Holy Men and Charlatans in the Ancient Novel 9491431900, 9789491431906

Table of contents :
Cover
Table of contents
Acknowledgments
GARETH SCHMELING. Introduction
KEN DOWDEN. Kalasiris, Apollonios of Tyana, and the Lies of Teiresias
GARETH SCHMELING. The Small World of the Holy Man: a Small Beginning in the Satyrica
COSTAS PANAYOTAKIS. Encolpius and the Charlatans
IAN REPATH. Cleitophon the Charlatan
EWEN BOWIE. A Land without Priests? Religious Authority in Longus, Daphnis and Chloe
ULRIKE EGELHAAF-GAISER. Fickle Coloured Religion: Charlatans and Exegetes in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses
ILARIA L.E. RAMELLI. Lucian’s Peregrinus as Holy Man and Charlatan and the Construction of the Contrast between Holy Men and Charlatans in the Acts of Mari
ALAIN BILLAULT. Holy Man or Charlatan? The Case of Kalasiris in Heliodorus’ Aithiopika
MICHAEL PASCHALIS. Apollonius of Tyana as Proteus: theios anēr or Master of Deceit?
MARIO ANDREASSI. The Life of Aesop and the Gospels: Literary motifs and narrative mechanisms
JOHN MORGAN. The Monk’s Story: the Narrationes of pseudo-Neilos of Ankyra
Abstracts
Contributors
Indices
Index locorum
General Index

Citation preview

Holy Men and Charlatans in the Ancient Novel

ANCIENT NARRATIVE Supplementum 19 Editorial Board Gareth Schmeling, University of Florida, Gainesville Stephen Harrison, Corpus Christi College, Oxford Heinz Hofmann, Universität Tübingen Massimo Fusillo, Università degli Studi dell’Aquila Ruurd Nauta, University of Groningen Stelios Panayotakis, University of Crete Costas Panayotakis (review editor), University of Glasgow Advisory Board Jean Alvares, Montclair State University Alain Billault, Université Paris Sorbonne – Paris IV Ewen Bowie, Corpus Christi College, Oxford Jan Bremmer, University of Groningen Stavros Frangoulidis, Aristotelian University of Thessaloniki Ronald Hock, University of Southern California, Los Angeles Irene de Jong, University of Amsterdam Bernhard Kytzler, University of Natal, Durban Silvia Montiglio, Johns Hopkins University John Morgan, University of Wales, Swansea Rudi van der Paardt, University of Leiden Michael Paschalis, University of Crete Judith Perkins, Saint Joseph College, West Hartford Tim Whitmarsh, Corpus Christi College, Oxford Alfons Wouters, University of Leuven Maaike Zimmerman, University of Groningen Website www.ancientnarrative.com

Subscriptions and ordering Barkhuis Kooiweg 38 9761 GL Eelde the Netherlands [email protected] www.barkhuis.nl

Holy Men and Charlatans in the Ancient Novel edited by

Stelios Panayotakis, Gareth Schmeling, and Michael Paschalis

Book design: Barkhuis Cover Design: Nynke Tiekstra, Noordwolde Image on cover: John Collier, Priestess of Delphi. Oil on canvas, 1891. Current location: Art Gallery of South Australia

ISBN 9789491431906 Copyright © 2015 the editor and authors All rights reserved. No part of this publication or the information contained herein may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronical, mechanical, by photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the authors. Although all care is taken to ensure the integrity and quality of this publication and the information herein, no responsibility is assumed by the publishers nor the authors for any damage to property or persons as a result of operation or use of this publication and/or the information contained herein.

Contents Acknowledgments G ARETH S CHMELING Introduction K EN D OWDEN Kalasiris, Apollonios of Tyana, and the Lies of Teiresias

VII

IX

1

G ARETH S CHMELING The Small World of the Holy Man: a Small Beginning in the Satyrica

17

C OSTAS P ANAYOTAKIS Encolpius and the Charlatans

31

I AN R EPATH Cleitophon the Charlatan

47

E WEN B OWIE A Land without Priests? Religious Authority in Longus, Daphnis and Chloe

67

U LRIKE E GELHAAF -G AISER Fickle Coloured Religion: Charlatans and Exegetes in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses

85

I LARIA L.E. R AMELLI Lucian’s Peregrinus as Holy Man and Charlatan and the Construction of the Contrast between Holy Men and Charlatans in the Acts of Mari 105

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C O NT E NT S

A LAIN B ILLAULT Holy Man or Charlatan? The Case of Kalasiris in Heliodorus’ Aithiopika

121

M ICHAEL P ASCHALIS Apollonius of Tyana as Proteus: theios anēr or Master of Deceit?

133

M ARIO A NDREASSI The Life of Aesop and the Gospels: Literary motifs and narrative mechanisms

151

J OHN M ORGAN The Monk’s Story: the Narrationes of pseudo-Neilos of Ankyra

167

Abstracts

195

Contributors

201

Indices Index locorum General Index

205 205 206

Acknowledgements The conference on ‘Holy Men/Women and Charlatans in the Ancient Novel’ is the 6th in an ongoing series, Rethymnon International Conferences on the Ancient Novel (RICAN), organized by the Department of Philology, University of Crete. The revised versions of the papers delivered at the conference held on May 3031, 2011, are printed in this volume. I would like to thank my fellow editors, Gareth Schmeling and Michael Paschalis, for their collaboration in preparing this volume, and also thank our publisher, Roelf Barkhuis, for producing yet again a splendid book. Stelios Panayotakis

Holy Men and Charlatans in the Ancient Novel, VII

Introduction G ARETH S CHMELING University of Florida and Johns Hopkins University

The eleven papers in this volume were delivered on 30-31 May 2011 at the 6th RICAN (Rethymnon International Conference on the Ancient Novel) and represent interpretations on the subject ‘Holy Men and Charlatans in the Ancient Novel.’ Of the canonical five Greek novels Longus, Achilles Tatius, and Heliodorus receive major attention, while Chariton and Xenophon of Ephesus appear in cameo roles. The Greek fringe novelists, Lucian, Philostratus, the anonymous author of the Life of Aesop, and several Christians writers play major roles here. Of the three Latin novelists, Petronius and Apuleius are studied, and the anonymous Historia Apollonii slighted. Holy men and charlatans are especially important in the writers highlighted in the volume. Ken Dowden’s essay, ‘Kalasiris, Apollonius of Tyana, and the Lies of Teiresias,’ opens this Ancient Narrative Supplementum, and he notes that the authority of the author or narrator are often difficult to establish, Kalasiris and Apollonius being the examples he will deal with. While Kalasiris does not always tell the truth, his stories are highly entertaining (for what more can a reader ask?) and delivered gratis (unlike the fees charged by some holy men) to his immediate audience, which in turn values the authority in his narrative. Dowden discusses how and when Kalasiris derives that authority, compares it with the authority that Artemidorus gives to figures in dreams, and then compares Kalasiris with Apollonius, always careful and mindful to place holy men of all stripes along a spectrum from reliable sources to voodoo artists. ‘In the Small World of the Holy Man: a Small Beginning in the Satyrica,’ Gareth Schmeling considers the only holy man in the Satyrica, Serapa, who is mentioned briefly in the Cena at 76,10-77,2. It is well known that Trimalchio is exceedingly superstitious, but, interestingly, not when making important decisions where others would consult a holy man, but only when he can make a show of it at his dinner theater. He appears to be duped by Serapa’s pronouncement that he should retire from active participation in everyday business and that he will

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live another thirty years, when in fact Trimalchio uses Serapa’s authority to support decisions he has already made, and to reassure his business partners and creditors that he is going into semi-retirement and not into bankruptcy. Costas Panayotakis’ ‘Encolpius and the Charlatans’ focuses on imposters in the Satyrica. In one way or another all the characters in this novel are imposters or charlatans, even the narrator Encolpius who is the older auctor of a younger actor. Petronius nowhere puts in an appearance in his own novel: everything in the Satyrica is fiction. In a novel full of so many imposters Petronius takes great care to ensure that the charlatans entertain the reader and do not attract undue censure. Encolpius actor constantly fails: as imposter, lover, and guest at the Cena; the older, wiser Encolpius auctor confesses his past sins without apologizing or fearing reproof. In ‘Cleitophon the Charlatan’ Ian Repath expands on the theme of charlatans as the lowest order of holy men by using charlatancy almost as a device to nuance a narrative which has a structure of story within story: ‘Scholars have focused on the authorial games being played … I want to shift the focus to the question of Cleitophon’s awareness of the structure and interconnectedness of his narrative.’ Repath cites many examples of Cleitophon’s narrative which lead the reader to doubt that he can make sense of it, particularly when he fails to connect cited works of art and their mythical motifs with his own story: ‘If Cleitophon’s own story were told by someone knowledgeable … But … it is told by a young man keen to impress with what he does not realize is a misreading of … the meaning of his own story.’ Ewen Bowie’s ‘A Land without Priests? Religious Authority in Longus, Daphnis and Chloe’ discusses the absence of institutionalized community religion plus its priests in Longus, whereas in the other four Greek novels priests or priestesses are present. The reason for this is that some rural cults ran themselves and were thus different from the religious features of polis life. The only character who might be described as a holy man is Philetas, who has a very close relationship with Eros who watches over him. The narrator of the story relates how the shadowy exegetes in the preface explained the paintings in the nymph’s grove, but the exegetes who creates the four books of the novel is not an authoritative person and perhaps even a charlatan. So the shadowy figure explaining the paintings might also be shady, and thus descriptions of the rural scenes leave the reader with an unreal world. In ‘Fickle Coloured Religion: Charlatans and Exegetes in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses,’ Ulrike Egelhaaf-Gaiser comments that ‘… Apuleius’ novel is a satirical reflection of the religious market place of the 2nd century … a colourful

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kaleidoscope of magical sibyls and necromancers, exotic prophets and astrologers, Cynic pseudo-philosophers and orgiastic mendicant priests.’ Her expression ‘religious market place’ is most felicitous, and she examines it in two episodes: the Chaldean Diophanes and his oracular responses (2,12-2,14) and the Syrian mendicant priests (8,24-9,10). In both cases the holy men sell their predictions or oracles for a huge profit, and the larger the profit, the less the prediction is worth. And the less it is worth for telling the future, the better it is at entertaining. And a review of the material in these two episodes shows that religious divination and literary entertainment are intertwined. Ilaria Ramelli’s ‘Lucian’s Peregrinus as Holy Man and Charlatan and the Construction of the Contrast between Holy Men and Charlatans in the Acts of Mari’ is a study in polarity which discusses how Lucian can portray Peregrinus as a charlatan, while for a short time the Christians view him as a holy man. But then the Christians are simple people of whom one can take advantage. Lucian has a balanced view toward Christianity: there are aspects he likes and other he does not, and traits of these two views come together in the one character Peregrinus. In the Acts of Mari, however, the Christians are seen putting forward only holy men, while the official representatives of the non-Christians (pagans) present only charlatans. In his ‘Holy Man or Charlatan? The Case of Kalasiris in Heliodorus’ Aithiopika,’ Alain Billault examines the last of the three priests to aid Charikleia and Theogenes, this time on their travels to Ethiopia. This is a sympathetic reading of Heliodorus’ characterization of Kalasiris: huband; father; man of conscience; if he is a charlatan, he is so only to help others; because he cannot understand everything, he makes and realizes his mistakes; in the final analysis, he is just a man who uses whatever tools are at his disposal to aid others – even if this includes mendacity. In the paper ‘Apollonius of Tyana as Proteus: theios anēr or Master of Deceit?’ Paschalis settles the position of Proteus vs. Apollonius: ‘Based on the difference between the Homeric account and Philostratus’ reading of it, it is perfectly clear that Apollonius is not another Proteus … Philostratus enters into a contest with the Homeric model and re-writes it … Standing before Domitian [Apollonius] asserts his freedom and refuses to conduct Protean transformation … The only bodily transformation acceptable to Apollonius consists in the passage from early life to the beyond …’ Mario Andreassi in his paper ‘The Life of Aesop and the Gospels: Literary Motifs and Narrative Mechanisms’ lays out the narrative structure of Aesop’s life and finds surprising similarities to that of Jesus’ – no attempts are made to find a

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relationship of dependence between texts, or of religious implications. Nevertheless Andreassi finds much common ground upon which the two narrative accounts rest. The authors of the Life of Aesop and of the gospels sought to put the life of their protagonist in a narrative context known to the public: they seem to have the same literary model. The last paper in the volume deals with a text which is little known among novel scholars and which Daniel Caner calls ‘the last great example of the ancient novel,’ but J. R. Morgan replies ‘Maybe not … .’ In ‘The Monk’s Story: the Narrationes of pseudo-Neilos of Ancyra’ Morgan takes up this unfamiliar narrative and dedicates it ‘to Swansea City AFC, who won promotion to the English Premier League … .’ To St. Neilos of Ankyra († c.430) the Narrationes are ascribed, but any Neilos will probably do, and Morgan focuses on its narrative qualities. The primary narrator is never named and looks back on his experiences, and the same person appears at an earlier time as a participant in events (like Encolpius and Lucius). The action takes place in the Sinai where the good monks are attacked by human-sacrificing barbarians. And so on. Morgan provides an analysis of the structure and also the evidence used to support the idea that the author of this text knew Achilles Tatius. Also he adds evidence that our author might have known the Metamorphoses of Apuleius. So that we all might enjoy the book, F. Conca in 1983 produced a Teubner edition.

Kalasiris, Apollonios of Tyana, and the Lies of Teiresias K EN D OWDEN University of Birmingham

Introduction Without understanding Kalasiris, we cannot understand Heliodoros’ novel. In ‘Heliodoros: Serious Intentions’ (1996), I rested largely on the text itself to argue for his claim to authority, in contrast to the influential emphasis of Jack Winkler on his ‘mendacity’.1 Here, I consider the position implied by other texts and what intertextual light they can cast on the intended authority of a Kalasiris, even when telling ‘lies’. As certain approaches to ‘the novel’ as a whole have inhibited recognition of Kalasiris’ authority, I start with some questions about authority in narrative and add as counterweights Artemidoros’ view of the authority of dream-figures and the authoritative Teiresias of Sophocles. With that we are ready to look at Kalasiris’ closest comparand, Apollonios of Tyana as he is depicted by Philostratos. Finally, I examine Kalasiris at Delphi, amongst other things understanding his notorious discussion of the Evil Eye as more than a divertissement and not as mendacious as it might seem.

Authority We know that a text does not consist of a line of words, releasing a single ‘theological’ meaning (the ‘message’ of the Author-God), but is a space of many dimensions, in which are wedded and contested various kinds of writing, no one of which is original: the text is a tissue of citations, resulting from the thousand sources of culture...

————— 1

Dowden 1996, 283-284. Holy Men and Charlatans in the Ancient Novel, 1–16

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Once the Author is gone, the claim to ‘decipher’ a text becomes quite useless. To give an Author to a text is to impose upon that text a stop clause, to furnish it with a final signification, to close the writing. This conception perfectly suits criticism, which can then take as its major task the discovery of the Author (or his hypostases: society, history, the psyche, freedom) beneath the work: once the Author is discovered, the text is ‘explained’: the critic has conquered; hence it is scarcely surprising not only that, historically, the reign of the Author should also have been that of the Critic, but that criticism (even ‘new criticism’) should be overthrown along with the Author.2 So Roland Barthes in his celebrated 1967 essay, ‘The Death of the Author’. More recent literary criticism has increasingly viewed narrative text as by its nature polyvalent, and the reader as an active participant in constructing the ‘sense’, or a sense, of the text. Narratology perhaps provides some fixed points that substitute for old certainties, supplying a vocabulary for the professional analysis of text, but through its formalism does not really touch on what is to be made of the text.3 Yet, though we are free to take what view we will of the text in relation to our own world and our own values, there remain areas of narrative texts – maybe some whole narrative texts – that, for want of a better word, are not ‘intended’ to raise doubt in the reader. This happens conspicuously in the case of endings. So, for instance, the normative detective novel, to which Jack Winkler paid such attention in his ‘narratological’ account of Apuleius’ novel (1985), after periods of doubt and uncertainty delivers a final solution, a solution that is to be accepted: In the structure of a narrative, the story’s ending gives all the story’s facts their final significance (Winkler 1985, 98). This contrasts with other novels that turn out to be in some way unresolved and satisfy Bakhtin’s influential criterion of ‘open-endedness’, which he himself regarded as essential for a narrative to count as a novel at all.4 In the words of Meier Sternberg (2003, 519), ‘Modernism is notorious for its turn, in practice and theory, toward the open ending, and poststructuralism for preaching endless indeterminacy.’ But such unresolved novels must be more than a reflection of a modern ————— 2 3

4

Barthes 1967 (no page numbers). ‘“Narratology” designates the study of narratives according to their formal structures rather than their themes or values’ (Newman 2010, 990). In general, see Sternberg 2003, 519-520; in the ancient novel, see eg. Nimis 1999 and Smith 2005 on Chariton. Recently, A. Tagliabue has argued in a powerful doctoral thesis that Xenophon’s novel is in fact open-ended.

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liberty of the reader to set aside authoritative and authorial interpretation: these novels are there, awaiting empirical discovery and identification. What we need is not the death of the author, but the death of the reader: it is a fact that a text is of this type, not a choice in reading. So, what if the text intends to circumscribe the reader’s liberty, not just by its manner of closure, but at intermediate points, or indeed throughout? Such a narrative is constituted by the Old Testament, on which Sternberg published an influential book – the same year as Winkler’s (1985) – whose premises and attitudes narratological reviewers hotly contested. The Old Testament, whatever the detail of its authors and narrators, proceeds in Sternberg’s view with a common agenda, that of ‘the biblical narrator’, whose narrative constitutes ‘a transaction between the narrator and the audience on whom he wishes to produce a certain effect by way of certain strategies’ (1985, 1). Indeed, the narrative displays a ‘rhetoric devised for glorifying God’s lordship, especially his omniscience vis-à-vis the blindness and illusions of his creatures’ (1985, 416). So, sacred text may exist to raise questions, but the agenda is constrained by (1) the intentionality of this text, and (2), in a secondary manner, by that of a particular form of reception, by the beliefs to which the religion, external to the text, subscribes. Thus, obviously enough, there is a variety of narrative that does intend to impose a particular view, which in the case of a religious text will present the inreligiosi (Apuleius, Metamorphoses, 11,15) with a need to suspend disbelief. God is the most uncontestable source of authority in, and of, a narrative and there is no textual intention that we should, e.g., contest his ten commandments. After God, who comes next in authority? There is an answer, at least to the question of the reliability of narrative characters, in Artemidoros’ book of dream interpretation. For him an important category of dreams is that where a dream-figure issues instructions. All we need to know is whether to believe this figure, whether he is ἀξιόπιστος. Artemidoros’ answer to this question is as follows: 1. Τῶν δὲ ἀξιοπίστων λεγομένων, οἷς λέγουσί τι [κατ’ ὄναρ] πιστεύειν χρὴ καὶ πείθεσθαι, φημὶ πρώτους εἶναι θεούς· ἀλλότριον γὰρ θεοῦ τὸ ψεύδεσθαι. 2. ἔπειτα ἱερεῖς· τῆς γὰρ αὐτῆς τοῖς θεοῖς παρὰ ἀνθρώποις τετυχήκασι τιμῆς. 3. εἶτα βασιλεῖς καὶ ἄρχοντας· ‘τὸ κρατοῦν γὰρ δύναμιν ἔχει θεοῦ’.5

————— 5

At 2,36, Artemidoros describes this as an ‘old saying’ (τοῦτο τὸ παλαιὸν); it has the ring of tragedy about it. Cf. τοῦτο γὰρ θεὸν καὶ θεοῦ δύναμιν εἶναι, κρατεῖν, Aristotle, On Xenophanes, Zeno and Gorgias, 977a, where the phrase θεοῦ δύναμιν is visibly intruded in order to refer to this gnome.

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4. εἶτα γονεῖς καὶ διδασκάλους· καὶ γὰρ οὗτοι ὅμοιοί εἰσι θεοῖς, οἱ μὲν εἰσάγοντες εἰς τὸ ζῆν, οἱ δὲ ὅπως χρὴ τῷ ζῆν χρῆσθαι διδάσκοντες. 5. εἶτα μάντεις, μάντεων δὲ τοὺς μὴ ἀπατεῶνας μηδὲ ψευδομάντεις. ὅσα γὰρ ἂν λέγωσι Πυθαγορισταὶ φυσιογνωμονικοὶ ἀστραγαλομάντεις τυρομάντεις κοσκινομάντεις μορφοσκόποι χειροσκόποι λεκανομάντεις νεκυομάντεις, ψευδῆ πάντα καὶ ἀνυπόστατα χρὴ νομίζειν· καὶ γὰρ αἱ τέχναι αὐτῶν εἰσι τοιαῦται καὶ αὐτοὶ μὲν μαντικῆς οὐδὲ βραχὺ ἴσασι, γοητεύοντες δὲ καὶ ἀπατῶντες ἀποδιδύσκουσι τοὺς ἐντυγχάνοντας. ὑπολείπεται δὴ μόνα ἀληθῆ εἶναι τὰ ὑπὸ θυτῶν λεγόμενα καὶ οἰωνιστῶν καὶ ἀστεροσκόπων καὶ τερατοσκόπων καὶ ὀνειροκριτῶν καὶ ἡπατοσκόπων. 6. περὶ δὲ μαθηματικῶν τῶν γενεθλιαλόγων ἐπισκεψώμεθα. ἔτι τῶν ἀξιοπίστων εἰσὶ καὶ οἱ νεκροί, ἐπεὶ πάντως ἀληθῆ λέγουσι· διὰ γὰρ δύο ταῦτα οἱ ψευδόμενοι ἀπατῶσιν, ἢ διὰ τὸ ἐλπίζειν τι ἢ διὰ τὸ φοβεῖσθαι· οἱ δὲ μήτε ἐλπίζοντές τι μήτε φοβούμενοι εἰκότως ἀληθῆ λέγουσι. μάλιστα δὲ οἱ νεκροί εἰσι τοιοῦτοι. 1. Of those said to be axiopistoi, namely those whom one should trust and obey when they say something, I assert that gods are foremost: it is alien to god to lie. 2. Then priests: they are due the same respect from men as gods. 3. Then kings and rulers: ‘that which controls has the power of god’. 4. Then parents and teachers: these too are like gods, the former bringing us into life, the latter teaching us how we should use life. 5. Then prophets, though not those prophets that are cheats or pseudomanteis: everything that is said by Pythagorists, physiognomists, knucklebone-diviners, cheese-diviners, sieve-diviners, shape-inspectors, palmists, sieve-diviners, necromancers – it should all be considered false and without foundation. The fact is that their skills are such and they themselves know not a whit of prophecy, but through goēteia and cheating they strip bare those they encounter. It remains then that the only true types are things said by sacrificers and augurs and star-watchers and portent-watchers and dream-interpreters and liver-interpreters. 6. Let us consider further about mathematici that cast horoscopes. Also corpses are among the axiopistoi since they speak everything truly: liars deceive for two reasons, in expectation or fear; those, however, that do not expect or fear may reasonably be supposed to speak the truth and that is particularly what the dead are like. Artemidoros 2,69 (I have added section numbers.)

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One should not, of course, insist too much on the particular judgments that Artemidoros makes: these tend in any case to be somewhat idiosyncratic in order to underline his claim to know better than other professionals and to avoid indebtedness to them (2,1). But his thought processes and categories are interesting for the present purpose, particularly where they concern priests and prophets. Priests mirror the sacrality of the god. And prophets follow on in this stream of authority after rulers, parents and teachers. They are authoritative, only provided that you can recognise those that are not cheats or pseudomanteis (‘false prophets’). The particular examples he lists are of pseudo-sciences, i.e. false divination methods, whose practitioners must be impostors. These practise deception and goēteia (impossible to translate, perhaps ‘epideictic wizardry’). Once such bogus claims to skill have been filtered out, it seems there is no alternative to believing the prophet – and most means of acceptable divination turn out to be those associated with official religion. Entrails are one thing, cheese another. Perhaps Artemidoros’ most intriguing comments are on the veracity of corpses. In the novel, as in the Odyssey, what the dead say when raised is authoritative. Thus, the son of the old woman of Bessa in Heliodoros does say what will happen to Kalasiris (6,15); and the other Thelyphron in Apuleius does reveal what has happened – though for comic effect the guilty wife and her party wrangle with the corpse (mendacio cadaveris fidem non habendam!, 2,29). So, in the battle for the trust of the reader during the course of the text, some material may require our belief. God as a character is not to be doubted, corpses never lie, and we may place our trust in established priests and bona fide prophets. The concept of the bona fide prophet goes back to the 5th century BC and beyond. A particularly clear specimen is presented by Sophocles’ Teiresias, whence the title of this paper. Teiresias is viewed by Oedipus in the Oedipus Tyrannus and Kreon in the Antigone as acting in bad faith. The view taken by Oedipus is that the prophet has been put up to it, corrupted, by Kreon: ὑφεὶς μάγον τοιόνδε μηχανορράφον δόλιον ἀγύρτην, ὅστις ἐν τοῖς κέρδεσιν μόνον δέδορκε, τὴν τέχνην δ’ ἔφυ τυφλός. suborning such a scheme-stitching magos, a deceitful agyrtes, who has eyes only for profit, and is blind in the skill. Oedipus Tyrannus, 387-389

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The view taken by Kreon is that Teiresias has been bribed (τὸ μαντικὸν γὰρ πᾶν φιλάργυρον γένος, ‘the entire race of prophets is money-grubbing’, Antigone 1055). But Teiresias in both plays is in fact, and beyond readerly dispute, possessed of divine knowledge. His function is to highlight the failure of knowledge in those secular leaders who think they have worked it all out. There is no intended doubt about this, and indeed readings so far as I know do not impute unreliability to him. A similar conclusion is reached by Trampedach (2008, 224) in his analysis of the seer in Homeric epic: ‘I believe that the poet invests seers with authority because they fulfill an important literary function’. If characters think the prophet untrustworthy, this is not generally ascribed to any vacillation over the reliability of prophecy itself. Rather, the individual prophets have been bribed, or they are impostors, namely pseudomanteis. The Teiresias that Oedipus sees is both – witness the words μάγον (magos, ‘wizard’), ἀγύρτην (agyrtes, ‘fund-raiser’), κέρδεσιν (kerdea, ‘profit’). It is very rare that a Jocasta is encountered, who denies, or affects to deny, that there is any such thing as prophecy (709). So, the general rules appear to run as follows: 1. provided prophecy does exist, either the present prophet is practising ‘the skill’ or he is not; 2. if he is not practising the skill, it is because either he does not know ‘the skill’ (i.e. he is a charlatan), or he chooses to betray it; 3. if he betrays it, he is seeking profit; 4. if he is not practising the skill (for whatever reason), he is giving a deceitful performance which the wise person will dismiss with outrage. The bribed or mercenary prophet is not an invention of Sophocles: it is a standing item in the classical Greek imaginaire. Most famously, the Alkmaionidai bribe the Pythia at Herodotos 5,63 (ἀνέπειθον τὴν Πυθίην χρήμασι). Presumably Onomakritos had his own reasons of private gain too for forging oracles that the isles off Lemnos would disappear into the sea (Herodotos 7,6,3) and chrēsmologia in general was a trade, a sector in the ancient economy. Certainly, Aristotle’s analysis of false pretensions identifies prophecy as an opportunity for the unscrupulous to make money: oἱ μὲν οὖν δόξης χάριν ἀλαζονευόμενοι τὰ τοιαῦτα προσποιοῦνται ἐφ’ οἷς ἔπαινος ἢ εὐδαιμονισμός, οἱ δὲ κέρδους, ὧν καὶ ἀπόλαυσίς ἐστι τοῖς πέλας καὶ διαλαθεῖν ἔστι μὴ ὄντα, οἷον μάντιν σοφὸν ἰατρόν.

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Those whose object in making empty claims is reputation lay claim to the sort of things that get praise and congratulation; those whose object is profit lay claim to the sorts of things that benefit their associates and whose non-existence is not readily apparent, e.g. prophet, philosopher, doctor. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics 1127b Thus there are clear patterns for prophets who are not bona fide, but the indignation at them arises from the conviction that there are, or should be, real prophets.

Apollonios of Tyana (Philostratos) – and authority in the novel Apollonios of Tyana, as fictionally elaborated by Philostratos,6 represents an example very much closer to Heliodoros’ times. Apollonios may have been active at the end of the first century AD, but his place in the imaginaire is due to Philostratos in the early 3rd century. The text, though fictionalised, requires the reader to enter into a Sternbergian contract (see above, on the Old Testament): Apollonios demands the assent of the reader – it is not an option to write on his mendacity (unless you are a Christian). He straddles the roles of philosopher and prophet, with a certain amount of priestliness, or at least priestly expertise, thrown in. This is not, however, an account of the wanderings of a Melampous, some latter day Melampodia: it is his systematic thought and attitude to life that allows him to be the focus of such a prolonged narrative. This ethical dimension operates in the same way as it does for the comparable, later, case of saints’ lives, with which the Vita Apollonii is often enough compared.7 So Apollonios is ‘prophet plus’. And so, it will be argued below, is Kalasiris. The authority of Apollonios in the text is the more striking and remarkable for the extremity of the claims made for him. The reader has to work hard to maintain his or her credulity, but it is still required by the narrator, like Sternberg’s biblical narrator. And it is strengthened by the contrasts made between Apollonios and others that are deprecated. At the outset we are told that his foreseeing the future was not due to ‘magic arts’ (μάγῳ τέχνῃ, 1,2); and in his huge defense speech, prepared to be delivered to the cruel tyrant Domitian, he distinguishes himself from a goēs (prophet of the exhibitionist type) who might have exercised 3rd-century violence on the order of nature (the fates, Zeus, or the rising of the

————— 6 7

Reardon 1971, 267-268; Bowie 1978. E.g, Elsner 1997, title and passim (‘Apollonius’ saintly progress in the Life’, 33), though see Van Uytfanghe 2009, esp. 347 emphasising that Christian hagiography comes later than Philostratus. Cf. also Baumbach 2008 on the theios anēr.

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sun).8 One of Philostratos’ favourite words in the Life is in fact goēs,9 because it is this that Apollonios has constantly to show that he is not. If we had read our classical texts and even our Artemidoros, we might think that it was only fraudulence that was at issue, and it certainly is at times: goētes are pseudosophoi (‘pseudo-wise’) and confuse the audience’s sense of reality – it is just about money.10 But in other respects, things have moved on. These new goētes can indeed disturb nature and conspicuously do not hang about in temples or broad daylight.11 They can be dangerous practitioners of an evil magic to whose end one may look forward,12 contrasting with Apollonios, who may conduct exorcisms or speak to the ghost of Achilles, but acts for the good. Thus, in the world of Philostratos’ Apollonios, there are, roughly, three categories of divine man/prophet: 1. the real thing (Apollonios; Brahmans) 2. the fake 3. the practitioner of black arts If a narrative lights upon the first, then the character is authoritative; if the second, then inauthoritative; if the third, then dangerous! The clearest example of the third is Paapis in Antonios Diogenes. Iamblichos, by contrast, provides us with a bitpart ‘elderly Chaldaean’ to make evidently true prophecies (§6), and rather more alarmingly the narrator describes himself as an expert in magic and outlines some types of magic (§10). Apuleius’ most striking fakes are the Syrian priests of Metamorphoses Bks 89, addicted to profit to the extent of robbery. But he also presents the fraudulent Chaldaean (2,12-14)13 whose prophecy to Lucius turns out, with special Apuleian piquancy, to be true (as Milo foretells!). Blacker arts of course are present in the case of the Egyptian propheta primarius Zatchlas to raise the dead alter ego of Thelyphron (2,28), and above all in the very damaging case of the witches, not to mention the spectral entity successfully invoked to kill the baker (9,29-30). Set

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10 11 12 13

8,7 (Loeb section ii): εἰ δὲ γόητά με ᾤετο, οὐδ’ ἂν ξυνῆψέ μοι κοινωνίαν φροντίδων, οὐδὲ γὰρ τοιαῦτα ἥκων διελέγετο, οἷον· ἀνάγκασον τὰς Μοίρας ἢ τὸν Δία τύραννον ἀποφῆναί με ἢ τεράτευσαι διοσημίας κτλ. γόης in the singular, 17 times; γόητες in the plural, 7 times; the verb, to γοητεύειν, occurs 6 times. Rather ungrammatically: ἡ δὲ τέχνη φιλοχρήματοι [γὰρ] πάντες, 8,7,iii. 8,7,ii. οὐκ ἔσται ἡ τέχνη. Very comparable to seers and astrologers mocked in the previous century by the epigrammatist Lucillius, AP 11,159-164 (I am grateful to Dr G. Nisbet for this reference).

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against all these, the only approved priest (if we do not count Lucius himself) is Asinius at 11,15, who within the narrative has had a vision and does cure Lucius of his bestial condition. Though I have argued elsewhere that the religious solution to this novel is not complete in itself and requires a further, philosophical, understanding, it is not invalid. Given the clear marking of cases that are not authoritative in this text, my view is that Asinius, the ‘unmarked’ priest, is to be understood as authoritative within those limitations.

Kalasiris and Apollonios Kalasiris is the Apollonios of Heliodoros. No previous novel has embraced such a figure and it is perhaps not unreasonable to suppose that without Apollonios Heliodoros might never have conceived of Kalasiris. The observation of how close these two figures are goes back at least to Rohde and it goes beyond their shared vegetarianism and abstinence from alcohol,14 their philosophical/priestly hair,15 and their ability to foresee the future.16 There is the whole context of the solar religion: Apollonios is devoted to it, Kalasiris helps Charikleia towards it; Philostratos writes at the behest of Julia Domna, whose father Bassianus was priest of the sun god at Emesa, and Heliodoros – ‘Sun-gift’ – himself originates from Emesa according to the colophon to his text.17 The geography18 against which both works are mapped reinforces the spiritual progress of each in a very similar way: Philostratean Brahmans live in their hill-settlement (3,13), ‘Brahmanville’ as we might say, whilst Heliodoran Gymnosophists live in their Paneion (10,4,1), borrowing their existence from Philostratos’ Egyptian gymnosophists on another hill (6,6).19 Beyond the priestly caste lies the ideal ruler, Phraotes the Indian in Philostratos (2,25-26) or Hydaspes in Heliodoros, whose very special character and piety are stressed through the contrast with the rule of the Persians in Egypt.20

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16 17

18 19 20

Rohde 1876, 440 n.2; Hld. 2,11; Morgan 2009, 72. Vita 8,7,vi; Hld. 2,21 (in contravention of course of the rules for Egyptian priests). Cf. Apuleius, Apologia 4. On the philosophical-priestly ambivalence see Baumbach 2008, 174. Vita 1,2; Hld. 5,25. For a range of other parallels, see Morgan 2009, 270-272. Morgan 2009, 263-264. This ‘colophon’ is more anomalous than it looks: why is there a colophon within the text; is this apparent appendage perhaps, rather, a solution? Cf. Winkler 1982, 157, or even Baumbach 2008, 183. ‘A similar spiritualised and symbolic cartography’ (Morgan 2009, 276). Göttsching 1889, 113. And this is the name of an Indian river (Morgan 2009, 275).

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It is curious that Philostratos makes such a distinction between imperfect Aithiopians and the perfection of the Indians (who on earlier geography are of course eastern Aithiopians, cf. Philostratos 3,22). And there is the question of the relative date of Philostratos and Heliodoros. It is probably not likely that Philostratos is correcting Heliodoros’ account, though he can seem to.21 We should then view the trend as from the world of Alexander and Alexander Romance to Philostratos to Heliodoros: 1. India and gymnosophists mark the extreme of Alexander’s journey; 2. Philostratos introduces Aithiopians and a doublet of the gymnosophists;22 3. Heliodoros then provides a clearer trajectory and a simplification, now focusing only on Aithiopians and a single set of gymnosophists. ‘Philostratus and Heliodorus are the only Greek authors we know of to have a community of Naked Sages in Ethiopia’ (Morgan 2009, 273). I still23 think that the word kreittones forms a chronological dividing line that may take Heliodoros out of the 3rd century altogether – certainly, it is not part of Apollonios’ dialect. Thus, Heliodoros is in effect rewriting the geography and targets of Philostratos and his doing so is central to his work: it is a question of its whole architecture and of the representation by travel of epistemological gradation. In doing our epistemology, we should be careful to get Kalasiris right. He is the priestly guide, technically a ‘prophet’, and is licensed to conduct this epistemological journey because of his philosophical dimension. He is distinguished by his superior knowledge from all characters in the novel, except his super-ego Sisimithres who by his name embodies lunar and solar religion. He is, apart from Sisimithres, the only person who really knows what is happening. The binary contrasts into which he enters, and which define this epistemological superiority, are these: 1. contrast with the immaturity of Charikleia and Theagenes: he is the unlooked-for father (e.g., ἴσα τε παισὶ ποιούμενος, 3,11; and 2,22-23) sent from another world; 2. contrast with the grasp of Charikles: Kalasiris understands more than ritual, is an expert in love (and the evil eye), and is spoken to, unasked (2,26), by the very oracle that Charikles serves. It is Kalasiris who is in touch with these divine forces;

————— 21 22 23

A view entertained, but not adopted, by Morgan 2009, 280-281. Cf. S.M. Burstein in Brill’s New Jacoby 673 F 84; Morgan 2009, 272-273. Dowden 2006.

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3. contrast with the black magic practised by the old woman of Bessa, where he gives an almost Apollonian response to Charikleia’s appeal to take advantage of this magic (6,14); 4. contrast with the reading level of Knemon: effectively through a dispute over the superficiality of audiences addressing narratives;24 5. contrast with the teleology of Nausikles: over the role of wealth and expectations of the gods. In all this, the narrative consistently privileges the position of Kalasiris as one would expect of a mainstay after the fashion of Apollonios, and as one would expect of an ‘unmarked’ prophet-philosopher. By contrast, scholarly emphasis on duplicity has been overdone and taken out of this context.

The Delphic Lies of Kalasiris It remains, therefore, to consider the behaviour of Kalasiris at Delphi and in particular his treatment of the Evil Eye. Delphi may be the scene of the falling-in-love, but it is not a normal Greek city, like Ephesos (Xenophon) or Syracuse (Chariton) or even Tyre (Achilles). Focalised through Kalasiris, it is introduced as though the audience had never heard of it: it is a Greek city, apparently, but sacred to Apollo and it constitutes ‘a precinct of all the other gods, and a workshop of philosophical men’ (θεῶν δὲ τῶν ἄλλων τέμενος, ἀνδρῶν δὲ σοφῶν ἐργαστήριον, 2,26). ‘Parnassos towers above the city exactly like a fortress or a natural citadel, enfolding the town in the fond embrace of its foothills’ (2,26 tr. Morgan). There seems to me little doubt that intertextually Delphi has become, in Heliodoros’ – or Kalasiris’ – hands, a Greek ‘Brahmanville’ – and now this Egyptian Apollonios enters it. But, just as in Philostratos one may distinguish between the epistemological claims of Indian Brahmans and Egyptian gymnosophists, here in the Aithiopika the denizens of Delphi, however admirable, do not possess a complete grasp on knowledge. Some of Kalasiris’ discussions may appear learned or sophistic, but perhaps should be recognised as in some way philosophical:

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Dowden 1996, esp. 283-284.

