2004, 5. Sosin 2004 on SEG 16, 25 (IG II3 448, ca. 335–330). The expression $μ ! /  6|[! ] “to establish from (a capital sum of) five talants” (ll. 6f.) strongly suggests a new festival and one funded by endowment. Another highly fragmentary Lycurgan-era decree (IG II3 449, ca. 335–330) records what is probably the considerable enhancement of an existing festival rather than an entirely new foundation: suggestions are the Amphiareia (Walbank 1982; Parker 2005, 457) or the Epitaphia (Humphreys 2004, 117). It certainly made provision for prizes (ll. 21–26) and other expenses. Lambert’s identification of a possible reference to “shops” at l. 33 (Lambert 2012, 88) might relate to mar-

119

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122 123 124

kets at the festival in question, and taxes or other funds they might provide. Two further seemingly new (in the case of the first) or embellished (in the case of the second) festivals of this era are the Nemeseia at Rhamnus, first attested in 333/2, with athletic contests (IG II2 3105 + SEG 31, 162; Parker 2005, 476) and the Eleusinia, enhanced by the addition of a horse race in 329/8 (IG II2 1672, 258–262). See also Lambert 2011, 185–187. The dermatikon, known principally from IG II2 1496. See Faraguna 1992, 373–377. The Lycurgan law IG II3 445, 42 of ca. 335 specifies funds from this source. The decree of Stratocles ([Plu.] Moralia 852b) probably refers to the results of this law when it talks of Lycurgus “providing adornment for the Goddess, solid gold Victories, gold and silver vessels for the processions and ornaments of gold for 100 basket-carriers”. See Parker 1996, 244. Lewis 1968, 374–380 no. 51 = SEG 25, 177; IG II3 550. Lewis 1968. See n. 127 below. Lewis 1968, 376; Lambert 2012, 230. Lycurgan authorship of the law is in any case virtually guaranteed by the reference at the top of a list of ‘manumission’ phialai on IG II2 1575, 2: [  μ  μ F ]  “[according to the law of Ly]curgus” (with Lewis 1968, 376; Meyer 2010, 127–129). On this second type of phiale as another variety of ‘stamp duty’ see further below, where we endorse the

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list of liturgists from the year 331/0, apparently arranged by festival, and by category of event within each festival, records these dedications. The relatively well-preserved section for the boys’ choral contest at the City Dionysia has only eight entries125. One of the two absentees was the winner126. The other is harder to explain, but it is much more likely that he chose not to pay the extra drachma fee to have his name inscribed than that his tribe failed to appoint a choregos127. Lycurgus had a fine feeling for the calculus of the honorific economy, and will have recognised that some of those who had not won their agonistic liturgy will have preferred not to have their names permanently inscribed on what could be construed as a list of losers rather than an honour-roll. Given that there were around a hundred festival liturgies in a non-Panathenaic year, the process will have generated something short of a talant – and as much as four times that if non-festival liturgists were included.

3. Private donations While public funds were surely forthcoming for the works on the theatre, it is clear that they also drew heavily on private money that was less publicly accountable. Lycurgus was a master at mobilising private resources for public purposes. The marked emphasis on euergetism to help finance major public works projects seems new to him, despite earlier moves in this direction by Eubulus128. We can observe a variety of strategies. First, there are what appear to be outright gifts: for instance one Deinias donated the land for the Panathenaic stadium, as a “special favour to Lycurgus”129. Then there is what appears to be an increased expectation that elected officials should supplement public funds from their own: after Chaeronea Demosthenes made such a contribution of 10,000 dr. (3 talants according to [Plu.] Moralia 851a) as a “commissioner of the walls”130. That the sentiment is authentically Lycurgan is clear from a passage in his speech Against Leocrates, where he makes the extraordinary claim that ordinary liturgists, in particular, choregoi, deserve little public credit, since they spend money for their own benefit. Those, however, who hold public office and could therefore draw upon public funds, but dig into their own pockets to perform their public duties – these are men who deserve public thanks131. Another and highly novel

125 126

127

interpretation of Meyer (2010) that it represents a tithe from fines imposed on those who unsuccessfully prosecuted metics for failure to pay the “metoikion”. One of the lists of liturgical phialai appears on the other side of the same stele, suggesting that it too was an intended product of the Lycurgan law. SEG 25, 177, 3–19. Independently attested by the Fasti: the tribe Oineis was the victor, Nikostratos of Acharnae its choregos (IG II2 2319, 1674–1676 MO). IG II3 550, a fragmentary second such list, seems also to have recorded the enabling law, and likely dates a year or two earlier (333/2 or 332/1). This refers to the granting of “permission to [the liturgi]sts to inscribe (?) their names” [G« ξ   %]  5G  @ (ll. 1f.), which has been taken to imply that the act of dedication was represented as a per-

128

129

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mission rather than a legal obligation (Meyer 2010, 58). If so, this could explain the absence of full quotas of liturgists in the lists. But the phrase is much more likely to refer to an optional extra charge of a drachma for having one’s (obligatory) dedication registered on the list. This would make sense of the remains of the next line with its reference to “one drachma per person” λ :|:  μ Ν . Faraguna 1992, 382f.; Lambert 1997, 282f. See above, section I 4. Plu. Moralia 841d. This sounds at face value like a gift (“epidosis”) with no formal quid pro quo. It is however precisely the sort of gift that might have triggered the award of an honorific decree and other benefits. Plu. Moralia 845f–846a; Aeschin. 3, 17; D. 18, 118. Lycurg. Leoc. 139f.

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approach is the euergetistic loan – or perhaps we should think of it as a variety of publicprivate venture capital investment. Reference in the Life to the completion of the theatre is immediately followed by the information that Lycurgus took personal charge of 250 talants from private individuals “on deposit”132. The clear implication is that this money was somehow used for the various public projects mentioned. This form of borrowing from wealthy individuals by a major politician, drawing on his personal status – and probably also on state resources – as security, to help fund public works is a striking novelty. A similar practice appears to be described again in the decree of Stratocles: “and having received in trust large funds from private citizens from which he advanced loans to meet the exigencies of the city and the people, 650 talants in total …”133. Lycurgus evidently had an extraordinary ability to draw on private funds to assist with public needs, and the financial acumen to make the arrangement work to the profit of all. The verb  « “he advanced loans” implies that he generated further income from the funds he secured from private individuals, probably by further circulating them as loans at interest134. The appearance (twice) of this same rare word in an important law proposed by Lycurgus ca. 335 on the subject of, among other things, the equipment used in festival processions implies that these loans did indeed find their way to funding festival infrastructure135. As already noted, Ismard has recently argued that the series of stelai known as the rationes centesimarum provide evidence for the use of public lands as a means of securing these loans made to the state by wealthy citizens136. If Ismard is right, we have a system that might have resembled a guaranteed investment scheme not unlike national savings bonds, which put both idle land and idle money to work in the national interest137. 132

133

134

135

Plu. Moralia 841c:  « ’    6"    - ' /-     "   φ5 … “He had entrusted to his care by private individuals 250 talants on deposit …” Plu. Moralia 852b:  ξ - ' /-   /« #Ω λ  « λ '« « « /«  « λ % "   d5   λ "  . Rather than assuming a copying error (as most earlier commentators do) Ismard 2010, 176f. plausibly argues that the two passages (841c and 852b) refer to different acts of borrowing by Lycurgus, or rather that the 650 talants mentioned in the decree of Stratocles is a composite of several such acts. On the verb see Whitehead 2000, 400–402 with earlier bibliography. We take it that the meaning is either (I) that Lycurgus, serving as an intermediary, made “advance loans” to the city from these private funds which the city itself was required to return (with interest: Migeotte 1980 has shown, against the influential view of Wyse 1892, that the term implies interest); or, much more probably, (II) that Lycurgus made “advance loans” from these monies to unstated borrowers, at interest, with the proceeds from which he funded the civic projects. Lambert’s new text (IG II3 445 of ca. 335) of this important fragmentary law (or laws) is

136

137

very suggestive in this regard: l. 26 has [....... 18 .......  ] ! 5[......... 26 ......... ]! [.]A[..... 12 .....] “… loaned in [ad]vance … [pro]cessional equipmen[t …]”; l. 27 almost certainly refers to funding for the Great Panathenaea (? P6"]     1[ ]; a reference to []  “… [pro]cessional equipment …” appears later in the line); while l. 28 has [··········? $]  μ '«   [ ! ...... 16 .......]  «   [/« ....]. The sense of this last phrase appears to be that “something is to be in redemption of, or exchange for, money loaned in advance” (Lambert 2005, 142). It is possible that the law gave an account of how new equipment (including some for Dionysus, l. 35) was to be funded, and that some or all of it had come from advanced loans. As Papazarkadas (2011, 239) notes, this law also presupposes the existence of a leasing system, which must be the one put into operation in 343/2, the era of Eubulus; see above, at n. 36. Ismard 2010, 178f. On the the rationes centesimarum (hekatostai stelai) see esp. Lambert 1997. See n. 36 for the dating of the stelai. If Lambert is correct this practice also began in the Eubulan period.

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While private money that helped fund the theatre may have been to some degree less publicly accountable, another distinctive new instrument of the Lycurgan period certainly went to great efforts to give it publicity. This is the apparently new variety of honorific decree aimed at those who benefited the festival culture of Athens, and which was passed at the special assembly held in the theatre just after the City Dionysia. As the recent collection and re-edition of the relevant decrees by Lambert has shown, the practice of publicly honouring those who supported Athenian festival culture with inscribed decrees and various other honours at the Dionysian assembly was a phenomenon of the Lycurgan period, and very possibly an invention of the man himself138. The sudden appearance of such theatre-related decrees in the 330s points to the hand of Lycurgus. They were designed to harness the power of public acclamation and fervour for theatre in the wake of a Great Dionysia and to extract expressions of support for the Athenian theatre and festival culture more generally from those upon whom it increasingly came to depend – wealthy and talented foreigners. Much or all of the stone theatron will have been finished by this date – one factor among others to render the Dionysian assembly such an attractive site for the passing of these decrees. The appearance of this particular variety of honorific decree can be set against broader developments in the uses to which honorific decrees were put in the Eubulo-Lycurgan period139. The new theatre-decree above all honoured talented foreign theatre professionals (most clearly illustrated in those proposed by Demades, discussed a little later) and foreign material benefactors (the best example is discussed immediately below). Two other types of honorific decree that rise to importance in this period are those honouring Athenian officials; and those honouring grain-traders. The decree for ordinary Athenian officials (as opposed to generals and other leading politicians) appeared in the 340s. Lambert has related this to a growing Athenian sense of the decline of their city by comparison with the glory days of the fifth century, and an “acute sense that the performance of their polis is crucially dependent on the performance of its officials”140, leading to a perceived need to encourage and maintain standards in public life. The decree for the men involved in shipping grain across the Mediterranean rose to prominence in the 330s (with a few important precursors). The Athenian city was at this time increasingly dependent upon the services and good will of these men for its very survival141. To judge by the statistics of the surviving decrees, the need to support the theatre came second only to the need to secure the grain supply in the Lycurgan period. All those honoured in the surviving examples of theatredecrees are foreigners. This was a way to secure resources, material and professional, from foreigners – merchants, poets, actors and musicians. The prominence of theatre professionals highlights the Athenians’ growing concern to encourage top talent to continue to participate at their Dionysia142. At a time when formidable resources were drawing the best performers away from the metropolis of theatre, Lycurgus cleverly responded by showering honour and benefits rather than money on some of them. For our purposes the most important are those decrees that honour merchants who have contributed financially to Athenian festivals. In return, we see them receive such very useful privileges as the right to own land in Athens, or exemption from the taxes on metics and foreigners. From the example of Neoptolemos we can see that even citizenship might be gained from significant public contributions. 138 139 140

Lambert 2008. See esp. Lambert 2011, 176–178. Lambert 2011, 177.

141 142

Lambert 2011, 181f.; Engen 2010. Cf. on Aristodemos and Neoptolemos above, after n. 75.

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A small fragment of one such decree passed by the Athenian Demos around 330, published only in 1986, is the single most important piece of evidence that bears directly on the funding of the fourth-century rebuild of the theatre143. The following is Lambert’s text, with slight modifications: ––––––––––––––––––––––––– Δ 8[......... 16 .........] [...... 13 ......]O [...... 12 .....]IΔ 8IO8[........ 15 ........] [..... 10 ..... κ]  [κ ..... 12 .....] [.... 8 ....? / ]«  [ ..... 13 ......] 5 [..... 10 ..... ]’ $/"[ ..... 13 ......] [...... 11 ....] ) 6[ ...... 12 .....] [? $!  ]  [ ...... 11 ....] [ 6]/ ξ π #[κ - .... 9 .....] [.... 8 .... /] b« ² [« ...... 12 .....] 10 [....κ /] , Ρ/« [ ...... 12 .....] [’ 7φ’ dμ«] $ -[ · $ @ ξ ][ μ @"φ ] μ  [! « #][« λ   $] [  ..... 10 .....] –––––––––––––––––––––––––

stoich. 31 (IO in one stoichos)

More than one man is honoured (l. 11). The fact that the awards seem to include exemption from the metic tax (l. 7) shows that they are foreigners who spent extended periods in Athens. The publication clause (ll. 11–13) is identical to the one in a well-known decree proposed by Lycurgus, dated to 329, that gives Eudemos, a Plataean, a crown, the right to own property, and the enjoyment of taxation at the normal rate for citizens, in exchange for a promise to give 4,000 drachmas “for the war”, which was perhaps subsequently converted to the donation of the labour of oxen for the construction of the Panathenaic stadium and its seating144. As Lambert suggests, the phrasing may go back to the man who proposed the two decrees, which would mean that Lycurgus was also responsible for this one145. The word “skene” ([κ]  [κ] l. 3) in this context guarantees a connection with the city theatre. The honorands have evidently contributed in some way to work on the skene taking place at this time (late 330s–early 320s). Quite a lot hangs on how we articulate and interpret the slender remains of line l. 4: –]«  [– . There are two major alternatives. They depend on where we think the clause describing the metics’ good works ends, and the clause describing their awards begins. The first option is to treat l. 4 as part of the account of the actions for which the men are being honoured. In this case, they themselves will be described as “giving” –  [«] 143

144

Heisserer – Moysey 1986. The latest edition is IG II3 470 (Lambert) with tab. LV. IG II3 352; publication clause: ll. 33–35. This was passed in a regular assembly rather than in the theatre. Possibly Lycurgus forewent the theatrical venue on this occasion in order to meet a deadline. The promise to ensure that the necessary motive power for the construction works would be supplied in time for the Panathenaea (ll. 15–20) was made some eight or

145

nine weeks before it began. Presumably the need, or the offer to meet it, had not been identified as early as Elaphebolion. In practice the offer therefore probably amounted to around fifty calendar days of work with twenty pair of oxen, since 1%« “yoke”, “pair” (l. 18) is a way of describing a day equivalence of labour (Wilson 2009, 25). The other such decree known to have been proposed by Lycurgus is IG II3 345, of 331 (below).