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2,28: The discussion of the Nile (also in Apollonios)25 latches into ancient discussions by geographers and philosophers, such as are represented by Aristotle’s lost work On the flooding of the Nile (BNJ 646). It is preceded at 2,27 by a list of other similar subjects. 3,12: Knemon has Kalasiris discuss Iliad 13,71-72 and how you recognise the gods. This issue is also discussed by Porphyry, Homeric Questions (on 3,396397) and the passage is cited. So the question is one for Neoplatonic theological expertise. 3,14: The nationality of Homer is discussed with a particular (and relevant) emphasis on the riddle of his Egyptian origin.26 This parade of knowledge does present Egypt as a land of enigmas and Kalasiris as particularly well qualified to deal with them, someone who is specially pepaideumenos (culturally informed).27 But it still does jar somewhat with Philostratos 1,17, where Apollonios is said not to have been given to leptologia (minute argument), or to exercising irony and peripatetic ways in front of audiences (οὐδὲ εἰρωνευομένου τις ἤκουσεν ἢ περιπατοῦντος ἐς τοὺς ἀκροωμένους). With both Knemon and the Delphic audience, Kalasiris is in danger of engaging in peripatetic ways, though maybe Apollonios’ habit of speaking ‘as from the tripod’ is reflected in Kalasiris psyching himself up to mystic mode to discuss the appearance of the gods (2,13 init.). However, we should not diminish the characterisation of Kalasiris. He does have a wicked streak: there is the suspicion that the mystic mode is a performance for a rather earnest Knemon and certainly he wilfully decides to put on a performance for Theagenes at 3,17 (ἔγνων οὖν καιρὸν εἶναι τερατεύεσθαι πρὸς αὐτὸν καὶ μαντεύεσθαι δῆθεν ἅπερ ἐγίνωσκον, ‘so I decided it was time to put on an awesome show for him and to do an act of supposedly prophesying things I knew perfectly well’) – not so very different from his ‘finding’ a gem with which to pay Nausikles later (5,13).28 This is really eironeia (irony) in action and represents a more sophisticated attitude to knowledge and its release in this world than Philostratos’ strait-laced Apollonios could endure. Is this, then, where the Evil Eye fits? Is it more teras (awesomeness) and eironeia? ————— 25 26 27

28

Morgan 2009, 271. Dowden 1996, 281-282. Baumbach 2008, 175-176 regards Kalasiris as shifting identity from priest to scholar-philosopher through this discussion. Ibid. 178 on paideia as characteristic of the theios anēr that Kalasiris is. On the significance of this scene, see Dowden 2010, 370-372.

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At 3,5 Charikleia and Theagenes’ love is ignited – in a scene ‘rich in echoes of Plato’ (Morgan, CAGN 414 n.87), both his Phaidros and his Symposium. Only Kalasiris recognises this moment (3,5 ad fin.) and he must effectively be the mystagogue envisaged by Diotime at Symposium 210a (ἐὰν ὀρθῶς ἡγῆται ὁ ἡγούμενος). Charikleia now (3,6) begins to show the symptoms of Phaidros 249251 and Kalasiris explains to Charikles, apparently in all seriousness, that this is due to an evil eye, ὀφθαλμόν τινα βάσκανον (3,7). There can be no doubt that Kalasiris is to some extent treating Charikles in the same way that he will explicitly treat Theagenes (3,17, as we have seen) and this is what scholars have focused on: Dickie may stand for many when he asserts that ‘Calasiris does not speak in good faith and is simply having some fun at Charicles’ expense’ (Dickie 1991, 29). This, for Dickie, is an extravaganza, drawing on Plutarch, Quaestiones Convivales (Mor. 680c-683b). Sandy had earlier presented a version of this view with more purpose and sense of context: ‘His portrayal at this point verges on parody of theosophists and philosophical allegorists. The ‘sacred books’ in which he claims to have found evidence for the existence of the evil eye are no more sacred than Plutarch’s Moralia (Hld. 3,8,1; Mor. 681). Again, any reasonably well-read person would see Calasiris’ portrayal for exactly what Heliodorus intended it to be – a sardonic characterization’ (Sandy 1982, 165). Later Dowden (1996, 283), whilst trying to establish some solid ground for Kalasiris, turned the Evil Eye into another form of bad ‘reading’: ‘The detail with which Kalasiris explains the non-existent operation of the Evil Eye (3,79) clearly gives pleasure to the reader, whilst at the same time undermining the claim of this sort of writing to intellectual respectability ... we must damn the Aelianesque mentality that it is designed for, and view its author, Kalasiris, as using it as a vehicle for his intellectual superiority. But it is not empty vanity: Kalasiris judges that Charikles does not have the capacity to cope with what is about to unfold.’ This would all miss the point, if we could trust an influential work of around 1600, the six books of Disquisitionum Magicarum of Martinus Delrius, rather similiar to the Malleus Maleficarum. In this, Delrio devoted a substantial section (3,4,1) to the Evil Eye (fascinatio). He talks at one point about the custom of spitting into

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your lap to avoid the evil eye, quotes Tibullus (1,2,96), and then observes that, as we we are talking about love, it is not inapposite to recall Plato: nam Plato, in Symposio, amoris furorem fascinatorium esse docuit – eo quod mutuo aspectu & intentione oculorum, amor hauriatur, augeaturque. for Plato in the Symposium has taught us that the frenzy of love is a case of the evil eye (fascinatorium) – because love is drawn out and increased by the reciprocal looking and attention of the eyes. A column later he has adduced Heliodoros and spent some time on Plutarch, noting that Heliodoros agrees with him. On this view, the whole point of Kalasiris’ disquisition on the evil eye would be to continue the intertextual discourse with Plato and to reinforce his role as the agent by whom Vulgar Love is transmuted into Heavenly. An obstacle is presented by the fact that Plato does not actually mention the evil eye – in the Symposium or indeed anywhere else other than trivially. Delrio’s comments in fact go back to Marsilio Ficino’s Commentary on the Symposium, and its fourth chapter, which is entitled Amoris vulgaris est fascinatio quedam. However, this is far from a false lead. The ‘idea that love enters through the eyes’ may indeed be a commonplace of the novel, as Maaike Zimmerman observes,29 but as she also observes it goes back to Phaidros 251b, an intertext that as we have seen is already alive. Thus the particular physiology of baskania that Kalasiris develops (3,7) corresponds very comfortably with Phaidros 250d, 251b, and indeed the whole Platonic discussion there centres on the sickness of falling in love and the soul’s attempt to cope with it. This episode of falling in love occurs very late in the novel in comparison with the rest of the genre, something which allows it to be viewed in the light of the preceding books. There we have learnt Knemon’s story, an object lesson in the contrast between sacred and profane love, validated through the shifts in identity between a Thisbe and a Charikleia in the Cave. Thus the moment at which true love is lit up raises exactly the questions for which we need to turn to Symposium and Phaedros. Kalasiris’ skill in conjuring up meanings for different internal readerships perhaps comes across more mischievous and more ironic than we are accustomed to, but it marks his superior understanding and he becomes in the process a sort of Socratic Teiresias and an Apollonios eironeuomenos.

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Zimmerman 2000, 90-91 on Apul. Met. 10,3 (238,21-23).

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Conclusion Heliodoros of Emesa, on most datings, comes late in the tradition. I have argued elsewhere that he appears to be revising the Babyloniaka of Iamblichos, a Syrian whose name is borne by members of the royal family at Emesa.30 Here we have seen him modifying the stance taken by Philostratos’ Apollonios of Tyana, another text with Emesene connections. The pages of the Budé edition are littered with proofs of his intertextuality with the great authors – with Homer and tragedy. He is indeed a distinctively intertextual author, rather like the composer Alfred Schnittke, who himself comes rather late in the tradition. Throughout this tradition, there are only a few models for the prophet/priest. Philostratos and, learning the philostratean lesson, Heliodoros can indeed create a new nuance, namely well-meaning individuals who fail in complete knowledge (Egyptian gymnoi, or Charikles); but nevertheless the models remain rather cruder than we may expect from modern characterisation in deauthoritised texts. To recapitulate, the taxonomy of prophets/priests goes like this: one sort constitute in principle reliable authorities, though some may prostitute their art for monetary gain, and others are frauds at best – pseudomanteis, like Alexander of Abonouteichos, or practitioners of the black arts at worst. In the novel we may take our choice amongst these possibilities, but should expect fairly clear signals and make clear decisions. The deceptions of Kalasiris are to be seen as ironic gamesmanship rather than money-grubbing or fraud; they are occasioned by those audiences of lower epistemological skills with which any Platonist would populate his universe. Rare are those who really understand, who descend to the Cave, those who are sent to redeem us by setting us on the right path. Kalasiris lives in a sort of cognitive disjunction from those around him as he finds ways in an imperfect world of assuring Charikleia’s return.

Bibliography Barthes, R. 1967. ‘The Death of the Author’, Aspen 5-6. Available at : http://www.ubu.com/aspen/aspen5and6/threeEssays.html#barthes

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Dowden forthcoming.

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Baumbach, M. 2008. ‘An Egyptian priest at Delphi: Calasiris as theios anēr in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica’, in: Dignas – Trampedach (eds.), 167-183. Bowie, E. 1978. ‘Apollonius of Tyana: Fiction and Reality’, ANRW 2,16,2, 1652-1699. Demoen, K. – Praet, D. (eds.) 2009. Theios Sophistes: essays on Flavius Philostratus’ Vita Apollonii, Mnemosyne Suppl. 305, Leiden, Boston: Brill. Dickie, M.W. 1991. ‘Heliodorus and Plutarch on the Evil Eye’, CP 86, 17-29. Dignas, B.P. – Trampedach, K. (eds.) 2008. Practitioners of the Divine: Greek priests and religious officials from Homer to Heliodorus, Cambridge MA, London: Harvard Univ. Press. Dowden, K. 1996. ‘Heliodoros: Serious Intentions’, CQ 46, 267-285. Dowden, K. 2006. ‘Pouvoir divin, discours humain chez Héliodore’, in: B. Pouderon – J. Peigney (eds.), Discours et débats dans l’ancient roman, Lyon: Maison de l’Orient méditerranéen – Jean Pouilloux, 249-261. Dowden, K. 2010. ‘The Gods in the Greek Novel’, in: J.N. Bremmer – A. Erskine (eds.), The Gods of Ancient Greece: Identities and transformations, Edinburgh: Edinburgh Univ. Press, 362-374. Dowden, K. forthcoming. ‘The plot of Iamblichos’ Babyloniaka: sources and influence’, in: J.R. Morgan (ed.), Festschrift Bryan Reardon. Elsner, J. 1997. ‘Hagiographic Geography: Travel and Allegory in the Life of Apollonius of Tyana’, JHS 117, 22-37. Göttsching, J. 1889. Apollonius von Tyana, diss. Leipzig: M. Hoffmann. Morgan, J.R. 2009. ‘The Emesan Connection: Heliodorus and Philostratus’, in: Demoen – Praet (eds.), 263-282. Newman, J.M. 2010. ‘Narratology and Literary Theory in Medieval Studies’, in: A. Classen (ed.), Handbook of Medieval Studies: Terms, Methods, Trends, vol. 2, Berlin: de Gruyter, 990-998. Nimis, S. 1999. ‘The Sense of Open-Endedness in the Ancient Novel’, Arethusa 32, 215-238. Reardon, B.P. 1971. Courants littéraires grecs des IIe et IIIe siècles après J.-C., Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Rohde, E. 1876. Der griechische Roman und seine Vorläufer, Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel. Sandy, G.N. 1982. ‘Characterization and Philosophical Decor in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica’, TAPhA 112, 141-167. Smith, S.D. 2005. ‘Bakhtin and Chariton: A Revisionist Reading’, in: R. Bracht Branham (ed.), The Bakhtin Circle and Ancient Narrative, Ancient Narrative Suppl. 3, Groningen: Barkhuis Publishing & Groningen University Library, 164-192. Sternberg, M. 1985. The Poetics of Biblical Narrative: Ideological Literature and the Drama of Reading, Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Sternberg, M. 2003. ‘Universals of Narrative and Their Cognitivist Fortunes (II)’, Poetics Today 24, 517-638. Trampedach, K. 2008. ‘Authority Disputed: the Seer in Homeric Epic’, in: Dignas – Trampedach (eds.), 207-230. Van Uytfanghe, M. 2009. ‘La Vie d’Apollonius de Tyane et le discours hagiographique’, in: Demoen – Praet (eds.), 335-374. Winkler, J.J. 1982. ‘The Mendacity of Kalasiris and the narrative strategy of Heliodoros’ Aithiopika’, YCS 27, 93-158. Winkler, J.J. 1985. Auctor & Actor: a narratological reading of Apuleius’s The Golden Ass, Berkeley – Los Angeles – London: University of California Press. Zimmerman, M. 2000. Apuleius Madaurensis, Metamorphoses: Book X, Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen: E. Forsten.

The Small World of the Holy Man: a Small Beginning in the Satyrica G ARETH S CHMELING University of Florida

Part of the title is of course borrowed from David Lodge. Like the academic wanderers in his novel, the holy men live in a small world, only in so far as their fraternity is relatively small, and many of them are acquainted with each other, are rivals, denigrate each other’s work, slander each other, and accuse each other of being frauds (Anderson 1994, 134-150). The physical world in which they travel is large, stretches across much of the Roman Empire, and where Lodge’s lecturers take airplanes, holy men use boats (St. Paul comes immediately to mind, though with his propensity for choosing boats which will be shipwrecked, I would be the first off any boat which Paul boarded) and a system of excellent Roman military roads. Holy man is a designation with a wide range of definitions and takes under its wing everything from sage and saint to charlatan and con-man. If I put together several of Graham Anderson’s descriptions, I come up with: ‘prominent individuals, celebrities, from those who practise magic and tell fortunes to those who are philosophers and sophists, these all could be but are not necessarily holy men.’ Among archetypal holy men we might list Philostratus’ Apollonius of Tyana, Lucian’s Alexander of Abonouteichos and Peregrinus, and Apuleius perhaps. Important in the life of the holy man is his desire or need to travel. Silvia Montiglio (2005, 3, 5), while noting that a wanderer can be ‘invoked as an authority or rejected as a liar and a cheat,’ adds that after the Cynic glamorization of wandering and in the Roman period ‘to be a philosopher is to wander.’ Itinerant men claiming special knowledge were not good or bad, but had to be judged on a case by case basis. The first clear reference to a holy man in the Satyrica is to Serapa (76,1077,2), who tells Trimalchio things about himself, which almost anyone could know, and then a little later predicts in precise terms a long and bright future for him, who is open to such fortune-tellers, because he is by nature a superstitious Holy Men and Charlatans in the Ancient Novel, 17–29

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person. But there might have been an earlier reference to a holy-man-as-a-conartist at 48,8, where Trimalchio tells of seeing the Sibyl in the bottle and reporting that she says only that she wants to die. Courtney (2001, 97) holds that ‘ … Trimalchio has been taken in by an illusionist [Anderson (1994, 68-72, 88, 97) itemizes illusionism as one of the tricks of holy men] tourist attraction, the proprietors of which have dictated the question to be put to the Sibyl.’ But let us begin at the beginning of the Cena. The extant narrative about Trimalchio opens for the reader as the triad of lovers, Encolpius, Giton, and Ascyltus, following their orgiastic tribulations with Quartilla and assorted cinaedi (16-26,6), is confronted by a servant of Agamemnon (Encolpius met Agamemnon in the opening scene of the fragmentary text, and Agamemnon invited him and Ascyltus as umbrae to dinner at Trimalchio’s) who asks (26,9): ‘quid? vos’ inquit ‘nescitis, hodie apud quem fiat? Trimalchio, lautissimus homo horologium in triclinio et bucinatorem habet subornatum, ut subinde sciat quantum de vita perdiderit.’ ‘What’s the matter with you? Don’t you know your host for today? He’s Trimalchio, a man of supreme refinement. He keeps a water-clock in his dining room and a trumpeter at the ready, so that from time to time he can keep count of his lost hours.’ (transl. Walsh) A side-bar here: it is implied or at least hinted at, that Trimalchio knows exactly how long he will live. John Bodel (1999, 38-51, 44-45) points out that the bucinator who signals the time lost from Trimalchio’s life at the beginning of the Cena makes a ring structure with the crowing cock as bucinus who signals the passing of time (71,1-4). Trimalchio is highly superstitious from first to last. Before our heroes enter the dining room they notice a painting on the wall (29,3-5): ipse Trimalchio capillatus caduceum tenebat Minervaque ducente Romam intrabat … in deficiente vero iam porticu levatum mento in tribunal excelsum Mercurius rapiebat. Trimalchio himself was there, sporting long hair and holding a herald’s wand; Minerva was escorting him on his entry into Rome … At the end of the colonnade Mercury had raised him by the chin, and was bearing him up on to a lofty dais.

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This painting is a depiction of Trimalchio’s apotheosis. As a businessman Trimalchio puts himself under Mercury’s protection, but this scene depicts much more than protection. I will suggest later in this paper that it is likely that Trimalchio or his painter (29,4: curiosus pictor) had been advised by someone with the skills of a holy man to picture Trimalchio in this light: the painting is not so much thanking Mercury for guiding Trimalchio’s business ventures or acknowledging the wisdom of Minerva, but associating Trimalchio with the dii maiores and implying that escorting him into Rome and raising him up to the tribunal excelsum (in the after-life?) are at least a symbol inviting comparisons with apotheosis. The reader continues to be challenged by the spectacle of Trimalchio’s obsession with superstition. As our triad of lovers tries to enter the triclinium, a slave shouts (30,5) dextro pede (‘right foot’), and our heroes obey. The first course of dinner is served on a circular plate which displays the twelve signs of the Zodiac around it (35,1-2), and over each signum is placed a food matching the subject. Trimalchio is clearly interested in astrology. At 39,5-15 Trimalchio explains what kind of people are born under each sign, and when he comes to Cancer, he comments (39,8): in cancro ego natus sum. ideo multis pedibus sto, et in mari et in terra multa possideo: nam cancer et hoc et illoc quadrat. et ideo iam dudum nihil supra illum posui, ne genesim meam premerem. I myself was born under the Crab, so I have several feet to support me, and a lot of possessions on both land and sea, for the Crab is equally at home on both. That’s why I placed nothing over this sign earlier, to avoid putting pressure on my own natal star. Trimalchio says nothing of consulting a mathematicus, and takes all of the credit for getting his astrology right. This dish with the signs of the Zodiac is, however, not at all subtle like the painting, which associates the apotheosis of Trimalchio with Minerva and Mercury. While the astrological learning needed for (35,2: rotundum enim repositorium duodecim habebat signa in orbe deposita, ‘the circular plate had the twelve signs of the Zodiac in sequence around it’), is far from deep, it is positively erudite when compared with Trimalchio’s knowledge of mythology (59,4-6: Diomedes et Ganymedes duo frates fuerant. horum soror erat Helena …), or with his knowledge of history (50,6: cum Ilium captum est, Hannibal … omnes statuas aeneas et aureas et argenteas in unum rogum congessit et eas incendit … sic Corinthea nata sunt).

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But for Trimalchio mythology and history belong in schools, while astrology directly impacts his life, and he gets it right. As the Cena proceeds and grows ever more nauseating, Habinnas, a freedman friend of Trimalchio and the stone mason building his tomb, suggests making two days out of one, two meals out of one, and the guests head for the baths (which would precede a cena) in Trimalchio’s house. Our heroes plan to exit quietly in the change of venues, but a servant plus barking dog prevents them leaving (72,10). ‘erras’ inquit ‘si putas te exire hac posse qua venisti. nemo umquam convivarum per eandem ianuam emissus est; alia intrant, alia exeunt.’ ‘You’re mistaken if you think that you can leave by the same entrance by which you came in. None of our guests is ever let out through the same gate; they come in one way, and go out another.’ Trimalchio is superstitious and here his servants enforce house rules. Things nauseating lead to things maudlin; Trimalchio’s wife calls him a ‘canis’ (74,9) for which insult she is hit in the face by a cup thrown by him: he is drunk but his aim is perfect. Shortly after this incident he recites his autobiography (75,10-77,6), in which he lets his audience in on a special secret revealed to him by Serapa (76,9-77,2): ‘manum de tabula: sustuli me de negotione et coepi libertos faenerare. et sane nolentem me negotium meum agere exhortavit mathematicus, qui venerat forte in coloniam nostram, Graeculio, Serapa nomine, consiliator deorum. hic mihi dixit etiam ea quae oblitus eram; ab acia et acu mi omnia exposuit; intestinas meas noverat; tantum quod mihi non dixerat quid pridie cenaveram. putasses illum semper mecum habitasse. rogo, Habinna – puto, interfuisti –: ‘tu dominam tuam de rebus illis fecisti. tu parum felix in amicis es. nemo umquam tibi parem gratiam refert. tu latifundia possides. tu viperam sub ala nutricas’ et, quod vobis non dixerim, etiam nunc mi restare vitae annos triginta et menses quattuor et dies duos. praeterea cito accipiam hereditatem. hoc mihi dicit fatus meus.’ ‘Then down tools! I retired from business and began advancing loans through freedmen. Actually I was tired of trading on my own account, but it was an astrologer who convinced me. He happened to come to our colony, a sort of Greek, Serapa by name, and he could have told heaven itself what to do. He

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even told me things I’d forgotten. He went through everything for me from A to Z. He knew me inside out – the only thing he didn’t tell me was what I ate for dinner the day before. You’d have thought he’d never left my side. Wasn’t there that thing, Habinnas? I think that you were there: ‘you made your mistress your own using we know “those things.” You are not lucky in your friends. Nobody thanks you enough for your trouble. You have large estates. You are nursing a viper in your bosom.’ And he said – though I shouldn’t tell you – I have thirty years, four months, and two days to live. What’s more, I shall soon receive a legacy. My horoscope tells me this.’ (tr. Sullivan, modified) The Cena is nearing its end, when Trimalchio drops the bomb about his life expectancy. He calls Habinnas to witness, but note that he is to corroborate only what Serapa said from ‘tu dominam’ to ‘sub ala nutricas.’ He is not asked to vouch for the truthfulness or accuracy of Serapa, or to comment on the predictions, simply to verify that he was present before Serapa made predictions. Trimalchio calls Serapa a Graeculio, which is a hapax for Graeculus, and Sullivan translates ‘a kind of Greek.’ The name Serapa makes him a foreigner from the East, who might know everything, not at all like the local fakes. But Serapa = Serapas appears to be an Egyptian name: it seems to appear only once in Pompeii, CIL 10,886; Solin (1982, 337) lists four occurrences of the name, one is uncertain and three are slaves or freedmen; Solin (1996) lists three instances. Serapa could of course be a stage name, an exotic sounding name to make him a more marketable holy man. Like the beautiful woman at 127,6 who calls herself Circe, Solis progenies, the better to beguile men. Consiliator deorum is listed by Otto (1890) under deus 6, as a proverb like expression. Trimalchio is not really specific about Serapa’s qualifications and abilities (76,11): ab acia et acu mi omnia exposuit; intestinas meas noverat; tantum quod mihi non dixerat quid pridie cenaveram. These abilities of Serapa are not much, if any, superior to those of a medicus or nummularius as defined by Trimalchio himself (56,1-3): ‘quid autem’ inquit ‘putamus secundum litteras difficillimum esse artificium? ego medicum et nummularium: medicus, qui scit quid homunciones intra praecordia sua habeant et quando febris veniat …; nummularius, qui per argentum aes videt.’ ‘What profession,’ he went on, ‘do we consider most difficult after that of letters? I myself imagine it is that of the doctor, or the bank teller; the doctor

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because he’s an expert on what we poor mortals have beneath the skin, and he knows when a fever’s on the way … ; and the teller because he spots the copper lurking beneath the silver.’ Serapa begins his statement to Trimalchio (77,1): tu dominam tuam de rebus illis fecisti. The word domina most likely does not refer to his wife Fortunata, but to his mistress/owner, when he was a young man, and whom he banged on his way to an overseership (75,11): ego tamen et ipsimae satis faciebam, and (69,3) sic me salvum habeatis, ut ego sic solebam ipsuman meam debattuere, ut etiam dominus suspicaretur; et ideo me in vilicationem relegavit. Trimalchio’s affair must have been common knowledge, because here he tells the details of it as though he had bought another farm. Serapa could have learned about it from the house slaves who would not have thought that they were betraying a secret of their master. The next items in Serapa’s reading of Trimalchio’s life are the kinds of things that an old, rich, generous, business-weary (76,10, nolentem me negotium meum agere), paranoid man might think of friends and wife: 1) tu parum felix in amicis es 2) nemo umquam tibi parem gratiam refert 3) tu latifundia possides This last item (3) seems out of place: it is equal to saying the obvious, ‘you are a rich man.’ The statement hardly taxed Serapa’s ingenuity. Perhaps the simple observation has a deeper meaning or a meaning parallel to what is obvious: you are a rich man = the kind of man whom Mercury could escort to the tribunal excelsum. Trimalchio has spent his adult life as a businessman, making and spending money (colleagues might have profited by partnering with him): (76,3) nemini tamen nihil satis. concupivi negotiari; (77,7) credite mihi: assem habeas, assem valeas; habes, habeberis. But nobody gets enough, never. I got the itch to go into business; believe me, if you’ve only got a penny, you’re ranked at a penny; but if you have something behind you, you’ll be thought to be someone.

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This is Trimalchio’s self-representation in words. I would suggest that Serapa or a holy man like him re-interpreted Trimalchio’s acquisitive nature to be that of a higher order: the pursuit of wealth is god-like, especially if the pursuer actually obtains the wealth. Greed is good, but acquiring wealth is divine. As we saw in the pictures in the entrance to Trimalchio’s house (29,3-6), he represented himself as worthy to hold the caduceus of Mercury, Minerva leads him into Rome, and Mercury, patron saint of all like him, elevates him to the tribunal excelsum. Apotheosis and heaven, and he did it all, as he brags (71,12): nec umquam philosophum audivit. Serapa did not have to arrange an actual apotheosis with the gods, he had only to convince Trimalchio that his acquisition of wealth was divine, god-like, and that to express his apotheosis in a painting on a wall in his house, which lacked imagines, was a natural consequence. Serapa surely implied that he had read about Trimalchio’s apotheosis in the stars, and Trimalchio badly wanted to believe it. In his life as freedman, the highest rank he could attain was the sevirate; in the next life he could reach his life’s goal of joining the elite. There is a oddly similar intellectual con-game in Pliny the Younger Ep. 1,10,9-10, and for the first and last time Pliny the Precious will be compared with Trimalchio the Robust. Pliny reports a conversation he had with the Hollywood philosopher Euphrates, in which he whines that all his time is consumed by administrative tasks, while what he really wants to do is to listen to philosophers. Ah, says Euphrates to Pliny, but you put into practice what I preach and thus you have the noblest part of philosophy. And Pliny seems persuaded that shuffling papers is the best part of philosophy. The ability of holy men to make silk purses out of sows’ ears is amazing. At 76,10 Trimalchio observes that Serapa venerat forte in coloniam nostram. To the gullible that is probably the way it looked. fors, however, had nothing to do with it. Trimalchio worked in a rich city and was himself rich, superstitious and open to astrology, and Serapa with money in mind came to the city and to the man. When Baby Face Nelson the American gangster was asked why he robbed banks, he replied that that is where they kept the money. Serapa would share that sentiment, as would the priests of the Syrian goddess in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses (8,27,4): nec paucis pererratis casulis ad quendam villam possessoris beati perveniunt, et ab ingressu primo statim absonis ululatibus constrepentes fanatice pervolant.

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After passing a number of small cottages in their wandering course, they came to the country house of a rich landowner. As soon as they reached the entrance-way they frantically flung themselves forward, filling the place with the sound of their discordant shrieks. We can understand why Serapa approached Trimalchio, but why did Trimalchio not consult someone like Serapa earlier (or did he?), for instance when he bought the Zodiac dish (35,1-2), or the placement of nothing over Cancer, his natal star (39,8)? Either he avoids mentioning the help of an astrologer or he did not consult one over material for which he could consult a manual. One of the ventures undertaken by men for which astrologers were regularly consulted was travel, especially travel and commerce by sea. Note Apuleius’ Metamorphoses (2,12,3-4) and the narrative of Lucius: nam et Corinthi nunc apud nos passim Chaldaeus quidam hospes miris totam civitatem responsis turbulentat, et arcana fatorum stipibus emerendis edicit in vultum, qui dies copulas nuptiarum affirmet, qui fundamenta moenium perpetuet, qui negotiatori commodus, qui viatori celebris, qui navigiis opportunus. At Corinth where I live, there is a Chaldaean visitor right now throwing the whole city everywhere into an uproar with his marvelous oracular responses, collecting donations for his public announcements of fate’s secrets. He tells what day will make marriage-bonds strong or wall-foundations lasting, which day is advantageous for the businessman, illustrious for the traveler, or reasonable for sailing. On two occasions, however, Trimalchio tells of building a fleet of at least five ships and sending them off to Rome, but nowhere does the superstitious businessman say that he consulted an astrologer (76,3-4, 76,5-8) (we should note that his success ratio of 50% exceeds that of the richest people in the West; see also Anderson 1994, 9, 12): (76,3-4) quinque naves aedificavi, oneravi vinum – et tunc erat contra aurum – misi Romam. putares me hoc iussisse: omnes naves naufragarunt, factum, non fabula. uno die Neptunus trecenties sestertium devoravit… (76,5-8) alteras feci maiores et meliores et feliciores, ut nemo non me virum fortem diceret. scitis, magna navis magnam fortitudinem habet. oneravi rursu vinum,

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lardum, fabam, seplasium, mancipia … cito fit quod di volunt. uno cursu centies sestertium corrotundavi. I had five ships built, loaded them with wine, which was worth its weight in gold at the time, and sent off to Rome. Every single one went to the bottom – truth is stranger than fiction; you’d have thought that I’d given the nod. On a single day Neptune swallowed down a cool thirty million … I had a second fleet built, bigger, better, and with a happier outcome; no one could say that I lacked spunk. As you know, a big ship has a big heart. I loaded them up again with wine, bacon, beans, perfumes, slaves … The gods’ will is soon accomplished. On a single voyage I cleared a cool ten million. At 76,4 above, putares me hoc iussisse, there might be a hint that Trimalchio scuppered his own first set of ships to collect insurance, but he does not mention that he profited in any way. According to Suetonius (Claud. 18,2), Claudius guaranteed ship owners coverage against losses in storms, but that imperial insurance seems to have covered only losses of ships carrying wheat (famine in Rome caused the citizens to rise up against Claudius), and Trimalchio’s manifest is noticeable for its absence of wheat. It seems that he took enormous risks for enormous gains: everything was done on his business instincts (76,3): concupivi negotiari. When our heroes board a ship for somewhere unspecified (99,6), and that ship is wrecked (114,1-14) with the loss of the ship’s captain and owner Lichas (115,11), when Trimalchio chooses Fortunata for a wife (37,3): noluisses de manu illius panem accipere, (77,2): tu viperam sub ala nutricas, when he built a house (76.8): aedifico domum – things itemized in Apuleius’ Metamophoses 2,12 as special areas of competence for the Chaldaean Diophanes – no one seems to have consulted an astrologer. We now come to Serapa’s final statement which is his only prediction, and which might have surprised Trimalchio’s audience (77,2): et quod vobis non dixerim, etiam nunc restare vitae annos triginta et menses quattuor et dies duos. praeterea cito accipiam hereditatem. hoc mihi dicit fatus meus. Now the horologium placed in Trimalchio’s dining room (26,9) comes into sharper focus: horologium in triclinio et bucinatorem habet subornatum, ut subinde sciat quantum de vita perdiderit. Of course Serapa will not be present after

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thirty years, but will have collected a fat fee and wandered off to other green pastures. But why only here at the end of his Cena does Trimalchio drag in the holy man, when earlier he had described ventures (marriage, house building, business risks, ships and sailing) for which superstitious persons approach holy men? We will return to this question after having examined the specifications in Serapa’s last statement, the only part in which he actually predicts something. Armini (1951, 18) calls attention to an inscription about (magical) wishes of those forecasting life expectancy in Diehl (1924-31, #811). Augustus’ edict of AD 11 prohibited fortune-telling about life-expectancy and death (Dio 56,25,5; Cramer 1954, 248 ff.). Trimalchio’s recitation of annos triginta et menses quattuor et dies duos sounds very much like something that Serapa might have read on a tombstone. We note that Trimalchio’s own epitaph at 71,12 parallels other epitaphs and indicates that the writer was familiar with their composition (Bodel 1999, 42). Lattimore (1942, 355) comments on the popularity of epitaphs giving years, months, days, and at p. 280 even giving hours (CIL 6,29149) – for which a horologium would be useful. Presumed knowledge about life-expectancy could be dangerous to the health of the rich (Juvenal 14,248; Ovid Met. 1,148; Fasti 2,625; Daube 1969, 88-90), especially if the heirs, as here, are known and then expected to wait thirty years to inherit. Serapa does not remain at Trimalchio’s house long or give any short-term predictions, which could result in trouble similar to that of Diophanes in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses 2,13-14. Earlier I cited just the beginning of the narrative about Diophanes the holy man in 2,12. As it turns out, Diophanes is known not only to Lucius but to Lucius’ host Milo who reports that Diophanes was in Hypata, where he got himself into a sticky situation and lost one hundred denarii for being unable to predict that the ship he recommended and then sailed on himself, would sink in a storm, and that his brother Arignotus after the shipwreck would be murdered by ship-robbers. In Lucian’s Philopseudes 29-39 both the chief guest, Arignotus, and the host, Eucrates, turn out to have had experience of the same Egyptian holy man, Pancrates. We can credit either Serapa for being a better con-man than Diophanes, or Apuleius for being a better story-teller than Petronius. Trimalchio almost certainly asked Serapa how long he would live (the idea obssessed him), and after calculating various specifications came up with thirty years. For the old and rich this was probably a stock answer, with enough variations in case the old and rich compared notes. Such predictions were similar to, but not as original as, the one which the holy men, priests of the Syrian goddess, who in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses 9,8, invented a single prophecy that would fit almost any question and would free up the priests from the heavy burden of composing individual answers.

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It remains, as I stated earlier, a curious fact that Trimalchio never consulted an astrologer about business ventures or sailing dates. We must conclude that like many successful entrepreneurs and gamblers he felt that he always had a winning hand. He seems to feel secure in his personal business decisions and in his judgments about people. There is, however, something contrived in Trimalchio’s report about what Serapa said. He had earlier and throughout his narratives expended a great deal of effort in presenting his case that he had so much money (HS 10 million from one sailing; enough to leave HS 30 million in his will; at 53,4 he cannot find a place to invest a surplus HS 10 million) that the financial report about his estates, the Acta or tamquam urbis acta (53,1) records that on 26 May on one estate thirty boys and forty girls were born. Martin Smith (1975, 142) calculates that such a birth rate would give Trimalchio a familia of 1.5 million, and the grain listed as harvested (53,2) would feed ten thousand people for a year. Trimalchio goes beyond exaggerating his wealth, and he does it very often. John Bodel (2003) rightly points out that his exaggerations run beyond even fantasy. Perhaps there is something more here that we can tease out of our extant text. Though the text of the Cena is in good condition, there are numerous lacunae. I would like to suggest that Trimalchio again and again and in many different ways exaggerates his wealth, not because it is a character fault only, but because he needs to, or wants to, reassure his audience made up of fellow freedmen, fellow investors and/or creditors, that he has all the funds necessary to see his various syndicates (some of them made up of people at his table) through any problems: he is gilt-edged. But after many years he is now backing out of direct and active participation in his business affairs and is investing via his freedmen (76,9). There are indications earlier in the Cena (43,6) that slaves, who were probably financed or guaranteed in business by Chrysanthus (like Trimalchio, referred to as homo negotians), had by bad business practices, says Phileros, ruined him: Chrysanthus habet … servos, qui illum pessum dederunt … homo negotians. At 38,12 Hermeros tells Encolpius that one of the guests at the Cena, C. Iulius Proculus, was put into an embarrassing position by his liberti (again I imagine them as financed or guaranteed in business by Proculus): liberti scelerati, qui omnia ad se fecerunt. The situation became so precarious financially for Proculus that when he needed to raise capital and at the same time not alert his creditors to his dire straits, took the following action, as described by Hermeros (38,16): cum timeret ne creditores illum conturbare existimarent, hoc titulo auctionem proscripsit: Iulius Proculus auctionem faciet rerum supervacuarum (surplus stock). Trimalchio was surely aware of both of these situations in which freedmen or

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slaves brought financial ruin on the dominus who was backing their various business ventures, and he was determined to do his best to demonstrate that he had the financial power to handle any contingencies: he was much wealthier than Chrysanthus or Proculus, and he need never resort to the tricks of Proculus. Creditors doing business with Trimalchio had a partner with pockets deep beyond imagination. Manum de tabula: sustuli me de negotione et coepi libertos faenerare. And he has, so he says, Serapa’s astrological approval (exhortavit) to do that. This is probably not shocking news for his audience; surely his business partners had earlier been informed about it, but he wants to reassure them that he has the ready cash, that he is still in control, and still knows how to run his businesses. And here is where Serapa finally becomes important: 1) et sane nolentem me negotium meum agere exhortavit mathematicus; Trimalchio reports that Serapa has given his blessing to his decision to move away from day-to-day involvement in business. And 2) Serapa, by adding that Trimalchio will live another thirty years, and by assuming to himself as holy man access to divine knowledge, assures all partners, creditors, and investors that Trimalchio will be around a long time in case his liberti stumble. The holy man does not use or abuse Trimalchio, as much as Trimalchio exploits the holy man.

Bibliography Anderson, G. 1994. Sage, Saint and Sophist: Holy Men and their Associates in the Early Roman Empire, London: Routledge. Armini, H. 1951. ‘Den nyaste inskriftssamligen’, Eranos 23, 12-34. Bodel, J. 1999. ‘The Cena Trimalchionis’, in: H. Hofmann (ed.), Latin Fiction: the Latin Novel in Context, London: Routledge, 38-51. Bodel, J. 2003. ‘omnia in nummis: Money and Monetary Economy in Petronius’, in: G. Urso (ed.), Moneta, mercanti, banchieri: i precedenti greci e romani dell’euro, Pisa: ETS, 271282. Courtney, E. 2001. A Companion to Petronius, Oxford, New York: Oxford Univ. Press. Cramer, F.H. 1954. Astrology in Roman Law and Politics, Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society. Daube, D. 1969. Roman Law: Linguistic, Social and Philosophical Aspects, Edinburgh: Edinburgh Univ. Press. Diehl, E. 1924-31. Inscriptiones Latinae Christianae Veteres, 3 vols., Berlin: Weidmann. Lattimore, R. 1942. Themes in Greek and Latin Epitaphs, Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Montiglio, S. 2005. Wandering in Ancient Greek Culture, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Otto, A. 1890. Sprichwörter und sprichwörtlichen Redensarten der Römer, Leipzig: Teubner. Smith, M.S. 1975. Petronii Arbitri Cena Trimalchionis, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Solin, H. 1982. Die griechischen Personennamen in Rom, Berlin: de Gruyter.

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Solin, H. 1996. Die stadtrömischen Sklavennamen, 3 vols., Stuttgart: Franz Steiner. Sullivan, J.P. 1965. Petronius: The Satyricon and the Fragments. Translated and with an Introduction. Harmondsworth: Penguin.

Encolpius and the Charlatans C OSTAS P ANAYOTAKIS University of Glasgow

Introduction The purpose of this paper is to show how and why, during the episode at Croton in the extant Satyrica, Encolpius, the comic anti-hero, is presented as a gullible and vulnerable person who falls victim to people who claim to possess some kind of religious authority and medical ability, which they use as a façade to serve their own interests: they are charlatans with greedy motives and sexual cravings. My case study will be Encolpius’ first encounter with the old woman Oenothea, whose name means ‘Wine goddess’ or ‘She whose goddess is wine’.1 My argument is that, despite his familiarity with deceitful characters and his long-standing experience in deceiving people, Encolpius the protagonist is shown to be unable to realise the significance of both the linguistic and the non-verbal adverse signs that Encolpius the narrator subtly inserts and deliberately emphasizes in his account of the first encounter of his younger self with the self-proclaimed priestess of Priapus, Oenothea; that Encolpius the protagonist, in his elevated delusions about the life-style he leads, cannot see the sinister side of old women but is impressed by their age, which he takes to be a sign of authority and power; and that this inability, through which Encolpius’ gullible frame of mind closely resembles Lucius’ ————— 1

For the double translation see Schmeling 2011, 517. Although in this paper I will be referring also to Encolpius’ reaction when he meets Quartilla, I have chosen not to focus on her episode here, because it is possible that she appeared in a scene that no longer survives and that precedes the extant text: Quartilla’s maid tells Encolpius and company that ‘I am the maid of Quartilla, the lady whose ritual you interrupted in front of her chapel’ (the translation of all Petronian passages in this paper is by Walsh 1996) (ego sum ancilla Quartillae, cuius uos sacrum ante cryptam turbastis, 16,3). In Oenothea’s case, however, there is no indication in the text to suggest that Encolpius had seen or had known of her before she actually appears at 134,6, and so we can examine how Encolpius behaves when he meets her for the first time and what the implications of his behaviour are. Holy Men and Charlatans in the Ancient Novel, 31–46

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credulous mental disposition in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses,2 has crucial implications for the character-portrayal of protagonists in comic fictional narratives, and squares with Petronius’ intention to reveal the inadequacy of Encolpius himself in his attempt to be a successful impostor, a role which, comically enough, he cannot sustain for long.

Verbal and visual signs of charlatanism (and Encolpius’ failure to recognize them) My working definition for the term ‘charlatan’, a word that does not seem to be attested in the English language before the seventeenth century, is ‘a false pretender to knowledge or skill’.3 The etymology of the term (from the Italian ciarlare ‘to babble, to patter’) suggests that the impostor is perceived to be a chatterer who talks a lot of nonsense in order to cover up the fact that he/she does not possess the knowledge or skill he/she claims to possess. The charlatan’s inadequacies and ulterior motives are thus effectively concealed by means of extensive speeches impressively embellished with all kinds of rhetorical devices so as to deceive his/her target-audience. It is in this guise that Encolpius is first presented to us at the start of the extant text (1,1-2,9), when he delivers a long speech to impress Agamemnon, the teacher of rhetoric, in order to get an invitation to a free meal out of him.4 In this he seems to succeed, since it is through one of Agamemnon’s slaves that Encolpius and his friends will later get an invitation to dinner at Trimalchio’s (see 26,8 and cf. 10,6), but in other respects he fails: a consistent trait of Encolpius’ comic personality is that he does not realise that many of the people he meets in his scurrilous adventures manage to deceive him in the same way he himself had already tried to deceive others. So, despite his successful performance as an enthusiastic, educated, and clever scholasticus, an amateur student of rhetoric, Encolpius is tricked by an innocent-looking old woman (the indication of her age is significant) immediately after the episode at the school of rhetoric ————— 2

3 4

A lot has been written on Lucius’ susceptible character. The topic has been most recently discussed in three useful chapters by Stephen Harrison (‘Lucius in Metamorphoses Books 1-3’), Stefan Tilg (‘Lucius as Ass: Metamorphoses Books 3-11’), and Wytse Keulen (‘Lubrico uirentis aetatulae: Lucius as initiate (Metamorphoses Book 11)’) in Harrison (forthcoming). Bartsch 2008, 255-256 offers interesting comparative observations on Encolpius and Lucius, and my chapter builds on them. See Shorter OED s.v. 2. Encolpius’ personality in the scene at the school of rhetoric is now brilliantly discussed by Schmeling 2011, 1-3 and 9-11, while the best overview of the rich imagery used in Encolpius’ contrived speech is still offered by Breitenstein 2009, 24-26.

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(6,4-7,4; I will return to this important scene later). And although he and Ascyltos are experts in knowing where to go and what to do in order to entice customers to buy stolen goods in the marketplace,5 both of them are taken in by the theatrically played-out rhetorical soliloquy of the priestess Quartilla in her attempt to manipulate Encolpius and his companions (17,4-9).6 Encolpius therefore is not as streetwise as he thinks he is, and, although he aspires to deceive others through words and actions, he is certainly as gullible and vulnerable as his victims. But eloquent speech, deliberately constructed to give a false impression about an impostor’s credentials, is not enough for someone to succeed as a charlatan in the Roman world. Display through non-verbal behaviour with a view to deceit is important in rounding off the portrait of an impostor, and of all the Latin words I considered with regard to a charlatan’s skill in a non-medical context (i.e. words referring to impostors other than quack doctors) the emphasis on false display is best expressed by the substantive ostentator (derived from the verb ostentare ‘to exhibit’), attested only in the anonymously transmitted Rhetorica ad Herennium, where there is a clear distinction, within a rhetorical framework, between reality and imitation in character-portrayal (4,63: si uelis non diuitem sed ostentatorem pecuniosi describere ‘if you should wish to describe a man who is not actually rich but who gives a false impression of being moneyed’). The abstract noun ostentatio, likewise derived from ostentare and frequently attested already in lateRepublican authors, clearly has a theatrical quality in it,7 and this is corroborated by the words of the maid Chrysis regarding the sexual desires of certain Crotonian women, including her mistress Circe; Chrysis says that ‘some get excited at the arena, or it could be with a grimy muleteer, or with someone disgracing himself as an actor, making an exhibition of himself on the stage’ (harena aliquas accendit aut perfusus puluere mulio aut histrio scaenae ostentatione traductus, 126,6). It is no coincidence on the narrator’s part that, when he describes Quartilla’s deceitful behaviour, he employs the same noun (ostentatio) to note that, after she had appeared and sat down in silence, and then cried endlessly, ‘we [i.e. Encolpius, Giton, and Ascyltos] waited in bewilderment for this tearful demonstration of grief to end’ (attoniti expectauimus lacrimas ad ostentationem doloris paratas, 17,2). This is surely a comment that only Encolpius the narrator can have ————— 5

6 7

12,2: cum ergo et ipsi raptum latrocinio pallium detulissemus, uti occasione opportunissima coepimus atque in quodam angulo laciniam extremam concutere, si quem forte emptorem splendor uestis posset adducere ‘we too had brought along the stolen cloak, so we proceeded to exploit this most favourable opportunity, and in a corner of the market we waggled the hem of the garment up and down, hoping that its bright colour would attract a buyer’. See Panayotakis 1995, 31-51 (and especially 40-42). See, for instance, Sall. Hist. 2,70,2 and OLD s.v. 1.

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made, pointing out retrospectively what Encolpius the protagonist had failed to spot, when Quartilla had first visited him, Giton, and Ascyltos: the tears were part of her trick.

A brief overview of the Latin terminology associated with charlatans The Latin vocabulary of charlatanism, however, was varied and did not start with Petronius. Giving a false impression of being something you were not seems to have been a notion with which the Romans were familiar, in a theatrical context, at least from the time of Plautus, whose favourite term for ‘the impostor’ was sycophanta, the Latinized form of the Greek word συκοφάντης (but the meanings of the two nouns are different).8 Terence too uses sycophanta (albeit sparingly),9 but from the first century BC preference seems to have been given to the use of the substantive plănus, also of Greek origin, attested in Greek comic playwrights already in the fourth century BC (see L-S-J s.v. III); apparently its meaning is ‘one who practises deceit or imposture, esp. as a means of making a living’ (OLD s.v.; TLL X.1 2347.5-33 explains it as ‘deceptor’, ‘fraudator’). Cicero used plănus in 66 BC, the date of publication of Pro Cluentio (72), and the mimographer Laberius, who was fond of uncouth and colloquial words, probably took it from him and (according to Gellius 16,7,10) used it in a play (of uncertain date) entitled Anna Peranna.10 Petronius employs the noun twice in the extant text. In the first instance, Encolpius the narrator, echoing the thoughts of Encolpius the protagonist at the dramatic time of the events, uses it in relation with a suspicious and suspiciously looking soldier (miles, siue ille planus fuit siue nocturnus grassator ‘a soldier – he may have been a trickster, or a mugger operating in the dark’ 82,2), who deprives Encolpius of his weapons and of his epic identity as a new Aeneas in his frenzied search for Creusa/Giton. The term belongs to the popular register and suits the atmosphere of the scene within which it appears. The second instance ————— 8

9

10

See Amph. 506; Curc. 463; Men. 260, 283, 1087; Poen. 1032; Pseud. 1204; Trin. 815, 860, 892, 958, 1139. Plautus’ tricksters (one of them is in fact identified not by his name but by his role as SYCOPHANTA: see the list of characters in Trin.) behave in a tricky manner (forms of the comic coinage sycophantor ‘I practise deception’ occur in Trin. 787 and 958), while the abstract noun sycophantia ‘deceptive trickery’ is a favourite of Plautus: Asin. 71, 546; Aul. 649; Bacch. 740, 764, 806; Capt. 521; Miles 767; Persa 325; Poen. 425, 654; Pseud. 527, 572, 672, 1211; Trin. 867. See Gratwick 1993, 168. For the relevant list see McGlynn 1967, 223. The noun and its derivatives are not attested again until the time of Fronto, Gellius, and Apuleius (see OLD s.v.). On the etymology, use, and register of the term plănus see Habermehl 2006, 49 and Panayotakis 2010, 120-121.

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is located in a remarkable passage, near the end of the extant text, in which Encolpius the protagonist, having both deceived the citizens of Croton and regained his virility, seems11 to be delivering in direct speech a soliloquy defending all the swindlers (and thieves?)12 of the world: ‘omnia’ inquam ‘ista uera sunt; nec ulli enim celerius homines incidere debent in malam fortunam, quam qui alienum concupiscunt. unde plani autem, unde leuatores uiuerent, nisi aut locellos aut sonantes aere sacellos pro hamis in turbam mitterent? sicut muta animalia cibo inescantur, sic homines non caperentur, nisi spei aliquid morderent ...’ Sat. 140,15 ‘All that you say’, I agreed, ‘is true. No class of men deserves to fall more quickly into ill-fortune than the covetous. But how would impostors and pickpockets gain a livelihood, if they didn’t bait their hooks by throwing wallets or jingling moneybags among the crowd? We entice dumb animals with titbits, and people are just the same – they would never be inveigled if there was no gain in prospect for them to nibble at ...’ In its immediate context, this passage theorizes and justifies the deceitful behaviour of Eumolpus, Encolpius, and Giton at Croton, where they have arrived in order to trick tricksters and take advantage of the hypocritical legacy-hunters. Seen more generally, however, Encolpius’ apologia pro uita planorum may be profitably applied to explain the hypocritical and deceitful practices of most of the characters in the novel, starting with Agamemnon, in whose episode there are images of fishing and deceiving that strikingly correspond to the imagery of our passage.13 But the irony here lies in the fact that, while Encolpius considers himself to be a successful impostor, taking advantage of the Crotonians, he in turn is ————— 11

12

13

I say ‘seems’ because there is no clear indication of the identity of the speaker of these words. Rimell 2002, 168 and 169 gives them to Eumolpus. But if we look at the text, we will see that inquam (at the beginning of 140,15) is much more likely to have been used with reference to Encolpius the narrator rather than with reference to Eumolpus, his interlocutor. It is to him, not to Encolpius, that I would attribute the words at 140,14, but not the words at 140,15 as well. The obscure and very rare word leuator (140,15) may be a comic formation indicating a thief: see OLD s.v. 2 and TLL VII.2 1194.32-39, which is more cautious than the OLD about the meaning of the term: ‘de captatore, fraudatore, sed dubium est, utrum potius piscatorem hamo pisces extrahentem an praedonem homines opibus spoliantem intellegas’. The similarities are well noted by Schmeling 2011, 544-545, and the implications for the process of reading Petronius’ text are extensively discussed by Rimell 2002, 168-169.

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taken in by the appearance of the old hag Oenothea and by her pompous statements about the extent of her (medical and super-human) powers; he places her in the high realm of epic, and fails to realise that in reality she belongs to the sinister and painful world of satire.

Encolpius and female (religious) charlatans This confusion of literary genres is typical of Encolpius’ inclination to experience low life melodramatically and in the grand style,14 without however learning from his earlier mistakes. And yet he should have known better when the old hag Proselenos took him to the room of another priestess at 134,3; for he ought to have recognized alarming signs that should have reminded him of his traumatic experience with another (self-proclaimed) sacerdos, the manipulative and cunning Quartilla. In his commentary on Petronius, Schmeling offers a useful table, which I reproduce below, consisting of striking similarities between Encolpius’ experiences while imprisoned in the inn by Quartilla and his sufferings at the hands of Proselenos and Oenothea.15 It may be argued that Encolpius is too upset to think of similarities between what Quartilla did to him in the not-too-distant past and what Oenothea is doing to him now, but I am inclined to conclude that the naive protagonist is simply not meant to think back and reflect on his earlier ordeal. Such a reaction would also not suit Petronius, who does not want Encolpius to flee from Oenothea’s clutches easily and early on in the narrative. If this had happened, he (that is, Petronius) would not have had the chance (yet again) to humiliate Encolpius (for Oenothea will fail in her attempt to cure him), he would not have created the opportunity for his sophisticated and mythomaniac narrator to evoke Callimachus and Ovid in the account of Oenothea’s humble abode (through his allusions to Hekale and Dipsas), and he would not have been able to poke fun at religious charlatans,16 whose moral scruples and religious principles disappear when it comes to sex and money.

————— 14

15

16

Conte’s excellent analysis of the Satyrica makes this point more forcefully than any other Petronian study: see Conte 1996, 1-72. Schmeling 2011, 532. See also his comments on pages 531 (on §§136,13-137,3), 532 (on §137,7), and (especially) 520 (on §§134,10-11): ‘The episodes with Circe and Oenothea are almost a motif and variations of the Quartilla section (16-26)’. On the similarities and differences between the Quartilla scene and the Oenothea episode see also Cotrozzi 1979, 83-85. See Walsh 1970, 91.

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Quartilla Episode Oenothea Episode 1. E. commits offence against Priapus 1. E. kills goose (136,5 morte me (before c. 16). anseris uindicaui) sacred to Priapus (137,1 Priapi delicias). 2. Priestess confronts E. with crime 2. Priestess recognizes crime (17,6 admisistis inexpiabile scelus). (137,1 magnum flagitium admiseris). 3. Reactions of priestess: histrionics 3. Reactions of priestess: (137,5 in (17,1 sedensque super torum ... lectulo sedet … complorat … fleuit; 18,7 complosis manibus; flere; 137,1 complosis manibus; 17,4 misereor uestri; 17,6 aetate ... 137,5 meique misereri; 137,7 uestra commoueor). sollicita sum tua causa). 4. Quartilla is mollified: promises, 4. Oenothea is mollified: gold, food, drink, sex food, drink, sex, magic (18,3 eam … de utroque esse securam; (137,6 ecce duos aureos; 137,12 21,5 cenatoria repetimus; 21,6 epulasque … parauit; 137,13 uino … Falerno inundamur; 21,2 potiones meracae; 138,1 coepit cinaedus … extortis nos clunibus inserere ano meo). cecidit). This catalogue, which may be expanded through focusing on the early stages of the Quartilla and the Oenothea episodes, is a salutary reminder of the coherence that Petronius creates for his episodic narrative through the creation of scenes which mirror and relate to other scenes in Encolpius’ adventures. But the moral to be drawn out of these symmetrical patterns in the narrative is not spelled out explicitly in the extant text, and the readers are left to tease it out, if they want to. Although there has been considerable discussion on the magic rituals Proselenos and Oenothea perform at 131,4-6 and at 138,1-2, respectively, to restore Encolpius’ virility,17 little attention has been paid to Encolpius’ first impression of Oenothea, her gestures, and her first words, and it is to them that I now turn. Proselenos, described as an ‘old hag ... presenting an ugly appearance with her dishevelled hair and black clothing’ (anus laceratis crinibus nigraque ueste deformis, 133,4), leads Encolpius to the room of another woman, who initially remains unnamed and whose identity is revealed when Proselenos addresses her.18 ————— 17 18

See Ramelli 1996, Setaioli 2000, and Schmeling 2011, 499-501 and 534-536. Contrast this with the scene in Quartilla’s episode (16,2-4), in which Quartilla’s maid enters the heroes’ lodgings, and announces the arrival of her mistress, who (like Oenothea) will mislead Encolpius and exploit him sexually.

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[134,3] | [LO] ac me iterum in cellam sacerdotis nihil recusantem perduxit impulitque super lectum et harundinem ab ostio rapuit nihilque respondentem mulcauit. ... [134,6] | [LO] nec minus illa fletu confusa altera parte lectuli sedit aetatisque longae moram tremulis uocibus coepit accusare, donec interuenit sacerdos [134,7] ‘quid uos’ inquit ‘in cellam meam tamquam ante recens bustum uenistis? | [O] utique die feriarum, quo etiam lugentes rident’ [134,8] | [Proselenos ad Oenothean sacerdotem Priapi l: Proselenos ad Enotheam sacerdotem Priapi de Encolpio rmg]| [LO] ‘o’ inquit ‘Oenothea, hunc adulescentem quem uides, malo astro natus est; nam neque puero neque puellae bona sua uendere potest. [134,9] | [L] numquam tu hominem tam infelicem uidisti: lorum in aqua, non inguina habet. | [LO] ad summam, qualem putas esse qui de Circes toro sine uoluptate surrexit?’ [134,10] | [L] his auditis Oenothea inter utrumque consedit motoque diutius capite ‘istum’ inquit ‘morbum sola sum quae emendare scio. [134,11] et ne putetis perplexe agere, rogo ut adulescentulus mecum nocte dormiat nisi illud tam rigidum reddidero quam cornu | [I omit the sixteen-line poem that Oenothea recites boasting about her magical powers.] [135,1] [LO] inhorrui ego tam fabulosa pollicitatione conterritus, anumque inspicere diligentius coepi [135,2] ‘ergo’ exclamat Oenothea ‘imperio parete’ detersisque curiose manibus inclinauit se in lectulum ac me semel iterumque basiauit L (= lrtp), O (= BRP) 134,6 lacunam indicauit Buecheler 134,7 quid uos codd.: an quid uos? ? coll. 26,9 “‘quid uos?’ inquit ‘nescitis, hodie apud quem fiat?” ante codd.: ad Buecheler aliquando lacunam indicauit Buecheler 134,11 lacunam indicauit Buecheler 135,1 lacunam indicauit Buecheler 135,2 lacunam indicauit Buecheler uerba detersisque ... basiauit infra (in 135,4) habet O lacunam indicauit Pithoeus

Again she led me unprotesting into the room of the priestess. There she pushed me on the bed, grabbed a cane from the door, and beat me; again I offered no show of resistance. ... She was equally upset, and shed tears; she settled at the foot of the bed, and began to utter trembling reproaches at her old age for lingering in life too long. Then the arrival of the priestess interrupted her. ‘Whatever are the pair of you doing in my room?’ she asked. ‘You’re behaving as though you’re at the grave of one lately deceased! And this on a holiday, when even mourners can afford a smile!’ ‘Oenothea,’ replied the hag, ‘the young man whom you see here was born under an evil star. He can sell his goods to neither boy nor girl. You never set eyes on such an unhappy creature. He has a wet wash-leather for a sexual organ. Put it like this: what sort of man do you think would leave Circe’s bed without having had a good time?’ On hearing this, Oenothea sat down between us, shaking

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her head for some little time. ‘I am the only person’, she said, ‘who knows how to cure this illness. Don’t either of you imagine that my treatment is complicated. I want the young fellow to spend a night with me. ... See if I don’t make it as stiff as a horn! [I omit the sixteen-line poem that Oenothea recites boasting about her magical powers.] I shuddered in panic at hearing promises which were the stuff of legend, and I began to take a closer look at the old woman ... ‘So do as I tell you,’ screamed Oenothea ... She carefully wiped her hands, leaned over the bed, and kissed me repeatedly. It is unclear to me how Encolpius the protagonist knows at 134,3 (in cellam sacerdotis) that the woman in whose room he has been led by the priestess/witch Proselenos is a sacerdos. The noun is repeated at 134,6 (donec interuenit sacerdos), but even then it is mentioned as an observation of Encolpius, not as a remark by Oenothea herself or by Proselenos. The marginal comments in the codex Lambethanus and in the codex Leidensis do not count, because they are scribal interpretations of ‘who speaks to whom’, and do not form part of what Petronius himself originally wrote. Oenothea has not been mentioned previously either by name or by her priestly title. So is the word sacerdos both at 134,3 and at 134,6 a comment of Encolpius the narrator on the religious nature of Oenothea’s profession after Encolpius the protagonist has found out about it? And what is the significance at 134,3 of the adverb iterum, which can only mean ‘again’, since no episode survives in which we see Encolpius taken to Oenothea’s room for the first time? I assume that something is missing from an earlier (but not much earlier) part of the text;19 the scene in which I am interested has been transmitted very poorly, at least according to Buecheler, who keeps on indicating textual gaps, not all of them justified. It is possible to argue that Encolpius comes to the conclusion that Oenothea is a priestess, because the events unfolding at 134 are happening in the vicinity of a shrine (see 133,4 [referring to Proselenos]: intrauit delubrum anus ... extraque uestibulum me iniecta manu duxit). However, if we can rely on the evidence of the surviving novel, and if we assume that information on Oenothea’s professional identity has not been given in the text that has not come down to us, it is significant that, apart from Encolpius, the only other person in the extant text who confirms that Oenothea is a sacerdos is Oenothea herself. At 137,3 she says to Encolpius that with his slaughter of the goose, which allegedly was Priapus’ pet, he has given

————— 19

Schmeling 2011, 518: ‘This is apparently the second time E. and Proselenus enter Oenothea’s hut, which is attached to the temple.’

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the opportunity to anyone of Oenothea’s enemies to throw her out of the priesthood (sacerdotium).20 But why should we believe what Oenothea says to Encolpius? I find it much more likely that, as soon as the sharp and perceptive Oenothea met Encolpius, hopeless and incompetent though she really was, she realised she could obtain profit and pleasure from him, and managed to impress him with a list of her allegedly extraordinary powers expressed in an intertextually rich poetic composition (134,12) that would appeal to him;21 by 137,3 (after Encolpius’ ‘epic battle’ with the geese and the slaughter of their leader) she has figured out his naive and gullible nature as a vulnerable customer desperately seeking a cure,22 and has done her best to intimidate him so as to extract from him something in return for the slaughter of the ‘sacred’/‘detestable’23 goose that attacked him. My argument so far then is that Oenothea exploits Encolpius’ fondness for high melodrama, and that Encolpius falls victim to Oenothea’s religious hypocricy (all she is interested in is sex, drink, and money),24 partly because she is a skilled charlatan, and partly because he fails to link Oenothea’s behaviour with the manipulative acting of Quartilla and her maid regarding the violation of Priapus’ shrine (16,3; 17,6-9).

The aged Oenothea boasts and shakes her head prophetically Oenothea’s reaction upon hearing the news of Encolpius’ ‘illness’ is also worth considering closely. At 134,10 Encolpius says that she sits down, shakes her head for some time, and then boasts that she is the only person alive who knows how to cure that awful disease. Her gestures are grave and meaningful, almost as if they were part of a ‘pregnant’ theatrical pause, and are meant to recall the sombre silence in which Quartilla herself had entered into the room of Encolpius and his ————— 20

21

22

23

24

polluisti sanguine domicilium meum ante hunc diem inuiolatum, fecistique ut me quisquis uoluerit inimicus sacerdotio pellat. The complex literary texture of the poem is comprehensively discussed by Courtney 1991, 37-39; Connors 1998, 43-47; Schmeling 2011, 520-522; and Setaioli 2011, 285-301. Schmelings’s apt comment (2011, 519-520) is worth citing here in full: ‘The impotencecuring business without Viagra is probably competitive, and, judged from Oenothea’s poor possessions, not very rewarding; she could not let any customers escape. It is likely, though our fragmentary text is silent about it, that Circe or Chrysis had heard about Oenothea’s powers (or boasts about powers) and through Proselenus contacted her’. On the authenticity of the reading sacri at 136,4, its ambiguity, and its meanings see Courtney 1998, 205-206, Goldman 2007, Hamer 2007, and Schmeling 2011, 528 (on §§136,45). See 134,11, 137,7-8, and especially 138,3 aniculae quamuis solutae mero ac libidine essent.

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friends, when she had first visited them in their lodgings at 17,1 (intrauit ipsa ... sedensque super torum meum diu fleuit). However, the prolonged shaking of Oenothea’s head (motoque diutius capite, 134,10) seems bizarre. Moving the head is a gesture that has a range of meanings: it may show that someone is pleasantly surprised and favourably impressed (as Eumolpus was with Giton, when he first set eyes on the boy at 92,3: mouit caput et ‘laudo’ inquit ‘Ganymedem’), or it may betray someone’s irritation and anger (such as that felt by Lichas at 113,2, when he expressed his disapproval of Tryphaena’s affectionate behaviour towards Giton: at non Lichas risit, sed iratum commouens caput).25 So it is possible to argue that Oenothea shook her head as an indication of the seriousness of the situation described to her by Proselenos (see above, 134,8-9), or that she shook her head because she wanted to give Encolpius the impression that his situation was critical, that she was taking it seriously, and that she was going to help him recover from his ‘illness’. But is there anything more to it than this? In my attempt to understand the significance of this instance of non-verbal behaviour on Oenothea’s part and the possible reason why Encolpius the narrator chose to recall her gesture and incorporate it into his narrative, I looked at passages elsewhere in Latin literature which involve an old woman, are embedded within a religious context, and contain an ablative absolute with a form of the verb mouere as part of it. I came upon a passage from Horace’s Satires (1,9), in which the poet-narrator is being pestered by an annoying and endlessly talking man who wishes to befriend Horace for the sole reason of getting an opportunity to enter into Maecenas’ circle. The poet says ironically that, when he was a boy, an old Sabine woman had shaken her urn and had prophesied to him that he (= Horace) would be killed not by terrible poison or by a hostile sword or by pain of his sides or by gout but by a chatterbox: confice. namque instat fatum mihi triste, Sabella | quod puero cecinit motā diuină anus urnā (‘Finish me off. For a grim destiny hangs over me, a destiny / that a fortune-telling Sabine old woman prophesied, having shaken her urn’, 1,9,29-30).26 Could it be that Oenothea’s gesture of shaking her head in Petronius is meant to correspond to, or be viewed as the equivalent of, the fortunetelling woman’s gesture of shaking the urn in Horace? In the absence of further ————— 25

26

The dead Claudius was reported to have been continually wagging his head, when he arrived in heaven in Seneca’s Apocolocyntosis, and this is interpreted by the gods not as an indication of physical disability but as a threatening sign of a hostile disposition (5,2 nescio quid illum minari, assidue enim caput mouere). The manuscripts actually give diuina mota anus urna, where it is impossible to be certain about the quantity of the final -a in the elided mota. Gowers 2012, 290 discusses the problems created by the ambiguity of the transmitted text and (rightly, in my opinion) decides to adopt Cruquius’ and Bentley’s transposition of the order of the words so as to take both Sabella and diuina with anus.

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parallels and of precise linguistic similarities between the two passages, I am reluctant to argue that there is a direct intertextual link here. It is much more likely, though, that both Horace and Petronius were recalling and recording mannerisms popularly linked with prophets and with their public display of telling the future. My point then is that Encolpius the protagonist perceives Oenothea’s non-verbal behaviour (which could be either a genuine indication of serious thinking or a well-rehearsed part of Oenothea’s histrionics in front of credulous people such as Encolpius) as a gesture associated with prophets, when they are about to utter prophecies. But Oenothea has no prop (an urn) to shake in her show (she is decrepit and her prophetic paraphernalia are ancient and breaking up: see 135,3-4 and 136,1), and there is nothing holy or elevated about the issue on which she is proudly predicting the future (the problem she has been presented with is Encolpius’ defective virility; she promises a cure: see 134,11 nisi illud tam rigidum reddidero quam cornu). Petronius continues to deflate and poke fun at Encolpius’ lofty re-fashioning of his low past. This interpretation may acquire some support through the consideration of two more elements in Oenothea’s portrayal. The first is her promise to Encolpius to save him; she boasts that ‘I am the only person ... who knows how to cure this illness’ (istum ... morbum sola sum quae emendare scio, 134,10). This is the statement of a confident and proud professional, and/or of a determined and self-assured impostor. It is no coincidence that the phrase solus sum accompanied by a qui clause goes back to Plautus, who gives it to Palinurus, one of his comically arrogant and self-assured tricky slaves. Even more interestingly, however, Palinurus (like his literary descendant, Oenothea) uses the bragging remark, with reference to himself and in a mock-prophetic fashion, in order to impress the pimp Cappadox: CAP.

PAL.

aufer istaec, quaeso, atque hoc responde quod rogo. potin coniecturam facere, si narrem tibi hac nocte quod ego somniaui dormiens? uah! solus hic homo est qui sciat diuinitus. quin coniectores a me consilium petunt: quod eis respondi, ea omnes stant sententia. Pl. Curc. 245-25027

————— 27

Text and translation by de Melo (2011). Cf. also the sarcastic aside of the slave Davos with regard to the irritating enthusiasm of the young man Pamphilus in Terence’s Andria (973: solus est quem diligant di).

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43

Please leave this aside now and answer my question. Can you interpret if I tell you what I dreamed about in my sleep last night? Bah! (points to himself) This man’s the only one who knows through divine inspiration. In fact, even the soothsayers ask me for advice. Whatever reply I give them, that advice they all abide by.

Oenothea, the fraudster, belongs then to a distinguished tradition of conceited literary characters, and one of them is a remarkable acquaintance of Encolpius from his recent past, the arrogant host Trimalchio. At some point during his overwhelming dinner-party (50,2) Trimalchio brags to his guests, including Encolpius, that solus sum qui uera Corinthea habeam ‘I am the only person to possess genuine Corinthian ware’. At the sound of this, Encolpius the narrator comments: expectabam, ut pro reliqua insolentia diceret sibi uasa Corintho afferri. sed ille melius ‘I anticipated that his words would match his general extravagance, and that he would claim that he imported vessels from Corinth. But he went one better’ (50,3-4). The comment of Encolpius the narrator demonstrates that Encolpius the protagonist is taken in by Trimalchio’s pun. So by the time our hero gets to meet Oenothea, he ought to have been alert to the effectiveness and sincerity of boastful statements that resemble those of Trimalchio’s. However, part of the reason why Oenothea convinces the protagonist that she is telling the truth is because she cleverly uses mock-medical language to support her boasting remarks. I here refer to the verb emendare ‘to cure or relieve (a disease or its victims)’, which is associated with the noun morbus only in Petronius. Encolpius had already used the term in his apologetic and formal letter to Circe with reference to his inability to satisfy her sexually: placebo tibi, si me culpam emendare permiseris ‘If you will allow me to expiate my guilt, I will render you satisfaction’.28 Pliny the Elder employs it regularly (examples include NH 23,124; 26,49; 32,71), and this gives an air of mock-authority to Oenothea’s utterance.29 Oenothea is also portrayed as an aged woman, very much in the tradition of hospitable old women from epic, frightening witches and bibulous hags from elegy, and lewd female characters from comedy and mime. Her age is partly due to Petronius’ literary debt to Homer, Callimachus, Virgil, Ovid, and low drama,30 and the narrator repeatedly refers to her with the nouns anus and anicula (136,1, 3, and 13; 138,2 and 3), as if he wishes to stress that she is an allegedly harmless ————— 28

29 30

Cf. Quartilla’s mock-technical vocabulary with reference to her feigned illness at 17,7: et ideo medicinam somnio petii iussaque sum uos perquirere atque impetum morbi monstrata subtilitate lenire ‘So I sought a remedy from my dreams. In them I was bidden to seek you out, and to relieve the onset of my illness by a clever device that was revealed to me’. See OLD s.v. emendo 3b and TLL V.2 463,48-464,23. For the complex literary genealogy of this character see Schmeling 2011, 518-519.

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and frail person who cannot possibly be a threat to the protagonist. Old women, however, have always played a sinister role in the life of Encolpius, who is often dominated and intimidated by powerful female characters (Quartilla, Tryphaena, Circe). The anonymous anicula (6,4 and 7,2), whom Encolpius views as a secondsighted individual drawn from the elevated world of epic, perhaps even as a modern-day Ariadne to Encolpius’ lost Theseus, humiliates and deceives him by taking him inside a labyrinthine brothel.31 Proselenos (his crucial first impression of her at 133,4 has already been cited above) fails to cure his impotence and causes him pain. Oenothea is described as a crudelissima anus (138,2), when she inserts the leather phallus into Encolpius’ buttocks. From Terence’s time old women in Latin literature were typecast as silly, decrepit, and foolish. More importantly, by means of their own sexuality they also pose a threat to the sexuality and virility of the male narrator.32 In Oenothea’s case, therefore, Petronius subscribes to the invective tradition of portraying old women; Oenothea is portrayed as a would-be sorceress with elegiac connotations and epic connections, but Petronius complicates her portrayal by making her also a quack doctor, who, like the priestess Quartilla, prescribes sexual medicines to satisfy her own desires rather than to cure the illness of her patients.

Concluding remarks The Satyrica appear to be a string of episodes in which the characters try to surpass each other in cunning; the cast is crowded with all sorts of charlatans: rhetorical, religious, intellectual, social, medical, and literary. But in Encolpius’ world it is impossible to distinguish the qualified medic from the quack doctor, the wise man from the hypocritical trickster, the holy person from the religious charlatan. In a sense the connecting value of the particle ‘and’ in the title of the conference for which this paper was written (‘Holy men/women and charlatans’), as well as in the title of my paper (‘Encolpius and the charlatans’), encapsulates the very essence of Petronius’ extant text, as I perceive it: namely, the absence of moral extremes, such as unadulterated virtue or complete malice. The people who are mentioned in the extant text as being either officially holy (such as the sacerdos Laocoon at 89,1,18-20 namque Neptuno sacer | crinem solutus omne Laocoon ————— 31

32

See the excellent comments of Breitenstein 2009, 100 and 103, who also refers to Lucius’ disastrous experiences with old women in Apuleius’ novel. See, for example, Ter. Hec. 621; Cic. ND 2,5, Tusc. 1,48; Hor. Epod. 5,98; Petr. 79,6, 95,8; Apul. Met. 6,25. Invective against old women: Richlin 1992, 109-116; Rosivach 1994; Schmeling 2011, 536.

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replet | clamore vulgus) or worthy of worship (such as Hekale at 135,8,15-16 qualis in Actaea quondam fuit hospita terra | digna sacris Hecale, or the sanctuary of Hercules at 122,1,146 est locus Herculeis aris sacer, or the goose that allegedly was the ‘sacred’ pet of Priapus (see 136,4 and 137,2)) are dead or pertain to bygone eras, and they belong to high literary genres, such as epic, which Petronius refuses to write. The rituals carried out in the sanctuaries of Encolpius’ contemporary world (such as the sacrum Quartillae mentioned at 16,3 and Oenothea’s virility rites described by the narrator at 135,3-6 and 138,1-2) are performed not by genuinely holy men and women but by charlatans and religious hypocrites. On the other hand, these charlatans are portrayed as alive, clever, successful, and charmingly sinister. Encolpius would like to be one of them, but he repeatedly fails in his attempt to do so, and on account of this failure it is possible to conclude that Petronius uses his protagonist not only as part of his narrative strategy to create humour for his readers at the expense of the hero himself, but also as a way of preventing any explicitly ethical condemnation of the impostors. From a moral point of view, Encolpius is no better than the charlatans who succeed in deceiving him.33

Bibliography Bartsch, S. 2008. ‘Narrative. The Roman novel’, in: T. Whitmarsh (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Greek and Roman Novel, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 245-257. Breitenstein, N. 2009. Petronius, Satyrica 1-15. Text, Übersetzung, Kommentar, Berlin – New York: Walter de Gruyter. Bücheler, F. 1862. Petronii Arbitri Satirarum reliquiae, Berlin: Weidmann. Connors, C. 1998. Petronius the Poet: Verse and Literary Tradition in the Satyricon, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Conte, G.B. 1996. The Hidden Author: An Interpretation of Petronius’s Satyricon (translated by E. Fantham), Berkeley – Los Angeles: University of California Press. Cotrozzi, A. 1979. ‘Enotea e il fiume di pianto (Petronio 137; frg. LI Ernout)’, MD 2, 183-189. Courtney, E. 1991. The Poems of Petronius, Atlanta: The American Philological Association. Courtney, E. 1998. ‘Two notes on Petronius’, MD 40, 205-207. de Melo, W. 2011. Plautus: Casina, The Casket Comedy, Curculio, Epidicus, The Two Menaechmuses, Cambridge, Mass. – London: Harvard University Press. Goldman, M.L. 2007. ‘Anseres [sacri]: restrictions and variations in Petronius’ narrative technique’, AN 5, 1-23. Gowers, E. 2012. Horace: Satires Book I, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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I am most grateful both to the organisers of RICAN 6, Michael Paschalis and Stelios Panayotakis, for inviting me to contribute (orally and in writing) to the conference on ‘Holy Men/Women and Charlatans in the Ancient Novel’ and to the conference participants for their useful observations during the discussion of my paper.

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Gratwick, A.S. 1993. Plautus: Menaechmi, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Habermehl, P. 2006. Petronius, Satyrica 79-141. Ein philologisch-literarischer Kommentar, Berlin – New York: Walter de Gruyter. Hamer, E. 2007. ‘Those damned geese again (Petronius 136.4)’, CQ 57, 321-323. Harrison, S. (ed.) forthcoming. Characterisation in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses: Nine Studies, Newcastle, UK: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. McGlynn, P. 1967. Lexicon Terentianum, Volumen II, London – Glasgow: Blackie & Son. Panayotakis, C. 1995. Theatrum Arbitri: Theatrical Elements in the Satyrica of Petronius, Leiden – New York – Köln: E. J. Brill. Panayotakis, C. 2010. Decimus Laberius: The Fragments, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ramelli, I. 1996. ‘Petronio e i Cristiani: allusioni al Vangelo di Marco nel Satyricon?’, Aevum 1, 75-80. Richlin, A. 1992. The Garden of Priapus: Sexuality & Aggression in Roman Humor, New York – Oxford: Oxford University Press. Rimell, V. 2002. Petronius and the Anatomy of Fiction, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rosivach, V. 1994. ‘Anus: some older women in Latin literature’, CJ 88, 107-117. Schmeling, G. (with the collaboration of A. Setaioli) 2011. A Commentary on the Satyrica of Petronius, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Setaioli, A. 2000. ‘La scena di magia in Petr. Sat. 131.4-6’, Prometheus 26, 159-172 [= ‘Magic at Petr. 131.4-6’, in Setaioli 2011, 357-368]. Setaioli, A. 2011. Arbitri Nugae: Petronius’ Short Poems in the Satyrica, Frankfurt Am Main: Peter Lang. Walsh, P.G. 1970. The Roman Novel: The Satyricon of Petronius and the Metamorphoses of Apuleius, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Walsh, P.G. 1996. Petronius: The Satyricon, Clarendon Press: Oxford.