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something. We might then think of [/ ]«  [«] in the sense of “giving donations”. Possibly the verb of giving is rather – or also – to be taken closely with what follows, in which case they might be said to be “giving something” []’ $/"[] (l. 5) – “for the carriage” or “for the transport” of something else. The word $/" is used for the transport of stone in contexts of construction146. The sentence-structure and phraseology might then be similar to that used in the decree for Eudemos, who is said to have “donated 1000 yoke of oxen for the construction ('« κ  ) of the Panathenaic stadium and theatron”. The cost of transport ($/") will have been a far from negligible part in the construction of the stone theatre. The second option is to take the part of the verb “to give” in l. 4 as the start of the award clause and the list of the honours which the Demos determined “to give” to the honorands (thus [… –]«·  [ …])147. In this case the []/" of l. 5 (construed as a single word) is more likely to form part of the package of awards given: it would then have to mean something like “the right to import”148. But that meaning is extremely hard to parallel, as is the conferral of such a right. Moreover we should expect the aorist infinitive (% ) rather than the present ( [ ]). The present, when it appears, indicates a permanent or recurrent privilege. We incline therefore to the first option, and think of our theatre benefactors as wealthy metics engaged in transport and trade. One potential objection is that the word /  (if that is what it was in l. 4) is almost always used in Classical Attic decrees on the other side of the euergetic equation – that is, of grants given by the Demos to its benefactors149 rather than the other way around. But far from being a problem, this may in fact throw some further faint light on the financial profile of the men who helped to build the fourth-century skene. For there is a small group of exceptions to the general rule that in Athenian honorific decrees /  should mean a “grant made by the Demos”, and they all derive from the area of the supply of grain to the city by foreign benefactors150. These metics were certainly involved in trade in some capacity. As we have seen, in l. 5 the word []/"[] “[? the right to i]mport” must refer either to the award of some privilege concerning import and export; or to actions they undertook as entrepreneurs of transport, with the articulation []’ $/"[] “for conveyance”. It is quite possible that they had earned their wealth on the back of the grain trade. The use of the term /  for the grants given “by” such men to the city of Athens, as well as for the grants given by the Demos in return “to” them, was evidently a particular habit of honorific rhetoric. If they were grain merchants, it might well have been applied to their actions, even though the grants they made for the skene will have been of a rather different sort. Much of Athens’ economic recovery in the third quarter of the century was due to a conscious and energetic re-negotiation of its relationship with metics. The aim was to reenergise trade and to increase its volume – and the attendant tax revenues – exponentially. 146

147 148 149

150

The Eleusinian accounts offer contemporary examples: IE 177, 17 of 329/8. Heisserer – Moysey 1986; Lambert 2004. Heisserer – Moysey 1986; Lambert 2004. At l. 10 of this inscription the word is used in that sense, of the reciprocal “grant” made to the honorands by the Demos. The ‘exceptions’: honours for Spartokos and his brothers from the Cimmerian Bosporos (IG II3 298 of 347/6). In this decree, “grants” /  « (l. 20) of grain to Athens by the Spartokids are balanced by the Athenians’ recipro-

cal “grants” /  « (ll. 22–23) of honours to them. The verb used to describe the grants of the Spartokids is a present ([] κ ξ « /  «   | #A6 [«] … “[sin]ce they have given grants to the Athenians …” ll. 20f.). The overall expression could thus serve as a model for restoration in ll. 3f. of this decree: ξ « / ]«  [  [| κ #A6 « … “[since they have] given [gr]ants [to the Athenians …]”; see also IG II2 653, 22f.; IG II2 654, 26; IG II2 657, 11f.

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The plan involved improving the living conditions of metics, especially in the Piraeus, and making the legal and practical circumstances under which they operated more attractive. Contributions by metics to the building of the new theatre were doubtless a by-product, if not an aim, of this policy. Over a century earlier, at least since the 440s, metics had been given a part to play in the funding and performance of Athenian theatre, though it was somewhat circumscribed and flagged as symbolically second-rate by being confined to the Lenaea, where they regularly served as choregoi and where choreuts could be nonAthenian. The fourth century witnessed a significant further ‘liberalisation’ of this policy. Lycurgus was certainly energetic in this direction151. It now appears quite likely that he devised and imposed another category of ‘stamp duty’ akin to the one we have seen he levied on unsuccessful liturgists in the form of a dedication of a phiale, but this one was ten times higher (100 dr.) and was imposed on those who had unsuccessfully prosecuted metics for failure to pay the metic tax152. If the honorific theatre decree was indeed the invention of Lycurgus he will have divined and welcomed its potential to harness the inherent competitiveness of Athenian public life. Even on the highly patchy evidence to survive we find it put to use by a number of different politicians on a single occasion. We find four such decrees passed at the assembly that met in the theatre after the City Dionysia on 19 Elaphebolion, 331. Lycurgus is the proposer of one of them153. The benefactor is a Plataean, almost certainly son of a Eudemos and probably a close relative of the Plataean of that name honoured two years later by the wellpreserved decree in honour of Eudemos son of Philourgos of Plataea154. The latter had among other things helped with the haulage for the construction of the Panathenaic stadium and its seating, and there are grounds for thinking that his fellow country-man did something similar to merit the earlier honours155. If so, we find the assembly associated with one major festival, the Dionysia, with all its capacity for honorific publicity before the wider Greek world, meeting in the fine new stone theatre, used to garner support for renewing the infrastructure of another, the Panathenaea. One of the other decrees from this meeting was proposed by the other leading politician of the age – and Lycurgus’ rival – Demades. 151

152

153 154 155

See e.g. the story of his treatment of the philosopher Xenocrates qua metic at [Plu.] Moralia 842b. This is the important and (though not without its difficulties) convincing interpretation by Meyer (2010) of the so-called Attic manumissions. The relevant inscriptions all date to the 330s and 320s and one of them (IG II2 1575) has a list of liturgical phialai on its other side. The 100 dr. phiale would represent a ten percent tithe on a 1,000 dr. fine paid by unsuccessful prosecutors. The aim, as Meyer (2010, 51) puts it, would be to give metics “some faith in the city of Athens so that they, and their friends, would be encouraged to stay or return”. IG II3 345. IG II3 352. Lambert 2008, 73. The son of Eudemos is also honoured for a succession of donations (note esp. IG II3 345, 11. 15). The decree mentions a sum of money (l. 13). Perhaps it too was offered for some military purpose. The date

would fit squarely for the campaign led by Agis of Sparta against Macedon (331/0), which some believe was the war for which Lycurgus elicited funds from Eudemos (l. 14). Little can be deduced as to the nature of the more recent gift. The grounds for reading the word “general” in l. 16 have been shown by Lambert to be weak, and we might suspect rather that we have here a similar pattern to that in the other decree: namely, an offer of support for a military objective is succeeded by one for purposes of cultural (re)construction. The remaining letters of l. 21 could contain a reference to the Panathenaea. In fact, Lambert has shown that the precise wording used at the relevant point in the decree for Eudemos could be accommodated in the space available in ll. 21–23 of this: …  μ P6/ 6 7!), )6 - "/  ! … “… as he promised, before the Panathenaea, the Demos decided to praise …”.

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This may have honoured an actor156. The third man honoured at this assembly was certainly an actor, and explicit reference seems to have been made to his loyal commitment to the Athenian Dionysia157. The fourth honorand was the famous comic poet Amphis of Andros, proposed by one Aristoxenos son of Kephisodotos158. This flurry of theatrical honours will have had special relevance in 331. This is the year in which Alexander organised his great theatrical and choral festival in Phoenicia that drew talent from all Greece159. More specifically, Alexander had induced the star tragic actor Athenodoros to break his contract to appear in Athens in this very year, and paid the consequent fine160. The Dionysia of 331 is the first occasion we can point to as giving evidence of a direct clash with a theatrical festival staged by Alexander and of the real effects of his appetite for theatre and his economic power to draw the best performers away from Athens. The Assembly following the festival, with its energetic passing of decrees for theatre-people, may have seen Lycurgus engineer a concerted effort to shore up support in the face of this new reality. The direct involvement of Demades alongside his rival Lycurgus at the Dionysian assembly of 331 is a good indication of how the competitive promotion of theatrical culture had become part of Athenian politics. It is clear that Demades too played a part in the restoration of Athenian finances after Chaeronea,161 and it is becoming clearer that he also played his part in the politics of theatrical finance. The evidence for Demades’ engagement with the theatre shows us a leader to whose vision of democratic politics the theorikon was absolutely central. He was the author of the powerful metaphor that described theoric distributions as “the glue of the democracy”162. There is little reason to discredit the sincerity of this belief in their value for securing the political consensus needed to undergird Athenian social stability163, something that held and bound together forces within the democratic city that were opposed but nonetheless vital to it164. We have the remains of two more theatre-decrees moved by Demades. One was passed at the assembly after the Dionysia a full decade later, in 321, the last year of the Classical 156

157

IG II3 346: for “son of Aristeides”. His status as an actor is based on Lambert’s new reading of the commendation clause, ll.13–17: [ ]|κ .... 9 .....][«] #A []" [ ..| … 7 ....  ]G Κ« [φ] [-| "/ - #A6]/[] λ 7[? |] “[since … –]os son of Ari[s]teid[es contin]ues to [be] well-disposed towards t[he Athen]ian [demos] and (?) ac[ted …”, though Lambert (2008, 70) regards 7ξ (?) “on behalf of” as the slightly more likely reading of the last word (earlier editors saw only –). The victorious tragic actor at the Dionysia of 331 was named Nikostratos (IG II2 2318, 331 = 1673 MO; patronymic unknown). This would fit the space in this decree, but so would many others. This Nikostratos was highly successful in the last third of the fourth century (Stephanis 1988, no. 1863). IG II3 344: for a son of Onoma–. His status as an actor is deduced from the term used of him in l. 8, which ends in UITH8. Lambert’s [² 7| ] κ« “[the ac]tor” is highly cogent. Cf. Lambert 2006, 137f. The excruciatingly dam-

158

159 160 161 162

163 164

aged ll. 8–10 suggest a habit of demonstrating a loyal preference to Athens, e.g. “… always preferring ( [ «]) to appear at the contest of the Dionysia …” vel sim. Lambert airs as an alternative a reference to the proagon in l. 9 (2006, 137:  [(]). Proposer unknown (see IG app. crit.) but neither Lycurgus or Demades. IG II3 347. There are indications that he is being honoured for more than his poetic services: Lambert 2008, 62. Le Guen in this volume, after n. 120. Plu. Alex. 29. Brun 2000, 140f. Plu. Moralia 1011b:   6/  «  «. Harris 1996; Wilson 2011b, 42f. Brun (2000, 133) notes, à propos of the split in modern interpreters between the two ancient ideological lines on the theorikon an interesting variation in their translation of the word

: the negative line translates as “glue”, the positive, “cement”.

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democracy, but is so fragmentary that little else can be said of it165. The other is unique for honouring a piper, for these musicians are never otherwise recognised in public documents166. It is tempting to associate this unicum with the reputation of Demades as a populist, for talented musicians had a broad popular appeal to theatre-audiences that elite critics despised and feared. The piper in question is a Theban named Ariston who “[continue]s to c[ompete] at the contest[s of the Dionysia in a fine and] ambitious manner [and to be well-disposed to the] Athenia[n Demos at every occasion …]”167. The benefits bestowed by Ariston probably extended beyond his professional service at festivals, for which he will in any case have been remunerated. That Demades engaged in the competitive politics of theatrical funding is further suggested by the tradition that he targeted the Anthesteria for an especially lavish distribution of theorika (he proposed a half-mna per person at the Choes)168. For it is possible that he had selected this festival not simply because it was imminent, but precisely because his rival Lycurgus was associating his own name with its elaboration with popular performances of comic actors (below). Had Demades decided strategically to multiply tenfold what was perhaps the then current sum for normal theoric distributions – namely five drachmas?169 The event dates to winter 331, just weeks prior to the Dionysia at which both he and Lycurgus proposed honorific decrees170. Elsewhere we find Demades making use of his own wealth for choregic performance, pushing at the same time against the limits of established legal constraints. Though not without its problems, and transmitted by a highly hostile tradition, the account throws some light on changes taking place in the finance and administration of the theatre in the late fourth century. According to Plutarch’s Life of Phocion, as choregos, Demades introduced 100 foreign choreuts into the theatre and happily paid 1000 drachma fine for every one of them171. This is in the first instance evidence of a broadly, even defiantly more inclusive attitude towards foreigners in areas of the Athenian theatre from which they had long been excluded. We suspect that the occasion was a Dionysia in the period of Antipater’s control of Athens under an oligarchic regime, 322–319, which would place it in the years immediately after the period with which we are concerned172. It points forward to major changes in the financial and administrative structures of the Athenian Dionysia of that period, but also suggests some continuity with developments already afoot in the Eubulo-Lycurgan period. The law preventing non-Athenians from performing in ‘city’ choruses173 had probably for some decades come to seem a little outdated in an age of rapidly increasing theatrical professionalism and internationalism. It is even conceivable 165

166

167

168

IG II3 384: nothing remains to indicate the identity or activity of the honorand beyond the fact that his name began in [.] [-], perhaps Lyko-. In the next year, 320/19 we also find Demades active in the Piraeus as the author of a decree introducing reforms designed to, among other things, improve the conduct of the Dionysia: IG II2 380, 21–23. Their inclusion on victory monuments of choregoi (Wilson 2002, 47) is only a partial exception. IG II2 713, 11–16. See Wilhelm 1916 and Byrne 2010 for the history of this inscription. Plu. Moralia 818e–f with Brun 2000, 87–89.