Cleitophon the Charlatan I AN R EPATH Swansea University and KYKNOS

Introduction ‘Ἐγὼ ταῦτα ἂν εἰδείην,’ ἔφη, ‘τοσαύτας ὕβρεις ἐξ Ἔρωτος παθών.’ ‘I should know – having suffered such outrages from Eros!’ (1,2,1)1 These are the very first words Cleitophon says, and, in them, he makes a claim to knowledge. If one is to assess whether, how, and to what extent Cleitophon is a charlatan, namely one who claims knowledge or expertise that he does not have, this utterance provides an obvious starting point: some ways of understanding it and its implications will be the focus of the second half of this paper. In the first, I will follow another line of inquiry suggested by the novel’s frame, since it generates a particular kind of situation which raises questions of knowledge and reliability.2 Thus, I hope, on the one hand, to show that there are important aspects of Cleitophon’s introduction and characterisation in the frame which suggest, before his narration begins, that the reader should suspect elements of charlatanry in what is to follow, and, on the other, to argue that what follows proves those suspicions true in significant respects. Accordingly, each half of this paper will be divided into two sections, the one looking at the novel’s frame, the other at corresponding elements of Cleitophon’s narration. ————— 1

2

All references are to Leucippe and Cleitophon, unless specified otherwise. Translations of Leucippe and Cleitophon are a combination of my own and, with occasional adaptations, Whitmarsh and Morales 2001; Greek is cited from Garnaud 1991, with any emendations noted. See n.42 for discussion of textual issues in what Cleitophon says at 1,2,1. There are, of course, other ways of approaching the question of Cleitophon’s charlatanry, including his narratorial unreliability (see, e.g., Morales 2004, 54-56), sketchy narratorial authority (see, e.g., Morgan 2007), and his sententiae on an encyclopaedic range of subjects (see Morales 2004, 106-130), but I wish to focus on two relatively neglected angles. Holy Men and Charlatans in the Ancient Novel, 47–68

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Cleitophon the Interpreter? At the beginning of the novel, after his description of Sidon’s harbours, the anonymous narrator relates that he arrived there, made his thank-offering, and: Undertaking a tour (περιϊὼν) of the rest of the city3 and browsing among the sacred dedications, I saw a votive picture, a landscape and seascape in one. The picture was of Europa, the sea was the Phoenician, and the land Sidon. On the side of the land was a meadow and a troupe of maidens; in the sea, a bull was gliding over the surface, and a beautiful maiden was seated on his back, sailing on the bull towards Crete. (1,1,2-3) A detailed description follows, whose presence, in addition to the summary quoted above, indicates its significance.4 More directly relevant here is that the reader is left in no doubt that the anonymous narrator knows what the painting depicts. Similar scenes of a narrator seeing a painting at or towards the beginning of a work can be found in several other texts from the imperial period. In many of these, such as Ps.-Cebes Pinax, Lucian Heracles, and Longus Daphnis and Chloe,5 interpretation of the painting is required for the puzzled narrator to understand what is depicted,6 and the figures credited with the interpretation are granted a considerable amount of authority by their authors, with those in Ps.-Cebes and Longus having a quasi-religious status, given the settings of the paintings.7 But it is not always the case that the narrator needs to have such an explanation. There is a close parallel to the scene in Achilles Tatius in Ps.-Lucian Amores, where the narrator, Lycinus, relates that, after his arrival at Rhodes: ————— 3

4

5 6

7

Whitmarsh 2011, 80 n.48, proposes emending ‘rest of the city’ to a phrase which would mean ‘the temple precinct’; although it does not affect my argument substantially, this seems to me plausible, especially given some of the parallel scenes to which I shall draw attention in text, and also 3,6,2, where Cleitophon relates that, after praying to the statue of Zeus, ‘we made a tour of the temple (περιῄειμεν τὸν νεών). In the inner chamber of the temple we saw a painting ...’ The painting is of Andromeda and Perseus on the one hand, and Prometheus and Heracles on the other: see in the next section. For aspects of this, see Bartsch 1989, especially 40-45, 48-55, and 63-65; Nakatani 2003; Morales 2004, 37-48; Reeves 2007; Behmenberg 2010; cf. Nimis 1998. Cf. Lucian, Slander 4-6. See Bartsch 1989, 25-31 and 41-42, for discussion of these. Whitmarsh 2011, 80 n.48, suggests, again plausibly, that the scene in Achilles Tatius is an allusion to Ps.-Cebes. While the authority of the exegete contained in Longus’ prologue is left tantalising open, in one sense it is beyond question, in that there is no way of, and no point in, questioning it: in this respect, he is a nicely self-conscious nod towards the fictionality of the narrative. On Longus’ exegete, see Morgan 2004a, 149, Whitmarsh 2011, 99-100, and Bowie in this volume. See Winkler 1985, 233-238, on the possible unreliability of exegetes.

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As I made a tour of (ἐκπεριϊὼν) the porticos in the temple of Dionysus, I examined each painting, not only delighting my eyes but also renewing my acquaintance with the tales of the heroes. For immediately two or three fellows rushed up to me, offering for a small fee to explain every story for me, though most of what they said I had already guessed for myself. (Ps.-Luc. Am. 8; trans. MacLeod) While the situation is very similar, the focus here is not on the content of the paintings; rather, it is on those who try to earn money by explaining their contents. We are to infer that Lycinus paid them for their services, but that they turned out not to be able to add much to his understanding.8 It is instructive to read what follows the description of the painting of Europa in Achilles Tatius in the light of these other texts and of the different possibilities they contain and suggest, in order to gauge how to read the introduction of Cleitophon. For, after his description, the anonymous narrator says: I was admiring the whole of the picture, but, as I am devoted to love, I was paying particular attention to Eros leading the bull and said, ‘What power that boy wields over heaven and earth and sea!’ (1,2,1) The narrator not only recognises the contents of the painting, but he draws a universal lesson from it, namely the power of love: he needs no interpreter, either of the myth shown, or of its quasi-allegorical significance.9 This is the point at which Cleitophon appears and makes the claim quoted above: As I was saying this, a young man also standing nearby (παρεστώς) said, ‘I should know – having suffered such outrages from Eros!’ (1,2,1) As one who claims knowledge in relation to a painting, Cleitophon is presented in lieu of an interpreter; that he happens to be standing by the painting aligns him with the old man in Ps.-Cebes Pinax (2) and the Celt in Lucian’s Heracles (4), of whom the same participle is used. As Bartsch discusses, Cleitophon does not play ————— 8

9

Another comparison with Achilles Tatius’ opening is provided by the scene in the picturegallery in Petronius Satyrica 83-90: see Bartsch 1989, 43 n.6, and Courtney 2001, 134135, for some observations, and Elsner 1993 for detailed analysis of the Petronian scene. Although we cannot be sure, it seems likely we should regard him, qua primary narrator who relates analeptically Cleitophon’s narration, as aware also of the allegorically proleptic nature of the painting, if not even as tailoring his description of the painting to fit what he will have Cleitophon say.

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the conventional interpreter’s role:10 he is not described explicitly as such; he is, according to the anonymous narrator, a young man;11 the myth depicted in the painting is so well known as not to require explanation; and the narrator is not puzzled by it. One might add that Cleitophon, because he will tell his own story, does not remain anonymous, unlike the interpreters in Ps.-Cebes, Lucian, and Longus. Nor, on the other hand, is he fully like those who explain the stories in the paintings to Lycinus in Ps.-Lucian Amores, because he does not describe what the picture shows or take payment, and the anonymous narrator will positively welcome his narration. However, one similarity to those in Ps.-Lucian Amores – his volunteering of what he has to say to someone, especially to someone who shows he understands the painting –, and the relevant contrast with what we find in Longus, where the prologue-narrator seeks out the exegete, suggest that Cleitophon perhaps resembles the former, as someone who is hanging around the painting, desperately waiting for the opportunity to tell his story. In the light of these similarities and differences, the structuring of the scene, with Cleitophon offering to demonstrate the truth of what the anonymous narrator sees in the painting, poses questions surrounding his authority, his understanding, and the potential (un)reliability – whether ‘factual’, conceptual, or both – of what he will say.12 The overall impression of this scene, then, seems to be that Cleitophon is introduced as a character who is more likely to be a kind of charlatan than someone with deep insight and understanding.

Interpreting the Art of Cleitophon’s Narrative One source from which Cleitophon could have derived knowledgeable authority is from his experiences, and it is instructive to see whether, how, and to what extent he understands his own story. A structurally important aspect of his story

————— 10 11

12

Bartsch 1989, 43. See, also, Jones 2012, 43-44. Cleitophon himself says at the beginning of this narration that he was nineteen years old when his adventures began (1,3,3); his story covers no more than a few months; and it is very possible that the opening frame is not too distant temporally from the final events he narrates: see Repath 2005, 260-262. The questions surrounding the ‘truth’-value of what Cleitophon will narrate are emphasised by his comment that: ‘The things that have happened to me are like myths’ (τὰ γὰρ ἐμὰ μύθοις ἔοικε, 1,2,2). The anonymous narrator’s reactions to this (1,2,2-3) suggest that he does not take the supposed significance of Cleitophon’s tale fully seriously and provide us with an additional perspective on the question of Cleitophon’s potential charlatanry. See Morgan 2007, 111-112, on this exchange.

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are the paintings located at significant junctures, with those towards the beginnings of books 3 and 5 following on from the painting of Europa in the novel’s frame.13 Scholars have focused on the authorial games being played with these paintings and on the reader’s responses and interpretations:14 I want to shift the focus to the question of Cleitophon’s awareness of the structure and interconnectedness of his narrative. These paintings are significant not only because of their position, but also because one of Cleitophon’s reflex actions, especially at moments of extreme emotions, is to liken what he saw and experienced to works of art.15 The first instance occurs very early on, as he describes the arrival of Leucippe and her striking beauty: τοιαύτην εἶδον ἐγώ ποτε ἐπὶ ταύρῳ γεγραμμένην Σελήνην· ... She looked like a picture I had once seen of Selene on a bull; ... (1,4,3) There is an infamous textual crux here: the manuscript readings are divided between ‘Selene’ (Σελήνην) and ‘Europa’ (Εὐρώπην).16 The latter would make an explicit connection with the painting just described, but it is problematic for several reasons.17 The first is that ‘Selene’ has the stronger manuscript support. The second is that it is the lectio difficilior – it is much less likely that a scribe would change ‘Europa’ to ‘Selene’ than make the opposite change in light of the contents of the first chapter. The third problem is that the adverb ‘once’ (ποτε) is inapt if we are to think Cleitophon is referring to the painting in front of which he has only just met the anonymous narrator.18 On the other hand, if we deleted or ————— 13 14 15

16

17 18

See Nakatani 2003. See the bibliography in n.4. See Morgan 2007, 113-114, for some comments on this aspect of Cleitophon’s mythomania. Indeed, when Cleitophon says his story is ‘like myths’ (1,2,2), he may be thinking partly of the comparisons he will make between aspects of his story and representations of particular myths. See, for discussion and different viewpoints and ideas, Vilborg 1962, 21-22; Gaselee 1969, 14 n.1; Mignogna 1993; Selden 1994, 50-51; Morales 2004, 37-48; Cueva 2006, with comprehensive bibliography; and Whitmarsh 2011, 79-83, especially 80. O’ Sullivan 1980, beyond noting the two variants, is silent on the matter. Cueva argues that the reading ‘Selene’ is part of a network which operates over the course of the novel; while I would not follow him in every detail, there are ways in which ‘Selene’ would not be isolated, and it makes sense to try to get to grips with this passage with an appreciation of the contents of the rest of the novel – see below, in text, for one way of doing this. See Vilborg 1962, 21-22, for the first three problems. As Hägg 1971, 203, argues, ποτε ‘obviously alludes to something outside and before the action of the romance, linked to this only by Clitophon’s association’, and, ibid., n.2, ‘εἶδον

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amended the adverb and read ‘Europa’, or anything else, and thought that Cleitophon was referring to the painting of Europa described in 1,1, what he says is still odd, since, in that case, Cleitophon would surely use the first person plural – ‘we saw’.19 Matters are complicated by the fact that, as he shows later, Cleitophon is aware of the myth of Europa: ‘If the myth of Europa is true, it must have been an Egyptian bull that Zeus imitated’ (εἰ δὲ ὁ μῦθος Εὐρώπης ἀληθής, Αἰγύπτιον βοῦν ὁ Ζεὺς ἐμιμήσατο, 2,15,4).20 If, at 1,4,3, he were supposed to be referring to the painting near the grove in which he is now narrating, he could very easily, one presumes, have identified the girl as Europa.21 In addition, it is worth noting that Musaeus has selene when closely imitating this passage of Achilles Tatius (Hero and Leander 57).22 All in all, the best conclusion seems to be that we should read what is quoted above, which means that Cleitophon is referring to a painting of Selene on a bull which he had once seen: if this is indeed the correct reading, the passage at 2,15,4 emphasises in retrospect the unexpectedness of his comment at 1,4,3.23

—————

19

20 21

22 23

ποτε cannot possibly ... be interpreted as an allusion to the situation narrated in I.1-2.’ Cf. the very close parallel of what Melite says at 6,1,3: ‘I once saw Achilles like this in a painting’ (τοιοῦτον Ἀχιλλέα ποτὲ ἐθεασάμην ἐν γραφῇ); also, Charmides’ comment at 4,4,7. Selden 1994, who takes it as read that Cleitophon is referring to the same picture, does not seem to notice the problem of ποτε; Morales 2004, whose discussion builds on Selden’s, recognises this problem, but does not deal with it. Whitmarsh 2011, with reference to the excellent discussion of Lightfoot 2003, effectively deconstructs Selden’s argument, although, as he admits, without fully considering possible alternative readings. It should be noted that a possible scenario is that Cleitophon is referring to the painting the anonymous narrator has just described, and views it as depicting Selene; a scribe, confused by this and unaware of the identification or ambiguity, might then have added ‘once’ (ποτε) on the assumption that Cleitophon must be referring to another painting, which he had seen some time in the past. Other changes, for instance to the verb, might have been made at the same time, or as a consequence of this. Selden and Morales would have to resort to such a scenario to sustain a culturally bivalent reading. See, also, 2,37,2. Alternatively, it is possible, although not likely, that Cleitophon might think that the painting described in 1,1 is of Selene, not Europa, and be saying that Leucippe was like a painting of Europa he had once seen. See Hopkinson 1994, 150. Morales 2004, 45 n.34, notes the implicit presence of Selene in 2,15,3, which reinforces the connection between the two passages at the same time as highlighting how the reader’s expectations are toyed with: the latter point is well brought out in her discussion of 1,4,3, in spite of the problems with her argument. See, also, Bartsch 1989 for suggestions concerning Achilles Tatius’ strategy of disorientating his reader; however, she, 165, reads ‘Europa’ at 1,4,3, apparently without awareness of the textual question.

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The reason for re-treading this familiar ground is that this is an important moment in the characterisation of Cleitophon, and this is a factor which has tended to be overlooked in readings of this scene. When Cleitophon likens Leucippe to a girl on a bull in a painting, we expect him to refer to the painting which has just been described, in front of which he has met the anonymous narrator, and in response to which the anonymous narrator made his comment whose truth Cleitophon claimed to know and which was the springboard for Cleitophon to tell his tale. If we keep the text above, Cleitophon does not make the obvious link. This may be because, as narrator, he is focalising this comment through his former self, the character in the narration, which is to say that he recalls thinking on first sight of Leucippe that she resembled a painting of Selene he had once seen; or, perhaps, he is trying to be too clever by avoiding the obvious; or because the narrative he provides is more rehearsed than spontaneous; or, for some reason, he is not able to. Whichever of these or of any other options we go for, Cleitophon is not allowed to make the connection which the reader is simultaneously enabled and encouraged to make: while this might make us question our confidence in our ability to read this text, it should certainly make us question our confidence in Cleitophon to make sense of his own story.24 He is thus almost immediately established as someone of doubtful authority and judgement in matters of interpretation and understanding, especially in view of the way in which he is set up in the role of potential interpreter, by both the initial scene and his response to what the anonymous narrator says. This is not the only point at which Cleitophon does something like this. In fact, I would argue it is the first in a series of points at which he does not make obvious connections between artworks and his story or is otherwise sabotaged by the author (and perhaps primary narrator) in his response; these, in turn, reinforce the text and interpretation of 1,4,3 given above. The next example occurs when Leucippe is apparently sacrificed in book 3. Cleitophon says:

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A further way in which the reader is encouraged to make a connection between Europa in the painting and Leucippe is that the anonymous narrator describes Europa’s body and clothes, whereas Cleitophon describes Leucippe’s head and its features: the overall effect is that it is the description of one woman. While the economy is understandable from an authorial perspective, the reader is faced with the possibility that the anonymous narrator has ‘interfered’ in or ‘filtered’ Cleitophon’s narration; see De Temmerman 2009 and Whitmarsh 2011, 77-85 and 89-93. The extent to which such interference might operate is impossible to gauge, and this threatens to undermine any reading of the novel and its elements.

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One of the two young men laid her on her back and tied (ἔδησεν) her down to some pegs driven into the earth (just as the artists represent Marsyas tied to a tree [οἷον ποιοῦσιν οἱ κοροπλάθοι τὸν Μαρσύαν ἐκ τοῦ φυτοῦ δεδεμένον]). Then he took his sword and plunged it in below her heart; twisting it downwards, he ruptured her belly. Her innards leaped out at once. Tearing them out with their hands, they placed them upon the altar. When they were roasted, each man cut off a portion and ate it. (3,15,4-5) In the first place, the comparison Cleitophon makes is not particularly apt, both in terms of gender and in terms of what happened to Marsyas – being flayed alive – compared with what happens to Leucippe.25 Rather, Cleitophon has found one point of correspondence – being tied to something – and based his comparison on that. However, what makes this comparison particularly puzzling is that this event and many of its elements were foreshadowed by the pair of paintings described in 3,6-8: if Cleitophon is going to make a comparison with works of art, comparisons with the depictions of Andromeda, the bound, sacrificial virgin, and of Prometheus, whose liver is cut out and eaten, would make much more sense.26 And, as opposed to the description of the painting of Europa, it is Cleitophon who describes these paintings, which he says they had seen just a few days earlier. Bartsch goes part of the way to saying what is going on here when she comments: ‘When they come upon these two paintings, neither Clitophon nor Leucippe makes any attempt at interpretation. We must assume that for them, as for us, the true proleptic significance of the paintings becomes visible only with hindsight.’27 However, there is no indication that they come to any such realisation. The narrating Cleitophon is in the best position to exercise such hindsight and to make the connections, but he does not do so;28 even if we think that Cleitophon is focalising his comparison at 3,15,4 through his former self in line with his narration of the majority of the episode as a whole, his former self will have seen the paintings described in 3,6-8, and so he did not make the connection at the time. Cleitophon does note the links between the painting of Andromeda and the painting of Prometheus (3,6,3-4), and the first one he notes is that both figures were depicted as bound. This emphasises the lack of connection he makes with Leucippe’s first

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26 27 28

Bartsch 1989 does not comment on the comparison Cleitophon makes; Morales 2004, 170, concentrates on the aspects of gender and sexualisation. See Bartsch 1989, 55-60, for details, and further discussion in Morales 2004, 174-177. Bartsch 1989, 58. Noted briefly by Morgan 2004b, 502.

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Scheintod, since Leucippe had her hands bound when she was led out for the sacrifice (3,15,2), and was then tied to the pegs (3,15,4), and it is precisely this aspect that causes Cleitophon to make the mythological comparison with Marsyas. Cleitophon makes another mythological comparison in describing his reaction to Leucippe’s apparent sacrifice: The general and his army were watching and cried out at each one of these rites, averting their eyes from the spectacle. I, on the other hand, beyond all expectation, simply sat there as a spectator. My reaction was one of pure shock: this unbounded calamity had thunderstruck me. Perhaps the myth of Niobe is no lie: she too may have experienced something like this when she lost her children, and given the impression through her immobility of having turned into stone. (3,15,5-6) Cleitophon says that he was like a grieving woman, stunned into immobility by her loss; he feminises himself and portrays himself as a passive victim. He most emphatically does not resemble the heroic rescuers in the paintings, Perseus and Heracles, with whom the reader might compare him in light of the similarities between Leucippe and both Andromeda and Prometheus. In fact, we can see that he is more like the monster, which was about to be turned to stone in the painting by the head of Medusa (3,7,6-8): it looks as if the author wants his reader to make connections which his protagonist-narrator does not, connections which make Cleitophon look very unheroic.29 Of course, from the author’s point of view, it would make the reader’s game too easy for Cleitophon to draw attention to the similarities between the scene of Leucippe’s fake sacrifice and the paintings, but Cleitophon’s very use of other mythological exempla calls into question to what extent his exempla are appropriate and highlights the connections which he does not make.30 This all adds up to the conclusion that Cleitophon does not fully understand his own narrative, in spite of having many, if not all, of the clues at his disposal. ————— 29

30

Morales 2004, 170-172, has some good discussion of the sexual undercurrents of this scene, and compares the opening of Lucian’s Imagines, where a direct link between Medusa and Niobe is made; Morales does not note the implicit link in Achilles Tatius, but it enhances her argument, as Cleitophon is imbued with a hint of the threat that the monster represents. It is possible that the anonymous primary narrator has tailored the description of the paintings to make them proleptic, or at least to emphasise the proleptic elements, or even inserted them in the first place: this would still have the effect of Cleitophon being presented as someone who does not make the expected connections.

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Cleitophon’s apparent lack of understanding is made more peculiar, and frustrating, by the fact that he seems to have some awareness that some elements of his narrative have proleptic power. For instance, he realises, as narrator at least, that the dreams he had are significant, even if he does not spell out to what extent and in what ways they might be so.31 This seems to be true also for the final painting which Cleitophon says he came across. Near the beginning of book five, he reports that a bad omen led him to ask for a clearer one, at which point, he tells his narratee: ‘on turning around I saw a picture hanging up (for I happened to be standing next to a painter’s studio), and the encrypted meaning it conveyed was a similar one (ὑπῃνίττετο προσόμοιον)’ (5,3,4). The painting was of Philomela, Tereus, and Procne, which is immediately described by the narrating Cleitophon (5,3,4-8). Cleitophon does not say what exactly he thinks its meaning was, but seems to suggest by association that it is connected with what he has just narrated at 5,3,1-2 – Chaereas’ plot.32 While this gives the reader some material to work with in advance, it does show that Cleitophon, even with and while using the benefit of narratorial hindsight, does not make any kind of explicit connection between the omens and what he says was being planned against Leucippe.33 Is he unwilling to, because he wants his narratee to play the game of fitting the omens to the ensuing narrative or, for some reason, cannot bring himself to think about it? Or is he unable to, in which case the reader is left wondering what kind of awareness Cleitophon has, and, even, whether he has nothing more than an awareness that he should have some kind of awareness? There is no way of being sure, but the evidence from books 1 and 3, where Cleitophon appears unable to see that there are connections between the paintings and his story, would suggest that inability is more likely. One figure who does realise the proleptic power of paintings, and of this painting in particular, is the character Menelaus, who, Cleitophon relates, advised postponing the visit to Chaereas’ house because: λέγουσι δὲ οἱ τῶν συμβόλων ἐξηγηταὶ σκοπεῖν τοὺς μύθους τῶν εἰκόνων, ἂν ἐξιοῦσιν ἐπὶ πρᾶξιν ἡμῖν συντύχωσι, καὶ ἐξομοιοῦν τὸ ἀποβησόμενον τῷ τῆς ἱστορίας λόγῳ.

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32

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See, especially, 1,3,2-3; cf. 1,3,5 and 4,1,8. See Bartsch 1989, 85-93, on dreams in Leucippe and Cleitophon. See Hägg 1971, 238, and 134-135, on the unusually high level of knowledge shown by Cleitophon at this point. Cf. what he says about the mystic meaning of the pomegranate (3,6,1), with Anderson 1979 for discussion.

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Interpreters of signs say that if we encounter paintings as we set off to do something, we should ponder the myths depicted, and conclude that the outcome for us will be comparable to the story they tell. (5,4,1) As Bartsch describes, these signals that the painting should be seen by the reader as proleptic could hardly be clearer,34 and Menelaus ventured his own interpretation: ‘You see that this painting is filled with all sorts of negative aspects: illicit desire, shameless adultery, female misfortunes’ (5,4,2). The mapping of the subsequent narrative onto what the painting contains is far less obvious than in the case of the earlier paintings and, at the authorial level, engages the reader in a game of cat and mouse concerning what will happen next.35 But how did/does Cleitophon react? He says that Menelaus’ advice seemed reasonable, and they postponed their visit (5,4,2). In addition, Cleitophon relates that he explained the contents of the painting to Leucippe (5,5). This double-treatment of the painting both highlights its potential significance and makes the reader’s game even more complicated: while Menelaus mentioned female misfortunes, which occur in abundance in the remainder of the novel, Cleitophon puts particular emphasis on the women’s terrible revenge, which does not find a counterpart.36 We should not, of course, expect Cleitophon the character to have been able to see the future with any clarity, but he did at least recognise the infidelity and horrific violence in the painting at the time Menelaus gave his advice.37 All of this makes it a surprise to find that they gave in to Chaereas the very next day (5,6,1), and this episode casts real doubt on Cleitophon’s wisdom and ability to draw appropriate lessons, at two levels. First, as character, he not only gave in, despite the omens, Menelaus’ reaction, and his own awareness of the horror of the myth depicted, but he did not seem to have had the awareness or sufficient reflective ability to realise, in view of the paintings described in book 3 and what happened after he and Leucippe had seen them, that Menelaus’ words were wise and worth taking far more seriously.38 Second, as narrator, he includes, directly after what he says Menelaus said, the speech he made to Leucippe, which does not appear to relate very closely to what happens in the rest of the narrative: this suggests Cleitophon still is not able to see how his story fits together. More ————— 34 35

36 37

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Bartsch 1989, 65-69. See Bartsch 1989, 69-76; Konstan 1994, 68-69; Morales 2004, 115-116, and 178-180; and Repath 2013, 247-248, for different possibilities. See Bartsch 1989, 72-76, on the ‘proleptic irrelevancy’ of Cleitophon’s interpretation. See Morgan 1997, 184, for the wider lesson of ‘the dire effects of a certain kind of sexuality’ which Cleitophon fails to draw from this painting. A similar inability to learn can be seen in his reaction to Leucippe’s third Scheintod (7,5) – see Whitmarsh 2011, 208-210, for discussion.

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significantly, and the point I wish to emphasise, the narrating Cleitophon has had, in the intervening months, the opportunity to reflect on Menelaus’ words, which he remembers, and to reflect on the paintings he saw during his adventures and on what subsequently happened to him: even with all the benefit of hindsight, he does not make, in book 3 or anywhere else, the kind of connections between the paintings of Andromeda and Prometheus and the sacrifice of Leucippe which the reader makes, and which the reader makes with the information Cleitophon gives them; nor does he comment, even in book 5, on his past behaviour. It is possible, of course, that Cleitophon realises the paintings’ significance, and that is why he describes them at such length, but then deliberately withholds the connections that would make the proleptic nature of the paintings explicit; or that he tailors the descriptions to fit his narrative; or even that he inserts them. He does seem, after all, to be capable of withholding information for effect, most famously in the case of Leucippe’s false deaths. Separating the layers of narration and concomitant knowledge and understanding in this novel is a difficult, if not impossible, task. However, I would argue that it is more likely that Cleitophon does not understand his narrative and what it might teach him, even if he likes to suggest that he does understand it and can illuminate others on the basis of it. One reason for thinking this is that in the description he reports he made for Leucippe’s benefit of the myth of the painting of Tereus and the two sisters, he made a generalising statement about barbarians not being satisfied with one wife (5,5,2). As Morales brings out well, this statement rebounds on him, because, by the end of book 5, we see that he is the man for whom one woman is not enough.39 The important point to add here is that, despite knowing what he subsequently did with Melite, he still, as narrator, decides to relate that he made this observation. As a result of this, we should view Cleitophon either as making fun of his earlier self,40 a conclusion for which there is no obvious evidence, or as someone who has the relevant knowledge at his disposal but does not realise that his own story reveals his hypocrisy.41 Cleitophon is short-sighted not only as a character but also, it seems, as a narrator, and, even though it is not something which has been brought out in discussions of this novel, I think this is made particularly clear in how Cleitophon does and does not react to the paintings in his story: although he is keen on alluding to works of art and likes to present himself as knowledgeable, he fails to show any real understanding of how the paintings his narrative contains relate to ————— 39 40

41

Morales 2004, 115-116. As Marinčič 2007, does. Whitmarsh 2003 does not go this far, but it is one possible conclusion of his discussion. See the second half of this paper for one way in which the narrating Cleitophon relates to his past self.

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and provide a structure for that narrative and so leaves the reader with the unavoidable impression that his interpretation of what happened to him, while presented as authoritative, is fundamentally defective.

Cleitophon’s Claim If we return to the opening conversation with the anonymous narrator, there is one way in which Cleitophon does make some kind of connection between a painting and his story, when the anonymous narrator’s reaction to the painting of Europa prompts Cleitophon to claim that he has some insight: περιεργότερον ἔβλεπον τὸν ἄγοντα τὸν βοῦν Ἔρωτα· καί ‘Οἷον’, εἶπον, ‘ἄρχει βρέφος οὐρανοῦ καὶ γῆς καὶ θαλάττης.’ Ταῦτά μου λέγοντος νεανίσκος καὶ αὐτὸς παρεστώς, ‘Ἐγὼ ταῦτα ἂν εἰδείην42,’ ἔφη, ‘τοσαύτας ὕβρεις ἐξ Ἔρωτος παθών.’ I was paying particular attention to Eros leading the bull and said, ‘What power that boy wields over heaven and earth and sea!’ As I was saying this, a young man also standing nearby said, ‘I should know – having suffered such outrages from love/Eros!’ (1,2,1) In order to be able to assess what it is that Cleitophon thinks he knows, a reader needs to bear in mind that modern orthographical conventions do not preserve the ambiguity of the ancient, which did not distinguish between lower and upper case. The manuscripts and editors have lower case rather than upper case for eros/Eros in what Cleitophon says,43 but, given that he is responding to the anonymous narrator’s comment on the power of the god Eros as shown in the painting, the possibility that he is thinking of the god and not (only) the emotions he represents must be in play; this is corroborated by the anonymous narrator’s subsequent mention of ‘the god’ and his invocation of ‘Zeus and Eros himself’ (1,2,2), and also by what I shall argue is the focus in Cleitophon’s narrative on (what he sees as) ————— 42

43

There is a textual crux here, with the manuscript tradition divided between ‘know’ (εἰδείην) and ‘show/display’ (ἐδείκνυν): I follow Vilborg 1955 and Garnaud 1991 in reading the former. See O’Sullivan 1980, 291 (he makes no comment in his 1978 article). Jones 2012, 70-71, prefers ἐδείκνυν, as fitting in with the atmosphere of sophistic display, but she is wrong to suggest that it is the lectio difficilior: it is the lectio rarior, which in fact diminishes her case; it is also syntactically implausible. Vilborg 1955, Gaselee 1969, and Garnaud 1991.

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the deity’s actions.44 A second thing to note in trying to understand his claim is the potential ambiguity of the preposition used by Cleitophon, which could mean ‘because of eros/Eros’ or ‘from eros/Eros’, that is, with eros/Eros as author.45 It is thus possible that Cleitophon is saying that he has suffered outrages from the god Eros and that this is what has given him understanding of the god’s power; even if Cleitophon does not mean this, the reader can read his statement in this way. 46 Cleitophon’s claim comes, chronologically, after the end of the story he will tell and so appears to have the authority of hindsight and possibly of acquired understanding; it is also programmatic in that it establishes some of the parameters within which a reader will approach his narrative. The reader will need to consider what Cleitophon (thinks he) was made to suffer by Eros and, perhaps, why. When Cleitophon claims that he has some knowledge of Eros’ power as a result of his sufferings, the reader should wonder what it is that Cleitophon now thinks he understands, and what his learning process has been. Moreover, in considering what Cleitophon may think enables him to make this claim, the reader needs to cater for the fact that, as is apparent in the frame, the narrative will be given by Cleitophon as an internal narrator: as a result, his awareness of the divine plane must be restricted to dreams and oracles and the like, and to what he can surmise, with or without hindsight. In his narration, he generally exhibits the expected uncertainty about divine matters,47 but his comment at 1,2,1 about having suffered from Eros is, if taken as suggested above, relatively definite, and so the reader is primed not only to look for Eros’ role in Cleitophon’s story, but also to ask how Cleitophon describes it and how he claims to know about it.48 ————— 44

45

46

47 48

O’Sullivan 1980, 160, suggests upper case rather than lower, and it is perhaps telling that translators, including Gaselee 1969, Plepelits 1980, Winkler 1989, and Whitmarsh 2001, all have upper case. See O’Sullivan 1980, 123, II (1), for the latter: it is possibly no coincidence that the three other instances he cites (1,5,6; 5,27,2; and 8,12,2) all involve gods and concern erotic ideas, albeit negatively in the last case. The latter is perhaps made more likely by the comparison with what the anonymous narrator has just said: ‘He (sc. Eros) was turned towards Zeus, smiling surreptitiously as though mocking him because he had become a bull because of him (δι’ αὐτὸν)’ (1,1,13). Cf. Chew 2012, 76 n.20, who does not refer to O’Sullivan 1980. In what follows, I shall consider Cleitophon’s claim in this narrow sense: my discussion is by no means intended to be a comprehensive survey of ways of considering Eros’ role. Other possible angles include detailed intertextuality (which I take for the purposes of this paper to belong to a ‘higher’ level than Cleitophon’s), philosophical ideas, and the importance of the metaphor of mysteries and initiation; see Whitmarsh 2011, 101-104, for the last. See Morgan 2004b, 497; he does not, however, discuss Eros’ role. Chew 2012 downplays Eros’ role and, while I think her argument that Achilles Tatius is playing with novelistic conventions as far as his use of Tyche is concerned highlights a significant aspect of the text, she arguably loses sight of the fact that we have nothing but

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The Role of Eros and Cleitophon’s Story The first major part that Eros plays in Cleitophon’s narrative is in his love for Leucippe. Cleitophon went to see his cousin Cleinias for advice and referred to Eros’ attack against himself (1,9,1); he subsequently outlined the dilemma he faced, between obeying his father’s wish that he marry his half-sister, Calligone, and preventing Eros from inflicting unbearable torture on him (1,11). This dilemma is rehearsed again early in the second book, this time in conversation with his second praeceptor amoris, the slave Satyrus: he told Cleitophon that Eros, as a martial god, does not tolerate cowardice (2,4,5), and, in a soliloquy, Cleitophon chided his own cowardice but then persuaded himself to desire and marry Calligone (2,5,1-2). Next, however, he says that ‘Eros spoke up in opposition, as if from the depths of my heart’ (2,5,2), and the god told him that resistance was useless.49 Cleitophon’s decision is not made explicit, but it becomes clear in the next five chapters (2,6-10), as he began to put Satyrus’ advice (2,4,3-4) into practice without further debate. The abduction of Calligone obviated the problem of the wedding (2,11-18), and thereafter Cleitophon did not waver in his attempts to seduce Leucippe. While it is hard to be certain about where to draw a line between god-as-metaphor and actual deity in much of what Cleitophon and his fellow characters said,50 I think the implication of all this is clear enough: that Eros, by using force and threats, made Cleitophon act against his better judgement.51 The second episode in which Eros is attributed with a significant role is Melite’s seduction of Cleitophon in the jail-cell. In her speech of blame, she asked Cleitophon if he had not feared the god’s anger (5,25,6) and wished that Eros would gain revenge by making him suffer as she had (5,25,8); she attributed her second speech, of persuasion, to Eros52 (5,26,1); she mentioned the mysteries of Eros, that Cleitophon was an initiate, and asked for his sympathy (5,26,3); and she told Cleitophon to think that Eros was speaking through her, giving Eros a —————

49

50

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what Cleitophon says and reports as evidence for divine involvement in his story. Nakatani 2003, who addresses the decrease in the role of Tyche and Eros in the last two books of the novel, likewise does not take into account the limitations imposed by the filtering of the story through Cleitophon. Cf. the very similar sentiments of Charmides (4,7,3-4), with whom Cleitophon is aligned in his inability to control his desire; their similarity is emphasised by the arguments they use about taking advantage of an opportunity to satisfy one’s desires: cf. what Cleitophon says at 4,1,3 with 4,7,2-3. For references in books 1 (from 1,3) and 2 to Eros as a god, see: 1,9,7; 1,10,1; 1,10,2; 1,12,1; 2,3,3; 2,4,5; 2,5,1; and 2,6,2. Of course, whether Cleitophon’s father should really be asking him to marry his half-sister is not necessarily a straightforward matter: see Whitmarsh 2011, 163-164, for discussion. With Whitmarsh 2001, 95, and contra O’Sullivan 1980, 160.

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short speech asking Cleitophon to initiate Melite into his mysteries (5,26,10).53 This second speech as a whole had the desired effect, and, in his narration, Cleitophon responds to Melite’s mentions of Eros: he says that Eros teaches eloquence (5,27,1); that he was afraid of Eros (5,27,2); and that ‘Everything that Eros wanted to happen happened’ (5,27,3), since ‘Eros is a resourceful, improvising sophist, who can turn any place into a temple for his mysteries’ (5,27,4).54 As in his narration of his pursuit of Leucippe, Cleitophon says that Eros was responsible for his actions, through what Melite (is supposed to have) said about Eros and his own reactions to her arguments, and as architect of their tryst. As noted above, the fact that Cleitophon is an internal narrator must condition how we read what he says about the divine. It is notable that the role of Eros in his pursuit of Leucippe is described almost exclusively in direct speech by the characters in Cleitophon’s narration,55 as if he might be trying, as narrator, to isolate discussion of Eros’ role at that level, possibly in order to distance himself from it for some reason. The possibility is opened up that there is a gap between what Cleitophon believed at the time and what he thinks now. However, when we come to the point at which he narrates his yielding to Melite, we find narratorial comments about the nature of Eros and the statement that what happened between him and Melite happened because Eros wanted it to. One might explain this difference as Cleitophon realising that he needs to work especially hard to justify what he did, given that he had only recently found out that Leucippe was alive, and therefore making a seemingly authoritative narratorial statement. But neither can Cleitophon and his fellow characters have known about what Eros was doing, nor can Cleitophon as narrator know: the question is whether he believed, and still believes, what he narrates. Put another way, how cynical should we be in reading Cleitophon’s attribution of the responsibility for what happened to him to Eros and in reflecting on how he simultaneously abrogates any blame for his actions and claims knowledge he cannot have? It is hard, if not impossible, to tell, and a cynical reading would reveal Cleitophon straightforwardly as a charlatan, as one who claims to know things he does not know, and which he knows he does not know. However, the claim he makes in the novel’s frame means he is at least presenting himself as someone who believes what he narrates about Eros’ role in his story, and to think that he does believe it opens up another way of reading what he says. ————— 53

54 55

When she suggested that some god had removed Thersander so that she could obtain her desire (5,26,13), it is quite possible she was thinking of Eros. See Whitmarsh 2011, 104, and Morgan 1997, 180-181, on this and related passages. The exceptions are 1,12,1 and 2,3,3: the former is a narratorial comment on his conversation with Cleinias, the latter a generalising statement.

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In saying that he has suffered from Eros, and then detailing the supposed outrages in his narrative, Cleitophon shows that he thinks his sufferings were caused by Eros. What have his sufferings been? In the case of Leucippe, Cleitophon presents himself as, again, a victim of Eros’ attack: he says he tried to resist Eros, because of another, contradictory obligation, but his resistance was swiftly overcome. At the same time, the description of not doing Eros’ bidding as cowardice suggests that pursuing Leucippe was a brave, and so positive, act.56 Cleitophon seems to want to imply that he did the right thing in resisting, but also the right thing in giving in. In the case of Melite, Cleitophon presents himself as a victim of Eros’ attack, through the person of Melite: he says he resisted her out of fidelity to Leucippe’s memory, but that eventually Eros made him yield. This time, he did the right thing in resisting and then had no choice about giving in. So, what outrages has he suffered from Eros? Being afflicted by extreme emotions and being forced to be unfaithful are presumably the answers Cleitophon would give. However, taking his claim literally and comparing it with what roles he gives Eros in his narrative, the reader can interpret the outrages he says he suffered from Eros as consisting instead in being made to fall in love with a beautiful girl and in being made to have sex with a beautiful woman. The reader may find themselves doubting not only whether Eros actually inflicted them on Cleitophon but also whether these are true outrages: Cleitophon claims he knows what Eros did, when he cannot, and provides an interpretation which is hyperbolic and melodramatic. What does Cleitophon think he has learned about the power of Eros as a result of his sufferings and what does he think he now understands? From his opening claim, we expect that the narration of those sufferings will at least enable us to extrapolate his lesson. This seems to be that Eros uses force and threats, makes you do things against your better judgement, and gets his way. Put another way, sexual desire is forceful, painful and insurmountable, with the power to make even Zeus humiliate himself, as the painting near which Cleitophon meets the anonymous narrator demonstrates. This is what Cleitophon seems to have learned, and, in one sense, it is pretty much the oldest lesson in the book.57 Before thinking ————— 56

57

Cf. his reasoning at 1,5,5-7. Cf. his multiply ironic prayer to Aphrodite at 8,5,8: ‘O lady Aphrodite, do not take vengeance on us for insulting you (μὴ νεμεσήσῃς ἡμῖν ὡς ὑβρισμένη)’. Whitmarsh 2001, 146, cites Sophocles, Trachiniae 497-506, Euripides, Hippolytus 439481, and Petronius, Satyrica 83; Garnaud 1991, 5, refers to Sophocles, Antigone 787-790. Closer to Achilles Tatius, one could add Longus, Daphnis and Chloe pr. 4, which might suggest a negative view – Morgan 2004a, 150 draws attention to Euripides, Hippolytus 525-564; however, cf. Longus 2,7, including the ‘correction’ of Theocritus 11,1-3, where the view of Eros and his power is fundamental to the text and fundamentally positive, and

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about what this might mean for a reading of Cleitophon and his narrative, it is worth considering an episode towards its beginning which can provide an additional perspective, since, in it, Cleitophon relates that he tried to show he had some understanding of the universality of love. He narrates a conversation he had with Satyrus, in his father’s garden and in the presence of Leucippe. He commented on the peacock’s amorous behaviour, to which Satyrus responded, knowingly (1,17,1): ‘Are you really saying that Eros has so much strength (ὁ Ἔρως ... τοσαύτην ἔχει τὴν ἰσχύν) that he can actually hurl his brand as far as the bird kingdom?’ Cleitophon replied in the affirmative and gave accounts of magnetism, date-palms, Arethusa and Alpheus, and the viper and sea-snake (1,17-18). The last three of these are described in terms of marriage, and all four are, essentially, happy love stories.58 This is what Cleitophon (says he) knew about love, and one assumes that these are things he had learned from books. Even allowing for the purpose of his rhetorical display – getting Leucippe into bed –, and without wanting to downplay its slipperiness,59 Cleitophon provided a basically positive view of the power of Eros. This scene can help us with reading the anonymous narrator’s exclamation and Cleitophon’s response. It suggests that it is not, or at least not only, the universality of Eros’ power that Cleitophon now thinks he understands because of his experiences, but the agony and humiliation it inflicts. Moreover, he has gone from showing what seems to be a positive understanding to having one that is apparently negative. The presence of marriage, albeit metaphorical, in the accounts he gave of love in nature highlights the change in attitude, since, in the meantime, Cleitophon has got married to Leucippe: whatever has happened in between, including a marriage to Melite, is over, and he has reached the apparent goal of his story.60 But the supposed climax of his story is relatively downbeat (8,19), and when one returns to the frame, which is chronologically later than the narrative’s end, we find Cleitophon emphasising the suffering inflicted on him by Eros. Cleitophon has now had personal experience to confirm that Eros’ power is the most powerful force there is, but it has, he seems to think, caused him only trouble, and he gives the impression that he would rather not have experienced it: his sufferings, the supposed outrages Eros supposedly inflicted on him, do not seem to have been worth it. ————— 58

59 60

forms a powerful contrast with what Cleitophon implies on his introduction: on this passage of Longus, see Morgan 2004a, 179-184. See Morales 2004, 184-189, for discussion of these. She, 188-189, reads the last as containing disturbing overtones: I would agree, but doubt whether Cleitophon, who is trying to seduce Leucippe, is conscious of them. For which, in general, see Goldhill 1995, ch.2, Marinčič 2007, and Jones 2012. See Whitmarsh 2011, 102 and 107, for good discussion.