169

170

171 172

173

Cf. Hyp. Dem. 26  ) “five drachmas”. See below on Lycurgus’ law concerning the Chytroi, which we suggest may date as early as 341/0. Plu. Phoc. 30, 2–3. This story appears as an illustration of Demades’ behaviour as one of Antipater’s “two friends in Athens” (the other is Phocion), suggesting that it dates from the period of Antipater’s control of the city. Demades continued to play a leading part in Athenian politics during the oligarchy until his death in 319. See esp. D. 21, 56; MacDowell 1985; Wilson 2000, 80f.

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that the money Demades supposedly proffered in the theatre came from his Macedonian friends, an introduction of foreign money to the Athenian theatre of a rather different sort from what we have seen, but triggered nonetheless by the same historical developments174.

4. Dramatic festivals In addition to the information that Lycurgus authored the law concerning the statues of the Tragedians and the texts of their works, the Life preserves precious notice of two further laws by the statesman that embellished two Dionysia with new events. These additions will have required new expense (presumably from city coffers), but in both we may also detect a longer-term strategy aimed at economic as well as cultural-symbolic returns. The first concerns the Anthesteria (already described by Thucydides as “the more ancient” Dionysia)175 and the City Dionysia. Lycurgus enhanced the former by the addition of a new contest and tied it to the latter by giving the winner in the contest access to performance at the City festival. This inter-festival tie is especially interesting as evidence of a wider strategic vision for theatrical festivals: “And he introduced laws, one of them concerning “komoidoi” (“comic actors”), mandating that a competitive event be held at the “Pots” (Chytroi), in the theatre, and that the winner be registered for the City – previously this was not possible –, restoring this event that had been abandoned”176. The Chytroi was the last (of three) days of the festival Anthesteria, held on 13 Anthesterion, precisely one month before the City Dionysia began. The new contest was between comic actors177, and is important evidence that Lycurgus was keen to promote comedy and not just tragedy. The language used is that of a formal agonistic event ($Ω -

/) /-), suggesting that this was a fully-fledged contest between actors producing comedies178. This new contest was to serve as a process of pre-selection for the City Dionysia. 174

There is evidence for the increased involvement of non-Athenians in the financing and administration of the theatre in the last quarter of the century. Immediately after the death of Antipater in 319, Plutarch (Phoc. 31) reports that Nikanor, the commander of the Macedonian troops occupying Piraeus, was invited by Phocion to undertake the expenses of agonothete. The use of the term in Plutarch is probably anachronistic (Csapo – Wilson 2010, 100f.) but that does not vitiate it as evidence for Athenian willingness at this time to allow foreigners, in this case occupying Macedonians, to fund their Dionysia. The story of Demades’ choregia is introduced with a quotation from Antipater to the effect that “he could never satisfy [Demades] with his gifts”. We know from a fragment of an Athenian honorific decree authored by the anti-democratic comic poet Archedikos that the soliciting of material benefits from Antipater and his associates was in some sense

175 176

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public policy: SEG 42, 91. Habicht 1993 thinks a date shortly before 323 possible; Tracy 1993 tentatively dates to 338 or 337. The remains of the clause describing the motivation of the honours begins (ll. 3–7): “[in order that a]s many [frien]ds of the kin[g] and of Antipater, once they are ho[noure]d by the Ath[enian] demos, may [con]fer benefits on the city …”. Th. 2, 15. [Plu.] Moralia 841f: '"  ξ λ «, μ ξ  λ - /) /-, $- G« X  «  G φ   ) - 6 ) /

λ μ  " '« Ν !6 ,    $ 5, $#/ μ $-   . For this (correct) interpretation of /) / see Rohde 1883, 276; Wilhelm 1906a, 149f. Most scholars have supposed some variety of solo performance by lead actors: Humphreys 2004, 255; cf. Rohde 1883, 276–278; O’Connor 1908, 55.

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Just what the victor was granted access to at the City festival is a matter of debate179. We suggest that it was the right to produce the single non-agonistic performance of old (repertory) comedy, newly added to the festival programme for the Dionysia of 339180. The existence of a qualifying competition for actors in each of the three dramatic categories of ‘old’ comedy, ‘old’ satyr play and ‘old’ tragedy is attested for the late third century by a number of inscriptions, and was probably the means by which the producers of the respective events at the next City Dionysia were chosen181. The contest established by Lycurgus at the Chytroi looks very much like the first such event for comedy. The phrase “restoring this event that had been abandoned” might have been a gloss within the text of the law itself, proclaiming in rhetoric or reality (or both) Lycurgus’ intentions as a pious restorer of tradition; while the comment that “previously this was not possible” indicates that in its purported earlier incarnation this contest did not serve as a way of admitting comic actors to the Dionysia182. The claimed revival is likely in any case to have harked back to mythic rather than historical times. The existence of a relation between two Dionysia was very probably worked up as cultural propaganda, doubtless by Lycurgus’ associate Phanodemus. For we know that Phanodemus was promoting some sort of an association between “the more ancient” Dionysia and the City festival, probably with the specific claim that the Athenians had held a festival with choral events for Dionysus of the Marshes long before the inauguration of the City Dionysia183. This seems to have formed part of a theory of the Athenian (as opposed to Dorian) origins of both comedy and tragedy, and it is particularly striking that Phanodemus is known to have written on the origin and nature of the prize given at the drinking contest of the Anthesteria, and probably also of the prize for comedy, one etymology of which connects it to the Anthesteria184. The greater antiquity of the Anthesteria may have been felt to augment the solemnity, grandeur and authenticity of the City festival by this association. The specification that - 6 ) / “in the theatre” means that part of the festithe contest was to take place  ) val would actually take place within the theatre of Dionysus (scil. Eleuthereus). This fulfilled both the pragmatic goal of enabling the presence of a huge audience for a new occasion that served as a warm-up for the main theatrical event; and the symbolic one of 179

The traditional interpretations are that the process refers (I) to the inclusion of the winner on a list of comic actors suitable for selection by the Archon and assignation by lot to the poets for the contest in ‘new’ comedy at the City Dionysia, whether the imminent festival is meant or a more general “stamp of approval” for future festivals (Rohde 1883, 276–278; O’Connor 1908, 54f.); or (II) to the immediate allocation to the winner of one of the five slots available in that contest at the up-coming event. The possibility that (on either scenario) the imminent City festival is meant is extremely unlikely. This would require that the Archon’s decisions about the selection and allocation of actors were made just a few weeks prior to the event. This seems impossible in view of the need for long-term contracting to secure the best actors and for the processes of dramatic rehearsal and production.

180

181

182 183 184

IG II2 2318, 1563–1565 MO. Note the use /: [] 5[ ¹] of the word /)

[/ ] “[the] kom[oidoi] [p]roduced it as an extra event”. The fact that [Plu.] does not specifically mention the new event of old comedy at the Dionysia may suggest that that was not itself Lycurgus’ initiative; more likely that it was, and has simply been omitted from the highly abbreviated notice. The law could have been passed at some point in 341/0. It stands first in the list of laws at Moralia 841f–842c. The order may in some way reflect the chronology of the laws’ passing, in which case it might predate the start of his primacy (336). Millis – Olson 2012, 123–131, on SEG 26, 208 and IG II2 2324. Rohde 1883, 277. Humphreys 2004, 253f.; Call. Hec. fr. 85 Hollis. Csapo – Wilson forthcoming on Phanodemus FGrHist 325 F 11.

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linking the two cults by spatial means. It would also fit with all we know of Lycurgus’ pragmatic approach to piety if part of his intention in tying the smaller festival to the larger was to draw greater numbers of visitors to the first event (and the income they brought with them), and to keep them in the city for over a month. There will have been additional attractions from the perspective of a city keen to have the best performers on show at its major festival. The second Lycurgan law concerns the Dionysia held in the Piraeus, a festival of the deme in which the polis nonetheless maintained a major interest and commitment. In fact, the Piraean Dionysia stood, both in constitutional/administrative terms and in its scale and ambition, somewhere between an ‘ordinary’ deme Dionysia and a major urban festival. Uniquely for a deme, the Athenian Demos appointed the demarch of Piraeus – the man whose job it was to run the Dionysia and appoint its choregoi185. The law represents an increased level of such involvement, not least by the injection of substantial new polis funds for prize-money. “Furthermore, [he introduced a law] to create a contest in the Piraeus of circular choruses in the month of Posideon with no fewer than three choruses, stipulating that not less than 1000 dr. be given to the winners, 800 to the second place-getters and 600 to the third”186. These substantial cash prizes are a particularly noteworthy novelty. Hitherto Athenian cyclic choruses had received only symbolic or social prizes – the shared sacrificial ox and the bronze tripod187. This development suggests the involvement of professional, and probably non-Athenian, choreuts, a radical change in the practice for circular choruses at Athenian festivals. For lucrative prizes generally aim to draw talent from a wide, suprapolis field. It is at least extremely unlikely that the new event introduced by Lycurgus will have been confined to members of the deme Piraeus, the formal membership of which was never many more than around five hundred while the actual population of the harbour town approached that of the city of Athens itself188. It is probable that the numerous 185

Arist. Ath. 54, 8. It is not known whether he had to be a demesman of Piraeus. If not, the office was in some sense an Athenian magistracy. The festival was directly controlled by Athenian polis legislation. In addition to that of Lycurgus, note the law of Euegoros in D. 21, 10. Much of the other evidence for polis involvement in the festival dates from the Lycurgan period. In the 330s the mass sacrifices were funded or heavily subsidised by the polis: in 334/3 well over 50 bovines were slaughtered at state expense (IG II2 1496 col. IV a, 70–73). The strategoi offered sacrifices at the festival in 331/0 – and perhaps regularly – as they did at other major state festivals, including the Lenaea and City Dionysia (IG II2 1496, 144f.). The polis authorities of the sanctuary at Eleusis made a modest sacrifice at, or on the occasion of, the Piraean Dionysia (IE 177, 168). The city also funded, through the monies it disbursed to the Piraean Market-wardens (agora-

186

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nomoi), the cost of maintaining and preparing the roads for the Parade (IG II2 380, of 320/19). [Plu.] Moralia 842a. R !, ³« % P -« (Koerte; P -« MSS) $-  G  P  G  / ) - $ R  -, < λ> 6 ξ G«  -  $ R !  »«, G« ξ !  « H (, ‘5 ξ G«   « 6G . Koerte 1902 made the palmary emendation that, with the addition of a single letter, removed Poseidon and his “unattested and implausible festival” (Parker 1996, 246) and replaced him with the month of the Rural Dionysia, Pos(e)ideon. The addition of the circular chorus, so familiar from the City Dionysia, to the festival that to some degree sought to rival it and which had hitherto hosted only drama, makes excellent sense. Wilson 2000, 147. 207–207. 217–218; Csapo 2010 b. Garland 1987, 60.

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metics who lived in the Piraeus were eligible to perform in these choruses (and, if the event had a choregic structure, to serve also as choregoi)189. But one may doubt whether there was anything like a traditional choregic structure to this new event (none is mentioned). For if the prizes imply the participation of non-Piraean and probably of non-Athenian choreuts, they also have the appearance of being an incentive to motivate choral groups to organise themselves independently of any choregic structure.

Conclusion In the complete absence of a specification of works, of a contract to execute them, and of financial accounts for the construction of the stone theatre of the sort that survive from Delos, with its decades of meticulous inscribed records190, it is tempting to remark upon the virtual invisibility of this large, costly and immensely disruptive civic project from our sources191. But as we have tried to show, the surviving evidence for the construction and funding of the theatre is in fact far from insignificant and it is considerably better than that for several of the other substantial public works of the age192. The Eubulo-Lycurgan period turned its full attention to the cost and the potential value of culture. Nothing was too small or too large for fiscal innovation. At the lowest level we find micromanagement and invention in the smallest detail. At the highest level we see strategies designed to increase broad fiscal flexibility, such as the union of the two separate major sacred treasuries of Athena Polias and that of the Other Gods; and, above all, the creation of an entirely new state treasury, the Theoric Fund, of immense capacity and flexibility. The latter in particular created the conditions for mounting highly ambitious, long-term projects like the theatre. The name of this powerful fund has for so long been a puzzle to scholars, but the puzzle is dispelled once we realise that as early as 355 Eubulus placed cultural security on a par with military security: that is to say, he recognised the economic and psychological importance of festivals and their funding for the future regeneration of the city. With the large enabling fiscal mechanisms in place Eubulus and Lycurgus went about identifying new sources of potential income which could be fed through them. These range from ambitious large-scale schemes to meticulous stewarding of neglected resources and the creative invention of entirely new taxes and charges. In the former category is the policy to attract more metics and their wealth back to Athens and the large-scale privatisation of under-used (semi-) public lands. The logistical and technical work involved in identifying, registering and proposing for sale hundreds of properties spread across all Attica is formidable, and the income created substantial. In the latter category is the idea of gener189

Many will have had the liquidity to do so, and the “philotimia” to underpin it. Demosthenes may have had choregiai for other events at the Piraean Dionysia in mind when he spoke of the “metic liturgies” at the polis level: D. 20, 18–23; cf. Lys. 12, 20. Lycurgus’ law might be seen as adding to the Piraeus Dionysia one of the few elements it lacked by comparison with the City Dionysia. The Piraean event had its own “Introduction” (eisagoge); “Parade” (pompe); and contests of tragedy and comedy. It may even have employed the icon of Dionysus Eleu-

190 191 192

thereus. The addition of cyclic choruses look almost like the finishing touch in the making of a ‘City’ Dionysia for what was in essence a foreign community. On this see Csapo and Wilson forthcoming. Fraisse – Moretti 2007. Slater 2011, 288f. The striking exception is the “arsenal” (skeuotheke) in Piraeus, for which an extensive set of inscribed specifications for construction exist (IG II2 1668, of 347/6).