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But this is, or at least should be, completely wrong. In accordance with the norms of the genre, Cleitophon should be living happily ever after, with Leucippe. Perhaps something has actually gone wrong: the structure of the novel leaves open the possibility that disaster has struck between the events at the end of Cleitophon’s narrative and his current situation.61 The reader is not given this information and so we cannot know, but we can see what Cleitophon thinks: he presents his story as tragic, even though the narrative he gives does not end unhappily.62 Leaving aside the unknowable, it seems that where something has gone wrong is in Cleitophon’s understanding of his own story. We might think that, since he is not undergoing his experiences any more, he should realise they were ultimately for the best; instead, Cleitophon is still stuck in his story, apparently not realising that it has finished.63 Another possibility is that Cleitophon’s experiences were so traumatic that he now has a negative view of the influence of Eros – he is not just stuck in his story: his story has changed his views for the worse. Perhaps, if things have gone wrong in the meantime, it is precisely because Cleitophon has not learned the right lesson: his tragic understanding of his story might have turned it into a tragedy, for which he thinks Eros is responsible.64

Conclusion The way Cleitophon is introduced and the first thing he says invite the reader to assess how knowledgeable the young man is and what it is he thinks he knows. He makes a seemingly authoritative comment on the anonymous narrator’s observation about the painting in front of which they meet, but is apparently unable to relate the contents of this painting and of the paintings he says he saw to important elements of his story. This is made more noticeable by the fact that he likes to make comparisons with works of art depicting mythical scenes; however, he does ————— 61 62

63

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See Repath 2005. See Whitmarsh 2011, 208-209, on Cleitophon seeing things in ‘hyperdramatic terms’, and, 223-232, on the novels in general, especially the tendency of male characters to see their stories as tragic as they are undergoing their adventures; cf. his comments, 163-164, on the beginning of Cleitophon’s narrative resembling tragedy. Cf. Jones 2012, 44: ‘Cleitophon appears stuck in the time warp of his story, learning nothing and never changing.’ Cf. Schmeling 2007, 34-35, on the circularity of the narrative. Cf. Whitmarsh 2011, 232: ‘the subversion of the standard marriage-as-telos motif implies that, exceptionally, the tragic perspective is vindicated in this novel: life really is, apparently, an endless succession of sufferings.’ Cf., also, Morgan 1997, 185, who suggests ‘it was perhaps Kleitophon’s very failure to learn the lessons of his experience, to distinguish reality from romance, that destabilised the conventionally unnarratable stasis that follows a novel’s conclusion.’

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not play the game that is immediately obvious to the reader and which is all but explained even within his own narrative: as a result, he seems unaware of significant aspects of the structure of his own story and so of one way in which he might learn from it. Another way of questioning the extent to which Cleitophon understands his own story derives from precisely what he says he has learned from it. He says he has learned from the sufferings he underwent at Eros’ hands; he claims that, directly or indirectly, Eros made him to do what he did, that he had a kind of personal relationship with the god, and that his experiences enable him even to pronounce about the nature and character of Eros. However, when he says in the frame that he understands the power of Eros because of what Eros has done to him, he is presenting his presentation of Eros’ dealings with him as authoritative proof of his understanding; but he cannot know what Eros wanted, did, said, and is really like, and there is no external narratorial authority for what he says. Yet this is not necessarily the most problematic aspect of his initial claim. For, in claiming knowledge of the power of love, Cleitophon is presented as suggesting that he has understanding of the central force of the genre to which he and his story belong; however, what he seems to be saying he knows is at odds with the story he tells and with the very kind of story he tells. He thinks he has learned something, which he wants to demonstrate to another by means of his narrative, but it is the wrong lesson, showing that he does not know even what kind of story his is. While he claims to have knowledge of a universal truth, he commits a fundamental mistake in not realising that his story could, and arguably should, be taken to demonstrate something quite different. If Cleitophon’s story were told by someone who was genuinely knowledgeable, such as, perhaps, the primary narrator or the implied reader, it might just do this. But it is not told by someone like this: it is told by a young man keen to impress with what he does not realise is a misreading of the signs, signals, and, ultimately, the meaning of his own story.65

Bibliography Anderson, G. 1979. ‘The Mystic Pomegranate and the Vine of Sodom: Achilles Tatius 3.6’, AJPh 100, 516-518. Bartsch, S. 1989. Decoding the Ancient Novel: the Reader and the Role of Description in Heliodorus and Achilles Tatius, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Behmenberg, L. 2010. ‘Le mythe comme signe. Ekphrasis et le jeu de la préfiguration dans le roman de Leucippé et Clitophon d’Achille Tatius’, in: D. Auger – C. Delattre (eds.), Mythe et Fiction, Paris: Paris University Press, 239-255.

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I should like to thank Stelios and Michael for their kind invitation to contribute to RICAN 6 and for their editorial patience.

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Chew, K. 2012. ‘A Novelistic Convention Reversed: Tyche vs. Eros in Achilles Tatius’, CPh 107, 75-80. Courtney, E. 2001. A Companion to Petronius, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Cueva, E.P. 2006. ‘Who’s the Woman on the Bull?: Achilles Tatius 1,4,3’, in: S.N. Byrne – E.P. Cueva – J. Alvares (eds.), Authors, Authority, and Interpreters in the Ancient Novel: Essays in Honor of Gareth L. Schmeling, Ancient Narrative Supplementum 5, Groningen: Barkhuis Publ. & Groningen University Library, 131-146. De Temmerman, K. 2009. ‘A Flowery Meadow and a Hidden Metalepsis in Achilles Tatius’, CQ 59, 667-670. Elsner, J. 1993. ‘Seductions of art: Encolpius and Eumolpus in a Neronian picture gallery’, PCPS 39, 30-47. Garnaud, J.-P. 1991. Achille Tatius: Le Roman de Leucippé et Clitophon, Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Gaselee, S. 1969. Achilles Tatius2, Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press. Goldhill, S. 1995. Foucault’s Virginity, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hägg, T. 1971. Narrative Technique in Ancient Greek Romances: Studies of Chariton, Xenophon Ephesius, and Achilles Tatius, Stockholm: Svenska Institutet i Athen. Hopkinson, N. 1994. Greek Poetry of the Imperial Period: An Anthology, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jones, M. 2012. Playing the Man: Performing Masculinities in the Ancient Greek Novel, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Konstan, D. 1994. Sexual Symmetry: Love in the Ancient Novel and Related Genres, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Lightfoot, J.L. 2003. Lucian: On the Syrian Goddess, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Marinčič, M. 2007. ‘Advertising One’s Own Story: Text and speech in Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon’, in: V. Rimell (ed.), Orality and Representation in the Ancient Novel, Ancient Narrative Supplementum 7, Groningen: Barkhuis Publ. & Groningen University Library, 168-200. Mignogna, E. 1993. ‘Europa o Selene? Achille Tazio e Mosco o il Ritorno dell’ “Inversione”’, Maia 45, 177-183. Morales, H.L. 2004. Vision and Narrative in Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Morgan, J.R. 1997. ‘Erotika mathemata: Greek romance as sentimental education’, in: A.H. Sommerstein – C. Atherton (eds.), Education in Greek Fiction, Bari: Levante, 163-189. Morgan, J.R. 2004a. Longus: Daphnis and Chloe, Oxford: Aris and Philips. Morgan, J.R. 2004b. ‘Achilles Tatius’, in: I.J.F. De Jong – R. Nünlist – A. Bowie (eds.), Narrators, Narratees, and Narratives in Ancient Greek Literature, Leiden: Brill, 493-506. Morgan, J.R. 2007. ‘Kleitophon and Encolpius: Achilleus Tatius as hidden author’, in: Paschalis – Frangoulidis – Harrison – Zimmerman (eds.), 105-120. Nakatani, S. 2003. ‘A re-examination of some structural problems in Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon’, AN 3, 63-81. Nimis, S. 1998. ‘Memory and Description in the Ancient Novel’, Arethusa 31.1, 99-122. O’Sullivan, J.N. 1978. ‘Notes on the Text and Interpretation of Achilles Tatius 1’, CQ 28, 312329. O’Sullivan, J.N. 1980. A Lexicon to Achilles Tatius, Berlin: De Gruyter. Paschalis, M. – Frangoulidis, S. – Harrison, S. – Zimmerman, M. (eds.) 2007. The Greek and the Roman Novel: Parallel Readings, Ancient Narrative Supplementum 8, Groningen: Barkhuis Publ. & Groningen University Library.

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Plepelits, K. 1980. Achilleus Tatios: Leukippe und Kleitophon, Stuttgart: Hiersemann. Reeves, B.T. 2007. ‘The role of ekphrasis in plot development: the painting of Europa and the bull in Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon’, Mnemosyne 60, 87-101. Repath, I.D. 2005. ‘Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Cleitophon: What Happened Next?’, CQ 55, 250-265. Repath, I.D. 2013. ‘Yours Truly? Letters in Achilles Tatius’, in: O. Hodkinson – P.A. Rosenmeyer – E. Bracke (eds.), Epistolary Narratives in Ancient Greek Literature, Leiden: Brill, 237-262. Schmeling, G. 2007. ‘Narratives of Failure’, in: Paschalis – Frangoulidis – Harrison – Zimmerman (eds.), 23-37. Selden, D.L. 1994. ‘Genre of Genre’, in: J. Tatum (ed.), The Search for the Ancient Novel, Baltimore – London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 39-64. Vilborg, E. 1955. Achilles Tatius: Leucippe and Clitophon, Stockholm: Almquist and Wiksell. Vilborg, E. 1962. Achilles Tatius, Leucippe and Clitophon: A Commentary, Göteborg: Göteborg University Press. Whitmarsh, T. 2003. ‘Reading for pleasure: narrative, irony, and eroticism in Achilles Tatius’, in: S. Panayotakis – M. Zimmerman – W. Keulen (eds.), The Ancient Novel and Beyond, Leiden: Brill, 191-205. Whitmarsh, T. 2011. Narrative and Identity in the Ancient Greek Novel: Returning Romance, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Whitmarsh, T. – Morales, H. 2001. Achilles Tatius: Leucippe and Clitophon, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Winkler, J.J. 1985. Auctor & Actor: A Narratological Reading of Apuleius’s The Golden Ass, Berkeley: University of California Press. Winkler, J.J. 1989. ‘Achilles Tatius: Leucippe and Clitophon’, in: B.P. Reardon (ed.), Collected Ancient Greek Novels, Berkeley: University of California Press, 170-284.

A Land without Priests? Religious Authority in Longus, Daphnis and Chloe E WEN B OWIE University of Oxford

One of the many ways in which the universe created by Longus in Daphnis and Chloe differs from those offered by the other four ‘ideal’ Greek novels is the absence of institutionalised community religion – and with that absence goes the absence of priests, whether honest or fraudulent.1 All four of the other ‘ideal novels’ involve priests or priestesses at some point. Thus in Chariton the temple of Aphrodite built and dedicated by Dionysius has attached to it a priestess, ἱέρεια.2 Again in Chariton’s last book priests are involved in Chaereas’ dedications and banquet in honour of Aphrodite on Cyprus: δεξαμένων δὲ αὐτῶν ἐξεβίβασε τὴν δύναμιν ἅπασαν εἰς γῆν καὶ ἀναθήμασι τὴν Ἀφροδίτην ἐτίμησε· πολλῶν δὲ ἱερείων συναχθέντων εἱστίασε τὴν στρατιάν. σκεπτομένου δὲ αὐτοῦ περὶ τῶν ἑξῆς ἀπήγγειλαν οἱ ἱερεῖς (οἱ αὐτοὶ δέ εἰσι καὶ μάντεις) ὅτι καλὰ γέγονε τὰ ἱερά. When they (i.e. the Cypriots) had welcomed him he disembarked his whole force and honoured Aphrodite with dedications; and gathering together many animals for sacrifice he feasted the army. And when he enquired about what

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2

On some definitions the sacrifices and feasts set up at 2,30,3-2,37 to celebrate Chloe’s return, at 4,13,3 to mark Dionysophanes’ visits to his estates, and at 4,26 to celebrate Daphnis’ recovery of his identity, might be counted as ‘institutionalised religion’, as indeed might the symposia at 4,25,2 and 4,34-36. But all of these are one-off responses to a particular situation, and seem not to imply regular, institutionalised cult. Char. 3,9,1 μικρὸν οὖν διαλιποῦσα καλεῖ τὴν ἱέρειαν· ἡ δὲ πρεσβῦτις ὑπακούσασα …. (‘so after a short interval she summoned the priestess: and the old lady did as she asked …’); 3,9,4 τοῦτο μόνον εἶπεν, ὅπερ ἤκουσε παρὰ τῆς ἱερείας (‘he only said what he had heard from the priestess’). Holy Men and Charlatans in the Ancient Novel, 69–83

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was going to happen the priests (who are also prophets) reported that the sacrifice had been propitious. Chariton 8,2,9 It is likewise in Xenophon: Anthia’s parents seek help from priests and prophets to solve the mystery of their daughter’s malady: εἰς τέλος εἰσάγουσι παρὰ τὴν Ἀνθίαν μάντεις καὶ ἱερέας, ὡς εὑρήσοντας λύσιν τοῦ δεινοῦ. οἱ δὲ ἐλθόντες ἔθυόν τε ἱερεῖα καὶ ποικίλα ἐπέσπενδον καὶ ἐπέλεγον φωνὰς βαρβαρικάς, ἐξιλάσκεσθαί τινας λέγοντες δαίμονας, καὶ προσεποίουν ὡς εἴη τὸ δεινὸν ἐκ τῶν ὑποχθονίων θεῶν. In the end they brought prophets and priests to Anthia to discover a solution for the crisis. And when they came they slaughtered sacrificial beasts, accompanying this by various libations and by non-Greek utterances, saying that they were trying to propitiate certain divinities, and they claimed that the crisis had been caused by the gods of the underworld. Xenophon 1,5,6-8 Later in the same book, in Xenophon’s description of Anthia’s and Habrocomes’ departure from Ephesus (1,10,7-8), the addition of the words ἱερειῶν (‘priestesses’) or ἱερῶν παρθένων (‘holy virgins’) was proposed by Hemsterhuys to give syntax and sense to the manuscript reading.3 In Achilles Tatius the priest of Artemis at Ephesus appears garlanded with laurel (7,12,2-3), signalling the arrival of a θεωρία (‘sacred embassy’) that requires a suspension of Cleitophon’s trial, and then plays an important part in the story’s denouement in Book 8. Heliodorus offers his readers two styles of priest: the straightforward, pious and wholly Hellenic Charicles, who engages in such traditional ritual action as arranging for the performance of a hymnos at Delphi (3,18); and the ambiguous Calasiris about whom much has been written. In the world of Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe the religious structures (like much else) are very different. Why? Part of the explanation may be that in Longus’ day, and indeed apparently ever since the archaic and classical periods, some Greek rural cults virtually ran themselves: caves and other natural features that were re————— 3

πολλαὶ δὲ καὶ τῶν or τῶν (‘many of the priestesses’ or ‘many of the holy virgins’), Hemsterhuys, 1732. There are other possibilities: Cobet proposed simply ξένων (‘foreign women’) and Zagoiannis γυναικῶν (‘women’).

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garded as holy could attract regular worshippers and be graced with frequent offerings but might not be expected to have any established priest or priestess in charge. Almost all the places discussed as the locations of cults of nymphs by Jennifer Larson are in this category.4 The only exception I have discovered is the unusually elaborate cult of the nymphs at Aquae Calidae, near the Greek colony of Anchialus on the Black Sea, north of Salmydessus. In the first centuries BC and AD this cult is documented as attracting worshippers from Asia Minor as well as from Thrace, Macedonia and the Black Sea; by the Severan period there are dedications to these Nymphai Anchialiae and they are also commemorated on coins. This place sounds like Bath, Baden Baden and Loutraki all rolled into one, and is very different from the vast majority of cults of Nymphs.5 It is also worth noting that even so well established a cult as that of Amphiaraus at Oropus did not have a full-time priest. Surviving regulations from the fourth century BC require its priest to be there only from the end of winter until the first ploughing, and not continuously even during that period; but in this case it is also clear that the day-to-day needs of worshippers are handled by a resident νεωκόρος: θεοί. τὸν ἱερέα τοῦ Ἀμφιαράου φοιτᾶν εἰς τὸ ἱερόν, ἐπειδὰν χειμὼν παρέλθει μέχρι ἀρότου ὥρης, μὴ πλέον διαλείποντα ἢ τρεῖς ἡμέρας καὶ μένειν ἐν τοῖ ἱεροῖ μὴ ἔλαττον ἢ δέκα ἡμέρας τοῦ μηνὸς ἑκστο· καὶ ἐπαναγκάζειν τὸν νεωκόρον τοῦ τε ἱεροῦ ἐπιμελεῖσθαι κατὰ τὸν νόμον καὶ τῶν ἀφικνεμένων εἰς τὸ ἱερόν… (To) the gods. The priest of Amphiaraus is to come regularly to the sanctuary when winter passes until the season of ploughing, not omitting to do so for more than three days, and he is to remain in the sanctuary for no fewer than ten days in each month. And he is to ensure that the temple-attendant cares for the sanctuary according to the law and for those who visit the sanctuary… IG vii 235 = Syll.³ 1004= SEG 31,416= IOropos 277 (c. 387-377 BC) ————— 4

5

Larson 2001. For a good discussion of the typology of nymphs see Sourvinou-Inwood 2005. For the cult of Nymphai Anchialiae at Aquae Calidae see Larson 2001, 174; for sculpted reliefs with dedicatory texts see IGBulg. i2 380 [κυ]ρίες Νύφες (i.e. κυρίαις Νύμφαις, ‘to the lady Nymphs’) and Ζωπᾶς Ἰουλίου| εὐχαριστõν (i.e. εὐχαριστῶν) ἀνέ|θηκεν (‘Zopas son of Iulius dedicated [sc. this relief] in gratitude’) and IGBulg. i2 381 Μ̣(ᾶρκος) Ἰούλιο̣ς Μίκκαλος [— — —]|Νύμφαις Ἀνχιαλ[είαις — — — — —] (Marcus Iulius Miccalus ... to the Nymphs of Anchialus). For a priest see IGBulg. i2 382 [— — — —ω]ν̣ Τίτου εὐχαρισ|[τήριον ἱ]ερατεύοντος β̣ʹ|[— — — — —]ς Σαλου (... a thank-offering of Titus during the second priesthood of [......] Salus). For coins see Robert 1959, 223-25.

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It is of course very relevant that the majority of the action of Daphnis and Chloe takes place in the countryside, where there appears to be no nucleated settlement so large even as one of the smaller classical Attic demes. It would be reasonable to suppose that Longus saw institutionalised religion as a feature of Greek polis life, where the city elites controlled and provided officials for cults not only in the urban centres but in many extra-urban shrines that were located in the territory of a polis. One of his objectives might be to display how rural religion might be imagined to operate when such control from the centre was not being exercised. I think there is something in this supposition. But, as I have argued elsewhere,6 Longus does not set out to allocate all virtues to the country and all vices to the city, and it would have been open to him to have a figure like Dionysophanes actively involved not merely in the cult of Dionysus but in some cult of Eros or Pan as well – all cults which could in principle have either an urban or a rural location. What Longus does instead is subtle and interesting. The city magnate Dionysophanes is the nearest person in Daphnis and Chloe to a historical priest from the urban elite. But, despite his ostentatiously theophoric name, Dionysophanes is neither a holy man nor even a priest. He has indeed dedicated a temple to Dionysus in the elaborate παράδεισος (‘park’) or hortus conclusus (‘walled garden’) on his rural estate outside Mytilene – a villa rustica whose actual villa is never described by Longus, but is simply referred to once by the term καταγωγή (‘residence’, 4,1,2).7 However, although arrangements have been made for tending the παράδεισος (‘park’) – this is clearly one of Lamon’s duties (4,1,1-3), and so in some sense he is a νεωκόρος, ‘temple-attendant’, though never so described – Longus gives no hint of any provision for recurrent festivals or sacrifices, nor indeed does he indicate that there was any regular form of worship at the temple itself. It has something of the air of a museum temple of the sort represented by the small tholos temple of Cnidian Aphrodite at Hadrian’s villa at Tivoli – a mimesis of a temple. But that it is something more than this is shown by Gnathon’s flight there as a ἱκέτης (‘suppliant’, 4,25,2). It is, then, a sacred space, but it is one without cult. Dionysophanes does indeed offer sacrifices to the country deities on the first day of his visit to his estate, but they are to Demeter, Dionysus, Pan and the Nymphs, not just to Dionysus, and they are not said to happen in association with Dionysus’ temple (4,13,3). ————— 6 7

Bowie 2009. The choice of this word, used of inns or modest public rooms (cf. IGR iv 1209) may be made to tease the reader with a comparison between Dionysophanes’ trip into the country and that of Socrates in Pl. Phdr., where at 230b he uses it of the locus amoenus where they have halted.

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In this respect Dionysophanes is quite different from his distant but recognisable literary ancestor, Chariton’s Dionysius of Miletus. The priestess who has been mentioned above as associated by Chariton with Dionysius’ temple of Aphrodite (at 3,9,1 and 4) must be supposed to have been provided for in a foundation that Dionysius set up when he built and dedicated the temple. In the real world of a historical Greek city a figure like Dionysius, acting through the city’s governing bodies – whether the demos or the boule, or both – would have made financial arrangements for the appointment and maintenance of a priestess and for the performance of rituals at regular intervals.8 In Daphnis and Chloe we might imagine that Dionysophanes was indeed a priest of Dionysus, holding his priesthood, as so many did in the imperial period, διὰ βίου (‘for life’),9 but Longus does nothing to nudge our imagination in that direction. Rather, I think, we are asked to see the temple and its set of paintings that narrate episodes from the deeds of Dionysus (more succinctly than such poets as Nonnus) as part and parcel of Dionysophanes’ limited and inadequate understanding of the world. This is an understanding that allows him to expose his son because he thinks that his three older children make up a large enough family to inherit his wealth, and that they will always be there to do so; and an understanding that has him create a παράδεισος (‘park’) in which art exploits and dominates rather than complements nature – as so well interpreted by John Morgan10 – and which anyway Dionysophanes visits only rarely. For a man like this a temple decorated with the clichés of Dionysiac myth are enough to publicise the special relationship with Dionysus that we are to presume he felt on the basis of his name Dionysophanes. Longus gives us no hint that this relationship had any religious far less spiritual importance for him. Dionysophanes twice acknowledges that Daphnis and Chloe were saved by the ‘providence of the gods’ (προνοίᾳ θεῶν, 4,24,2; 4,36,1), but he does not specify which gods these were; and when he sets up his rustic feast to celebrate Daphnis’ discovery, its sacrifices are to ἐπιχώριοι θεοί (‘gods of the locality’) in general, and there is no special mention of Dionysus. Indeed it is Daphnis, not Dionysophanes, who is mentioned as making a dedication to Dionysus, τῷ Διονύσῳ μὲν ἀνέθηκε τὴν πήραν καὶ τὸ δέρμα (‘to Dionysus he dedicated his leather bag and his animal skin’, 4,26,2) as well as to Pan and the nymphs. ————— 8

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For arrangements for the performance of elaborate rituals (though in this case not associated with a temple), see the foundation of C. Vibius Salutaris at Ephesus, with Rogers 1991. As did many of the priests of the civic imperial cult catalogued and discussed by Frija 2010a and 2010b. Morgan 2004, 224-225.

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Again, when the gods in a dream tell Dionysophanes to throw a party in his opulent house in Mytilene (4,34,1), a party at which it turns out that Chloe’s paternity will be discovered, these gods of whom he dreams are Eros and the nymphs, not Dionysus. The rustic gods who assiduously watched over Daphnis and Chloe seem to have moved into the religious vacuum left by Dionysophanes’ hollow and formal attachment to Dionysus. It seems clear, then, that Dionysophanes is no holy man. He is not even a regular worshipper like Chariton’s Dionysius of Miletus, who prays repeatedly and with some success to Aphrodite, never passing her temple that he has built near his house (2,2,5, cf. 5,10,1), and who on his supposed son’s birth fills temples with offerings and lays on banquets that involve sacrifice (3,7-8). But Dionysophanes’ negative role is itself important. His presentation makes it clear to readers that they must look outside the city limits for holiness. Another of Longus’ characters has a much stronger claim to be a holy man, Philetas. Philetas’ relationship with Eros is the closest that any mortal has with a divinity in any of the novels. Just as in other novels gods communicate with mortals through dreams, so too in Daphnis and Chloe the nymphs appear to several characters in a dream – once to both Dryas and Lamon (1,7,2), twice to Daphnis (2,23,1 and 3,27,2), and together with Eros to Dionysophanes as has just been noted (4,34,1); they probably also appear to Megacles (at 4,35,5).11 Similarly Pan communicates angrily with the Methymnaean commander Bryaxis in a deep midday sleep (2,26-27), following upon a series of miraculous phenomena that have no detectable anthropomorphic involvement. But Philetas is in a class by himself. He is privileged not simply to have had a life in which Eros was watching over him ever since in his youth he fell in love with Amaryllis (2,5,3) but actually in old age to see Eros in his well-tempered garden and to receive from him a λόγος (‘account’) of ἔρως (‘desire’) / Eros which he passes on to Daphnis and Chloe (2,4-6). Its blend of elements drawn from early cosmogonic poetry, from Anacreon, from Empedocles, from Plato’s Phaedrus and from the figure of Diotima in his Symposium, spiced up with allusions to Hellenistic love poetry triggered by the name Philetas, mixes a powerful cocktail that ensures that this particular ————— 11

Megacles is unspecific – ἀλλ’ ὥσπερ οἱ θεοὶ γέλωτά με ποιούμενοι νύκτωρ ὀνείρους μοι ἐπιπέμπουσι δηλοῦντες ὅτι με πατέρα ποιήσει ποίμνιον (‘but as if the gods were making me a laughing-stock they have been sending me dreams in the night indicating that a sheep will make me a father’) – but the reader is likely to take the gods who have sent these dreams to be, as in all other cases but one in the novel, the nymphs. I exclude Lycaenion’s fraudulent claim (3,17,2) that the nymphs have appeared to her in a dream, discussed below, though that claim reinforces the general expectation that in Longus’ world dreams come from nymphs. I have not seen Carlisle 2009.

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scene’s impact is as forceful as its content is important for the novel as a whole.12 It is not surprising that it was a scene that caught the eye of the Brazilian painter Rodolfo Amoedo.13 Although the only individual act of worship we read of Philetas performing is his ‘bringing little garlands, and grapes still with their leaves and stalks, to Pan’ (στεφανίσκους τινὰς τῷ Πανὶ κομίζων καὶ βότρυς ἔτι ἐν φύλλοις καὶ κλήμασι, 2,32,1) he is the sort of numinous figure who has or claims to have a special relation to divinity that we find in many Greek texts of this period, some dismissively sceptical, like Lucian’s quasi-biography of Alexander of Abonouteichos, other adopting at least a posture of reverence, like Philostratus’ On Apollonius. Another analogue, cocooned like Longus’ characters in layers of narrative authentication, is the provocatively un-named vintner of Philostratus’ Heroicus who, he tells his wind-delayed Phoenician interlocutor, has regular encounters with the epic hero Protesilaus.14 As this case of the vintner in Philostratus’ Heroicus shows, what makes a mortal holy is not simply a close relationship with a divinity and some expectation of special protection by that divinity, but the capacity to draw upon that relationship to expound the nature of the divine, whether particular or general. I have suggested that such a capacity was certainly not evident in Dionysophanes, whereas equally evidently it is present in Philetas. But it is also to some extent evident in some other characters in Daphnis and Chloe, and I shall briefly assess their claims to being holy men, or holy women. First, a character who can swiftly be dismissed as a charlatan, Gnathon. This urban parasite who ‘had been educated in the whole range of erotic mythology in the symposia of roués’ (οἷα πᾶσαν ἐρωτικὴν ἐν τοῖς τῶν ἀσώτων συμποσίοις πεπαιδευμένος, 4,17,3)15 glibly adduces precedents from gods’ sexual misbehaviour to support his own lecherous inclinations and has no divine truths to offer the pastoral world. His pseudo-didactic role is that of a foil to narrators who have stronger claims to understand the gods. ————— 12

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For an excellent discussion see Morgan 2004, 179-180, proposing a more systematic set of associations than Hunter 1983, 35 f. See the painting of Philetas’ lesson, now in the Museu Nacional de Belas Artes, Rio de Janeiro, by Rodolfo Amoedo (b. December 11, 1857 in Salvador, Bahia – d. May 31, 1941 in Rio de Janeiro). The most subtle and illuminating analysis of Philostratus’ Heroicus is now Hodkinson 2011. If, as seems very possible, Longus is writing around AD 200, it is tempting to see this compact description as a snipe at the paideia, much of it to do with eros and erotica, offered by Athenaeus in his distended Deipnosophistae, probably written in the 190s.

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One of these narrators is Daphnis himself. But the two myths he tells involving Pan (1,27,2-4; 3,23) lack authority. The reader is not told where Daphnis learned these myths, and we have some reason to suspect he does not understand them. For us readers they briefly conjure up the spectre that Daphnis, like Pan in the cowgirl’s song of 1,27 and in the story of Echo at 3,23, may find that the power of sexual desire, ἔρως, will drive him into a destructive relationship with Chloe that replaces symmetry and consensuality with patriarchal male domination and her subjection to sexual violence. That indeed was the interpretation offered by Winkler in a classic chapter.16 But as I have argued elsewhere, the reader does not need long to see how improbable this outcome would be, and is guided to interpret these μῦθοι (‘myths’) both as testimonies to Pan’s overall power, exemplified in the Methymnaean episode and in the cult-title he is given by the couple at the end of the book, Πὰν Στρατιώτης (‘Pan the Soldier’, 4,39,2), and as markers of the generic difference between novelistic, happy-end story-telling and traditional, disaster-prone Greek mythology.17 Daphnis is undoubtedly pious (as also is Chloe). After the serious mistake of omitting Pan from their worship (2,22,4) the couple continue worshipping Pan, the Nymphs and Eros not simply for the rest of the novel but for the rest of their lives: καὶ οὐ τότε μόνον ἀλλ’ ἔστε ἔζων τὸν πλεῖστον χρόνον βίον ποιμενικὸν εἶχον, θεοὺς σέβοντες Νύμφας καὶ Πᾶνα καὶ Ἔρωτα (‘And not only then, but so long as they lived, they had the life of herdsfolk for most of the time, honouring as their gods the Nymphs, and Pan, and Eros’, 4,39,1). Their make-over of the Nymphs’ cave (τὸ ἄντρον ἐκόσμησαν, ‘they beautified the cave’),18 their dedication of εἰκόνες (‘images’), and their erection of an altar to Ἔρως Ποιμήν (‘Eros the Shepherd’) and of a temple for Pan the Soldier (all 4,39,2) are marks of a heartfelt gratitude to the gods that totally outclass the ostentatious but less meaningful edifice of Dionysophanes. We are also encouraged to imagine that the truths about Eros that Daphnis and Chloe had learned from Philetas are truths that they in turn pass on to their (almost) look-alike children. But even if all this is so, nothing in it elevates them to theologically authoritative figures. Daphnis’ father Lamon may have a slightly stronger claim. Like Daphnis, he too tells a myth about Pan, and purports to guarantee its provenance, a Sicilian αἰπόλος (‘goatherd’, 2,33,3). That reference is not, on this fictional version of ————— 16 17 18

‘The Education of Chloe: Hidden Injuries of Sex’, in: Winkler 1990, 102-126. See Bowie 2004; Bowie 2009; Kossaifi 2012. For a remarkable fifth-century BC case of an individual at Vari in Attica building a cave of the Nymphs in reponse to their commands see IG i3 977-980, especially 980 = CEG 321 Ἀρχέδημος ὁ Θ|ηραῖος ὁ νυμφ|όληπτος φραδ|αῖσι Νυμφο̑ν τ|ἄντρον ἐξηργ|άξατο (‘Archedemos of Thera, nymph-possessed, at the behest of the Nymphs constructed the cave’), discussed by Larson 2001, 14-16, 242-245.

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Lesbos, to the historical Syracusan poet Theocritus, but to the fictional and mysteriously unnamed αἰπόλος of the first poem of Theocritus in modern and in some ancient editions, ἁδύ τι τὸ ψιθύρισμα καὶ ἁ πίτυς, αἰπόλε, τήνα | ἁ ποτὶ ταῖς παγαῖσι, μελίσδεται … (‘Sweet is the whispering that that pine too, goatherd, the one beside the springs, sings …’). The reference prompts the reader to link Lamon and his pastoral world with the Theocritean pastoral tradition, which is such an important intertext for Daphnis and Chloe, and to attempt connect Lamon’s foster-son Daphnis in some way with the mythical Daphnis of Theocritus 1.19 Lamon is thus, like Philetas, ‘poetically enfranchised’ (to borrow a term used by Morgan of Philetas).20 But this literary genealogy claimed by Lamon for his myth (μῦθος, 2,33,3) takes us to the erotic fictions of a Hellenistic poet, Theocritus, whose presentation of the incurable nature of sexual desire in another of his works, Poem 11, had been revised if not refuted by Philetas earlier in that same second book of Daphnis and Chloe. Nothing that Lamon says or does either at this celebration or elsewhere in the novel makes him a serious candidate for the title of ‘holy man’. Is Philetas, then, left holding the cup of Bathycles? One more candidate within the story needs to be considered, even if also to be dismissed. That is Lycaenion. In some sense Lycaenion might be seen as a missionary of Eros, and her instruction in the ἔργα (‘acts’) of Eros manifestly complements Philetas’ exposition of his logos. But Lycaenion has many bad marks that might be seen as obstacles to holiness: her lupine name (‘Little Wolf’), her urban origin, the fact that it is her own sexual desire that first prompts her to seduce Daphnis, her spying on the couple to confirm her hunch that they are enamoured, her deception both of her husband and of Daphnis in achieving her sexual objective. Indeed her deception of Daphnis is double: she first pretends that an eagle has snatched one of her twenty geese (3,16,2) – despite learning γράμματα (‘letters’, 1,8,2) Daphnis does not have the literary schooling to spot that this is a calque on a move made in the Odyssey by the ever-astute Penelope –21 and then she claims that the nymphs have appeared to her in a dream and told her to teach Daphnis the ἔργα of Eros (3,1617). The narrative makes it clear to the reader that this is a fraudulent claim, and to point up the fraud in Lycaenion’s self-presentation as a divine agent Longus uses the pregnant term καταμαντευομένη (‘divining’, 3,15,3) to describe Lycaenion’s entirely unsupernatural thought-processes in concluding that Daphnis and Chloe are in love. So, like Gnathon in the next book, Lycaenion has something of ————— 19

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For Longus’ use of Theocritus and the pastoral tradition to construct his own pastoral world see Cresci 1999; Effe 1999; Bowie 2013. A link between Longus’ Daphnis and that of pastoral poetry had already been hinted at earlier, at 1,3,2. Morgan 2004, 179. Odyssey 19,536 ff.