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ating an extra drachma from every liturgist’s pride in seeing his name inscribed on a permanent honour-roll, on top of the 50 newly levied as a flat tax. Another instance is the recycling of the skins of sacrificial victims into festival “adornments” by meticulous centralised control of the fate of this by-product of cult (and perhaps in the process the abolition of an almighty perk of the respective priests?). Eubulus has emerged as the single most likely known and named personal benefactor to the construction of the ‘Lycurgan’ theatre. It is becoming increasingly apparent that the fourth-century theatre is at least as ‘Eubulan’ as ‘Lycurgan’, if not rather more so, since the initiative to start the major works will have rested with him or his circle. But even more striking is the existence of an extremely broad-based consensus and consistency of purpose among (notably elite) politicians of the whole period in support of the cultural regeneration of Athens. One of the most salient illustrations of the extent of this consensus is the active presence in the campaign to generate support for theatre festivals from Lycurgus’ arch rival, Demades193. Theatre became more rather than less essential to Athens in the fourth century. The Eubulo-Lycurgan period shows a powerful desire to secure and embed theatre more deeply in Athenian life – in physical terms, as a grand and innovative monument; and in symbolic terms as an invention of the city of Athens rooted deep in myth (energetically composed to order for the purpose by Phanodemus) at a time when it was becoming less and less exclusively Athenian in reality. Piety and civic pride no doubt played a large part in motivating the general revival and aggrandisement of Athenian festivals and of the Dionysia in particular that we witness in the third quarter of the fourth century. But Eubulus, Lycurgus and the men who backed them were never far from the main game – namely, the economic revival of Athens: theatre was a business and the Dionysia all the more so. It lured thousands of foreign visitors, including merchants, to what must have been – given the timing of the Dionysia at the very opening of the seas after five winter months – one of the biggest annual markets in the entire Mediterranean world. The success of Eubulus’ and Lycurgus’ repeated appeals to businessmen, metics, foreign merchants and the citizens of Piraeus indicate that no one was blind to the direct and indirect economic benefits of a theatre festival. With the collapse of Athens’ second empire, Eubulus and Lycurgus consciously and systematically built the cultural industry that would become the mainstay of the Athenian economy for centuries to come.

193

In 335 Lycurgus opposed the award to Demades of the highest civic honours – meals for life in the Prytaneum and a bronze statue in the

Agora – for the diplomatic role he played in saving Athens from Alexander (Lycurg. 9 fr. 2; Brun 2000, 78–83).

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Inscribed Public Records of the Dramatic Contests at Athens: IG II2 2318–2323a and IG II2 23251 Benjamin W. Millis

IG II2 2318, IG II2 2319–2323a2, and IG II2 2325, the so-called Fasti, Didascaliae, and Victors Lists respectively, have long been recognised for their fundamental importance in shaping our knowledge of dramatic production at the Dionysia and Lenaea in Athens. They make an essential contribution to such basic information as the chronology of the poets and actors, evidence for poets and actors who are otherwise poorly attested or unattested, the success rates of participants in the festivals, the number of plays performed each year, and much else besides. Scholars have tended to view these three sets of inscriptions as a coherent group largely because of their related content and because information from one can be used to aid in reconstructing another. Regardless, treating the three sets of inscriptions as a single, related group ignores the fact that they represent three different monuments erected on separate occasions over a span of ca. 65 years and that their aims and content, for all the superficial similarity, are distinct3. An additional reason that the differences between these inscriptions have often been overlooked is that interest in the inscriptions themselves has frequently been secondary to extracting information relating to the history of Greek drama4. However, before discussing further the differences between these inscriptions, a useful preliminary is a general account of past scholarship followed by brief discussion of the reconstruction and content of each of the inscriptions. Of the many extant fragments, only a single one, the now lost IG II2 2319, was known early enough to be included in Boeckh’s CIG5. Over the course of the nineteenth century, a 1

2

Both the editors and S. Douglas Olson provided much valuable criticism. Part of my thinking about the function of the monuments discussed here was informed by work I had done as Research Associate in Greek Epigraphy for the ERC-funded project “The Social and Cultural Construction of Emotions” based at the University of Oxford and directed by Angelos Chaniotis. To all of the above I am grateful. IG II2 2324 is often, if uncritically, closely associated with these inscriptions. Although concerned with dramatic production, it is unrelated to any of the other inscriptions in the group IG II2 2318–2325. It differs in physical characteristics (e.g. the letters are two to three times larger than tose of IG II2 2318–2323a and somewhat larger than those of IG II2 2325) and in content, apparently offering the full results of an actor’s contest (and nothing more).

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5

In terms of subject matter, IG II2 2324 seems most closely related to SEG 26, 208, although there are differences between the two in terms of the presentation of the information as well as in their physical characteristics. A few scholars have rightly insisted that IG II2 2318 must be understood separately from IG II2 2319–2323a and IG II2 2325: e.g. PickardCambridge 1968, 85 n. 9; reiterated at Lewis 1978, 184; Wilson 2000, 13. Many more, however, seem to have viewed this as a distinction without a difference. This predisposition found its most extreme manifestation in the edition of Mette 1977, on which see below. CIG 231, known to Boeckh from Fourmont’s transcription, presumably made in 1729 or 1730; for Fourmont’s travels to Greece, see Sève 1993, 31. The stone was probably also seen by Pittakis, since his edition (Pittakys

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few more fragments gradually came to light, but it was not until large-scale excavations on and around the Acropolis began that portions of these inscriptions began to appear in number. By the 1880s the vast majority of the fragments now extant had been found; of those found subsequently, some were of importance, but none fundamentally changed the understanding of the content. Many of the fragments found in the latter part of the nineteenth century were published by Koumanoudis6, but the heroic work of identifying and publishing all known fragments was undertaken by Köhler, culminating in his edition of them in IG II7. Perhaps more importantly, he recognised the basic organisational structure of these inscriptions and thus established the coherent organisation still in use today. The solid foundations provided by Köhler acted as a spur to further refinements of his identifications and categorisations; the bulk of this work, and the most noteworthy, were a series of articles by Capps8. The culmination of this first period of work is the publication in 1906 of Adolf Wilhelm’s “Urkunden dramatischer Aufführungen in Athen”. In this monumental study, Wilhelm drew together all previous work as well adding many insights and improvements of his own. In part because of Wilhelm’s authority, but also because of shifting scholarly interests, his book in large part signals an end to the frenzy of activity that followed the discovery of these fragments and the realisation of their importance9. Subsequent to Wilhelm 1906a, the inscriptions have been edited a number of times, but these editions, whether consciously or not, are for the most part derivative of Wilhelm’s work. Detailed studies of specific problems, as exemplified by the work of Capps, have for the most part disappeared. One result, not often recognised, of the lapse of a community of scholars actively working on this material is that the hypotheses and working assumptions that they used, and recognised as such, gradually hardened into received wisdom10. A second result is that the text presented in IG II2, the obvious starting point for work on this material, has been given greater authority than it deserves. Kirchner provided a reconstruction of sorts by stringing together into a continuous text the fragments edited by Wilhelm separatim but, hampered by the constraints of the IG format, did not present fully the supporting argu-

6

7

1835, 114f.) differs enough from Boeckh’s to make it unlikely that he was simply drawing on Fourmont’s notes. The inferiority of Pittakis’ copy further suggests that the condition of the stone had deteriorated, or at least that the text was more obscured, since when Fourmont had seen it. For the past century, the basis for all editions of this fragment is the re-edition by Wilhelm 1906a directly from Fourmont’s notes. Unfortunately, a misunderstanding of Fourmont’s transcription has been the source of confusion and has hobbled attempts to understand this and related fragments; see below. Koumanoudis 1877b; Koumanoudis 1878a; Koumanoudis 1878b; see also Koumanoudis 1861. These publications were the basis for Bergk 1879, an important early realisation of the centrality of these fragments for the history of Attic drama. Köhler 1878; Köhler 1880; IG II (with addenda in IG II, V).

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Capps 1899; Capps 1900a; Capps 1900b; Capps 1900c; Capps 1903; Capps 1906; Capps 1907. The main importance of Capps’ work is his success in distinguishing lists of poets from lists of actors and in determining which lists were to be assigned to the Dionysia and which to the Lenaea. Various students of Capps also contributed to this effort, of which the most notable result is O’Connor 1908. A few articles of note closely followed the appearance of Wilhelm 1906a, e.g. Wilhelm 1906b; Capps 1907; Reisch 1907; Reisch 1912. Subsequent work of importance consists mostly of publishing the new fragments that occasionally appeared (Capps 1943; Camp 1971; Peppas-Delmousou 1977). Perhaps the most persistent such hypothesis is Reisch’s theory of the relation between IG II2 2325 and IG II2 2319–2323a and his reconstruction of the building on which he mistakenly believed they were inscribed together.

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ments for his decisions. The gaps in his reconstruction were filled sometimes by indications of missing lines, sometimes by a brief note of the missing content. Some missing lines were numbered; most were not. The resultant reconstruction, with its poor presentation, inconsistent restoration, and lack of explication, is difficult to understand and has created a paradoxical situation in which the overall reconstruction seems fixed but individual portions appear in flux11. Finally, most of those who have worked on these inscriptions subsequent to Wilhelm and his contemporaries have not been epigraphists, as many of that generation were, but scholars interested primarily in mining the inscriptions for information about aspects of Athenian drama. While such a concern is one of the main points of interest in these texts, these scholars have generally been ill-prepared to assess the inherent problems and to undertake the necessary work. The three major products of this scholarly phase are Pickard-Cambridge 1968, Ghiron-Bistagne 1976, and Mette 1977. The first was done by competent scholars, but the text was a derivative (and excerpted) one of little independent value, nor was it intended to be more12. Ghiron-Bistagne attempted a fresh reconstruction on the basis of autopsy but was clearly not up to the task, as was exposed in Lewis’ damning review13. In the end, her work did not provide any significant advance: the readings cannot be relied on, and her reconstructions are often flawed, sometimes extensively (e.g. the second half of IG II2 2318). Finally, the presentation of the texts, and her circumscribed interest in them, limits their usefulness even as an up to date compendium of previous work. Mette’s book, which appeared nearly contemporaneously with that of Ghiron-Bistagne, shared many of the flaws of her work, particularly constant claims of autopsy belied by unreliability of readings. Mette did helpfully compile in one place a tremendous amount of important information, but his organisation detracts from the usefulness of the volume. A more serious problem is that he seems to have misunderstood the nature of his task and the material with which he was working. To provide only a single example of the bizarre results occasioned by his misapprehension, Mette produced not so much an edition of IG II2 2318 as a scholarly construct based on the surviving fragments of the inscription together with other sources and recording the results of contests at the Dionysia from 533 (the date he assumes tragic competition began) until 315. The resultant text offers, inter alia, a restored heading with a length that is difficult to reconcile with the space available, column heights that vary for no discernible reason, and an inscription cut on multiple stones that vary radically in dimension. In short, Mette offers an augmented 11

The apparent irrationality of portions of these inscriptions is made worse by Kirchner’s numbering of the inscriptions. As already mentioned, IG II2 2324 does not belong with the others and so ought not to have been placed in the middle of the group. IG II2 2325 is a coherent inscription or, better, group of inscriptions, but improvement could have been made to Kirchner’s system of unnumbered sections, each with its own series of independently numbered columns. Far more serious are IG II2 2319–2323a, which seem to follow no coherent order, skipping randomly between genres and festivals. In addition, IG II2 2319 col. I, IG II2 2321, and IG II2 2322 are all part of the rec-

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ords for comedies performed at the Lenaea and so ought to have been numbered as separate fragments of the same inscription, not as different inscriptions; the same is true of IG II2 2323 and IG II2 2323a (comedies at the Dionysia). The texts of the inscriptions presented in the 1968 edition differ little from those in the 1953 (1st) edition, the changes being confined primarily to updating the text of IG II2 2323 in light of Ruck 1967. For the most part, therefore, the texts in Pickard-Cambridge 1968 are those of IG II2 with the addition of the fragment published by Capps 1943. Lewis 1978.

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version of the information contained in IG II2 2318 but one that bears little resemblance to what was inscribed on the stones. His treatment of the related inscriptions is similarly flawed14. Many modern scholars have thus found themselves attempting to extract information from inscriptions that seem overly complicated and difficult to make sense of and that on occasion even appear internally contradictory. Wilhelm 1906a is a reliable edition of the individual fragments of all these inscriptions, as far as they were known to him, but it does not present any overall reconstructions and leaves many questions unanswered. Subsequent editions have offered (or attempted to offer) editions of each inscription as a whole, but have not dealt adequately with problems of reconstruction and have been based on questionable assumptions, few of which have been made clear. What is more, these later editions do little aside from tinker with Kirchner’s piecing together of the fragments as edited by Wilhelm. The result is that this material cannot be used with confidence, and anyone wishing to use it must throw himself on the mercy of one editor or another. Enabling scholars to have access to the wealth of information offered by these inscriptions without having to undertake the laborious process of producing a text for themselves was a major rationale for the new edition S. D. Olson and I have produced15. In what follows, I present a synopsis of the content and reconstruction of each of the inscriptions based on the more detailed information to be found in Millis – Olson 2012. The narrative exposition here is meant to complement, rather than replicate, the more technical discussion given in that work and will conclude with some suggestions regarding the dates and rationale for the erection of the inscriptions in order to help illuminate aspects of their social context.