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the charlatan about her, but like Gnathon she also unwittingly plays an important role in the divine purpose. The cup of Bathycles, then, seems secure in the hands of Philetas. But I have so far failed to introduce a figure who has been lurking, like Lycaenion, in the wooded landscape near the cottages of Daphnis and Chloe. The narrator created by Longus notoriously turns to an ‘expounder’ (ἐξηγητής) to interpret the painting he has discovered in the cave of the nymphs (pref. 3), and he represents his own narrative as an account based on that of the ἐξηγητής. At this point the preface deserves to be quoted in full: ἐν Λέσβωι θηρῶν ἐν ἄλσει Νυμφῶν θέαμα εἶδον κάλλιστον ὧν εἶδον· εἰκόνα γραπτήν, ἱστορίαν ἔρωτος. καλὸν μὲν καὶ τὸ ἄλσος, πολύδενδρον, ἀνθηρόν, κατάρρυτον· μία πηγὴ πάντα ἔτρεφε, καὶ τὰ ἄνθη καὶ τὰ δένδρα· ἀλλ’ ἡ γραφὴ τερπνοτέρα καὶ τέχνην ἔχουσα περιττὴν καὶ τύχην ἐρωτικήν· ὥστε πολλοὶ καὶ τῶν ξένων κατὰ φήμην ᾔεσαν, τῶν μὲν Νυμφῶν ἱκέται, τῆς δὲ εἰκόνος θεαταί. γυναῖκες ἐπ’ αὐτῆς τίκτουσαι καὶ ἄλλαι σπαργάνοις κοσμοῦσαι, παιδία ἐκκείμενα, ποίμνια τρέφοντα, ποιμένες ἀναιρούμενοι, νέοι συντιθέμενοι, λῃστῶν καταδρομή, πολεμίων ἐμβολή. πολλὰ ἄλλα καὶ πάντα ἐρωτικὰ ἰδόντα με καὶ θαυμάσαντα πόθος ἔσχεν ἀντιγράψαι τῇ γραφῇ· καὶ ἀναζητησάμενος ἐξηγητὴν τῆς εἰκόνος τέτταρας βίβλους ἐξεπονησάμην, ἀνάθημα μὲν Ἔρωτι καὶ Νύμφαις καὶ Πανί, κτῆμα δὲ τερπνὸν πᾶσιν ἀνθρώποις, ὃ καὶ νοσοῦντα ἰάσεται, καὶ λυπούμενον παραμυθήσεται, τὸν ἐρασθέντα ἀναμνήσει, τὸν οὐκ ἐρασθέντα προπαιδεύσει. πάντως γὰρ οὐδεὶς ἔρωτα ἔφυγεν ἢ φεύξεται, μέχρις ἂν κάλλος ᾖ καὶ ὀφθαλμοὶ βλέπωσιν. ἡμῖν δ’ ὁ θεὸς παράσχοι σωφρονοῦσι τὰ τῶν ἄλλων γράφειν. In Lesbos, while hunting, in a grove of the Nymphs I saw a spectacle, the most beautiful I have seen, an image’s painting, a story of desire. Beautiful too was the grove, densely-treed, flowery, abundantly-watered. A single spring fed everything, both the flowers and the trees. But the painting was more pleasing, for it displayed outstanding skill and an adventure of desire, so that many even among strangers came in response to its renown, suppliants of the Nymphs and spectators of the image. In it there were women giving birth and others wrapping swaddling clothes, babies being exposed, grazing beasts feeding them, shepherds taking them up, young people pledging, an incursion by pirates, an assault by enemies, many other things, and all deeds of desire. When I saw it and felt wonder, a longing seized me to write in competition with the painting, and seeking out an expounder of the image I have laboured to fashion four books, a dedication to Desire and the Nymphs and

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Pan, and a pleasing possession for all men, which will both heal the man who is sick and console the one in pain, will remind the one who has been struck by desire, will prepare the one who has not. For by no means has anybody escaped Desire, nor will escape it, so long as beauty exists and eyes see. As for us, may god grant us without loss of self-control to write the story of others. Together, then, Longus and his narrator have created a four-book work which purports to deliver a fundamental message about Eros. It is sometimes suggested that Philetas is an alter ego for Longus, or for the narrator created by Longus: it is a corollary that a reader is invited to scrutinise the narrator’s credentials just as she scrutinises the credentials of Philetas. The narrator claims to have been ‘hunting on Lesbos’ (ἐν Λέσβωι θηρῶν) – but hunting what?22 Prima facie more probably wild beasts, as we are to imagine Dionysophanes sometimes did on his ‘beast-breeding mountains’ (ὄρη θηροτρόφα, 1,1,2), than grasshoppers, like Chloe (1,10,2), birds, like Daphnis (3,5,3) or nymphs, like Pan.23 But that early in the preface we learn that the paintings represented τύχην ἐρωτικήν (‘amorous adventure’)24 may suggest that the narrator’s hunting was more to do with ἔρως (‘desire’) than with wild beasts. Hunting imagery is sometimes used of sexual pursuit,25 though Longus never uses it of the mutual attraction of Daphnis and Chloe. Hunting terms are also used to refer to a thinker’s pursuit of ideas. Thus the chorus of Aristophanes’ Clouds addresses Socrates as θηρατὰ λόγωv φιλoμoύσωv (‘hunter of Muse-loving words’, 358), and in philosophy a hunt can be a hunt for truth.26 Within the story the most important hunt of this sort is the quest of Daphnis and Chloe for sexual knowledge, and this idea is foregrounded during Philetas’ encounter with Eros, where Eros is described by Philetas as χρῆμα ... ἀθήρατov (‘something impossible to catch’, 2,4,3) and calls himself δυσθήρατoς (‘difficult to catch’, 2,5,2) even for a swift bird of prey. But parallel to this quest we are asked to contemplate the reader’s own quest for knowledge, ————— 22 23

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On hunting images in Longus see Paschalis 2005; Kossaifi 2012, 585. Pan’s sexual pursuit of nymphs is a common theme in classical vase-painting and in Hellenistic and Greco-Roman epigram, and plays a part in all three inset tales (1,27; 2,34; 3,23), though in the first only in a mise-en-abyme. The translation of Morgan 2004. Xen. Mem. 1,2,24 (Alcibiades) διὰ κάλλoς ὑπὸ γυναικῶν θηρώμενoς (‘hunted by women because of his beauty’), cf. Ath. 5,219c κυνηγεῖ οὖν ὁ καλὸς Σωκράτης ἐρωτοδιδάσκαλον ἔχων τὴν Μιλησίαν, ἀλλ’ οὐκ αὐτὸς θηρεύεται, ὡς ὁ Πλάτων ἔφη, λινοστατούμενος ὑπὸ Ἀλκιβιάδου (‘So the fine figure of Socrates goes hunting, with the woman from Miletus as his tutor in erotics, and is not himself hunted, as Plato asserts, netted by Alcibiades’). Pl. Theaet. 200a, cf. Plu. Per. 13,16. See further Edwards 1997.

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not generally, concerning the meaning of life at large, as suggested by Morgan,27 but particularly concerning ἔρως (‘desire’). The preface, then, can be read as presenting us with a questing figure, keen to hear λόγοι (‘stories’) and to be told what they mean, and with an encounter between that figure and a shadowy ἐξηγητής. This narrator can be credited with an enthusiasm for the power of ἔρως (‘desire’) that shines through the preface, with confidence in his own literary creation’s didactic and healing powers, but with a wish himself to tread a path of σωφροσύνη (‘chastity’ or ‘self-control’).28 To that extent he presents himself as a holy man, a would-be disinterested evangelist of the kingdom of desire. But how has the narrator discovered that this kingdom is as he presents it? The succinctness of his own account of the painted scenes leaves much room for interpretation and elaboration by his ἐξηγητής. Despite his much-discussed echoes of Thucydides,29 the narrator does precisely what Thucydides denies that he himself did – he seeks information ἐκ τοῦ παρατυχόντος (‘from whoever happened to be at hand’, Thuc. 1,22,2). But the credentials of this exegetic informant are never validated by the narrator as are those of Philetas (within the ἐξηγητήςgenerated narrative!), or as are those of the vintner in Philostratus’ Heroicus. Perhaps we should acquiesce in the narrator’s decision to accept the story of the ἐξηγητής without question. But if we do so we shall be traitors to Longus’ persistent cause of nuanced, sometimes multiple readings. We must take away with us another possibility: that we are to suppose that the ἐξηγητής was a charlatan. I note the scepticism and criticisms often voiced by Pausanias concerning the stories offered to him by the ἐξηγηταί (‘expounders’) at several shrines in mainland Greece. Thus of Argos he says: ‘indeed the Argive guides themselves are aware that not all the stories they tell are true; yet they tell them all the same; for it is not at all straightforward to persuade ordinary people to adopt opinions ————— 27

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That the narrator’s hunt is for the ‘meaning of life’ (Morgan 2004, 148) seems to me to take us beyond any hints offered in the preface. This proposal is similar to, but does not go so far as, that of Paschalis 2005, who notes analogies between the narrator’s attraction to the painting and that of his characters to objects of sexual desire (Daphnis, Dorcon and Lampis to Chloe; Gnathon to Daphnis) and between his expectation of rural pleasure in hunting and that of Daphnis, the Methymnaeans, and Astylus, and concludes ‘The metaphor of the narrator as hunter is a manifestation of this general pressure towards enjoyment and possession of the desired object, intended to render the process of devising and writing a pastoral novel the very plot of which underlies this very same mechanism of desire’ (Paschalis 2005, 65). Acceptance of this enticing interpretation would still leave room for the question I raise concerning the imagined sources of this enthused narrator’s story of desire and possession. Cf. Hunter 1983, 47-52; Philippides 1983, 32-35; Pandiri 1985, 117-118; Cueva 1998; Teske 1991, 2-7; Wouters 1994, 142-143; Luginbill 2002, 233-247; Trzaskoma 2005.

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contrary to their beliefs’ (οὐ μὴν οὐδὲ αὐτῶν λέληθεν Ἀργείων τοὺς ἐξηγητὰς ὅτι μὴ πάντα ἐπ’ ἀληθείᾳ λέγεταί σφισι, λέγουσι δὲ ὅμως· οὐ γάρ τι ἕτοιμον μεταπεῖσαι τοὺς πολλοὺς ἐναντία ὧν δοξάζουσιν, 2,23,6).30 We may also recall the arguments I have offered in favour of the view that Longus had read Pausanias.31 It is possible, then, that we should imagine that nothing like this had ever happened on Lesbos, even in the narrator’s fictional world, and that the narrator’s enthusiasm and pious naivety have allowed him to be deceived by one of the many ἱεροὶ λόγοι (‘sacred tales’) circulating in the space between Bethlehem and Berga. A universe in which teenagers know nothing about ἔρως (‘desire’), in which they learn about it implausibly slowly from a maudlin old man and a lecherous young housewife, in which their learning about ἔρως (‘desire’) and their being discovered themselves to be the exposed children of city magnates does not (pace Winkler) destroy the symmetry of a relationship that has developed in a natural, rural environment – all this is to be credited to an unnamed and undescribed ἐξηγητής (‘expounder’) and is thus one remove from the masterly narrator who takes us through the story and two removes from the historical person who wrote or dictated the four books. The ἐξηγητής is a perilously weak link in the ‘chains of multimedia transmission’32 by which we are told the story reaches us. Whereas in Plato’s Phaedrus the numinous locus amoenus is presented as some sort of validation of the accounts of ἔρως (‘desire’) that are offered, here in a preface that evokes that Phaedran scene the excitement created in the narrator by the grove and its paintings leads him to accept the account of an ἐξηγητής (‘expounder’) that nothing supports.33 However much we admire the narrative skill that this innovative master of fiction deploys, we should never forget that the vision of ἔρως (‘desire’) as a religious force to whose power the paintings have sensitised the narrator is a vision whose theology and anthropology that narrator is careful to delegate to another voice – a voice whose identity, like Philetas’ anthropomorphic ἔρως, is so presented as to be utterly elusive, and whose authority must always remain open to question. ————— 30

31 32 33

On Pausanias’ ἐξηγηταί see Jones 2001; for a list of Pausanias’ references to them Whitmarsh 2011, 99 n.148. Bowie 2001. The expression used in the important discussion of Whitmarsh 2011, 100. It might even be suggested that the conclusion of that account, involving dedication of εἰκόνες (‘images’) and a βωμός (‘altar’) that seem not to match the single εἰκόνος γραφήν (‘representation of a painting’) of the preface (where there is no word of an altar) is intended to warn the reader that it comes from an ἐξηγητής who is not even careful to match his exposition to the site he purports to explain. For a different way of interpreting Longus’ relation to Plato see Blanchard 1975.

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This is perhaps to be related to the apparent fact that the version of the interaction between mortals and gods presented in Longus stands at one end of the spectrum we find in the novels, i.e. it offers a world in which gods and mortals interact much more closely than in our other examples of the genre. Thus the account of Pan’s intervention to save Chloe goes much further in ascribing supernatural events to a specific god than the miracle that comes nearest to it, Habrocomes’ repeated escape from crucifixion in Egypt (Xen. 4,2), and Philetas’ close encounter with Eros (admittedly resting on his own narrated testimony) is unparalleled in the Greek novels, just as Daphnis’ sacrifice of a goat to Pan in fulfilment of his vow is surprisingly the only case of a vow explicitly made and then fulfilled by a mortal.34 But, by introducing the sort of ἐξηγητής he does, Longus carefully removes any testimony which might persuade his readers that there ever was such a world. In this his use of Beglaubigungsapparat is diametrically opposed to that of Antonius Diogenes, Dictys and Iamblichus. These writers offer their readers tempting grounds for thinking the events in the story might ‘really’ have happened. Longus’ reversal of the novelistic trope has the consequence that readers will suspect that the entire basis of his narrator’s enthusiasm for the power of Eros is of ‘such stuff as dreams are made on’.35

Bibliography Alcock, S. – Cherry, J. – Elsner, J. (eds.) 2001. Pausanias: Travel and memory in Roman Greece, Oxford – New York: Oxford University Press. Blanchard, J.M. 1975. ‘Daphnis et Chloé: histoire de la mimesis’, QUCC 20, 19-62. Bowie, E.L. 2001. ‘Pausanias: inspiration and aspiration’, in: Alcock – Cherry – Elsner (eds.), 21-32. Bowie, E.L. 2004. ‘The function of mythology in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe’, in: J.-A. López Férez (ed.), Mitos en la literatura griega helenística e imperial, Madrid: Ediclas, 361-376. Bowie, E.L. 2009. ‘Vertus de la campagne, vices de la cité dans Daphnis et Chloé de Longus’, in: B. Pouderon – C. Bost-Pouderon (eds.), Passions, vertus, vices dans l’ancien roman, Lyon: Maison de l’Orient et de la Méditerranée, 13-22. Bowie, E.L. 2012. ‘Socrates’ cock and Daphnis’ goats: The rarity of vows in the religious practice of the Greek novels’, in: S.J. Harrison – S. Frangoulidis (eds.), Narrative, culture and genres in the ancient novel, Trends in Classics Supplement, Berlin: de Gruyter, 225-273. Bowie, E.L. 2013. ‘Caging grasshoppers: Longus’ materials for weaving “Reality”’, in: M. Paschalis – S. Panayotakis (eds.), The Construction of the Real and the Ideal in the Ancient Novel, Ancient Narrative Supplementum 17, Groningen: Barkhuis & Groningen University Library, 179-198.

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See Bowie 2012. Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act iv Scene 1.

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Carlisle, D.P.C. 2009. Καὶ ὄναρ καὶ ὕπαρ: Dreaming in the ancient novel, Diss. UNC, Chapel Hill, NC. Cresci, L.R. 1999. ‘The Novel of Longus the Sophist and the Pastoral Tradition’, in: Swain (ed.), 210-242. Cueva, E. 1998. ‘Longus and Thucydides: A New Interpretation’, GRBS 39, 429-440. Edwards, M.J. 1997. ‘The Art of Love and Love of Art in Longus’, AC 66, 239-248. Effe, B. 1999. ‘Longus: Towards a History of Bucolic and its Function in the Roman Empire’, in: Swain (ed.), 189-209. Frija, G. 2010a. Les prêtres des empereurs: le culte impérial civique dans la province romaine d’Asie, Rennes: Presses universitaires de Rennes. Frija, G. 2010b. Prosopographie des prêtres du culte impérial dans les cités de la province romaine d’Asie, http://www.pretres-civiques.org/. Hodkinson, O. 2011. Authority and Tradition in Philostratus’ Heroikos, Lecce: Pensa Multimedia, series ‘Satura’. Hunter, R.L. 1983. A Study of Daphnis and Chloe, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jones, C.P. 2001. ‘Pausanias and his guides’, in Alcock – Cherry – Elsner (eds.), 33-39. Kossaifi, C. 2012. ‘The legend of Phatta in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe’, AJP 133, 573-600. Larson, J. 2001. Greek Nymphs: Myth, Cult, Lore, Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Luginbill, R.D. 2002. ‘A Delightful Possession: Longus’ Prologue and Thucydides’, CJ 97, 233-247. Morgan, J. 2004. Longus, Daphnis and Chloe, Oxford: Oxbow books. Paschalis, M. 2005. ‘The Narrator as Hunter: Longus, Virgil and Theocritus’, in: M. Paschalis – S. Frangoulidis – S.J. Harrison – M. Zimmerman (eds.), Metaphor and the ancient novel, Ancient Narrative Supplementum 4, Groningen: Barkhuis & Groningen University Library, 50-67. Pandiri, T.A. 1985. ‘Daphnis and Chloe: the art of pastoral play’, Ramus 14, 116-141. Philippides, M. 1983. ‘The Prooemium in Longus’s Lesbiaka’, CB 59, 32-35. Rogers, G.M. 1991. The sacred identity of Ephesus, London and New York: Routledge. Robert, L. 1959. ‘Les inscriptions grecques de Bulgarie’, RPh 33, 11-236, with plates 1-4. Sourvinou-Inwood, C. 2005. Hylas, the Nymphs, Dionysos and Others: Myth, Ritual, Ethnicity, Acta Instituti Atheniensis Regni Sueciae 19, Stockholm: Åströms Förlag. Swain, S.C.R. (ed.) 1999. Oxford Readings in the Greek Novel, Oxford – New York: Oxford University Press. Teske, D. 1991. Der Roman des Longos als Werk der Kunst: Untersuchungen zum Verhältnis von Physis und Techne in Daphnis und Chloe, Münster: Aschendorff. Trzaskoma, S. 2005. ‘A Novelist Writing “History”: Longus’ Thucydides Again’, GRBS 45, 75-90. Whitmarsh, T. 2011. Narrative and identity in the Greek novel: Returning Romance, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Winkler, J.J. 1990. The constraints of desire: The anthropology of sex and gender in ancient Greece, London – New York: Routledge. Wouters, A. 1994. ‘Longus, Daphnis et Chloé: le prooemion et les histories enchâssées, à la lumière de la critique récente’, LEC 62, 131-167.

Fickle Coloured Religion: Charlatans and Exegetes in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses U LRIKE E GELHAAF -G AISER University of Göttingen

Introduction: Apuleius and the ‘religious market place’ of the second century AD1 ‘All Cretans are liars – and the one who told you so was a Cretan’.2 Introducing my contribution with this saying is not only due to the genius loci of the conference proceedings. For everyone who tries to define the role of the charlatans in the Metamorphoses, is faced with a similar aporia. It is beyond question that Apuleius’ novel is a satirical reflection of the religious market place of the 2nd century AD. The first ten books in particular present us with a colourful kaleidoscope of magical sibyls and necromancers, exotic prophets and astrologers, Cynic pseudo-philosophers and orgiastic mendicant priests.3 Literally, the concept of the ‘religious market place’ can be applied to the public space of action of those religious experts who are just like salesmen, merchants and fairground acrobats4 mainly introduced into the novel at urban junctions, busy central spots and places.5 In accordance with these locations, the ————— 1

2 3

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My thanks to Wytse Keulen and Johannes Park for their constructive and intense discussion of the manuscript as well as Katharina Stahn for her English translation. Epimenid. I 3B1 D.-K.; Paul. Tit. 1,12-13. Cf. a Socrates who resembles a Cynic beggar (met. 1,6); a suspicious Chaldean who draws horoscopes (2,12-14); an Egyptian priest who appears as necromancer (2,28-29); Thessalian witches who give Sibylline weather oracles (2,11,5-12,2) and are experts in love spells and curses (1,7,7-1,19,12; 3,15-18); itinerant mendicant priests of the dea Syria who fabricate an oracle (8,24-9,10). Met. 1,4,2: juggler in front of the Stoa Poikile at Athens. Met. 1,5,5: entrance to the bath; 1,24,4 and 2,2,3: forum cupidinis; 2,12,3: urban public; 2,21,4 and 2,27,2: forum; 8,24: auction. Holy Men and Charlatans in the Ancient Novel, 85–104

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aspects of moneymaking and trading figure prominently.6 For not only with regard to the victuals on sale and the spectacular entertainment programme of fairground acrobats and storytellers,7 but also with regard to the religious offers their market value first has to be negotiated;8 and just like purchasing overpriced goods, gullible purchasers and customers are steadily cheated out of their wealth and possessions in case of religious services.9 We can detect a salient specialisation of the religious vendors engaging in the field of divination. Thus, the market-like satisfaction of religious needs seems to be a group-specific feature of the crisis managers who are active in the divinatory realm, themselves to be located among a lower social class10 and mainly appealing to the needs of the lower social strata. Finally, the concept of the ‘religious market place’ can also be applied to the literary work itself. On the one hand, the divination scenes frequently lead to a question of interpretive sovereignties, since the credibility of the (seemingly) divine answers is challenged. On the other hand, the different divination experts do not vie with each other within one and the same scene, but in the progress of reading across all eleven books. The Metamorphoses thus does not only mirror contemporary everyday life of the 2nd century AD, but also creates itself a religious market place within the narrative, offering the reader a wide range of exegetes and interpretations. As far as the content is concerned, I will restrict myself to the first ten books. The exclusion of book 11 is due to the observation that the conditions of the religious market place, the divinatory practices and the protagonists entrusted with them differ greatly from the relevant scenes in the adventure books.11 The motif of market and trade does figure prominently in the Isis Book.12 However, whereas trading operations unfold under the negative signs of illegal fraud, embezzlement and unfair self-enrichment in the first ten books, in the Isis ————— 6

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Met. 1,2,1; 1,5,3-5; 1,7,6; 1,9,3; 1,24-25; 2,12,4; 2,13,2-3; 2,22-23; 8,23-25; 8,28,6-29,1; 9,4,3; 9,8,1; 9,29,4. On this Winkler 1985, 119-122; Keulen 2000; Keulen 2007, 33-36. On the roles of circulatores, fabulatores and aretalogoi Scobie 1979; Winkler 1985, 238242. Met. 1,4,6: offer of a prandium for an entertaining story; 1,24: purchase of a fish dish priced at 100 denars for 20 denars; 2,13,4: charting of a horoscope for 100 denars paid in advance; 2,22,5-23,2: undertaking a death-watch for a fee of at first 4-6, then 10 aurei. Met. 1,24-25: loss of an overpriced fish dish; 2,13-14: money recovery at the very last moment; 9,8: charting of spurious oracles for money. Rüpke 2001, 219-222. Cf. below section 2. Against Harrison 2000, 244-245 and Kirichenko 2010, 123-141, who support a strictly satirical interpretation of the religious cultic personnel. Met. 11,5,5 and 11,16,5-17,4: inauguration of navigation; 11,26,1: sea voyage to Rome.

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Book the inauguration of navigation is scheduled according to the calendar, solemnly institutionalised and officially approved by the authority of the Roman Imperial administration, being ritually integrated into the ceremonial prayer. High expenditure is repeatedly mentioned in the Isis Book,13 but characteristically – and in contrast to the first ten books – not within a divinatory context. In book 11, exploring the future is not an article a customer can order from a religious expert at the urban market and purchase for dear money; instead, the forward-looking epiphanies and dreams appear without being asked and behind closed doors.14 On top of that, in the Isis Book there is no need for intermediary divinatory experts as to these exclusive divine predictions about the future (even though oneiromancers and aretalogers rank among the cultic personnel of Isis15); the message is directly conveyed to the addressee. Hence, the divinatory practices of book 11 have to be examined closely and separately, before relating them to the ten preceding books – too monumental a task to be fulfilled here. Instead, a markedly exemplary approach seems advisable. In order to do so, I have chosen the Chaldean Diophanes and the Syrian mendicant priests as two instructive case studies that are not only interrelated in terms of motifs, but also – this is my proposition – provide an additional meta-poetic level of interpretation. I want to show that the divinatory experts offer ‘show-cases’ to past and future events, by means of which complex narrative structure of the Metamorphoses becomes transparent. Religious divination and literary interpretation are thus consistently intertwined. Here and there the charlatans can even be elevated to model exegetes with authorial qualities and the skills of these exemplary interpreters are promptly challenged by vying voices and thus have a highly ambivalent interpretive potential, oscillating between reliable and entertaining qualities. Before turning to the two aforementioned case studies, I would like to point out the underlying conditions. This is due to the fact that relevant scholarly groundwork in the field of religious studies suggests basic premises as to ancient divinatory practices. In case of a Roman readership, knowledge of these practices can be presumed. From a modern point of view, however, they need to be reconstructed.

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Met. 11,18,3; 11,23,1; 11,24,6; 11,25,5; 11,27,9; 11,28; 11,30,1-2. Met. 11,13,1; 11,19,2; 11,20; 11,21,4; 11,22; 11,26,1; 11,26,4; 11,27,4 and 8-9; 11,28,24; 11,29-30,1; exceptions are the epiphany of Isis, motivated by Lucius’ prayer at 11,5,56,7 and the public sermon of the Isis priest at 11,15. Scobie 1979, 241; Winkler 1985, 233-242; Keulen 2007, 40-41.

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Premises from the perspective of a Roman reader: forms and functions of divination Among the categories according to which a Roman reader is able to classify the divinatory scenes in the Metamorphoses, three can be stressed as being particularly prominent:16 1. Topic and range of information. The starting point for all considerations is the definition of divination as a special form of religious communication. However, in stark contrast to Etruscan and Greek religion, according to Roman understanding divination neither aimed at elucidating the past nor exploring the future. The insights to be gained from Roman mantic rituals were strictly limited. On the one hand, an enquiry generally referred to a concrete act and the current situation of the present day. On the other hand, such communicative actions – primarily the auspicium – merely aimed at a clear and distinct alternative, i.e. approval or refusal on the part of the gods. 2. Media and form of communication. The choice of media used during the consultation is closely connected with the temporal and contentual framework. Two completely different divinatory techniques face each other: lot oracles drew on pre-formulated texts in written form, being subject to a choice governed by chance. Hence, the spaces of interpretation were already limited a priori, especially since not only the respective available text corpus (oracle books, dice and lots), but also the consultation method was strictly determined. With such a profound specification of text and action these techniques of consultation were in contrast to the ecstatic divination by means of an inspired medium, whose oral message was put into writing afterwards – if at all.17 Lot oracles were predominant in the Italic area, having authority regardless of their merely local influence; in contrast, divination governed by chance figured much less prominently and was considered as being inferior in the Greek cultural area compared to the divine power of an inspired seer.18 3. Social spaces and strata. As to Roman society, we can assume the co-existence of two parallel worlds of divination, that is on the one hand the politically institutionalised auspice and the procuration of prodigies and on the other hand a flourishing ‘religious black market’, regulating itself according to the principle of supply and demand. In the former case we can assume a closed system, since all ————— 16 17

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North 1990; Rüpke 2001, 219-222; Rosenberger 2001; Burkert – Belayche – Rüpke 2004. On oral and written transmission and commemorative tradition in the different oracular sanctuaries Rosenberger 2001, 58-64; Burkert – Belayche – Rüpke 2004, 32-33. Cic. div. 2,85; Burkert – Belayche – Rüpke 2004, 38. However, the Delphic Pythia was occasionally consulted by means of lot oracles, too: Rosenberger 2001, 51-58.

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participants were members of the political elite. In the latter case we must assume a considerable number of unauthorised providers of oracles, seers and astrologers, offering their services for money both in public and in private and being much sought-after regardless of all bans and persecutions in both private and public spaces. If we compare this general framework of Roman divination and the appearance of itinerant charlatans and travelling fortune-tellers in the Metamorphoses, their affiliation to the ‘religious black market’ already casts an ambivalent light on them. No-one of the divinatory experts staged in the adventure books acts on behalf of and at the behest of political elites or urban administration. The ‘holy men’ rather reap their exorbitant profit from exuberant private demand that escapes political control.19 Due to exorbitant prices required for charting a personal horoscope or drawing an oracle, suspicion of fraud immediately suggests itself; indeed, the divination experts repeatedly come into conflict with urban authorities.20 On top of that, in the divinatory scenes of the Metamorphoses it is not always easy to determine whether any communication with the gods has been achieved at all or whether it has merely been pretended. Furthermore, the correctness of the divine answers is constantly questioned. For example, the wife of a deceased man publicly challenges the authority of the Egyptian prophet Zatchlas;21 the alleged dea Syria oracles are even explicitly exposed as a fraudulent fabrication of the mendicant priests.22 It is all the more difficult that the religious experts staged in the adventure books claim the ability to make nuanced and detailed, more-than-present statements instead of a choice between only two options as typical of Roman divination: whereas the witch Pamphile forecasts tomorrow’s weather in a sibyl-like prognosis on the basis of the flickering light of a lamp,23 Zatchlas explores past events with the help of spectacular necromancy.24

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20 21 22 23 24

In comparison with food prices but also entertaining spectacula (met. 1,4,6; 1,24), the sum for all divination services appears to be astronomically high: met. 2,13,4: 100 denars; 2,28,1: grandi praemio; 9,8,6: non parvas pecunias. Met. 1,9,4; 9,10. Met. 2,29,6. Met. 9,8,1, on this see below section 4.2. Met. 2,11,5-6. Met. 2,28.

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All divination experts are characterised as exotic foreigners both by their physiognomy, their vestments25 and their oracular techniques26. The Syrian mendicant priests are the sole exception. Admittedly, from the perspective of a Roman reader they are depicted as typical representatives of an oriental foreign cult by means of their colourful clothing and musical instruments, their orgiastic activities and their ecstatic self-chastisement, their effeminate bearing and deviant sexual behaviour.27 However, when fabricating ambiguous oracles, they draw on the divinatory practice of a written lot oracle a Roman reader must have been familiar with. Already because of this discrepancy, the Syrian mendicant priests seem to be in particular need of explanation – even more so, since the lot oracle is not mentioned in the corresponding passage of the Greek Onos28 and thus appears to be a reinvention of Apuleius. The passage dealing with the itinerant devotees of the dea Syria also holds a special position due to its extraordinary length (met. 8,249,10); it is by far the longest and most detailed narrative unit pivoting on a specific group of religious charlatans.29 Besides, this episode is highly relevant against the backdrop of the ‘religious market place’; hardly by chance is the whole narrative sequence framed by two auction scenes in which the donkey (as he himself explicitly mentions) increases his market value by almost a third.30 The spacious sacks in which the itinerant charlatans store away their raked-in goods also hint at the aspects of trading and making money.31 The questionable market value of divination services is then brought up in the fake lot oracle the mendicant priests use to cheat all-too gullible villagers out of their money.32

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Physiognomy: met. 2,13,1-2. Vestments: 2,28,1-2; 8,27,1-3. Such as in the case of astrology: met. 2,11,5-6; 2,12-13; 8,24,3. Met. 8,26-28. For a detailed description of the dea Syria see Lucian’s work and Lightfoot 2003. Lucian Asin. 35-41. This contrasts sharply with the fact that they are often only summarily discussed by scholars: Schmidt 1981 and Hijmans et al. 1985, 286-298 postulate a deliberate contrasting effect to Isis; Winkler 1985, 109-110, Anderson 1994, 178-180, Keulen 2003, 128-129, Graverini 2007, 87-89 and Kirichenko 2010, 129-130 focus on different aspects of (satirical) charlatanry. Met. 8,23-25 and 9,10,5. The retrospective reference rursum, the comparative degree and the repeated mention of Philebus clearly emphasise that both auction scenes correlate with each another (met. 9,10,5): altera die productum me rursum voce praeconis venui subiciunt. septemque nummis carius quam prius me comparaverat Philebus quidam pistor de proximo castello praestinavit. Met. 8,28,6. Met. 9,8, on which see section 4.2.

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At first sight, however, the intertwining of religious divination and literary interpretation that I would like to postulate for the introductory market scene and the oracle fraud seems less evident. In order to sharpen the gaze for this possible interpretation, a case study will first be presented involving the Diophanes tale, whose metapoetic quality has been recognised by Apuleian scholarship beyond dispute.

When charlatans tell the truth: the iridescent interpretive art(istry) of Diophanes The mantic practice of the Chaldean Diophanes is staged in a complex way (met. 2,12-14), thus being able to serve as an instructive touchstone for the literary skills of interpretation of the religious charlatans.33 That this travelling astrologer has to be located at the religious black market already becomes evident due to the fact that he draws overpriced horoscopes in the street, thus stirring up (turbulentat) the whole city (met. 2,12,3: passim). A conflict with the authorities thus seems to be bound to occur – an expectation of the reader that is then belied. The character becomes even more elusive through his ‘wondrous replies’ (met. 2,12,3: miris responsis), covering virtually every typical critical moment – from the wedding date and the start of construction works up to travel planning. With his varied horoscopes Diophanes seems to outclass all the other rivalling divination experts in the first three books of the Metamorphoses. According to the situational spectrum the Chaldean claims to cover, his answers are by no means precise, but ‘different, marvellous and quite varied’ (met. 2,12,5: multa ... et oppido mira et satis varia). In contrast to Roman divination practice, the horoscopes of the Chaldean defy clear interpretation and cannot be pinned down to a clear ‘yes’ or a clear ‘no’, but turn out to be decidedly ambiguous and open to interpretation. A scrupulous reader is confronted with the proverbial aporia of the ‘Cretan liar’. On the one hand, Diophanes’ prophecy that Lucius himself will become part of an ‘unbelievable tale’ (met. 2,12,5: incredunda fabula) will doubtlessly meet with the reader’s approval. On the other hand, the Chaldean’s extradiegetically confirmed credibility is directly afterwards undermined by means of an intradiegetic reference to his own misfortune. Although Diophanes claims to be able to ————— 33

On the scene see Winkler 1985, 39-43; Graverini 2001 and 2005, 233-248; Van MalMaeder 2001, 12-13 and 207-235 (with earlier bibliography); Kirichenko 2010, 132-133.

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reveal fateful secrets (met. 2,12,3: arcana fatorum) to others – inclusive of favourable travel planning –, he failed to foresee the disastrous progress of his own journey. According to John Winkler, the story of Diophanes serves to offer the scrupulous reader the perspective of the sceptical religious critic and the willing believer as an alternative interpretation. I, however, would like to challenge whether the reader really has to make a decision. With regard to a precise description of the problem there are two distinguishable aspects that can be deduced from Diophanes’ character: 1. Inverse proportionality of credibility and entertainment value. The more dubious the Chaldean appears and the more his authority is challenged, the more successful he becomes as a character in the narrative. On which components is then the entertainment value of a character based? As Wytse Keulen has shown,34 it is in particular the introductory chapters in which the reader finds multiple indications that entertaining subject-matter is presented to him (or her). Apart from qualities of content – vicissitudes and sudden twists of fate (met. 1,1,3, realised in the ‘Odyssey-tale’ of Diophanes), programmatic variety (met. 1,1,1: varietas, mirrored by the versatile horoscopes) and novelty (met. 1,26 and 1,3,3: novitas) – aspects of the aesthetics of production and reception are stressed through rhetoric and satirical wit35 as well as the intended effect on the audience (met. 1,1,1: ut mireris; met. 1,1,6: laetaberis, implemented in the mira responsa of the Chaldean). The story’s entertainment value is clearly reflected by the size and the reaction of the audience within the work, appreciating and countering all kinds of spectacle with roaring laughter. In the case of the Chaldean Diophanes, it is (from the perspective of the ones concerned unintentionally) the comical humiliation of a charlatan exposed which greatly amuses the viewers.36 2. The paradox of a charlatan (unwittingly) telling the truth. More narrative complexity and a metapoetic level are added to the Diophanes scene by the fact that the Chaldean is exposed as a treacherous and incompetent prophet in front of the audience within the story, but also gains a higher level of credibility outside the story. For through the story, literary fame as promised to Lucius by the Chaldean, has already been achieved from the reader’s perspective. Below the surface of evident charlatanry thus a deeper truth becomes visible due to the fact that the

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36

Keulen 2007, 16-19 and 21-23. Met. 1,7,4: ioci et scitum et cavillum, iam dicacitas timida; 2,19,4: risus adfluens et ioci liberales et cavillus hinc inde. Met. 2,14,5: cum etiam nos omnis circumsecus adstantes in clarum cachinnum videret effusos.

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protagonist – and thus the Metamorphoses – turns into a mantic object, i.e. an object of interpretation within the work through sudden metalepsis. Hence, I think (against Winkler) that Diophanes’ actual attraction derives from the very fact that this colourful character combines two contrasting qualities – both the entertainment value of a charlatan convicted of fraud and the special truth claim of a divination expert as exemplary exegete. Based on the observations outlined above, the metapoetic interpretive level of the Diophanes scene can nowadays be regarded as communis opinio in scholarship.37 Still, this quality has never been postulated in Apuleian scholarship with regard to the itinerant and mendicant priests of the dea Syria, which I would now like to focus on.

Vying masters of the word: interpretive options under the banner of the dea Syria Regarding my interpretive approach, two scenes are particularly relevant. The introductory auction, where the donkey Lucius is auctioned off to the mendicant priest Philebus, does not only set the course for the complete episode pivoting on the entourage of the dea Syria, but also launches a reference to the Diophanes tale by the motif of the horoscope.38 As I would like to show in a first step, the marketplace scene also allows for a metapoetic reading, since an anonymous praeco gains authorial qualities and the donkey – just like the young hero Lucius in book 2 – is elevated to an object of interpretation. With regard to the theme of the charlatan, the verbal exchange between the eloquent auctioneer and the mendicant priest Philebus plays a vital role, since such disputes about interpretive sovereignty are part of the typical narrative profile of the ‘holy men’.39 Right before the ending of the episode, religious divination and literary interpretation also coalesce into a manipulative oracle used by the mendicant priests to cheat all-to gullible country people out of their money.40 On the basis of this scene I would like to investigate in a second step whether the opalescent oracle is ————— 37 38

39 40

Winkler 1985, 40-41; Graverini 2001 and 2005; Van Mal-Maeder 2001, 212-217. It is even more surprising that this reference to the scene is not mentioned in any of the recent narratologically- and poetologically-oriented monographs, neither by Winkler 1985 nor Graverini 2007 or Kirichenko 2010. Anderson 1994, 131-150. In recent scholarship, this scene has been mentioned only in passing: Winkler 1985, 285; Anderson 1994, 69; Hijmans et al. 1985, 291-292; Hijmans et al. 1995, 83-91; Kirichenko 2010, 130.

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indicative of literary processes of interpretation that can be applied to the reception of the Metamorphoses.

Praeco lasciviens: rhetorical divination at the livestock market The market scene, during which the priest Philebus purchases the donkey as a pack animal of the Syrian goddess, can serve as interpretive key to the whole episode. Hence, my aim is to show how the praeco assumes two authorial roles, both as covert director of the scene and as masterful exegete. On the one hand, he sees through the mendicant priest as a charlatan with the help of what appear to be divinatory skills, (simultaneously) anticipating the narrative’s plot. On the other hand, he negotiates the donkey’s material and literary market value with eloquence and amusement. The auction opens with the transfer of the animals to the livestock market and the announcement of the respective minimum price. While all other animals are purchased by sound vendees, the shabby donkey turns out to be a ‘non-seller’, especially since he appears vicious and furious when being examined by a potential buyer. Having roared his lungs out, the auctioneer changes his sales pitch and tries to rid himself of the problem by branding the donkey a hideous, deformed and useless hack (for the sake of entertainment) – until the mendicant priest Philebus and thus a perfectly apt buyer (met. 8,24,1: aptissimum emptorem) of his ‘scrap’ enters the stage.41 It is in particular the astonishing suitability of the actors that promises the reader great entertainment. Mocked by all means of invective, the donkey reacts by reviling the Syrian mendicant priest, having identified him as a cinaedus, human scum and thus a socially even lower character. However, with this strategy he unintentionally enhances situational humour, because both donkey and priest are characterised as misfits on account of evident similarities – their abnormal ugliness, physical deformation and their social ineligibility – and inevitably tied to each other. Now, when the donkey characterises the appearance of his buyer as ‘wonderful arrangement’ (met. 8,24,1: mire repertum) of cruel Fortune, he draws on an explanatory stereotype that had already been introduced in book 1 and particularly

————— 41

Cf. met. 1,24,9: for a metapoetic interpretation of the term quisquiliae see Keulen 2007, 23-26.

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in book 7 been used as a leitmotif to propel the action.42 Certainly, an attentive reader will by now have noticed that another character directs the auction scene together with the anonymous praeco: may the blind goddess of fortune have made the mendicant priest enter the stage at the right moment, it is after all due to the auctioneer’s skilfulness that the transaction is brought to a close.43 However, is it plausible that a mere functional character whose action is restricted to this particular market scene is narratively enhanced and provided with authorial skills? In order to answer this question, at first we will have to untangle the associations linked to this function.44 The professional crier either carries out his work as a lower-ranking usher (praeco publicus) on different administrative, senate and judicial occasions or as a private auctioneer. Auctions mainly took place in busy places of the city, on the forum, much-frequented roads and intersections. The praeco auctions off goods on behalf of the owner or an intermediary. They fixed a minimum price that had to be accepted or pushed up too far at the auction, but which was by no means supposed to be undercut. In case of a successful auction, the praeco received a share of the profit of one to two per cent. This already shows that the action spaces of a praeco and the itinerant charlatans overlap in many respects and that both are engaged in the flourishing market and trading events to a great extent. While the religious services of the divination experts in the Metamorphoses regularly attract the interest of buyers who pay (suspiciously) much,45 the auction scene in book 8 draws much of its humour already from the fact that the praeco is in danger of being left with the donkey; in view of the donkey’s deformedness and ferocity even the set minimum price is still miserable value for money.46 With regard to a potentially metapoetic quality, however, it is above all the features being ascribed to the praeco that are relevant. Here, an iridescent image arises: whereas one of Martial’s epigrams tells us that a dull person (Mart. 5,56: duri ingenii) was able to become a praeco without further ado due to the fact that ————— 42

43

44 45 46

Met. 1,1,1; 1,7,1; 7,2,4; 7,3,5; 7,16,1; 7,17,1; 7,25,3; 9,1,5. On the role of Fortuna see Keulen 2007, 18-19; Schmidt 1981, 70-71. The Metamorphoses differs fundamentally from the Greek Onos in the staging of the praeco: there, the auctioneer has already given up, when suddenly the mendicant priest appears (Lucian Asin. 35). On the following fundamentally Schneider 1953. Van Mal-Maeder 2001, 224 and 369. On the fluctuating market value of the donkey and his generally (too) low price in terms of a mocking literary self-reference already Winkler 1985, 284 (in comparison with the Vita Aesopi); Hijmans et al. 1985, 220 (in comparison with Lucian’s Onos).