IG II2 2318: Fasti (fig. 16.1; pl. 16) As is well known, IG II2 2318, the so-called Fasti, is comprised of a series of yearly entries recording in summary form the results of the competitions at the City Dionysia in Athens. With very few exceptions, each annual entry is identical in format and contains the following information: the archon date; the name of the victorious tribe and choregos of the boys’ (scil. choruses); the name of the victorious tribe and choregos of the men’s (scil. choruses); the heading “of the comedians” followed by the name of the victorious choregos and poet for that event; the heading “of the tragedians” followed by the name of the victorious choregos, poet, and (after 451/0–448/7) actor. For example (fig. 16.1 b), the entry for the year of the archonship of Philocles (459/8) is as follows (IG II2 2318, 41–51 = 151–161 MO)16: [λ i ]!« [O']λ« / : « ) " aI6/λ« $ - 155 E$ "/ #E: ) " 14

15

The fundamental problems in Mette’s edition are exacerbated by his idiosyncratic use of brackets and other epigraphical sigla. Millis – Olson 2012.

16

In years subsequent to 451/0–448/7, an entry such as [7 κ« aH ]

« (IG II2 2318, 70 = 286 MO) followed that for the victorious tragic poet.

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// - E$  « ) " E$φ  «    / - 160 { « #Aφ : ) " A')«  

The series of entries in IG II2 2318 provides two categories of information. The first concerns the structure and date of the competitions themselves. The earliest preserved entry, that of 473/2, confirms that the four main constituent parts of the festivals, competitions in boys’ choruses, mens’ choruses, comedies, and tragedies, each with an individual choregos, were all in place by this date. The minimum amount lost from the beginning of the inscription shows that the competitions of one sort or another were instituted, and their victors recorded, no later than the mid-480s17. Once established, this basic format remained remarkably conservative, with additions (none to the dithyrambic contests) made only every few generations. A contest for tragic actors was introduced sometime between 451/0 and 448/718, a similar contest for comic actors sometime between 329/8 and 313/219. Two separate two-line notices following the archon date in the relevant entries record that ‘old’ tragedies were first performed in 387/6 (IG II2 2318, 202f. = 1010f. MO) and ‘old’ comedies in 340/39 (IG II2 2318, 317f. = 1564f. MO). Since no further mention is made of these performances and no victors are recorded in this inscription, there is no reason to assume that the performances of ‘old’ plays were anything other than showpieces20. The final 17

18

In fact, the competitions, or at least the records of the victories, likely began 15 to 20 years earlier, in the final years of the sixth century. Ghiron-Bistagne offered a reconstruction that began ca. 560, Mette placed the start in 534/3 (with the introduction of the dithyrambic contests in 509/8 and comedy in 487/6), and Capps (1903; cf. Capps 1943, 10f.) suggested 502/1 as the first year (with the addition of comedy in 487/6). While these reconstructions are all possible, even if not equally plausible, each depends on a number of unverifiable assumptions. That said, despite the unwarranted specificity of Capps’ reconstruction, his conclusions align with other evidence, e.g. that of IG II2 2325, which strongly suggests that the list of victorious tragic poets began near the very end of the sixth century and the list of comic poets began slightly later, in the early fifth century. The introduction of this context has often been assigned to a specific year (e.g. Mette places it in 448/7), but such specificity is impossible. The contest was in place in 448/7, since the relevant entry for this year is extant (IG II2 2318, 70 = 286 MO), but whether this was the first year of the contest or it had been introduced as many as three years earlier depends on whether the column had 140 (unlikely but possible) or 141 lines and whether the introduction was accom-

19

20

panied by a two-line notice of the fact, a oneline notice, or no notice at all (see below, n. 29). The contest for comic actors must postdate 330/29, since it does not appear in the entry for that year, the last in which the relevant portion of the entry is extant in IG II2 2318, but it did exist in 313/2, since it is referenced at IG II2 2323a, 38 = 4 MO (part of the Didascaliae), which records the full results of that year’s comic competitions. The Didascaliae record the performance of one ‘old’ play each year, including the name of the actor responsible for the production, but likewise make no mention of a competition or victor. Note also that the tragedians  5 (not 5) an ‘old’ play, i. e. they “produced it along side” (scil. the Dionysian contest). SEG 26, 208 does record the results of a series of competitions of ‘old’ plays in tragedy, comedy and satyr plays, but whether these entries refer to the Dionysia is debatable (they may be better assigned to the Chytroi). Summa 2008 does assign this inscription to the Dionysia and posits the establishment in 279/8 of contests of ‘old’ plays; however, the evidence is at best inconclusive. IG II2 2324 clearly records contests of actors, and so might be relevant, but is too fragmentary to provide any other information.

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Fig. 16.1. Drawing of IG II2 2318.

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b

c

d

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e

f

g

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innovation attested in IG II2 2318 was the short-lived use of synchoregoi for both tragedies and comedies in 406/5, apparently a result of the situation following the Athenian defeat at Aegospotami; this experiment was not repeated21. The second type of information obtained from the Fasti is the series of fixed dates provided for the individual victors together with information about who undertook the choregia and when. Some similar facts are known from other sources, predominantly the hypotheses that accompany many of the extant plays of Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides and Aristophanes, although even in these cases the inscription can provide additional information22. Nevertheless, by giving equal weight to both tragedy and comedy and by extending into the latter part of the fourth century, the dates known from IG II2 2318 are more than just a supplement to those known from other sources, which focus primarily on tragedy and on the fifth century; the absolute dates recorded in IG II2 2318 are thus particularly valuable for comedy and for both genres in the fourth century. The bulk of our knowledge for the chronology of most dramatic poets is relative23, but this inscription, the single largest source for affixed dates, allows the chronologies to be anchored at various points. IG II2 2318 is also the most important source for information about who was performing the choregia and when24. Because of the extreme regularity of the content and the fortuitous placement of the surviving fragments (fig. 16.1 a-g), nearly the entire inscription (1708 lines out of an original length of perhaps ca. 2000 lines) can be reconstructed with a high degree of accuracy; only the beginning and, a matter of much less importance, the end remain in doubt25. As seems to have been the case also with IG II2 2319–2323a, IG II2 2318 was inscribed on a 21

22

23

The relevant portion of the inscription is not extant, but the information is provided by 8VValt.E\Barb Ar. Frogs 404 (citing Arist. fr. 447 Gigon). Since without the two additional choregoi (one each for tragedy and comedy) the column would be exactly two lines too short, the restoration can be made with confidence. The anomalous use of synchoregoi here might be constrasted with the practice at Rural Dionysia, where a synchoregia seems to have been a regular feature, at least as far as the evidence of extant choregic monuments goes (e.g. IG II2 3090. 3092. 3095. 3096). For example, it was already known from the hypothesis to A. Pers. that Aeschylus won in 473/2 with the set of plays that included the Persae; IG II2 2318, 10 = 5 MO provides the additional fact that his choregos was Pericles (fig. 16.1 b; pl. 16), who must have performed the liturgy when he was barely twenty. Contrast, for example, the hypothesis to Ar. Pax that appears to provide some information about actors in its corrupt final sentence; this information was not to be found in IG II2 2318 and may well not have been in the Didascaliae either, since there were no contests for comic actors at the Dionysia at this date. The most important and extensive source for the relative chronologies of both tragic and

24

25

comic poets is IG II2 2325 (the Victors Lists); see below. Inscribed choregic monuments, primarily the tripod monuments, do supplement this information; nevertheless, since the monuments relating the City Dionysia are confined to the choral contests, at least for the relevant period, IG II2 2318 is, for practical purposes, the sole major source for dramatic choregoi. The top of the first extant column contains (fig. 16.1 b) the second half of the entry for the year 473/2; there must, therefore, have been at least one more column to the left, which would put the beginning of the inscription back to the mid-480s. Although not certain, an additional missing column seems likely, meaning the records will have begun ca. 500, i. e. roughly in line with Capps’ conclusion and the evidence of IG II2 2325. The last (partially) preserved entry in the inscription is for the year 329/8 (fig. 16.1 g). The institution of the choregia did not survive more than a decade or two after this date, and it is difficult to believe that this monument, so focussed on that institution, continued to be updated after the choregia ceased to exist, although there could have been a closing statement of some sort. For discussion of when exactly the choregia ceased to exist and of the transition to the agonothesia, see Wilson – Csapo 2012.

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wall composed of large rectangular blocks; see fig. 16.1 a. Since an isolated freestanding wall, whether inscribed or not, is difficult to parallel, IG II2 2318 must have been inscribed on the wall of a building or some sort of retaining wall; what this structure was and where precisely it stood on the Acropolis remain unknown26. The blocks of the top course were approximately 0.4 m high by 0.9 m wide27; the blocks of the lower courses were presumably similar in size, although the fourth course from the top seems to have been somewhat taller28. Each block contained five columns across its width. Thirteen columns, containing the entries for the years 473/2–329/8, are partially extant or can be reconstructed; one or two columns are probably missing from both sides of the inscription. Each column contained 141 lines29 and stretched in height over four full blocks with an overlap of three lines onto a fifth. The original inscribed surface will thus have covered an area of approximately 2.7 m wide by 1.8 m tall, whatever the size of the monument as a whole. The inscription was originally inscribed sometime between 347/6 and 343/2 and continued to be updated sporadically thereafter30.

IG II2 2319–2323a: Didascaliae These inscriptions, although their content is relatively straight-forward, are perhaps the most poorly understood of the group. This is in part because of their very fragmentary 26

27

28

29

Since nearly all the fragments of IG II2 2318 were found on the Acropolis, the structure on which it was inscribed is presumably to be located somewhere there; contrast IG II2 2319–2323a and IG II2 2325, of which the vast majority of the fragments were found on the south slope of the Acropolis, thus indicating that these inscriptions were most likely originally erected somewhere in or near the theatre and the precinct of Dionysus. Worth noting is that all surviving fragments from IG II2 2318 belong to either the top inscribed course or to the right-hand side of the inscription (perhaps the end of the wall?); see fig. 16.1 a for the exact placement of the individual fragments. This may suggest that exposed edges of the wall bearing the inscription were robbed out as needed but that the entire wall was not dismantled in a single action. These approximate dimensions are based primarily on the reconstruction of the block that contained frr. a + b + b2 and fr. c (see fig. 16.1 a). The approximation is possible since the relative positions of these four fragments can be accurately established and since between them portions of all four sides of the block are preserved. Alternatively, both the third and fourth courses from the top may have slightly taller than the top two courses. Although there has been some debate about the number of lines in each column, they are best restored with 141 lines. Two apparent ex-

30

ceptions remain. The first extant column, if restored according to the expected formula, is one line too short, i. e. it contains 140 lines of text; therefore, either one line was left blank for some reason, a one-line notice of unknown content was introduced, an entry normally comprising one line was for some reason allowed to run over to the next line, or there was a stone-cutter error of some sort. None of these are particularly satisfactory and none are particularly well paralleled in this inscription except possibly the last. There is also a problem somewhere between the entries for 374/3 and 343/2, i. e. in the ninth, tenth or eleventh column. Formulaic reconstruction of the lost portion between the extant fragments containing the entries for these two years results in a text that is too long by twelve lines, i. e. the complete entry for one year. The simplest explanation is that the entire entry for one year was mistakenly omitted as the stone-cutter’s eye leapt from one archon date to another; the most likely entry is for 348/7 (archon Theophilus, followed by the extant entry for 347/6, archon Themistocles). All extant portions of the inscription through the partially preserved entry for 347/6 are in a single, and thus first, hand. The next extant portion, containing the entry for 343/2, is in a different hand, and the most likely explanation is that this entry (and those that follow) is an addition to the original monument.

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preservation but is more due to the fundamental misinterpretation of IG II2 2319, which has caused the entire group to seem incoherent31. This situation is exacerbated by the treatment of these texts in IG II2 as six discrete inscriptions, presented in a chaotic order32. In fact, much like IG II2 2325 (the Victors Lists), these inscriptions are best understood as four separate but related lists that recorded the full results of the competitions for tragedy and comedy at the Dionysia and Lenaea33; inscribed at the same time on the same monument, they are the four components of a single document that should not have been treated as if each fragment was a separate inscription. Grouped according to the traditional hierarchy, whatever the original order may have been (and in contrast to IG II2 2325 there seems to be no evidence for it), the four parts are34: tragedy at the Dionysia (IG II2 2320); comedy at the Dionysia (IG II2 2323a; IG II2 2323 + SEG 38, 162); comedy at the Lenaea (IG II2 2321. 2322. 2319 col. I35); tragedy at the Lenaea (IG II2 2319 coll. II–III; SEG 26, 203). This set of inscriptions is important for the detailed information it provides about the dramatic contests of specific years. The years for which entries have survived are spread over the course of nearly three centuries, presenting a long-term picture of the competitions and their workings. In contrast to IG II2 2318, which gives an impression of general conservatism in terms of the overall structure, these inscriptions suggest that the internal structure of the contests was in a state of frequent change and that the organising officials had great freedom regarding the details of the competition. Indeed, were larger portions extant, it seems likely that this state of flux would be seen to be even greater. Because of the fragmentary nature of what has survived, arrangements for one genre or festival can not be directly compared for those for its contemporary counterpart, but in most cases what was true of one was likely also true of the other. The entry for each year follows the same pattern regardless of genre36. The entries for the Dionysia differ from those for the Lenaea only in that in the former the archon date is followed by the title and poet of a revived ‘old’ play and the name of the actor who was the protagonist37. After this introductory material, the victorious poet appears, together with 31

32

33

34

35

36

For more on 2319 and its misinterpretation, see below. The rationale for this order is difficult to discern, especially since when printing the texts Kirchner abandoned his own numbering and arranged the texts in an order approximately adhering to the traditional hierarchy of festival and genre. This understanding of these inscriptions has not been always fully grasped, even if it is implicit in the widely held theory (discredited below) that IG II2 2319–2323a formed the walls of the building on which IG II2 2325 formed the architrave. The order of inscription numbers in each part follows the chronological order for the annual entries each inscription preserves. On the individual columns of IG II2 2319, see below. See below for discussion of a second sort of entry found for some years in the latter part of the records for comedy at the Dionysia, the

37

only portion of these inscriptions that survive for either genre or festival from the mid-third century and later. The entries for tragedies at the Dionysia also differ from all other entries in that immediately after the name of the archon and before the notice concerning the revived play they record the poet and title of a single satyr play. Apparently, therefore, by the middle of the fourth century, the date of the earliest surviving records, satyr plays had ceased to be produced in the context of the contests; instead, a single satyr play was produced, presumably as a non-competitive exhibition, possibly but not necessarily written by one of the tragic poets competing that year. In contrast to the situation at Athens, satyr plays did continue to be produced elsewhere for competition, although subject to their own separate competition (e.g. IG XII 6, 173, 8 [Samos; second century]; IOrop. 528, 23–24 [= IG VII 420; Oropos, ca. 80–50]).