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one simply needed a strong voice,47 other literary testimonia underline the wit a crier could use to distinguish himself.48 The narrator of the Metamorphoses even goes one step further by portraying the praeco as a satirical counterpart of a forensic orator who has roared his lungs out and strained his vocal chords when advertising the donkey (met. 8,23,5: dirruptis faucibus et rauca voce saucius). In this impasse, the auctioneer tries to get the laughs by presenting himself self-mockingly as a new Cicero through a fitting allusion (met. 8,24,6). His indignant exclamation quem ad finem cantherium istum venui frustra subiciemus? is an unmistakable parody of quo usque tandem from the famous opening of the first Catiline oration (Cat. 1,1). The praeco stylises himself as a new pater patriae, trying to get rid of the beast Catiline – respectively the vicious donkey – by all means of rhetoric art. On top of that, the Metamorphoses also ascribes to the praeco repartee and a tendency to ridicule people. The words chosen by the narrator not only imply rhetorically employed wit and a quite strategic sales pitch, but also seem to suggest that the praeco is a covert director equipped with authorial competencies.49 That it is just a praeco who is made a rhetor’s satirical counterpart and emerges victorious from the battle of words with the mendicant priest, can perhaps be seen as a satirical reflection of topical conflict situations as can be found in contemporary literature: as Graham Anderson has shown, there ‘holy men’ repeatedly need to vie with other experts of communication – mainly with orators, philosophers and other intellectuals –, thus giving proof of their skills.50 During the scene it turns out that it is namely the character of the praeco who is responsible for the dynamics of the plot. The praeco demonstrates his professional know-how by sizing up the mendicant priest with one glance and drawing the right conclusions regarding how to sell his goods to achieve the highest possible profit. In reply to Philebus’ nervous question about the donkey’s character the auctioneer quickly characterises the donkey, who has just shooed away all

————— 47

48

49

50

Cic. Phil. 2,64: voce acerbissima; Quint. inst. 1,12,17: dum ... plus voci suae debeat praeco. This signature feature of the praeco is confirmed in met. 2,21,5: claraque voce praedicabat; 2,31,1: clamare iam desiste; 9,10,4: voce praeconis. Mart. 1,58: praeco facetus. The (alleged) praeco Granius, whose jokes had a proverbial reputation, fits into this picture: Schneider 1953, 1193. Met. 8,23,5: in meas fortunas ridiculos construebat iocos; 8,24,1: praeco ille cachinnos circumstantibus commovebat; 8,24,3: praeco lasciviens; 8,25,3: sic praeco lurchonem tractabat dicacule. In contrast to that, cf. the mendacious mendicant priests’ scornful and affected laughter at 8,26,3: nare detorta magistrum suum varie cavillantur; 9,10,2: mendoso risu cavillantes. Anderson 1994, 136.

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vendees with bites, as a ‘meek character’ of a gelding (met. 8,25,1: vervecem, non asinum vides). As is indicated, however, he has already come to realise that neither the donkey nor the priest are castrates. With his mocking allusion to the sexual life of the mendicant priest whose needs as cinaedus51 the alleged gelding could satisfy, the praeco succeeds in pressuring and inducing him to buy the donkey. As to the questionable divination practices used by the Syrian priest, the praeco also palters with the prospective vendee (met. 8,24,3-4). With his sneering allusion to Chaldean astrology the praeco reveals that he has recognised the Syrian priest as a charlatan and has to offer perfect goods for his specific needs. In answer to the priest’s persistent questions the praeco elevates the donkey to an epitome of a magnificent thoroughbred an anonymous astrologer is said to have calculated an ideal age of five years. Thus, the principles and aims of astrology are completely twisted round; whereas a horoscope is supposed to unveil the uncertain future, the praeco tries to conceal the suspicious origin and the shadowy past of his goods. Thus, he presents himself as a masterful constructor of the plot who does not need a dubious divination technique. With his spontaneous lie, the cunning vendor does not only avoid information obligation, but also unmasks the made-up oracles of the Syrian priests as fraud by means of reader-oriented anticipation. From the beginning, the praeco thus appears superior to the priest. For the priest, in turn, the course of the conversation is much more embarrassing, since he claims to have professional expertise in the mantic realm and therefore should rather emerge victorious than defeated from the negotiating purchases. When Philebus finally realises his inferiority, he tries to reduce the smart praeco to a stupid crier in a mimed gesture of indignation – thereby indirectly and unintentionally confirming him as a (though satirically twisted) vates and brilliant orator. To an attentive reader, it is in particular the attribute delirus that arouses suspicion in terms of metapoetics, as it points to the Cupid and Psyche story of the tipsy old woman (met. 6,25,1: delira anicula).52 That the mendicant priest cannot keep up with the eloquent auctioneer is then again reflected in the following scene by means of the squeaky voices of the cinaedi, being reminiscent of the praeco’s rasp voice due to verbal assonance, but merely able to produce cacophonous shouting.53 ————— 51 52

53

Cf. met. 8,26,1; 8,26,5-6; 8,29. Met. 8,25,3: at te ... cadaver surdum et mutum delirumque praeconem. I owe thanks to Johannes Park for this suggestion. On the poetological aim of the aniles fabulae in detail Graverini 2007, 105-132. Met. 8,26,2: fracta et rauca et effeminata voce clamores absonos intollunt.

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The auctioneer, in turn, not just interrelates the donkey and the charlatan Philebus through his spurious horoscope; with the – from his point of view obviously false! – statement to offer Philebus a great deal by selling an individual in a donkey’s skin to him (met. 8,25,1) he also calls – even though unwittingly – upon the reader’s advance in knowledge who is aware of the donkey’s true identity and is thus likely to take his (or her) hat off to the auctioneer’s ‘intuition’. The ingenious praeco, unintentionally telling the truth with a lie, can be assured of the reader’s applauding approval even more, since the reader can also appreciate the fictitious mathematicus who is said to have cast the donkey’s horoscope as an internal text reference. Inevitably, the reader is reminded of the cryptic prediction in book 2 that the Chaldean Diophanes had granted the hero Lucius (met. 2,12,5). However, now that the auction scene is tied to the Diophanes story, the question arises whether metapoetic aspects are also ascribed to the donkey Lucius in book 8. Firstly, it is indicative that the donkey is not a mere object of negotiation, but is turned into an object of vying interpretations. We could even go further by assuming that in the course of lengthy haggling over the donkey’s qualities, the Metamorphoses is itself also indirectly put under close scrutiny – as long as we accept that similar to the Diophanes scene, along with the protagonist, the work is kept in mind, too.54 Remarkably, in the text the minimum price of the donkey that the mendicant priest finally pays is fixed at 17 denars (met. 8,25,6); however, the literary value of the ‘golden ass’ which is determined by the reader seems to be negotiable. The praeco is not unwilling to vilify his article because of its weaknesses, in order to hype it afterwards due to its unforeseen (as being made-up) advantages. As to the material and the narrative level, a counter-rotating movement can be identified: the more the praeco degrades the donkey’s value of benefit, the more laughter he evokes from the audience and the more the entertainment value is increased. Thus, the greatest possible humiliation of the unsightly animal goes hand in hand with elevating it to an ideal object of narration. All in all, the auctioneer proves to be an adept business man who exposes Philebus as lecher and charlatan; he even reveals himself to the reader as a man of eloquence and an exemplary exegete of the scene, directing off-stage, ingeniously anticipating different elements of the subsequent narrative and repeatedly hinting at a possible interpretation of the donkey as the leading main character and primary narrational object of the Metamorphoses. Since the praeco on the one hand increases the donkey’s value with his conscious lie and on the other hand unintentionally tells the truth, he can become a backdrop against which the charlatanry of the priests becomes very distinct. ————— 54

On this see Graverini 2005, 242.

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Due to the fact that the mendicant priest, in turn, has to make way for the more eloquent praeco during the transaction, he also forfeits his claim to the prediction of the future. Thus, it is not astonishing that the mendicant priests immediately make fools of themselves with the oracle fraud. The following sub-step wants to examine more closely the metapoetic perspectives arising from this scene.

A text for all seasons? Polyvalent oracles and embarrassed exegetes The divinatory and exegetical motifs that had been introduced in the market scene are echoed in the whole narrative unit, in which the fraudulent fortune telling of the mendicant priests is repeatedly mentioned.55 The plot’s climax and decisive turn are achieved just before the ending with the description of an artful oracle fraud. Having enriched themselves by dubious methods, the priests conceive a new way of acquisition in the form of a deceitfully manipulated lot oracle (met. 9,8,26). The detailed description of its fabrication is revealing: the very same oracle, couched in deliberately obscure words and adaptable to nearly every situation in everyday life is set out in writing – be it sticks, tablets or dice. The oracle thus reproduced then only needs to be interpreted by the priests according to the respective enquiry in a creative way. The oracular procedure does make an attentive reader prick up his or her ears for several reasons. Firstly, it is surprising that – by means of the lot oracle – the mendicant priests of an orgiastic foreign cult now draw on a form of interpretation a Roman reader will perceive as familiar, typically Roman-Italic divination technique.56 For the reader – compared to the other divinatory practices that are staged in the Metamorphoses –, this specific lot oracle gains a special quality and even unique characteristic. On the one hand, he or she can verify attempted fraud in one familiar oracular technique very well and be amused at that.57 On the other hand, only here is a written text mentioned. An experimental transfer of the oracle ————— 55

56

57

Met. 8,29,2: fictae vaticinationis mendacio; 9,8,1: vaticinationisque crebris mercedibus suffarcinati purissimi illi sacerdotes. Lucian tells of another technique used in the temple of Hierapolis, where a statue of Apollo responds to the questions of a priest through the ecstatic movement of an inspired medium (Lucian SyrD. 34). That written oracles – counter to a first, spontaneous expectation – were by no means forgery-proof but rather prone to fraud, is already attested in ancient texts: Hdt. 7,6; Ar. Eq. 109-144. See Burkert – Belayche – Rüpke 2004, 40-41.

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text on the literary narrative thus seems to suggest itself in particular. The cryptic distich can hardly be seen as an equivalent of the Metamorphoses in the strict sense. However, one might give thought to the question whether mechanisms of production and reception of the similarly fickle coloured narrative are implicitly mirrored by the ambiguous text.58 Reconsidering the text with regard to this question, the oracle procedure as fabricated by the Syrian priests is already exposed as corrupt and fraudulent as to its production process. By multiply reproducing the very same oracle, the mendicant priests merely present their clients with one text without any alternative. Thus, they subvert the mantic principle of chance that underlies the lot oracle. Moreover, the priests violate the principles of Roman-Italic divination, since they do not tie themselves down to a specific statement when composing the lines, but rather obscure the text on purpose, thus rendering it – more or less plausibly – adaptable to virtually every situation in everyday life: from marriage and buying premises to travelling and war up to catching bandits. As to the procedure of drawing lots and interpreting texts, the oracle of the Syrian priests reveals itself once more as deceptive packaging. In case of the Roman-Italic lot oracles, manipulations were tried to be avoided by bringing in an impartial third party59 that was responsible for selecting the lot but not involved in the subsequent interpretation of the drawn oracle. Regarding the Syrian priests, this neutralisation is not existent, for they combine the roles of both oracle producer and oracle interpreter in one person. By constantly attributing new meaning to the oracle text according to their needs, the shady soothsayers lay claim to a maximum level of interpretive dominance. At the same time, the oracle is also highly dubious in moral terms. For the alleged communication with the gods is exclusively profit-oriented and consistently instrumentalised for personal enrichment. Thus, it seems logical that the priests at first succeed with their spurious oracles, but are then convicted of theft and taken off the streets by incarceration. At second sight, however, this type of poetic justice does by no means go without saying. For oracle fraud may seem morally reprehensible, but was consistently included in the communicative system of divination. Preventive authentic-city tests and repeated enquiries prove that the oracular statements were frequently questioned.60 As we can deduce from the self-justification of an Italic lot oracle, ————— 58

59 60

On the relevance of orality and literacy programmatically the proem (met. 1,1,1) and met. 6,25,1. Cic. div. 2,86; Tib. 1,3,11-12 mention an underage boy for the oracle at Praeneste. Famous are Kroisos’ testing of the oracles as described by Hdt. 1,147-148 and the Athenians’ repeated consultation of the oracle Hdt. 7,140-142.

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not only misinformation, but also deliberate deceit in one’s own interest was expected.61 Hence, ‘cheating’ during the divination procedure was possible and efficient as long as it was skilfully done – one simply had to avoid getting caught.62 If we apply these premises to the Syrian priests, once more they do not only prove to be immoral, but above all incompetent charlatans who render themselves questionable in two respects with their attempts to ascribe new interpretive options to their self-penned oracle text: on the one hand, they improperly and illegally manipulated a divinatory technique. Still, getting caught when cheating like that is much more embarrassing! However, this time the conviction of the mendicant priests is not brought about by the characters within the work. The role of the superior model-interpreter that had during the auction scene been assigned to the praeco is now taken over by the reader as soon as he comes to notice that the arrest of the mendicant priests is connected with the previous manipulation of the oracle. The following observation reveals that these two incidents are indeed interrelated not only in chronological, but also causal terms. The interpretive range that is mentioned by the narrator and that the mendicant priests aim for with their oracular text and that is reminiscent of the horoscopes of Diophanes in terms of its variety, closes with an enquiry concerning the pursuit of a band of robbers (met. 9,9,5). When the mendicant priests for such a case announce the capture of handed over stolen goods to their client, they unwittingly anticipate their own fate with this prediction, as the reader learns retrospectively. An attentive reader is probably amused at such a subtly announced unmasking of the ‘holy men’ as charlatans and feels vindicated as to his or her own superior interpretive competence. On the other hand, the oracle text that had at first sight been clearly identified as ‘mendacious’, gains an unforeseen complexity which is similar to that of the Diophanes story. With regard to the diegetic level, the mendicant priests modify the questionable interpretive sovereignty of the Chaldean in so far as they mendaciously claim to reveal future events to others, thus in fact and unwittingly prefiguring their own fate. In contrast to the praeco’s aplomb, Diophanes and the Syrian mendicant priests lose their hold on their instigated chicanery, thus falling victim to their own claims to truth. The loss of authority that is induced by that, however, is compensated by an enhancement of their entertaining quality, since both the mendicant priests and the Chaldean Diophanes turn out to be effective characters due to their humiliation. Again, the reader is faced with ————— 61

62

The inscription on an oracle stick from Bahareno is revealing (CIL I², 2184): non sum mendacis quas dixti consulis stulte; see also Burkert – Belayche – Rüpke 2004, 48. The concept of ‘cheating’ is defined more precisely by Rüpke 2001, 170-171 on the basis of magical practices.

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the paradox that an overtly deceptive oracle is able to tell the truth. Thus, the proverb of the Cretan liar remains valid!

Conclusion Finally, what can the reader conclude from the narrative unit of the Syrian priests as to a general evaluation of the charlatans in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses and as to the proposition of a metapoetic interpretational level? Narrowing down the episode to a moral message, evaluation is plain and simple: in the case of all other characters of the ‘scene of soothsayers’, suspicion of dubiousness is nurtured without manifest evidence. Only with regard to the Syrian priests the glaring discrepancy between appearance and reality is unveiled in a gesture of indignation by the observing donkey.63 Yet, the moral contempt for the mendicant priests stands in marked contrast to their entertainment value. Which reader would not as a voyeur enjoy the closeddoor orgies, the spectacular performances of the exotic mendicant priests and the situational humour arising from the recurrent unmasking of the holy men? It is in accordance with the narrative quality of the whole episode that the donkey who observes and satirically uncovers the events, notably increases his market value – from a low at the first auction scene until his resale directly after the priests’ arrest in fact by one third of his monetary value. Against this backdrop, the leitmotif of the market place and the acquisition of goods and money that pervades the narrative sequence of the Syrian mendicant priests and generally the adventure books of the Metamorphoses can be seen as a narrative construct of an ideal-typical setting. For in this setting not only the ‘hard’ value of victuals and merchandise, but also that of religious services being offered for dear money by different and more or less respectable divinatory experts can very plausibly be put to the test and negotiated anew in haggling. It is especially scenes, in which authorial perspectives and aspects shine through that suggest a transfer on the literary narrative, whose strengths can be weighed and set off against each other by the reader. Previous Apuleian scholarship has viewed the charlatans either from a clearly satirical perspective or as an alternative offer to decide between a sceptical and gullible attitude of reception. However, the detailed revision of relevant scenes has revealed a close intertwining between the vying claims of interpretive sovereignty based on religion and a highest possible entertainment value. This integrative interpretation that allows the reader to appreciate both qualities at the same ————— 63

Met. 8,24-25; 8,27-29; 9,9-10.

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time, finds its expression in the paradox of the unmasked charlatan who nevertheless tells the truth and who owes his effectiveness as a character to the high potential of fraud. This paradox can also be viewed as an implicit appeal to the reader. For due to the fickle colours of the religious charlatans he (or she) might feel enticed to reflect on the entertainment value and the interpretive options of the Metamorphoses. Against this backdrop he (or she) can define what a multifaceted literary text like that demands from a competent recipient who does not want to appear like the Syrian priests as an incompetent interpreter of signs.

Bibliography Anderson, G. 1994. Sage, Saint and Sophist. Holy Men and Their Associates in the Early Roman empire, London: Routledge. Burkert, W. – Belayche, N. – Rüpke, J. 2004. ‘Divination’, in: J.C. Balty (ed.), Thesaurus Cultus et Rituum Antiquorum (ThesCRA) Vol. 2, The Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles: Getty Publ., 1-104. Graverini, L. 2001. ‘Apul. Met. 2,12,5: una profezia ambigua’, Maecenas 1, 183-194. Graverini, L. 2005. ‘A Booklike Self: Ovid and Apuleius’, in: D. Nelis (ed.), Aetas Ovidiana?, Dublin: Univ. of Dublin, 225-250. Graverini, L. 2007. Le Metamorfosi di Apuleio: Letteratura e identità, Pisa: Pacini. Harrison, S.J. 2000. Apuleius: A Latin Sophist, Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press. Hijmans Jr., B.L. et al. 1985. Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses, Book VIII: Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen: Forsten. Hijmans Jr., B.L. et al. 1995. Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses, Book IX: Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen: Forsten. Keulen, W. 2000. ‘Significant Names in Apuleius: A ‘Good Contriver’ and his Rival in the Cheese Trade (Met. 1,5)’, Mnemosyne Ser. IV, 8, 310-321. Keulen, W. 2003. ‘Comic Invention and Superstitious Frenzy in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses: The Figure of Socrates as an Icon of Satirical Self-Exposure’, AJPh 124, 107-135. Keulen, W. 2007. Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses Book 1: Text, Introduction and Commentary, Groningen: Forsten. Kirichenko, A. 2010. A Comedy of Storytelling: Theatricality and Narrative in Apuleius’ Golden Ass, Bibliothek der Klassischen Altertumswissenschaften N.F. 2. Reihe 127, Heidelberg: Winter. Lightfoot, J.L. 2003. Lucian On the Syrian Goddess: Introduction, Translation, and Commentary, Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press. North, J.A. 1990. ‘Diviners and divination at Rome’, in: M. Beard – J. North (eds.), Pagan Priests, London: Duckworth, 49-71. Rosenberger, V. 2001. Griechische Orakel: Eine Kulturgeschichte, Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Rüpke, J. 2001. Die Religion der Römer, München: Beck. Schmidt, V. 1981. ‘Die Dea Syria und Isis in Apuleius’ Metamorphosen’, in: B.L. Hijmans Jr. – V. Schmidt (eds.), Symposium Apuleianum Groninganum, 23.-24. Oktober 1980, Groningen: Univ. of Groningen, 70-76. Schneider, K. 1953. ‘praeco’, in: G. Wissowa – K. Ziegler (eds.), Paulys Realencyclopädie der Classischen Altertumswissenschaft Vol. 23, Stuttgart: Metzler, 1193-1199.

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Scobie, A. 1979. ‘Storytellers, Storytelling, and the Novel in Graeco-Roman Antiquity’, RhM 122, 229-259. Van Mal-Maeder, D. 2001. Apuleius Madaurensis Metamorphoses Livre II: Texte, Introduction et Commentaire, Groningen: Forsten. Winkler, J.J. 1985. Auctor & Actor: A Narratological Reading of Apuleius’s Golden Ass, Berkeley – Los Angeles – London: Univ. of California Press.

Lucian’s Peregrinus as Holy Man and Charlatan and the Construction of the Contrast between Holy Men and Charlatans in the Acts of Mari I LARIA L.E. R AMELLI Catholic University of the Sacred Heart, Milan – Durham University, UK

Lucian’s Peregrinus, Holy Man and Charlatan In his Peregrinus Lucian tells the story of his contemporary Peregrinus Proteus, who was a Cynic and a Christian in different phases of his life. I set out to investigate how Lucian depicts the protagonist both as a holy man1 (from the point of view of the Christians) and as a charlatan (from another point of view: the author’s?) and shall argue that many peculiarities of his religious characterisation in Lucian’s account might be explained in the light of the Montanist movement.2 This will also raise the question of Lucian’s position toward Christianity in general and Montanism in particular (and even the doubt whether he might have confused them).

Peregrinus as a Holy man That Peregrinus is a holy man is clearly the point of view of the Christians, at least during the period in which he was a Christian – or better took advantage of the simplicity of many Christians in order to acquire popularity and enrich himself. In Per. 11-13 and 16 Lucian draws a striking contrast between the innocence of the Christians and the shrewdness of Peregrinus, who took advantage of them. ————— 1

2

For the category of holy man / divine human being in antiquity see Ramelli 2008a, also with further documentation. See Ramelli 2005a. My hypothesis is accepted as probable by Rinaldi 2007, 115. Holy Men and Charlatans in the Ancient Novel, 105–120

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Lucian highlights in Per. 11 that the Christians considered him to be a ‘divine being’ (emending θεῖον with Schwartz, instead of the manuscript reading θεόν, ‘god’), thus definitely a ‘holy man’ and more, and treated him as their leader and legislator. The admiration of the Christians is even more patently displayed on the occasion of the incarceration of Peregrinus (Per. 12): first they tried hard to have him released; since this proved impossible, they kept him company in prison every day and night, a multitude of elders, widows, and orphans, and the leaders of the Christian communities. They shared meals, and probably the Eucharist, with him, and discussed sacred things with him. They regarded him not only as a divine man, but also as a philosopher, the ‘new Socrates’. I shall return to this. During his imprisonment, the Christians greatly helped him from the financial point of view, and from a network of Asian communities representatives came to help, defend, and comfort him (Per. 13).

Peregrinus as a Charlatan As opposed to the point of view of the Christians, who saw him as a holy man and a philosopher, not inferior to Socrates himself, Peregrinus in Lucian’s work is described as a charlatan and an exhibitionist. It is notable that this depiction of Peregrinus sharply contrasts with that offered by a contemporary of Lucian who listened to Peregrinus’s diatribes: Aulus Gellius. According to Gellius, who became acquainted with him in Athens, Peregrinus was a vir gravis et constans, who spoke utiliter et honeste (NA 12,11,1-7). Ammianus still styled him philosophus clarus (19,1,39). In Per. 11, at the beginning of his account of Peregrinus’s activity as a Christian, Lucian remarks that Peregrinus soon discovered that the Christians were all ‘like innocent children’, while he was the prophet, the priest, the head of their communities, ‘everything’ in a word. In Per. 13, Lucian observes, obviously referring to Peregrinus, that every magician, every charlatan, every man who can take advantage of circumstances, will be able to exploit the Christians and become rich at their expenses, as these are simple and gullible people (ἰδιῶται) and hold all things in common. Whether the last remark derives from direct knowledge of second-century Christian communities or from the reading of passages such as Acts 2:44 or 4:32, it is difficult to establish. Exhibitionism, theatricality, and search for fame (δόξα) are the traits with which Lucian most describes Peregrinus. The terminology of tragedy and drama (τραγῳδία, τραγῳδέω, δρᾶμα, σκηνή, διασκευή) and spectacularity and wonder

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(θεάομαι, θαυμάζω) is insistently deployed throughout the work, especially in reference to the death of Peregrinus and, notably, already during his adhesion to Christianity, when he is said to have behaved ὅλως μάλα τραγικῶς, ‘in a very theatrical way in all respects’ (15). Precisely around the aim of his death a further contrast is drawn by Lucian between the construal of Peregrinus as a holy man and his presentation as a charlatan. While Peregrinus himself declared twice that the goal of his suicide was to instil contempt for death into his public (θανάτου καταφρονεῖν, 23 and 33), Lucian, who witnessed that action, remarks that his suicide was rather an ‘extremely daring, shameless action (τόλμημα)’ (20) that made the spectator more eager for risk and more temerarious (φιλοκινδυνοτέρους καὶ τολμηροτέρους, 23).

The Possible Role of Montanism Love of risk and temerity are typical traits that were also ascribed to the Montanists in the controversy over this Christian movement. Lucian lived in a period in which the Montanist movement was flourishing, and this precisely in the areas in which Peregrinus lived.3 The detail, reported in Per. 16, that Peregrinus lost the protection of the Christians when he infringed a dietary prohibition (ἐσθίων τῶν ἀπορρήτων αὐτοῖς), might also point to a Montanist custom, since Montanism was strict in fact of forbidden foods, whereas in Christianity at large there were less or no dietary restrictions: the Jewish ones did not apply (apart from the case of Jewish-Christian groups) and the only foods that were forbidden in principle were those coming from sacrificial offerings, and only in case this origin was declared, strangled animals and blood. Further details may reveal an affinity between Peregrinus’s attitudes and Montanism, for instance his hostility to constituted authorities, which emerges, for example, from his insults against emperor Antoninus Pius and his attempt to foment a revolt against Rome in Greece (Per. 18). Other meaningful details may be the presentation of Peregrinus as a prophet, a θιασίαρχος, a ‘leader of a religious confraternity’, and a wonderworker. But the most significant elements are his theatricality and ostentatiousness, and his wanted and spectacular death. Lucian’s remark in Per. 13 that the Christians, κακοδαίμονες as they are, ‘poor devils’, are convinced that they are immortal and therefore they despise death4, and many of them are even eager and happy to face death, so that ‘most of them voluntarily consign themselves’ (ἑκόντες αὑτοὺς ἐπιδιδόασι οἱ πολλοί), may ————— 3 4

See Tabbernee 2011. On Lucian’s knowledge of the Christian doctrine of the resurrection see Schmidt 1995.

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include a reference to Montanist attitudes to martyrdom, which were overtly criticised by the so-called ‘great church’ (Martyrium Polycarpi 4, precisely against consigning oneself ἑκών to martyrdom) even before the date of the beginning of the Montanist movement given by Eusebius (171 CE) and in accord with the date provided by Epiphanius (156 CE) and an anonymous anti-Montanist writer quoted by Eusebius (HE 5,16,7), who dates the beginning of Montanus’ preaching under the proconsulate of Gratus.5 This is also what Peregrinus did, albeit he was no longer formally a Christian at that time: in 165 CE, in Olympia, he burnt himself on a pyre before the public of the Games. Lucian was a witness to the scene, as he makes known in Per. 2; he burst into laughter and thus aroused the indignation of the admirers of Peregrinus. This detail would seem to indicate Lucian’s own attitude toward Peregrinus, an attitude which, in this case, would be intentionally disclosed, unless what is disclosed is the attitude of the narrator as not necessarily coinciding with that of the author. Moreover, I have already remarked upon Lucian’s depiction of Peregrinus as an exhibitionist, which is in perfect harmony with the theatrical ostentatiousness of his voluntary death. Indeed, Marcus Aurelius criticised Christian martyrs, who were very probably Montanists, for the theatricality of their death, while in his view the readiness in facing death should be ἀτραγῴδως, ‘without dramatic display’ (Ad seips. 2,3; cf. Epict. Diss. 4,7,15: μὴ τραγῳδεῖ). And passages from Tertullian illustrate well the Montanist attitude to martyrdom, which was actively pursued and theatricalised.6 It is not to be ruled out, in fact, that, also given the fluidity of second-century ‘Christianities’, in some cases a confusion between Montanism and Christianity tout court occurred in ‘pagan’ intellectuals such as Marcus Aurelius, Celsus, and Athenaeus. The last ascribes to Christians at large practices that were typical of Montanism, and it is probable that Marcus Aurelius’ decision to persecute the Christians by searching them out – an unprecedented kind of anti-Christian persecution in his day – was due to his confusion between Montanists and Christians tout court; only after clarifications on the part of several Christian apologists, Marcus may have revoked the persecution.7 Marcus’ initial judgment, probably ————— 5

6 7

See Ramelli 1999a and Sordi, Ramelli 2000; Ramelli, Brenk 2011. On the ‘ideology of martyrdom’ in early Christianity there is an overabundant literature; I only cite Moss 2010a, based on acta or passiones of martyrs between the second and the fourth centuries CE. On the dating of Martyrium Polycarpi to the mid third century (which is by no means certain) see Moss 2010b. In MP 21 the dating is to the proconsulate of Statius Quadratus (155/56). In favour of the high dating is Rinaldi 2009, 119-120. See, e.g., De cor. 1,4; Adv. Marc. 3,40; De fuga 9; Scorp., passim. See Ramelli 1999a, 2002, and 2005a.

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due to the confusion between Montanists and Christians at large, was more negative than Epictetus’ and Galen’s; what Epictetus reproached to the Christians is that they faced martyrdom on the basis of ἔθος (which his teacher Musonius Rufus, the Roman-Etruscan Stoic, evaluated positively).8 It is interesting that Clement of Alexandria, shortly afterwards, turned the accusation of behaving according to ἔθος against the pagans (Protr. 10: ἐξὸν βιῶναι καλῶς κατὰ τὸν θεόν, οὐ κατὰ τὸ ἔθος, ‘It is possible to live well according to God, and not according to custom’, in reference to the pagans). This is a motif that is also found in a contemporary apology addressed to ‘Antoninus Caesar’ (sc. Marcus Aurelius), ascribed to Melito of Sardis, and extant in Syriac.9 In this connection, it is also notable that Clement, like the church of the Martyrium Polycarpi, expressed criticism toward excessive willingness and readiness to martyrdom (Strom. 4,9,76-77; 7,11,66-67).10 One detail in his criticism is particularly relevant to the present investigation: in 17,1 he accuses those who hand themselves to a voluntary death (αὑτοὺς παραδιδόναι σπεύδουσι) and ‘consign themselves to an empty, or useless, death’ (θανάτῳ ἑαυτοὺς ἐπιδιδόασι κενῷ), ‘just as the Gymnosophists among the Indians, too, consign themselves to a useless fire’ (καθάπερ καὶ οἱ τῶν Ἰνδῶν γυμνοσοφισταὶ ματαίῳ πυρί). It is remarkable that Peregrinus, the former Christian and perhaps Montanist, committed suicide exactly like a Gymnosophist, burning himself onto a pyre.

Peregrinus as Charlatan and Holy Man in the Light of Lucian’s Attitude toward Christianity Lucian describes Peregrinus as a charlatan, and in particular one with traits of exhibitionism. This description, which contrasts that of Peregrinus as a holy man for the Christians, may (or may not) be taken to reflect the author’s view.11 Several details suggest that Lucian attributes to Peregrinus characteristics which, soon after, were found in the Montanists. But is this exhibitionistic charlatan a representative of all Christians for Lucian? This would not seem to be the case, if one considers the Peregrinus itself and the Alexander, the other work from which Lucian’s attitude toward Christianity can be gleaned.12 Peregrinus was a Christian only for a short period of his whole life, and, as Lucian puts it, he entered Christian ————— 8 9 10 11 12

See Ramelli 2003 and forthcoming a. See Ramelli 1999b and 2009a. On Clement’s attitude toward martyrdom see van den Hoek 1993; Rizzi 2003. For the elusiveness of Lucian’s view see e.g. Ní-Mheallaigh 2010, 121-132. The ancient scholiasts, in fact, found references to Christianity throughout Lucian’s works. See Caster 1937, 356. On the Alexander I limit myself to citing Gasparro 1990.

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communities more to take advantage of them than for personal and religious adhesion, even though he did read and comment on the sacred books of the Christians and even wrote Christian literature himself. He was an intellectual and a leader, but with an eye to his personal advantage. He was a charlatan who took advantage of the Christians, who regarded him as a holy man, and exploited them. Parallel is the attitude toward Alexander that transpires from Lucian’s homonymous work.13 It is to be noticed that Lucian was far from being a defender of ‘pagan’ traditional cults in opposition to Christianity,14 or even a supporter of some contemporary philosophical sect as opposed to the ‘Christian philosophy’: his criticism of contemporary philosophers and rhetors is well known. Christianity is presented not only as a new mystery religion by Lucian (καινὴν ταύτην τελετήν, Per. 11),15 but also as a philosophy, as a ‘wonderful / remarkable / surprising wisdom,’ θαυμαστὴ σοφία (Per. 11), which may or may not be ironic. This definition is similar to that offered by a contemporary of Lucian, Athenaeus, who worked from the time of Hadrian to that of Commodus collecting materials for his Deipnosophistae: Christianity is a χρηστὴ φιλοσοφία, a ‘good philosophy’. For Lucian Jesus is the famous (ἐκεῖνος) σοφιστής who was crucified (Per. 13). I agree with Laurent Pernot16 that σοφιστής has a positive connotation here and means philosopher, or better popular philosopher, all the more so in that Lucian himself remarks in Per. 13 that Peregrinus as a Christian leader was compared with Socrates. The only point I cannot share with Pernot is that ‘Lucien a été le premier à faire un tel rapprochement,’ viz. between Jesus and the philosophers or Greek culture more in general. For the assimilation of Jesus to Socrates himself, and to Pythagoras, is first attested in the letter of Mara Bar Serapion, a Stoic, which probably goes back to the end of the first century CE.17 Moreover, Mara was from Commagene, and precisely from Samosata, Lucian’s own city. Lucian describes Jesus in the very same way as Pythagoras in Gallus 4, as σοφιστής and ἀλαζών; though in the case of Jesus Lucian does not even add the more negative ἀλαζών (‘wanderer, charlatan’), which is rather a characterisation of Peregrinus, the self-appointed Christian who took advantage of the Christians’ simplicity. The Jesus-Pythagoras assimilation is the same as in Mara, although the tone is ironic in Lucian. Pythagoras was the philosopher par excellence insofar as

————— 13 14

15 16 17

See Karavas 2008-2009. His criticism of irrational superstitions is not limited to Christianity, and in Alex. 8 he remarks that it is hope and fear that induce people to frequent the temples. On this definition see Schirren 2005, 354-359. See Pernot 2002, 126-142. See Ramelli 2005b and 2012; Merz – Rensberger – Tieleman 2014.

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he even was credited with inventing the very name φιλόσοφος (see Diogenes Laertius I 1218). Thus, Lucian assimilates Jesus both to Socrates and to Pythagoras, the two outmost Greek philosophers. The characterisation of σοφιστής is also the same as is found in Demonax 12 for Favorinus and per se is not negative.19 Jesus as ‘that famous person who was crucified in Palestine’ is also mentioned in Per. 11: τὸν ἄνθρωπον τὸν ἐν τῇ Παλαιστίνῃ ἀνασκολοπισθέντα, while I am not entirely sure that an allusion to him should be seen in Philops. 16, albeit it is possible.20 Lucian in Per. 11-13 ascribes to Peregrinus the literary activity of Christian intellectuals at that time: commenting on sacred books, especially Scripture, and writing more himself. That was what, for instance, some Valentinians, Pantaenus, and Clement of Alexandria did. Lucian knew that Christianity in fact was not only a religion for simpletons, but an intellectual movement that was construing itself as a philosophy in his day (exemplary is Justin’s definition of Christianity as φιλοσοφία θεία, and the schools of Christian intellectuals such as Pantaenus, Clement, Bardaisan, and Origen were centres of philosophical learning21). Indeed, Lucian had a relatively good knowledge of Christianity, perhaps he had even read something of the New Testament,22 and his acquaintance with the new religion was definitely too close to allow him to really think that Christians were all ignorant and simple people. Indeed, there might be further echoes – so far unnoticed – of Christian literature (Scripture) in Lucian’s own works. For instance, in Icaromenippus 24 the supreme deity, Zeus, asks a follower of his, Menippus, what people think about him (Εἰπέ μοι, Μένιππε, ἔφη, περὶ δὲ ἐμοῦ οἱ ἄνθρωποι τίνα γνώμην ἔχουσι; ‘Tell me, Menippus, he said, what do people think about me?’), and gets different answers, the most pious of which is that he is the supreme divinity. For this scene I could find no antecedent in Greek literature, but there is an obvious and remarkable affinity with the Gospel scene (Mark 8:27-29; Matth. 16:13-23; Luke 9:18————— 18 19

20

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My commentary in Ramelli – Reale 2005. For the origin of the term σοφιστής see Tell 2011, esp. ch. 1. I do not indicate bibliography on the Second Sophistic, which would be quite extensive. The description τὸν Σύρον τὸν ἐκ Παλαιστίνης, τὸν ἐπὶ τούτου σοφιστήν, ‘that Syrian man from Palestine, the famous sophist of that time’, who liberated the epileptics from their illness, perfectly fits Jesus, all the more in that the characterisation σοφιστής is the very same as is found in the Peregrinus for Christ. However, the detail that the man at stake cured them in exchange for generous payments does not correspond to Jesus’s praxis. This element makes the exorcist closer to Peregrinus than to Jesus. It may be however that Lucian did not know, or deliberately ignored, that Jesus was not paid for his ‘performances’. Löhr 2010; Ramelli 2009e and (for Bardaisan) 2009d. See Karavas 2010, 116-117, also with many bibliographical references on Lucian’s knowledge of Christianity. See also Betz 1959, 226-237; Pilhofer et al. 57-68, 97-110.

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22) in which Jesus asks his disciples what people think about him (τίνα με λέγουσι οἱ ἄνθρωποι εἶναι in Mark: ‘Who do people say I am?’), getting different answers, among which the most pious comes from Jesus’s follower Peter: ‘You are the son of the living God’ (ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ Θεοῦ τοῦ ζῶντος, in Matthew). This scene may have been known to Lucian and may have influenced him. In Per. 13 Lucian speaks of Christianity as a ‘crime,’ consisting in the rejection of Greek deities and in the worship of ‘that famous philosopher who was crucified.’ But this is not a subjective and disparaging judgement on Lucian’s part, but the objective, legal definition of Christianity in the Roman Empire during the second century (and until Gallienus and Constantine)23 in the day of Lucian. Christianity officially was a superstitio illicita for Rome. This had been probably the case since 35 CE, the year of a senatus consultum that refused the recognition of Christianity as a ‘legally recognised religion’, a religio licita.24 Moreover, Lucian himself definitely counterbalances this statement that Peregrinus did something παράνομον (‘against the law, illegal’) by rejecting the traditional deities and embracing Christianity, when he observes that later on Peregrinus equally did something παράνομον, this time not against the ‘pagans’ and the Roman Empire, but against the Christians themselves, when he ate forbidden foods: παρανομήσας τι καὶ ἐς ἐκείνους, ‘he committed something illicit also in regard to the Christians’ (Per. 16). Therefore, it seems that Lucian was not a strong supporter of the prevalent view that Christianity had to be considered as, and legally remain, a superstitio illicita in the Roman Empire, whose adherents risked ipso facto their lives.25

Holy Men and Charlatans in the Acts of Mari Whereas in Lucian the features of the holy man and of the charlatan appear to be joined within the same character, Peregrinus, from two different points of view, in a Christian novel such as the Syriac Acts of Mar Mari26 the anonymous author constructs a strong opposition between holy men and charlatans throughout the whole of the narrative, by means of highly repetitive schemes. Those depicted as holy men are of course Mari, the Christian apostle of Mesopotamia, his sender ————— 23 24 25

26

See Ramelli 2013. See Ramelli 2004; 2009b; forthcoming b; further research is ongoing. Berdozzo 2011 studies Lucian’s attitude toward religion (without analysing either the Peregrinus or the Alexander, however) and compares it also with Galen’s. His conclusion is that Lucian had no interest in religion, while Galen had. See Ramelli 2008b, with reviews by Brock 2008 and Perkins 2009; for the characterisation of the Acts of Mari as a historical novel see Ramelli 2009c. Their biographical structure (see Ramelli 2010a) is common to Eastern Syriac historiography: see Debié 2010.