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the title of his play (or plays in the case of tragedy), and the name of the protagonist for each. The remaining poets, together with their plays and protagonists, are then listed in descending order of placement at the contest; their placement (second, third, etc.) is specified until sometime in the third century, when the practice of including these labels disappears. The entry concludes with a notice of which actor was victorious. For example, the entry for tragedies at the Dionysia in the archonship of Nikomachos (341/0) is as follows (IG II2 2320, 16–29 = 18–31 MO)38: λ N )  T  « F  / 20  » : N[«] #O ! E$   : #A« [P] 6/ 7 : \[] [F] 7 : N[«] 25 [....] «  : i 5/ [7 :] \« [O'] 7 : N[] [E$ ]«   [#A ] !  7 : \[«] 30 [.....] : 7 : N[] [7 : \]μ«  

Each entry thus contains a large amount of detailed information that could not have been abstracted from IG II2 2318 (as the portions of IG II2 2325 pertaining to the Dionysia could have been) but must have been derived from a separate archival source. Assuming, as seems reasonable on both epigraphical and historical grounds, that these inscriptions are roughly contemporary with IG II2 2318 and IG II2 2325, detailed records of which plays were produced by a poet in any given year and who the protagonist was for each must have been maintained and accessible for more than a century after the fact39. Perhaps the most interesting aspects of these inscriptions are the incidental facts concerning changing details of production. For example, IG II2 2319 col. II (tragedies at the Lenaea 420/19–419/8) records only two competitors per year, while SEG 26, 203 38

39

The records for tragedies at the Lenaea do not contain the notice concerning a satyr play found here, nor are there references to revived plays in the records for either genre at the Lenaea. The evidence for dating this set of inscriptions is poor. The cutter who inscribed IG II2 2323a (comedies at the Dionysia; latest entry ca. 302/1) is different from the first hand of IG II2 2323 (comedies at the Dionysia; earliest entry 218/7). The change of hand presumably indicates that the latter was inscribing additions to an existing monument and thus that the monument itself predates ca. 302/1–218/7. To my untrained eye, the cutter of IG II2 2323a appears to be the same as that of IG II2 2320 (tragedies at the Dionysia 342/1–340/39). Al-

though this hand need not be the original cutter of the inscription, meaning that the monument was erected in the mid-fourth century or earlier, that assumption implies that entries from sometime prior to 342/1 until sometime after ca. 302/1, i. e. more than forty years, were all a single addendum. While not impossible (note, for example, that the third hand of IG II2 2323 inscribed the entries for 201/0–170/69 and there seem to have been additions of similar length in IG II2 2325), it seems more likely that such a large section is not an addition, but part of the original inscription, and that therefore the monument was erected ca. 302/1–218/7, probably in the earlier part of that period.

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(tragedies at the Lenaea 364/3) has three. Similarly, IG II2 2323a (comedies at the Dionysia 312/1) has five comic poets competing, while IG II2 2323 shows that the number had been raised to six by the early second century. IG II2 2320 (tragedies at the Dionysia) records a year (342/1) in which each poet produced three plays, followed by one (341/0) in which each produced only two. Equally fascinating are experiments in how best to distribute the actors among the plays. In the tragedies at the Dionysia in 342/1, the actors are distributed such that each of the three main actors is protagonist once for the first play of a trilogy, once for the second play, and once for the third play; in contrast, in the following year (when there were only two plays per poet) one actor was the protagonist for the first play of each poet, and the other was the protagonist for the second play of each. Yet another system appears in the tragedies at the Lenaea in 364/3, when one actor seems to have been assigned to each poet and appears as protagonist for both of his plays. A radical change in the competitions is documented in IG II2 2323 + SEG 38, 162, which records results of many comic competitions at the Dionysia from 217/6 to 155/4. Scattered throughout this period are year entries consisting only of the archon date and the curt notice $ ! (“it did not take place”). The occurrence of such entries is not regular and follows no discernible pattern, except that such notices never occur (or are absent) more than two years in a row40. On average, therefore, such entries occur every other year, even if not in simple alternation with normal entries. The notice “it did not take place” has sometimes been interpreted as meaning that the festival itself was cancelled. Since it is inherently unlikely that a major religious festival was cancelled so regularly and so matter-of-factly (and that we have no other evidence for such large-scale cancellation), a more plausible conclusion is that the notice refers only to the production of comedies. In this case, comedies would have been produced at the Dionysia only approximately every other year, presumably meaning that years without comedy had only tragedy and viceversa41. A complementary hypothesis is that a similar change took place at the Lenaea, which now exhibited whichever genre that year’s Dionysia did not42. Estimates for the original extent of these inscriptions depend on the presumably safe assumption that the records for each genre and each festival were roughly similar in scope43. Although the earliest extant entries for the Dionysia are 342/1 for tragedy (IG II2 2320)44 and 313/2 for comedy (IG II2 2323a), these records, like those in IG II2 2318, presumably went back to the end of the sixth century and the early fifth century respectively, when the contests 40

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A related corollary is that there are no examples of any five-year period in which either four of the years had such entries or four of the years did not. This change to producing comedies approximately every other year seems to coincide with an increase in the number of competing poets in the years in which comedies did take place. These conclusions are supported by IG II2 2325 (Victors Lists), in which the ends of each list show an unusual degree of compaction with the results of approximately a century occupying about half as much space as would be expected. The change to an approximately every other year schedule occurred around the middle of the third century; it was certainly in place by 217/6, when a year without comedy at the Dionysia is

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recorded (IG II2 2323, 99 = 13 MO), and the evidence of IG II2 implies that the change happened some decades earlier than that. The assumption that the records for the Lenaea continued as long as those for the Dionysia (until a decade or two after the middle of the second century) is explicitly rejected at Pickard-Cambridge 1968, 107: “The record of comedies at the Lenaea ended a very few years after 288, and it is not likely that the record of tragedies at the Lenaea continued longer”. The rationale for this rejection, however, is based on a false premise concerning IG II2 2319; see below. In fact, there are slight traces of several lineendings from the previous column, which must reflect the entry for a year shortly after ca. 350.

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began45. The records for the Lenaea presumably also go back to the institution of dramatic contests at that festival sometime in the mid-fifth century, probably in the 440s. The earliest extant entry for comedy at the Lenaea belongs to the mid-fourth century (IG II2 2321)46, while for tragedy opposite the surviving entry for 420/19 (IG II2 2319 col. III)47 is the end of one line from an entry that must be a decade or so previous, and thus within a decade or so of the beginning of the records. The records for tragedy do not survive for either festival past the middle of the fourth century, and the records for comedy at the Lenaea do not survive past the early third century. For comedy at the Dionysia, however, the last datable entry is for 155/4 (IG II2 2323, 232–244 = 509–523 MO), and an entry from the following column must date to a decade or two after that, apparently close to the end of the contests, at least in this form. The number of lines in each column varies because of the different letter-heights cut by the different cutters, but a column height of ca. 130 lines (close to the high end of the variance) would require more than 70 columns (i. e. 9,100 lines) to include all the records; in all likelihood, the number of columns was probably even greater than that. Two fallacies have greatly hampered the reconstruction, and thus the interpretation, of this set of inscriptions. The first is Reisch’s theory, widely repeated even if not always accepted, that these inscriptions were on the walls of the same building that had its architrave inscribed with IG II2 2325 (the Victors Lists)48. There would have been insufficient space for these inscriptions on the face of the wall below the inscribed face of the architrave; there might have just been sufficient room if both the interior and exterior faces of the walls were inscribed, although this would destroy the direct interplay between the Didascaliae and the Victors Lists which is one of the main points for the hypothesis in the first place49. Far more serious, the blocks on which the Didascaliae were inscribed can only be plausibly reconstructed in such a way that they are thicker, probably substantially so, than the architrave blocks that are supposed to have sat on top of them. Since this is impossible, the two sets of inscriptions must belong to distinct monuments. The Didascaliae were therefore inscribed on the walls of a separate building or possibly on a retaining wall of some sort. It is possible, and indeed seems likely, that the Didascaliae and the Victors Lists were roughly contemporary and that the monuments on which they were inscribed were situated so as to speak to one another. But the connection between them can be no more direct than that. The second obstacle to understanding the Didascaliae is more insidious, in that it has never been recognised as scholarly deduction but instead taken as a fundamental fact. IG II2 2319 is now lost, and modern editions are based on a transcription made by Fourmont (fig. 16.2)50. All editors have accepted the transcription as being of a single stone, with the left-hand column pertaining to comedies at the Lenaea from 286/5 and 285/4 and the right-hand column containing the entries for tragedies at the Lenaea from 420/19 and 45

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47

Given how little of substance even the ancients seem to have known about early drama, it is entirely possible that the records for the period prior to the middle of the fifth century were cursory or at least not as full as those found in the extant fragments. This date depends on the restoration of the fifthplace poet (IG II2 2321, 87 = 4 MO) as #A φ[-] (floruit ca. 350); the less likely restoration #A φ[«] would place the fragment in the late fifth century or early fourth. For the division of IG II2 2319 into three columns, contra the IG text, see below.

48 49

50

Reisch 1907, 303–305. If Reisch’s full theory, i. e. that the building was hexagonal with three of the six sides open, is adhered to, there is certainly insufficient room for the Didascaliae regardless of whether or not both faces of the walls were inscribed. A photograph of Fourmont’s handwritten transcription is also reproduced at Wilhelm 1906a, 51 and Ghiron-Bistagne 1976, 31. The inscription is also known from a second but inferior transcription made by Pittakis, who said he had seen it near the ‘Gymnasium of Hadrian’ (Pittakys 1835, 114f.).

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Fig. 16.2. IG II2 2319: Fourmont’s transcription.

419/8. Accepting at face value the conjunction of these two columns leads inexorably to a number of difficult conclusions since, under any plausible reconstruction, there is only room for somewhere between ten and eighteen missing annual entries51. Unless nearly all of this space is taken up with records of tragedies, tragedy began at the Lenaea more than a decade later than otherwise seems to be the case, or this set of records began a decade after the competition did. Regardless of the situation regarding tragedy, the records for comedy would have oddly ceased no later than ca. 270, even though the records for the Dionysia continued for at least 120 years past that date, as did the Lenaea sections of the Victors Lists. What is more, in contrast to IG II2 2318 and IG II2 2325, and in defiance of the fact that the records for comedies at the Dionysia were actually updated on numerous occasions, the inscriptions concerning the Lenaea could have had no such provision for additions. The only way to escape these conclusions is the even less palatable one that the organisation of the Didascaliae was so chaotic as to be incapable of reconstruction. None of these problems exist, however, if the basic premise that the two columns of IG II2 2319 are adjacent can be rejected. The primary reason for assuming that they are adjacent, aside from the fact that the columns are next to each other in Fourmont’s notes, is that the name of the actor for the first place comic poet of 285/4 in the left-hand column (IG II2 2319, 60 = 7 MO) is #A [– – –], while nearly opposite this, abutting the beginning of the archon date for 419/8 (IG II2 2319, 77 = 11 MO) in the right-hand column, 51

Much of what follows was also worked out by Pickard-Cambridge 1968, 107f., who accepted

the logical conclusions that the inscribed records for the Lenaea were severely truncated.

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is a name ending in [– – –])«. Without exception, scholars have made the obvious connection, and indeed Aristomachos is the only possible restoration for the name #A [– – –]. Nevertheless, aside from the confusion caused for the inscriptions as a whole, there are several reasons to reject this conjunction of the two partially preserved names, as neat and obviously correct as it at first appears. Foremost among these is Fourmont’s transcription itself, which after AUI8TOMA has the brief note “defuit”, meaning that the remainder of the name was not extant (and probably never inscribed). Furthermore, if the two fragmentary names are joined this way, line 56 (= 3 MO) certainly52, and lines 63 (= 10 MO) and 65 (= 12 MO) probably, from the left-hand column would have overlapped with the text of the right-hand column. For both reasons, the two columns are best interpreted not as adjacent columns on the same stone, but as two columns from entirely distinct sections of the inscription that happened to have been copied together by Fourmont. He may have copied the inscriptions next to one another because he recognised that they were related in some way or, perhaps more likely, he and Pittakis actually saw them next to each other, perhaps built into a wall in the area of the Library of Hadrian53. In any case, the fact that [– – –])« neatly supplies the end of the name Aristomachos is simply fortuitous, and the letters actually represent the sole remnant of an otherwise lost column to the left of the right-hand column of IG II2 2319. This understanding of Fourmont’s transcription removes a number of serious difficulties and allows a straight-forward reconstruction of the Didascaliae as a whole.

IG II2 2325: The Victors Lists (fig. 16.3) The so-called Victors Lists are by far the most extensively preserved of the inscribed records for dramatic performance at the Dionysia and Lenaea. Inscribed perhaps in 27954 on the inside face of a series of architrave blocks are eight separate lists, each composed of 52

For a different, and probably erroneous, reading of Fourmont’s text for this line, see Parker 2006. Fourmont’s transcription of the last word of the line reads ANA8CIZO, with the last three letters written in miniscule above three crossed out majuscule letters. Parker assumes that the stone read only ANA8CIZO and that Fourmont began to resolve the abbreviation in majuscule letters; he then concludes that Fourmont realised this was misleading, crossed out his partial resolution, and then rewrote it above in miniscule letters. Aside from the this theory being overly complicated and the fact that there is no parallel for a similarly drastic abbreviation of a participial title (such abbreviations always include at least the mu and usually end in -!(–), sometimes in -![ – ]), the first of the three crossed out majuscule letters does not seem to be a mu at all, and so the miniscule letters written above are best taken Fourmont’s simple correction, presumably made on the spot, of his own transcription error. Parker’s secondary argument

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on the basis of line length is no argument at all, and his parallels are misleadingly selective. Note also that the transcriptions by Fourmont and Pittakis do not match up the two columns in the same way. This might provide some additional support for the view that the columns were not on the same stone but on two stones placed next to one another and whose relation to each other was not precisely clear. The exterior face of one of the blocks, undoubtedly belonging to the central part of the front of the building, is inscribed with IG II2 3080, a fragmentary choregic inscription belonging to the period of the agonothesia. Wilhelm 1906a, 90 and Reisch 1907, 302f. connected this inscription with the dedicatory inscription IG II2 2853 made by the agonothetes of 279. The approximate accuracy of this date is supported by the fact that, in every case where the relevant portion is extant, prosopographical considerations show that the change from the first hand to the second occurred sometime in the 280s or 270s.

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Fig. 16.3. Schematic reconstruction drawing of IG II2 2325.

multiple columns, of the victorious tragic poets and actors and comic poets and actors, for both the Dionysia and Lenaea, presented in chronological order according to the first victory of each. The chronologies provided by these lists are only relative, since no dates are given anywhere in the inscription, and each entry consists solely of the name of the victorious poet or actor and his total number of victories at the festival in question. For example, the beginning of the section of victorious comic poets at the Lenaea is as follows (IG II2 2325, 116–126 = 2325E 1–11 MO): [F ] [λ ]- [ / ]- [{]φ « I T « P 5 #A !« II K G« III i  « II 6E  « IIII i  )« II 10 M « I [EΚ] « III The starting date for the lists varies since the contests all began at different times, but the beginning of each list is coincident with the beginning of the relevant contest. Moreover, all eight lists continued to be updated, as were the Didascaliae, until the middle of the second century, when the contests came to an end, or at least the records ceased to be maintained.

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These lists are of the highest importance even though they contain no absolute dates, since they provide the basic framework for establishing the chronology of the poets and actors of both genres. They are particularly crucial for actors, who are often otherwise difficult to place chronologically, as well as for many minor poets. There are few problems in the reconstruction of these lists55 or of the building on which they were inscribed, aside from Reisch’s strangely persistent, but untenable, theory that the building was hexagonal because of an oblique cutting on the top inside corner of one of the blocks56. In fact, the reconstruction of the building is straightforward and presents few difficulties. The top surfaces of about half the surviving blocks have a cutting that forms a sort of shelf, presumably meant to receive roof beams; these blocks therefore belong to the sides of the building. Determining which blocks belong to which side is accomplished by the observation that the cuttings fall into two distinct groups differing from one other in their dimensions. The remaining blocks all have a flat top surface and accordingly belong to either the front or the back; distinguishing blocks belonging to the front from those belonging to the back is greatly facilitated by the choregic inscription that partially survives on the exterior face of one block. Since this inscription undoubtedly stood over the main entrance at the front of the building, the list on its interior face, tragic actors at the Lenaea, did so as well. Several other blocks can also be securely placed. For example, the cuttings on top of the series of blocks inscribed with the comic poets from the Dionysia show that this list began on a side wall and then turned the corner; this list began on the left side wall and, turning the corner, ran onto the back wall57. Enough blocks can be fixed securely that the remainder can be slotted in without problem and the entire monument reconstructed. The eight lists that comprise the inscription fall into two groups of four: the victorious tragic poets, tragic actors, comic poets and comic actors from each of the two major festivals. Although each list begins with a heading specifying the genre and profession (e.g. tragic poets) of the following names, only the heading of the first list in each of the two groups also specifies the festival. Since the festival designation needs to be understood in three of the lists from each group and since it is given only in the heading of the rightmost list in each group, the lists must have been meant to be read from right to left; in contrast, the columns within each list read from left to right. In a simplified form, i. e. ignoring when a list turns a corner, the order is as follows (beginning in the near right-hand corner for a 55

Assigning the individual fragments to the correct list is generally unproblematic. Enough of the named individuals are otherwise known so that determining whether a given fragment contains poets or actors or refers to tragedy or comedy is never a problem. Separating the lists between the two festivals similarly presents few difficulties and is accomplished primarily by the coincidence of names in two lists (e.g. the two comic poet lists) and comparison of where in the list those names fall, since the beginning dates for the various contests differ widely between the two festivals. For example, the tragic actor Heracleides appears first in one list and does not appear earlier than ninth in the other; since we know from IG II2 2318, 70 (= 286 MO) that Heracleides won at the Dionysia in 448/7 and that that contest had begun no earlier than three years previous, the first of these lists must be-

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long to the Dionysia and the second to the Lenaea. Similarly, the comic poet Eupolis appears in ninth place in one list and in twenty-fourth place in the other; since the comic poet competition began at the Lenaea ca. 40 years after it had at the Dionysia, the first of these lists must belong to the Lenaea (where Eupolis appears near the top of the list) and the second to the Dionysia (where he appears much lower down). The purpose of this small cutting remains unclear, but it is certainly not structural and has no bearing on the reconstruction of the building. Using only the physical characteristics of the blocks, this list could also be placed in the corner diagonally opposite, i. e. running from the right side wall onto the front wall; this placement, however, would cause this list to overlap with the securely placed tragic actors at the Lenaea and thus can be rejected.

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person entering the building): tragic poets at the Dionysia and tragic actors at the Dionysia (right side); comic actors at the Dionysia and comic poets at the Dionysia (back); comic poets at the Lenaea and comic actors at the Lenaea (left side); tragic actors at the Lenaea and tragic poets at the Lenaea (front)58; see fig. 16.3 for a schematic reconstruction.

Date and purpose of the monuments All three of these inscriptions, or sets of inscriptions, concern obviously related material, or at least material that pertains to related modern scholarly interests, even if the differences of focus among them have often been downplayed by scholars59. All three contain detailed information stretching back generations prior to the date of inscribing, in some cases even to before the Persian Wars; none of them, however, is presented as a mere summation or record of past achievements, but instead each is consciously situated as part of a continuum stretching equally far into the future60. All three inscriptions were designed in their layout to be continually updated and all were in fact so augmented numerous times after the date of original inscribing. Moreover, the three monuments on which these inscriptions appeared were almost certainly erected within or near the precinct of Dionysus on the south slope of the Acropolis and so can be understood as speaking to one another and thus forming a coherent group. Not withstanding these similarities, IG II2 2318 (inscribed 347/6–343/2) predates the others by more than a half century and has a very different outlook than IG II2 2325 (inscribed possibly in 279, but certainly within a decade of that date) and IG II2 2319–2323a (probably inscribed early in the third century). IG II2 2318 seems to fit well with the general interest in the theatre traditionally ascribed to the Eubulan and Lycurgan period61. Furthermore, erecting a large public monument that detailed victories at the Dionysia, the most prestigious venue for the production of Athenian tragedy, seems very much of a piece with, for example, the establishment of canonical texts for the three great tragedians attributed to Lycurgus. Nevertheless, this monument, while overtly concerned with the Dionysia, focuses not so much on tragedy or even performance generally as on the institution of the choregia, i. e. the private financing of these performances62. In this regard, interpretators of the Fasti and its purpose might do well to compare it not only with the Didascaliae and the Victors Lists but also with honorific decrees and similar public monuments. 58

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One result of this order is that any two adjacent sides will always show either the four lists belonging to a single festival or the four lists belonging to a single genre. A second result is that only one of the three elements (tragedy/comedy, poet/actor, Dionysia/Lenaea) changes as one moves from one list to the next one in either direction. For the difference in focus, see, e.g., PickardCambridge 1968, 85 n. 9 (emphasised again at Lewis 1978, 184); similarly, Wilson 2000, 13 rightly stresses the prominence of the choregoi in the Fasti (IG II2 2318). Contrast, for example, the Parian marble or the Lindian Chronicle, both of which are presented as a record of events down to the time of

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inscribing but were not intended to continue past that date. Another conjunction of epigraphy and theatrical matters in this period is a series of inscribed decrees honouring various persons connected with the theatre. For collection and discussion of ten such decrees, see Lambert 2008 = Lambert 2012, 337–362 (where see also addenda: 405). This point, even if not new (see, e.g., Wilson 2000, 13), bears stressing. In any case, the Eubulan and Lycurgan periods, as well as Eubulus and Lycurgus themselves, are known just as much for interest in financial matters as for interest in the theatre; see Csapo – Wilson, this volume.

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Honorific decrees were by their very nature meant to honour and commemorate a person for his benefactions or other display of good will toward the Athenians. At the same time, they were also meant to attract other benefactors by providing an exemplar to be emulated. While this secondary rationale was always present, from the middle of the fourth century, i. e. contemporary with IG II2 2318, this aspect is made explicit by the introduction of the so-called hortatory intention clause63. A large public monument that details some of Athens’ greatest cultural achievements while foregrounding the men whose financial support made them possible fits well in this milieu of using past benefactions to attract future donors64. The decision to emphasise the Dionysia, however, was presumably a conscious choice intended to increase Athens’ cultural capital in the face of waning political power and to solidify its position “by redeploying the cultural products of that age [i. e. the Periclean], above all Athenian drama, and by exploiting the symbolic capital associated with them, to bolster the city’s status”65. The same intent of playing on Athens’ cultural capital is the driving force behind the Didascaliae and the Victors Lists. These two sets of inscriptions were both originally inscribed at roughly the same time, early in the third century66. A distinction has sometimes made between them by maintaining that the Didascaliae are a reproduction of ‘official’ records while the Victors Lists reflect literary concerns67, but this is probably a false dichotomy. Instead, both sets of inscriptions are best seen as assertions of Athens’ cultural pre-eminence. At a time when Athens’ influence and weight on the political stage were declining, its cultural achievements became all important in the struggle to maintain the city’s status. This record of past accomplishments became even more important as Athens’ position even in this arena had been eroded by the explosive growth of theatres and theatrical festivals elsewhere in the Greek world over the course of the fourth century; no longer were Athens’ festivals necessarily the dominant venues for drama, nor were its citizens the dominant dramatic artists. The Didascaliae and Victors Lists countered this situation by emphasising a record that no other city could parallel and by firmly locating the greatest names of Greek drama in an Athenian context. A similar motive might be behind the use of personal names alone, without patronymics or demotics68, which in effect effaced any evi63

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For a detailed study of this clause, see Henry 1996. For discussion of the role honorific decrees played in the Athenians’ strategy in attracting benefactors, see, for example, Lambert 2006, 117 = Lambert 2012, 96f. (with comments related to the theatre); Lambert 2010, 159f. = Lambert 2012, 383–385. The constant need for men to undertake the choregia can have been no small concern, given that 28 (new?) men were needed each year (one for each of the ten tribes for the boys’ chorus; the same number for the men’s chorus; three for the tragedies; and five for the comedies); see Wilson 2000, 22. The demand is even greater when other festivals, for example the Lenaea and the various Rural Dionysia, are taken into account. Lambert 2008, 59 = Lambert 2012, 343. It is possible that there was a similar large monument, now entirely lost, relating to the Lenaea; such a supposition, however, involves thinking of IG II2 2318 as a monument concerned with

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drama rather than with contests at the City Dionysia and their financing. The original portions of IG II2 2325 were perhaps inscribed in 279, but in any case certainly within a decade on either side of that date, while IG II2 2319–2323a were inscribed at an unknown date in the third century but fit best early in the century. See, for example, Pickard-Cambridge 1968, 85 n. 9; contrast Lewis 1978, 184 where the same distinction is made more correctly between the F a st i (rather than the Didascaliae) and the Victors Lists. This absence of further identification, while it does occur occasionally, is not the norm either at Athens or elsewhere for any sort of victor list or competition record. Contrast, for example, the second century Panathenaic victor lists from Athens (IG II2 2313–2317; SEG 41, 115) or the third century lists of victors in the Soteria at Delphi (Nachtergael 1977, nos. 58–68).

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dence of foreign participation and thus co-opted all participants in the Athenian festivals. Leaving aside the question of what the Athenians may have wished to gain, financially or in terms of prestige, from publication of these inscriptions, IG II2 2318 and IG II2 2325 are fundamentally nothing more than lists of victors, even if the latter is less straight-forwardly a public monument than the former69. As such, they are examples of a recognised category that was exceedingly common and widespread, both geographically and chronologically, in the Greek world. Competitions of all sorts, major and minor, resulted in inscribed victor lists, whether these were produced regularly or sporadically. Rather different, and more difficult to categorise and thus to interpret, are IG II2 2319–2323a, the Didascaliae. This set of inscriptions does include the victors for each year, who are placed prominently within the annual entry, but the wealth of detail and especially the inclusion of losing competitors appears to be without parallel. In format and content, the inscriptions resemble the various inventories and accounts with which Classical and Hellenistic Athens was filled; perhaps a better analogy, even if imperfect, is to a document such as the Lindian Chronicle (I. Lindos 2). Both the Didascaliae and the Lindian Chronicle present a record of the past as part of an argument for being taken seriously in the present, while the Didascaliae goes one step further by looking also to the future. The content of the Didascaliae may seem obvious to scholars, since these inscriptions contain precisely the sort of information that we very much want to have, and since the modern world is rife with parallels. But why the Athenians chose to monumentalise the information to such a degree, let alone record it in the first place, is an open question70. The antiquarianism evident in these inscriptions seems much more at home in a literary work, such as Aristotle’s lost Didascaliae, but the fact of the matter is that someone in the third century thought this information should be inscribed and the money was found for this to be done. The origin of the content is presumably the state archives, but the impetus behind publishing it in this way is idiosyncratic. Regardless of the precise occasion and rationale for the monumentalising of this vast, detailed array of information concerning dramatic productions, the message offered was that only Athens had a dramatic history so long and so prestigious71.

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That IG II2 2325 was a quasi-public monument, or at least that responsibility for its upkeep eventually fell under broader control, is strongly suggested by the sporadic updates that were added for approximately 150 years after the date of its original inscription. For the nature and function of choregic monuments, of which the monuments erected by the agonothetai are a direct continuation, see Wilson 2000, 198–252; Shear 2013. One can imagine a third century viewer being interested, for example, in the careers of certain poets and so wanting to see the full relevant records, but this begs the question of why such records were originally kept; fifth century Athenians could hardly have anticipated the scholarly interests of third century

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Alexandrians. The comments of Harris 1994, 215f. regarding inventories might provide a partial answer, even if not a full one, for the inscribing of such lists. Also relevant, as much for raising pertinent questions as for anything else, is Davies 1994. Although referring to the assembly held in the theatre of Dionysus immediately after the conclusion of the Dionysia and to the honorary decrees that resulted from that assembly, the remark of Wilson – Csapo 2012, 307 is perhaps equally relevant to the Didascaliae: the point was “foster[ing] the participation of foreign talent and money … [and] maintaining the primacy of the Athenian festival in what was becoming a highly competitive business”.

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Plates

Plates

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Plates

Plate 1

Pl. 1.1. Athens, Theatre and Sanctuary of Dionysus Eleuthereus: General view from N in 2009 (see fig. 1.1)

Pl. 1.2. Athens, Theatre and Sanctuary of Dionysus Eleuthereus: General view from SW

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Plate 2

Pl. 2.1. Rhamnus: Theatre, general view from N; in the background left: street up to the sanctuary of Nemesis and Themis (see fig. 2.2a).

Pl. 2.2. Athens, National Archaeological Museum inv. 2400: Votive relief with Dionysus and a chorus from Sphettos (see fig. 2.10).

Pl. 2.3. Athens, National Archaeological Museum inv. 4498: reliefs on the base of a marble grave monument from Vari (see fig. 2.12).

Plate 3

Pl. 3.1. Kalydon, theatre, northwestern corner of the koilon from S (see fig. 3.3).

Pl. 3.2. Dodona, general view of the theatre from SE.

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Plate 4

Pl. 4. Delos: Theatre at the beginning of the second half of the third century: a. Model showing reconstruction. – b. Reconstructed cross-section. – c. Reconstructed view of the stage-building.

Plate 5

Pl. 5.1. Oxyrhynchus Papyrus 2746, TrGF adesp F 649.

Pl. 5.2. Paris, Louvre, Antiquités égyptiennes inv. E10534: Papyrus, very probably with Carcinus’ Medea, including musical annotations.

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Pl. 6.1. Munich, Staatliche Antikensammlungen und Glyptothek inv. 3296: Apulian red-figure volute-krater (see fig. 4.1).

Pl. 6.2. Boston, MFA inv. 1900.03.804: Apulian red-figure volute-krater (see fig. 4.7).

454 Plate 6

Pl. 7. Basel, Antikenmuseum und Sammlung Ludwig inv. Lu S 34: Apulian red-figure calyx-krater (see fig. 4.4).

Plate 7

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Pl. 8.1. Naples, Museo Archeologico Nazionale inv. 81954: Apulian red-figure amphora (see fig. 4.2).

Pl. 8.2. Paris, Louvre inv. K 710: Apulian red-figure bell-krater (see fig. 5.1)

456 Plate 8

Pl. 9.1. Formerly Melbourne, Geddes collection inv. A 5.8: Apulian red-figure calyx-krater (see fig. 5.2).

Pl. 9.2. Policoro, Museo Nazionale della Siritide inv. 35302: Lucanian red-figure pelike (see fig. 5.3).

Plate 9

457

Pl. 10. Map showing the events held on Alexander’s expedition.

458 Plate 10

Pl. 11. Naples, Museo Archeologico Nazionale inv. 81673 (H 3240): Attic red-figure volute-krater, attributed to the Pronomos Painter (see fig. 11.4–6).

Plate 11

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Pl. 12. Brussels, Musées Royaux d’Art et d’Histoire inv. A 1018: Apulian red-figure volute-krater (see fig. 11.7).

460 Plate 12

Pl. 13.1. New York, formerly coll. Mitchell, with the Metropolitan Museum of Art L.63.21.5: Apulian red-figure bell-krater (see fig. 11.10)

Pl. 13.2. Los Angeles, County Museum of Art inv. 50.8.29: Apulian red-figure bell-krater (see fig. 11.11)

Plate 13

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Plate 14

Pl. 14.1. Tampa (FL), Museum of Art inv. 1988.34.2 (see fig. 13.24).

Pl. 14.2. Munich, Staatliche Antikensammlungen und Glyptothek inv. 5393 (see fig. 13.25).

Pl. 14.3. Canberra, Australian National University, Classics Dept inv. 75.19 (see fig. 13.30).

Pl. 14.4. Syracuse, Museo Archeologico Regionale Paolo Orsi inv. 1527 (see fig. 13.33).

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Plate 15

Pl. 15.1. Paris, Louvre inv. AM 33 (see fig. 13.39).

Pl. 15.2. Paris, Louvre inv. AM 39 (see fig. 13.40).

Pl. 15.3. Athens, National Archaeological Museum inv. 5815: Corinthian red-figure stemless bell-krater (see fig. 13.13).

Pl. 16. Athens, Epigraphical Museum inv. 8217+8225+13368: IG II2 2318 (‘Fasti’), fragments a, b, and b2 (see fig. 16.1).

464 Plate 16

Plate 15

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Illustration Credit Fig. 1.1: D-DAI-ATH-75.576. – Fig. 1.2.–6. 9. 10. 12. 14. 20. 21. 24–26. 28. 29. 31. 32. 35. 36 a. 37 a. 39. 40: Chr. Papastamati-von Moock. – Fig. 1.7.–8. 13. 18. 19. 22. 23. 36–38 (drawings): D. Kouliadis. – Fig. 1.11: A. Samara and D. Kouliadis. – Fig. 1.15: After Samara – Papastamati-von Moock 2006, 4 fig. 10; Shear 1970, 194–195 figs. 14–15. – Fig. 1.16:A. Samara. – Fig. 1.17.: S. Gesafidis. – Fig. 1.27: Numismatic Museum, Athens. – Fig. 1.30: After Fiechter 1935, 77 fig. 65 and pl. 1. – Fig. 1.33. Chr. Papastamati-von Moock, OA based on drawin by E. Makri, see Samara 2004, 63 fig. 10 section 3; WA with aA partly on Fiechter 1935, pl. 10, and autopsy during the excavation of 1998. – Fig. 1.34: After Bulle 1928, pl. 4 plan III. – Fig. 1.41. 42: G. P. Antoniou. – Fig. 1.43: G. P. Antoniou, partly based on the older plans by W. Dörpfeld, M. Korres, and T. Papathanasopoulos. – Fig. 2.1–17. 3.3. 11.1. 2: H. R. Goette. – Fig. 3.1. 9. 12 b. 14. 15: M. Fincker. – Fig. 3.2 a. After Gebhard, 1974, 439, fig. 5. – 2 b. After Gebhard 1973, 23, pl. IV. – 2 c. M. Fincker after Gebhard 1973, 38, pl. VII (P. de Jong). – Fig. 3.4: M. Fincker, after Fiechter 1931b, fig. 11. – Fig. 3.5 a. After Gerkan – Müller-Wiener 1961, pl. 11. – 5 b: After Gerkan – Müller-Wiener 1961, pl. 29, slightly modified by M. Fincker. – 5 c: After Gerkan – Müller-Wiener 1961, pl. 9. – Fig. 3.6: After Green 2007, 8 fig. 1, drawing by G. Stennett. – Fig. 3.7 a: After Mertens 1982, fig. 16. – 7 b: After Mertens 1982, fig. 15. – Fig. 3.8: After Mitens 1988, 93 fig. 11 (E. de Miro). – Fig. 3.10 a: After Fraisse – Moretti 2007, fig. 422 (F.-F. Müller). – 10 b: After Fraisse – Moretti 2007, fig. 192 (F.-F. Müller). – Fig. 3.11 a: After Isler 2000, 203, fig. 2. – 11 b: After Isler 2000, 207, fig. 6. – Fig. 3.12 a: After Isler 2000, 208, fig. 7. – Fig. 3.13: After Isler 2007, pl. 83. – Fig. 3.16 a: After Fiechter 1931a, pl. 2. – 16 b: After Fiechter 1931a, pl. 5. – Fig. 3.17 a: After Stillwell, 1952, pl. III. – 17 b: After Stillwell 1952, pl. VIII. – 17 c: After Stillwell 1952, 38, fig. 30. – 17 d: After Stillwell 1952, 34, fig. 26. – Fig. 3.18: After Drougou 1997, 283, fig. 1. – Fig. 3.19: After Gerkan – Müller-Wiener 1961, pl. 21 and Ginouvès et al. 1993, 177 fig. 148. – Fig. 4.1. 13.6. 25: Museum photo R. Kühling. – Fig. 4.2: Soprintendenza Speciale per i Beni Archeologici di Napoli e Pompei. – Fig. 4.3: After Taplin 2007. – Fig. 4.4: Museum photo A. Voegelin. – Fig. 4.5: Museum photo bpk / Antikensammlung, SMB / J. Laurentius. – Fig. 4.8. 5.1. 13.2. 3. 8. 12. 37. 39. 40: Museum photo RMN. – Fig. 4.9. Museum photo 2013 Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. – Fig. 5.2: After Green et al. 2003. – Fig. 5.3: Ministero per i Beni e le Attività Culturali-Archeologici della Basilicata. – Fig. 11.3. 5–6: Museo Archeologico Nazionale, Naples. – Fig. 11.4: After A. Furtwängler – K. Reichhold, Griechische Vasenmalerei (München 1904) pl. 143/4. – Fig. 11.7: Museum photo RMAH. – Fig. 11.8: Ministero per i Beni e le Attività Culturali – Soprintendenza per i Beni Archeologici della Puglia – Archivo fotografico. – Fig. 11.9. 13. 27: Trustees of the British Museum. – Fig. 11.10: Courtesy of Sotheby’s, Inc. 2000. – Fig. 11.11: Museum Associates / LACMA / Art Resource, NY (S. Oliver). – Fig. 11.12: Museum photo. – Fig. 13.1: D-DAI-ATH-Olympia 6209 (G. Hellner). – Fig. 13.4. 11. 13. 26: Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Tourism /Archaeological Receipts Fund. – Fig. 13.5: The Metropolitan Museum of Art / Art Resource, NY. – Fig. 13.7: Courtesy Charles Ede Ltd. – Fig. 13.9: Museum photo. – Fig. 13.10: Museum photo H. Vögele. – Fig. 13.14–16. 20. 28. 29. 32. 35. 36: Courtesy of the Trustees of the American School of Classical Studies at Athens. – Fig. 13.17: University of Groningen, Groningen Institute of Archaeology. – Fig. 13.18. 34: J. R. Green. – Fig. 13.19: Museum photo. – Fig. 13.20a–b: Museum photo. – Fig. 13.23. Bernabò Brea by permission. – Fig. 13.24: Museum photo. – Fig. 13.30: Museum photo: Bob Miller. – Fig. 13.31: Courtesy of the Allard Pierson Museum, Amsterdam. – Fig. 13.33: Assessorato Beni Culturali e dell’Identità Siciliana della Regione Sicilia. – Fig. 13.38. 41: Museum photo. – Fig. 15.1: R. Pitt. – Fig. 16.1. 3: B. Millis. – Fig. 16.2: After Wilhelm 1906a, 51, by permission Bibliothèque Nationale de France. Pl. 1. 2. 3.2. 16: H. R. Goette. – Pl. 3.1: A. Perrier. – Pl. 4: After Fraisse – Moretti 2007, fig. 422 (F.-F. Müller); fig. 192 (F.-F. Müller); fig. 425 (T. Fournet). – Pl. 5.1: Courtesy of the Egypt Exploration Society and the Imaging Papyri Project, Oxford. – Pl. 5.2: Courtesy Princeton University Art Museum. – Pl. 6.1: Museum photo: Renate. Kühling. – Pl. 6.2: Museum photo 2013 Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. – Pl. 7: Museum photo A. Voegelin. – Pl. 8.1: Soprintendenza Speciale per i Beni Archeologici di Napoli e

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Illustration Credit

Pompei. – Pl. 8.2: Museum photo RMN. – Pl. 9.1: After Green et al. 2003. – Pl. 9.2: Ministero per i Beni e le Attività Culturali-Archeologici della Basilicata. – Pl. 10: O. Pollet. – Pl. 11: Museo Archeologico Nazionale, Naples. – Pl. 12: Museum photo RMAH. – Pl. 13.1: Courtesy of Sotheby’s, Inc. 2000. – Pl. 13.2: Trustees of the British Museum. – Pl. 14.1: Museum photo. – Pl. 14.2: Museum photo R. Kühling. – Pl. 14.3: Museum photo: Bob Miller. – Pl. 14.4: Assessorato Beni Culturali e dell’Identità Siciliana della Regione Sicilia. – Pl. 15.1. 2: Museum photo RMN. Cover: H. R. Goette

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