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Addai, the apostle of Edessa, and his close collaborators, while the priests and adherents of ‘pagan’ cults are regularly represented with the traits of charlatans. I limit myself to offering some examples of these two opposite characterisations of two different religious groups, the ‘Christians’ and the ‘pagans,’ which are simplistically and sharply opposed as two monolithic blocks, as is typical of most ‘acts-of-apostles’ literature.

Holy Men: the Christian Apostles It is worth noticing, first of all, that in these late-antique Acts we only find ‘holy men,’ viz. the Christian apostles, and not ‘holy women,’ who are prominent as apostles in other more ancient Acts such as those of Paul and Thecla (with St. Thecla) or those of Philip (with Mariamme, Philip’s sister, who accompanies him as a more valiant apostle than he is).27 Already in Paul’s letter to the Romans, Junia is described as an ‘eminent apostle.’28 But the Acts of Mari only feature ‘holy men’. Here, the main holy man is the protagonist, Mar Mari, called ‘apostle’ and ‘saint’ in ch. 1. He is praised on a par with Peter and Paul as the evangelisers of Rome, in that he evangelised ‘the most important region in the whole world,’ Mesopotamia (these Acts stem from late antique Mesopotamia). During the whole narrative, Mari performs a number of miracles as a proof of his holiness. The same is the case with Mari’s predecessor and sender, the apostle Addai, who also is called blessed/saint in ch. 6: he was sent in turn by the apostle Thomas to Edessa for the conversion of the city and his miracles attest to his holiness. The apostles in Edessa, too, are called ‘those who bring light’ (ch. 22). In general, the immediate conversion of whole populations as a result of the miracles performed by Addai and Mari, respectively in Edessa and in Mesopotamia, is presented as a proof of their being ‘holy men,’ that is, divinely sent. This is a scheme that is found repeated again and again in these Acts. Mari’s and the other apostles’ holiness is not only proved by their miracles, but also emphasised by the reaction of those who benefit from these miracles. For instance, at ch. 4, when a man was healed from his illness by Addai, he fell to his ————— 27

28

See Ramelli 2007b; Bovon – Bouvier – Amsler 1999; Bovon 2009. On women apostles, deacons and presbyters in the first Christian centuries see at least Madigan – Osiek 2005; Macy 2008, with review by Ramelli 2008c; Ramelli 2010b, 79-102; Rigato 2011; Dunning 2011, Chs. 1-2. See also Cotter 1994, 350-372, according to whom women’s leadership in churches was not countercultural vis-à-vis Roman cultural standards, esp. in associations. The same is contended by Crook 2009, 607-609. See Epp 2005 and Ramelli 2007a; Murphy-O’Connor – Militello – Rigato 2006.

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feet and venerated him. The same was done by a child whom Mari set free from a demonic possession: he fell to his feet and held them (ch. 9). This very same gesture is repeated by the daughter of the king in ch. 16, after Mari has healed her from a paralysis. This is also why sometimes it is necessary for Mari to state clearly that he is divinely sent, and therefore a ‘holy man’, but not a divine being, or God, himself (e.g., in ch. 7, with the king of Arzun, who thought that Mari was God; in ch. 16, with another king, who likewise supposed that Mari might have been God because of the healing of his daughter performed by that apostle; in ch. 27 with Dusti, who, healed by Mari, thinks that he is God29). This is a typical concern that appears already in the canonical Acts of the Apostles (14:11-18).30

Charlatans: the Pagan Priests The representatives of the ‘pagan’ sacerdotal class cannot be depicted but as charlatans, given the presupposition that the deities they serve are demons – a common assumption in early Christianity, for instance in Justin (Apol. 2,12,5) – and that ‘paganism’ is the result of a ‘deception operated by demons’ (ch. 7). From this deception the Christian ‘holy men’ are said to liberate humanity. Again in ch. 13 an opposition is drawn between Christ, the true God, and the pagan deities which are false and are in fact demons in disguise: ‘For these are not gods, but idols and simulacra, and demons dwell in them, and deceive the human beings, that they may not recognise the living and true God’. The scene follows of the demons that lived inside the idols chased out and denounced as deceivers. In the same way, the demons adored by local ‘pagans’ are addressed at ch. 15 by Mari as those who ‘deceive human beings and kill them’. Again in ch. 23 Mari proclaims that the gods worshipped by the inhabitants of Seleucia are in fact not gods, as those people believe. In particular, the fire that they worship is not God, but a creature, and Mari proves this by spectacularly entering it without being damaged. Here the ————— 29

30

That Mari is a god is also the first conviction of the inhabitants of Seleucia after he has healed two dying men (chs. 21, 23). ‘And when the crowds saw what Paul had done, they lifted up their voices, saying in Lycaonian, “The gods have come down to us in the likeness of men!” Barnabas they called Zeus, and Paul, because he was the chief speaker, they called Hermes. And the priest of Zeus, whose temple was in front of the city, brought oxen and garlands to the gates and wanted to offer sacrifice with the people. But when the apostles Barnabas and Paul heard of it, they tore their garments and rushed out among the multitude, crying, “Men, why are you doing this? We also are men, of like nature with you, and bring you good news, that you should turn from these vain things to a living God who made the heaven and the earth and the sea and all that is in them….”’ (transl. Revised Standard Version).

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spectacular, far from being criticised as in Lucian’s Peregrinus as a trait of the charlatan protagonist, is a typical feature of Mari’s miracles – much more emphasised than it is in Jesus’ miracles in the canonical Gospels –, and is thus part and parcel of the proof adduced that Mari is a holy man, and that the charlatans and deceivers are the pagan priests. The makers of idols in Arbela denounced Mari, who was performing miracles, as a subverter of their deities (ch. 8). But, according to the usual scheme, the miracles performed by Mari there – the healing of the king from leprosy and that of the child of a general of the king from a demon – denounce in turn the makers of idols as charlatans. In chs. 24-25, the priests who performed the sacrificial offerings to pagan gods and derived substantial revenues from that activity were hostile to Mari and denounced him to the king, asking the latter to put Mari to death or expel him from the country. But, again, a multitude of miracles converted all the population and the priests are denounced by Mari as liars, who eat and drink the offerings brought to the idols pretending that the latter consumed the food. Mari declares that the idols are mere statues and that demons speak in them. As a result, the pagan temple is demolished and the statues of the idols therein are pulverised and their fragments thrown into the river Tigris. The very same pattern will be repeated in ch. 29, when the temple of the pagan deity Estera is demolished. Another episode that begins with the opposition of ‘pagan’ priests to Mari’s preaching and ends with their unmasking as charlatans is found at ch. 26. After the conversion of king Aphrahat to Christianity as a result of Mari’s miracles, the local priests gathered together and went to Ctesiphon to denounce Mari before king Artabanus. They precisely denounced Mari as a charlatan, a sorcerer or wizard who casts spells. They exhorted the king to defend the religion of his forefathers, which was in danger of extinction. Artabanus then summoned Mari and threatened him with death. But the usual mechanism – a miracle: the healing of Artabanus’ sister Qoni – liberated Mari and brought about the conversion of Artabanus and his people, and the denunciation of the local pagan priests as the true charlatans.

From Charlatans to Believers: Conversions of ‘Pagan’ Priests Very rarely, there is a crossing of boundaries between the two opposite groups of holy men and charlatans: precisely the ministers of ‘pagan’ deities are depicted as they abandon their identity as charlatans when they convert to Christianity (the opposite is never the case, viz. that a Christian apostle abandons the group of the

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‘holy men’). They are not said to enter the group of the Christian holy men, since these are only the Christian apostles who perform stunning miracles; nevertheless, they are no longer charlatans and liars, because they have recognised and embraced the truth, of course the Christian truth. The only instances of this exit from the group of the charlatans are at chs. 10, 11, and 30. At ch. 10, on the occasion of a massive conversion and baptism of the king, his family, other noble men and their families, and the ministers of the king, all of them having been astonished by Mari’s miracles, ‘a chief of the priests of the king’ also believed, on account of those miracles, and his family too converted to Christianity along with him. This conversion of the former charlatan is emphasised by the man’s action of destroying the idols of which he was formerly a minister, breaking them into pieces and throwing their fragments into the river Zab – exactly the same scene as I have mentioned above with the river Tigris. The same scheme of the conversion of a ‘pagan’ priest and his detachment from the group of charlatans is repeated at ch. 11. Here the protagonist is a mauhpatâ, a chief of magi, endowed with religious and political power at the same time. In the village of Brugiâ, this mauhpatâ converted to Christianity when he knew that the king and his nobles had converted. Since the mauhpatâ was the head of the town, the whole people of that town converted together with him. In ch. 30, the conversion at stake is that of a priest of an idol called Nîšar, in the city of Kaškar. This man performed the sacrificial offerings to the idol. He converted thanks to Mari’s miracles, and was baptised. In turn, thanks to this priest, many inhabitants of Kaškar converted to Christianity. In this way, it is shown that ‘pagan’ priests, who represent the category of charlatans because of the intrinsic falsity of the idols they serve, can abandon it by converting to the truth (of course Christian), and can in turn even become the factor of the conversion of many other people.

Conclusive Remarks From the analysis of this dialectic it emerges that in the Acts of Mari there is an ‘aut ... aut’ between the representations of holy men and charlatans, whereas in Lucian’s narrative there is an intriguing ‘et ... et,’ which raises questions about the different points of view involved therein. In the Acts of Mari the intention of the Christian author is that of discrediting all official representatives of non-Christian religions, especially the ‘pagans,’ as charlatans, in order to have his apostolic hero stand out, together with his collaborators, as the apostle of the only true religion and thereby ‘holy man,’ in that he

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is sent by the true God. In this connection it must also be noted that the author of these Acts is far from having the literary refinement of Lucian and the Second Sophistic.31 Such an apologetic intention is obviously not shared by Lucian, not only because he is no Christian, but above all because he is not interested in embracing a religious position for or against Christianity (whose complexity does not escape him: he knows that most Christians are simple people, but he also knows that Christianity was presenting itself as a philosophy and there were philosophers, learned people, and authors therein). This is why in his novel the key figure of Peregrinus is represented both as a holy man and as a charlatan at the same time, from two opposite points of view: the former is that of the Christians – and this only during the period in which Peregrinus was a Christian (Montanist?) leader himself, before being caught eating forbidden foods! –, the latter is simply that of the non-Christians. This, of course, is Lucian’s version, for we know of nonChristians such as Gellius who did not at all share the view that Peregrinus was a charlatan, but considered him to be a serious philosopher and a useful preacher.

Bibliography Berdozzo, F. 2011. Götter, Mythen, Philosophen: Lukian und die paganen Götter-vorstellungen seiner Zeit, Berlin: De Gruyter. Betz, H.D. 1959. ‘Lukian von Samosata und das Christentum’, NovT 3, 226-237. Bovon, F. 2009. ‘From Vermont to Cyprus: A New Witness of the Acts of Philip’, Apocrypha 20, 9-27. Bovon, F. – Bouvier, B. – Amsler, F. 1999. Acta Philippi, Corpus Christianorum Series apocryphorum 11, Turnhout: Brepols. Brock, S.P. 2008. Review of Ramelli 2008b, AN 7, 123-130. Caster, M. 1937. Lucien et la pensée religieuse de son temps, Paris: Société d’édition Les Belles Lettres. Cotter, W. 1994. ‘Women’s Authority Roles in Paul’s Churches: Countercultural or Conventional?’, NovT 36, 350-372. Crook, Z. 2009. ‘Honor, Shame, and Social Status Revisited’, JBL 128, 591-611. Debié, M. 2010. ‘Writing History as ‘Histoires’: The Biographical Dimension of East Syriac Historiography’, in: A. Papaconstantinou – M. Debié – H. Kennedy (eds.), Writing ‘True Stories’: Historians and Hagiographers in the Late Antique and Medieval Near East, Cultural Encounters in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages 9, Turnhout: Brepols, Ch. 4. Dunning, B.H. 2011. Specters of Paul: Sexual Difference in Early Christian Thought, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press.

————— 31

On Lucian in the context of the Second Sophistic see at least Nasrallah 2005; Whitmarsh 2005; Hurst 2010; Futre Pinheiro 2009, who illustrates the dialectic between the author’s dialogue with the reader and the ‘subversive intertextual dialogue’ with the literary tradition.

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Epp, E.J. 2005. Junia: The First Woman Apostle, Minneapolis: Fortress. Futre Pinheiro, M. 2009. ‘Dialogues between Readers and Writers in Lucian’s Verae Historiae’, in: M. Paschalis – S. Panayotakis – G. Schmeling (eds.), Readers and Writers in the Ancient Novel, Ancient Narrative Supplementum 12, Groningen: Barkhuis Publ. & Groningen University Library, 18-35. Gasparro, G.S. 1990. ‘Alessandro di Abonotico’, SMSR 62, 565-590. Hurst, A. (ed.) 2010. Lucien de Samosate: Comment écrire l’histoire, Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Karavas, O. 2008-2009. ‘Apollon Pseudomenos: Lucian, the False Oracles, and the False Prophets’, Eranos 105, 90-97. Karavas, O. 2010. ‘Luciano, los cristianos, y Jesucristo’, in: Mestre – Gómez (eds.), 115-120. Löhr, W. 2010. ‘Christianity as Philosophy: Problems and Perspectives of an Ancient Intellectual Project’, VigChr 64, 160-188. Macy, G. 2008. The Hidden History of Women’s Ordination: Female Clergy in the Medieval West, Oxford: OUP. Madigan, K. – Osiek, C. 2005. Ordained Women in the Early Church: A Documentary History, Baltimore – London: Johns Hopkins University Press. Merz, A. – Rensberger, D. – Tieleman, T. 2014. Mara bar Serapion, Letter to His Son: Edited with an Introduction, Translation and Interpretative Essays, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Mestre, F. – Gómez, P. (eds.) 2010. Lucian of Samosata: Greek Writer and Roman Citizen, Barcelona: Universitad de Barcelona. Moss, C.R. 2010a. The Other Christs: Imitating Jesus in Ancient Christian Ideologies of Martyrdom, Oxford, New York: Oxford University Press. Moss, C.R. 2010b. ‘On the Dating of Polycarp: Rethinking the Place of the Martyrdom of Polycarp in the History of Christianity’, Early Christianity 1, 539-574. Nasrallah, L. 2005. Mapping the World: Justin, Tatian, Lucian, and the Second Sophistic, Cambridge: CUP. Ní-Mheallaigh, K. 2010. ‘The Game of the Name: Onymity and the Contract of Reading in Lucian’, in: Mestre – Gómez (eds.), 121-132. Murphy-O’Connor, J. – Militello, C. – Rigato, M.L. 2006. Paolo e le donne, Assisi: Cittadella. Perkins, J. 2009. Review of Ramelli 2008b, Aevum 83, 269-271. Pernot, L. 2002. ‘Christianisme et sophistique’, in: L. Calboli Montefusco (ed.), Papers on Rhetoric, vol. 4, Rome: Herder, 126-142. Pilhofer, P. et al. 2005. Lukian, Der Tod des Peregrinos: Ein Scharlatan auf dem Scheiterhaufen, Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Ramelli, I. 1999a. ‘Montanismo e Impero Romano nel giudizio di Marco Aurelio’, in: M. Sordi (ed.), Fazioni e congiure nel mondo antico, Milan: Vita e Pensiero, CISA 25, 81-97. Ramelli, I. 1999b. ‘L’apologia siriaca di Melitone ad “Antonino Cesare”: osservazioni e traduzione’, VetChr 36, 259-286. Ramelli, I. 2002. ‘Protector Christianorum (Tert. Apol. V 4): il ‘miracolo della pioggia’ e la lettera di Marco Aurelio al Senato’, Aevum 76, 101-112. Ramelli, I. 2003. ‘Galeno e i Cristiani: una messa a punto’, InvLuc 25, 199-220. Ramelli, I. 2004. ‘Il senatoconsulto del 35 contro i Cristiani in un frammento porfiriano’, prefaced by M. Sordi, Aevum 78, 59-67. Ramelli, I. 2005a. ‘Tracce di Montanismo nel Peregrinus di Luciano?’, Aevum 79, 79-94. Ramelli, I. 2005b. ‘Gesù tra i sapienti greci perseguitati ingiustamente in un antico documento filosofico pagano di lingua siriaca’, RFN 97, 545-570. Ramelli, I. 2007a. Review of Epp 2005, Rivista Biblica 55, 245-249. Ramelli, I. 2007b. ‘Mansuetudine, grazia e salvezza negli Acta Philippi’, InvLuc 29, 215-228.

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Ramelli, I. 2008a. ‘Vir Dei’, in: A. Di Berardino (ed.), Nuovo Dizionario Patristico e di Antichità Cristiane, III, Genoa: Marietti, 5632-5636. Ramelli, I. 2008b. Atti di Mar Mari, Brescia: Paideia. Ramelli, I. 2008c. Review of Macy 2008, SMSR 74, 347-353. Ramelli, I. 2009a. ‘Bardesane e la sua scuola, l’Apologia siriaca “di Melitone” e la Doctrina Addai’, Aevum 83, 141-168. Ramelli, I. 2009b. Possible Historical Traces in the Doctrina Addai?, Analecta 399, Piscataway, Gorgias Press. Ramelli, I. 2009c. ‘The Narrative Continuity between the Teaching of Addai and the Acts of Mari: Two Historical Novels?’, in: F. Hagen – J. Johnston – W. Monhouse – K. Piquette – J. Tait – M. Worthington (eds.), Narratives of Egypt and the Ancient Near East: Literary and Linguistic Approaches, Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 189, Leuven: Peeters - Departement Oosterse Studies, 411-450. Ramelli, I. 2009d. Bardaisan of Edessa: A Reassessment of the Evidence and a New Interpretation. Also in the Light of Origen and the Original Fragments from De India, Eastern Christian Studies 22, Piscataway: Gorgias. Ramelli, I. 2009e. ‘Origen, Patristic Philosophy, and Christian Platonism: Re-Thinking the Christianisation of Hellenism’, VigChr 63, 217-263. Ramelli, I. 2010a. ‘The Biography of Addai: Its Development Between Fictionality and Historicity’, Phrasis 51, 83-105. Ramelli, I. 2010b. ‘Theosebia: A Presbyter of the Catholic Church’, JFSR 26, 79-102. Ramelli, I. 2012. ‘Mara Bar Sarapion’s Letter: Comments on the Syriac Edition, Translation, and Notes by David Rensberger’, in: A. Merz – T. Tieleman (eds.), Mara bar Serapion in Context, Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 58, Leiden: Brill, 205-231. Ramelli, I. 2013. ‘La legislazione religiosa di Costantino e i suoi antecedenti’, in: Lex et religio: XL Incontro di Studiosi dell’Antichità Cristiana, Roma, 10-12 maggio 2012, Series Studia Ephemeridis Augustinianum, Rome: Augustinianum, 177-190. Ramelli, I. Forthcoming a. ‘Ethos and Logos: A Second-Century Apologetical Debate between Pagan and Christian “Philosophers”’, Vigiliae Christianae. Ramelli, I. Forthcoming b. ‘Aretas IV the Nabatean, Herod Antipas the Idumean, and Abgar Ukkama of Edessa’, Aram. Ramelli, I. – Brenk, F. 2011. Review of Romolo Perrotta, Hairéseis: Gruppi, movimenti e fazioni del giudaismo antico e del cristianesimo (da Filone Alessandrino a Egesippo), Bologna: Edizioni Dehoniane, 2007, Augustinianum 51, 278-282. Ramelli, I. – Reale, G. 2005. Diogene Laerzio: Vite e dottrine dei più celebri filosofi, Milan: Bompiani. Rigato, M.-L. 2011. Discepole di Gesù, Bologna: Dehoniane. Rinaldi, G. 2007. ‘Profetismo e profeti cristiani nel giudizio dei pagani’, in: A. Carfora – E. Cattaneo (eds.), Profeti e profezia: Figure profetiche nel Cristianesimo del II secolo, Trapani: Il pozzo di Giacobbe, 101-122. Rinaldi, G. 2009. ‘Rectores aliqui. Note prosopografiche per lo studio dei rapporti tra impero romano e comunità cristiane’, ASE 26, 99-164. Rizzi, M. 2003. ‘Il martirio come pragmatica sociale in Clemente Alessandrino’, Adamantius 9, 60-66. Schirren, T. 2005. ‘Lukian über die kaine telete der Christen’, Philologus 149, 354-359. Schmidt, V. 1995. ‘Lukian über die Auferstehung der Toten’, VigChr 49, 338-392. Sordi, M. – Ramelli, I. 2000. ‘Il Montanismo’, in: La profezia, Bologna: Edizioni Dehoniane, 201-216.

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Tabbernee, W. 2011. Prophets and Gravestones: An Imaginative History of Montanists and Other Early Christians, Grand Rapids: Baker Academic. Tell, H. 2011. Plato’s Counterfeit Sophists, Cambridge, MA: Center for Hellenic Studies, Harvard University. Van den Hoek, A. 1993. ‘Clement of Alexandria on Martyrdom’, Studia Patristica 26, 324341. Whitmarsh, T. 2005. The Second Sophistic, Oxford: OUP.

Holy Man or Charlatan? The Case of Kalasiris in Heliodorus’ Aithiopika A LAIN B ILLAULT University of Paris-Sorbonne

Heliodorus’ Aithiopika feature three priests who play an important part in the plot. Sisimithres, the Ethiopian gymnosophist, retrieves the baby Charikleia from death after she has been forsaken by her mother and he takes care of her for a few years. Then he entrusts her to Charicles, a priest of Apollo in Delphi, who becomes the girl’s second adoptive father. The third will be Kalasiris, an Egyptian priest of Isis from Memphis, who helps Charikleia to discover what her destiny is supposed to be and to leave Delphi with Theagenes. He accompanies the youngsters on their way to Ethiopia, but he dies in Memphis, before they arrive in Charikleia’s homeland. Kalasiris is certainly the most important of the three priests in the novel. He is a prominent character from Book II through Book VII. Those books have even been defined as the “Kalasiris books”.1 But he is also the most controversial figure of the Aithiopika. His reputation has been bad for a very long time. Already in the eleventh century, the Byzantine scholar Michael Psellos praised Heliodorus because ‘he protects the old Kalasiris from the blame that derives from the activity of a pander’.2 We may therefore presume that Michael Psellos actually considered Kalasiris is acting like a pander when he operates like a go-between to favour the love of Theagenes and Charikleia. The case of Kalasiris does not look better nowadays. Scholars describe him as a dubious man, a strange priest who does not always behave according to the duties of his position.3 They question his honesty and often portray him as a charlatan, not as a holy man. Are they right? To answer this question, we must consider first the criteria which may entitle us to define Kalasiris as a charlatan. As J. Winkler remarks,4 ‘it is only by trying to fix him ————— 1 2 3

4

Elmer 2008, 416. Colonna 1938, 365, ll. 37-40. Heiserman, 1977, 193 ; Sandy 1982, 65-74; Anderson 1984, 126; Winkler 1999, 286-288; Plazenet 2008, 87-88. Winkler 1999, 328. Holy Men and Charlatans in the Ancient Novel, 121–132

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under a certain preconception of the priest and the truth-teller that the problem [that is the problem of Kalasiris’ duplicity] arises’. A holy man is expected to behave according to the spirit and the code of his religion. A charlatan is a merchant who tries to derive some profit from the people’s credulity and to establish a respectable reputation by delivering impressive and deceptive speeches. But these are modern definitions and Kalasiris is a character from Antiquity. I shall try to avoid anachronistic statements by resorting sometimes to ancient texts which deal with holiness and charlatanism and feature religious men. I shall refer to Euripides, Plato, Demosthenes and Lucian and compare the story of Kalasiris to the life and deeds of Apollonius of Tyana as they are told by Philostratus. I shall distinguish two periods in the life of Kalasiris. First comes the priest of Isis in Memphis, then the exile in Delphi who meets Theagenes and Charikleia and gives them all the support he can. At this moment, he reveals new aspects of his personality and plays a new part in the plot until he dies. His character is developing without coming apart. He is still the same man, but he has several faces. Therefore, one will have to consider the diversity and the unity of his personality if one wants to approach his case properly. Before meeting Theagenes and Charikleia in Delphi, Kalasiris was a priest of Isis in Memphis. He was married and had two sons whom he raised after the passing of his wife. He had been living a quiet life for some time when his destiny changed: Before many years had passed the preordained celestial cycle of the stars turned the wheel of our fortunes; the eye of Kronos lit upon my house and brought a change for the worse. My science had given me warning of this, but not the ability to escape it. (2,24,6)5 This ‘change for the worse’ is brought in Memphis by Rhodopis, a Thracian harlot gifted with irresistible sensuality. Kalasiris recognizes that she is the agent of fate, but he cannot resist her charm. He falls in love with her and wants to sleep with her. As he refuses to pollute the sanctuary where he is serving Isis and to dishonour his priesthood, he decides to leave Memphis and becomes an exile. Therefore, during this first period of his life, Kalasiris behaves like a genuine priest and cannot be considered a charlatan. He is a married man, as many priests were in antiquity.6 He is a temperate man and does not live a secret sexual life behind the stage of his religious activity. He has nothing to do with Alexander, the false prophet ————— 5 6

I quote the translation by J. Morgan in Reardon ed. 1989. Parker 1996, 86-94.

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who, according to Lucian,7 introduced special rites in his fake sanctuary of Abonouteichos in order to live a life of debauchery. Kalasiris lives a genuine religious life. His deeds do not contradict the duties of his position. When Rhodopis arrives in Memphis, the risk of moral conflict is suddenly looming. Kalasiris decides to avoid it and leaves Memphis. He explains his decision to Knemon: I referred my case to the court of reason and imposed upon myself a penalty that befitted the sins I had committed not in fact (heaven forfend!) but merely in inclination. Exile was the sentence I pronounced on my concupiscence, and so, driven by relentless fate, I left the land of my birth. (2,25,4) Kalasiris lucidly understands his situation. He is not self-indulgent. Nobody can find any fault with him so far, but he has had the idea of sleeping with Rhodopis. Therefore, he thinks he is guilty and considers exile is the appropriate penalty. It is also the best way he can find to solve the problem he is facing. He sees that he cannot escape the decisions of fate, but that he can get away from Rhodopis and avoid dishonour. This is an honest flight which enables him to maintain his priestly dignity. Kalasiris is not a fallen priest, but a genuine priest who yields to the power of fate without failing in his religious duty. One may think of Apollonius of Tyana who, according to Philostratus (1,13), decided never to have a sexual life and never had any. Kalasiris previously had a sexual life, but refuses to resume it at the cost of his religious life. His story looks more simple and more realistic as well than Apollonius’ superhuman life. But his life as an exile will become more complicated than he had foreseen it. Exile is a situation that Kalasiris shares with other characters in the Greek novels and in other pieces of Greek prose of the Roman Empire. His own son Thyamis has to leave Memphis after he has been unduly deprived of a priesthood he was supposed to be in charge of. But instead of becoming a priest otherwise, he decides to live the life of a bandit. In The wonders beyond Thule, the novel by Antonius Diogenes, Paapis is an Egyptian priest who is forced to leave his homeland, Tyre, after the city has been ruined. He soon reveals himself a criminal who harms people who have been kind to him and uses his magical powers against the heroes Dinias and Derkyllis until Throuskanos, who is in love with Derkyllis, kills him with his sword.8 Another dubious religious man, Peregrinus, whose life and death Lucian tells pitilessly, also decides to leave Armenia after he has committed adultery and is banished from Parion, his homeland, after he has killed his father. As he publicly insults the emperor Antoninus Pius, he is also expelled later from ————— 7 8

Alex. 38-42. Photius, Bibliotheke codex 166, 109a29-110b10, Stephens and Winkler 1995, 123-125.

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Rome.9 But Peregrinus is first of all an adventurer who becomes a Christian priest and theologian to derive profit from this position which he is forced to leave when his deeds reveal that his Christian faith is not genuine.10 Then he becomes a wandering philosophical preacher until, according to Lucian, he performs his last piece of trickery when he commits suicide under the eyes of the crowd gathered in Olympia to watch the games. Kalasiris does not look like those men. He cannot be blamed for any crime or trickery. He does not cease to be a priest to become a bandit. He does not resort to magic to harm people. He is not an adulterer. And he does not pretend to belong to a faith he does not belong to. His life is deeply different from the life of Thyamis, Paapis and Peregrinus. After he has left Memphis and prior to his arrival at Delphi, he lives the life of a wandering priest. He mentions his travels, but does not detail them to Knemon. He just tells him about his journey to Delphi where he decided to settle (2,26,2). His previous wanderings may call to the mind of the reader the destiny of the mystical figures of Archaic Greece such as Melampous.11 These men were often seers. They uttered oracles, healed sick people and performed miracles. But Kalasiris does nothing of the sort. He is not a religious leader. He has nothing of a divine man. He does not look like Apollonius of Tyana who foretells the future, heals sick people, prevents disasters, brings a young girl back from the dead and orders always to observe the rules of life that have been set by Pythagoras. Kalasiris is not dedicated to any particular philosophy. He has not been initiated into a secret worship, he is not a member of a sect. Demosthenes contemptuously describes in his speech On the Crown (259-260) the activities of the young Aeschines when he was helping his mother Glaukothea, a devotee to Sabazios, to initiate people into the worship of this god.12 Kalasiris does not try to initiate anyone into anything. He does not look either like the mendicant priests and the seers whose behaviour Plato describes in the Republic (364a-365a). These men invoke the authority of Hesiod and Homer and the wisdom of alleged books by Orpheus and Musaeus. They knock at the door of rich people and offer them to make atonement for their faults and to harm their enemies by performing the appropriate rites. Kalasiris has nothing to do with them. He does not try to sell dubious services to anyone. Therefore he cannot be suspected of being a charlatan. He is just a priest and remains a priest after he has settled in Delphi. He explains to Knemon the reason why he decided to come to Delphi: ————— 9 10 11 12

Peregr. 8-9, 18. Peregr. 11-16. Gernet – Boulanger 1970, 118-126. Yunis 2001, 254-256.

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I learned that in Greece there was a city called Delphi, sacred to Apollo but a holy place for the other gods too, a retreat where philosophers could work far from the madding crowd. Here I made my way, for it seemed to me that a town devoted to holy rites and ceremonies was a place of refuge well suited to a member of the priestly caste. (2,26,1) Kalasiris has picked up Delphi to continue to be a priest and to deepen his religious knowledge. He says to Knemon that his science comes from the gods. Heliodorus features him as a priest who actually receives messages from the gods. As Kalasiris enters the temple of Apollo in Delphi, the Pythia addresses him and foretells that he will get back to Egypt in the near future: From Nile’s corn-rich banks your path has led As you flee from far-reaching Fate’s spun thread. Fear not. The hour is near when I shall lead you home To black-soiled Egypt. For now, friend, welcome! (2,26,5) Kalasiris becomes famous in Delphi right after this unsolicited oracle. Everybody in the temple has witnessed it and nobody can doubt it. Apollo has called Kalasiris a friend. People tell Kalasiris that only one man had been previously welcomed that way in his temple, ‘a certain Lykourgos from Sparta’ (2,27,1). Heliodorus refers to a famous story mentioned by Herodotus (1,65,2-3): when Lycourgos entered the temple of Apollo in Delphi, the Pythia declared that he was dear to Zeus and the other gods and that she did not know whether she had to call him a man or a god, but preferred to call him a god. Kalasiris is not exactly in the same situation as Lycourgos. The Pythia does not call him a god. But as she welcomes him in the sanctuary, she establishes his religious authority. He must be a holy man since Apollo calls him a friend. Moreover, as he is compared to Lycourgos, he is linked to a famous wise man who belongs to the legend of Greece. He gets a great prestige. As for Heliodorus, he follows the train of Herodotus when he describes Kalasiris’ activities in Delphi. Herodotus devotes the second book of his History to explain to his Greek audience the history, the civilization and the religion of Egypt. In Delphi, the Greek philosophers ask Kalasiris to expand upon the same subjects. Kalasiris discovers that ‘Greeks find all Egyptian lore and legend irresistibly attractive’ (2,27,3). He responds to their curiosity. He becomes the guest of the city. He performs his religious duties in the temple of Apollo and devotes the rest of his time to long conversations with men of knowledge. In Plato’s Timaeus (21e-25d) Solon asks the Egyptian priests about Egyptian antiquity and they tell him the ancient

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history of the world and of Athens. In Delphi, Kalasiris may look like an Egyptian Solon who is asked about his own country by the Greek.13 According to G. Anderson, he is acting like ‘a Visiting Fellow in Comparative Religion’.14 He actually teaches more than he learns. He is asked to speak and his speeches are expected with respect because he is considered to be acquainted with many subjects. Kalasiris does not hide from Knemon that he is really knowledgeable. He speaks of his ‘god-sent wisdom of which I may not speak’ (2,25,5) and claims to possess the genuine science of the priests: True wisdom it is that we priests and members of the sacerdotal caste practice from childhood; its eyes are raised towards heaven; it keeps company with the gods and partakes of the nature of the Great Ones; it studies the movement of the stars and thus gains knowledge of the future; it has no truck with the wicked, earthly concerns of the other kind, but all its energies are directed to what is good and beneficial to mankind. (3,16,4) Kalasiris does not doubt that this wisdom comes from the gods. And the gods actually send him signs to guide him. In his dreams, he sees Apollo and Artemis who order him to lead Theagenes and Charikleia to Egypt and farther on (3,11,5). He asks Apollo for help and the god fulfills his prayer. When Kalasiris plans to leave Delphi with Theagenes and Charikleia, he meets a group of Phoenician merchants who ask him to come aboard their boat which will sail from Delphi soon (4,16,3-4). He also receives ominous messages from famous heroes. When he dwells in Kephallenia, Ulysses warns him in another dream that he will suffer the same kind of ordeals he has undergone himself because he has neglected to pay him a visit (5,22,1-4). Heliodorus describes Kalasiris as a man who is connected to the gods and the heroes. They warn him, they help him, they guide him, they may even threaten him, but they treat him as a holy man, not as a charlatan. Kalasiris himself never forgets to perform the rites he considers mandatory to worship the gods.15 And he seems to be very well acquainted with them. He explains to Knemon how he could identify Apollo and Artemis when they paid him a visit at night (3,12-13). He invokes the authority of Homer whose verse he understands as a mystical allegory.16 When he meets a crocodile on the road, he recognizes it as a god-sent sign (6,1,2). His religious science seems to be above any suspicion ————— 13 14 15 16

Hunter 1998, 52. Anderson 1984, 81. See 2,23,1-2; 3,4,11; 5,33,5. Most 2007.

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of charlatanism. The authority of his speech derives from it. But his rhetoric often appears questionable. Kalasiris always takes care of keeping his command of his speech. When he is asked to speak, his usual response is: ‘Later’. He postpones his answer until the moment he considers appropriate. Knemon (2,22,5, 2,23,4, 2,24,5), Theagenes and Charikleia (4,11,4, 5,21,4), Nausikles (5,1,6) must accept to wait. This is not just a whim. Kalasiris tells Knemon that he has deliberately avoided answering Nausikles’ questions under ‘diverse pretexts’ (2,23,6). He does not want to give the other speakers any kind of control of his freedom of speech. He also cheats them sometimes. First, he hides the truth from them. When Charikles announces him that he will see Charikleia for the first time, he does not tell him he has already seen her before (2,35,3). He will disclose this later as he praises the beauty of the girl to convince Charikles that he can be trusted (3,6). When he tells his story to Nausikles, he intentionally omits some details (5,16,5). He enjoys the hospitality of Tyrrhenos, but when he is forced to leave, he does not warn him (5,21,4). When Theagenes and Charikleia are threatened by the pirate Trachinos, he does not warn them either and justifies his silence by saying that he did not wish to disturb them and believed the danger could be warded off (5,29,5). This reveals the nature of his lies. They are tricks he plays to keep control of the situation and protect Theagenes and Charikleia. He does not disclose to Charikles that the youngsters have fallen in love with each other. His silence has been questioned.17 The reason for it may be found in Charikles’ words when he meets Kalasiris for the first time. He complains that Charikleia does not want to marry anyone while he wants her to marry his nephew. He begs Kalasiris to help him: Use your magic and cast an Egyptian spell on her. Induce her by word or deed to acknowledge her own nature. Make her realize that she is a woman now. (2,33,6) Kalasiris promises to do what he can, but he understands that Charikles will accept no husband but his nephew for Charikleia. When Theagenes plans to visit Charikles with Kalasiris to submit to him his proposal to Charikleia, Kalasiris replies: He would refuse...not that he could find anything to object to in you, but many years ago Charikles engaged the girl to his own sister’s son. (4,6,6)

————— 17

Morgan 2003, 452-453.

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This is why he decides to keep the love of Theagenes and Charikleia secret. This secret is not about religion. It has nothing to do with Kalasiris’ priestly life. It has nothing to do with any kind of charlatanism either, since Kalasiris just remains silent. It is just a device he has contrived to protect the youngsters. But his religious condition is involved in other devices he has to resort to. Those devices are lies which derive from the idea that the people have of an Egyptian priest. Charikles believes that Kalasiris has a wisdom and a charm that are specific to the Egyptian. Kalasiris decides to take advantage of his preconceptions. After Theagenes and Charikleia have fallen in love in the temple of Apollo, they are not in a good condition. Charikleia actually has every symptom of love according to ancient lore, but Charikles does not recognize any. He asks Kalasiris for help. Kalasiris has witnessed the meeting of Charikleia and Theagenes (3,5). He knows the truth, but he declares Charikleia has been the victim of the evil eye. Charikles is surprised to hear that Kalasiris believes in the power of the evil eye as the uneducated crowd does. Kalasiris replies that the evil eye is a serious sickness indeed. He pretends to quote examples from the science of nature and from holy books which deal with animals (3,8,1). Charikles believes he is telling the truth. Kalasiris’ shamelessness is highlighted by the preceding episode. He has just enthusiastically described to Knemon the love at first sight scene in the temple of Apollo and he has specified he was alone to understand what was actually happening (3,5). But he does not disclose his secret to Charikles. He is a priest who lies to another priest. He takes advantage of the latter’s credulity and convinces him with his impressive rhetoric. This is sheer charlatanism. Besides, Charikles is not his only victim. In order to help Theagenes and Charikleia, Kalasiris needs their confidence. He resorts to lies to win it. When Theagenes comes to ask him for help, he does not know that Kalasiris is well aware of his situation. Kalasiris decides not to tell him the truth: The situation, I decided, called for a spot of showman ship. I would divine what I knew already! So, gazing at him with a benign expression, I said: ‘You may hesitate to confess, but all things are known to my wisdom and the gods.’ Then I paused a moment, performed some meaningless calculations on my fingers, tossed my hair around, and pretended that the spirit was upon me. ‘You are in love, my son!’ I pronounced. At this oracular utterance he started, but when I added, ‘with Charikleia’, he thought that the voice of god really was speaking through me, and would have prostrated himself at my feet, had I not restrained him. (3,17,1-2)

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To convince Theagenes that he really has some divine powers, Kalasiris decides to play the part of an inspired seer to whom the gods immediately disclose the truth when he asks them to. He pretends to pray, he shakes his head as if he were possessed by a god and he speaks like an oracle. He performs a show of the same kind for Charikleia. When Charikles warns him that the condition of the girl is getting worse, Kalasiris orders a tripod, a laurel branch, a fire and some incense. He is acting according to the religious custom of Delphi: the Pythia is seated on a tripod when she utters her prophecies. The laurel is Apollo’s favourite plant. People use fire and incense when they worship him and the other gods. But Kalasiris uses this Delphian equipment to cheat Charikleia: I launched into a sort of stage performance, producing clouds of incense smoke, pursing my lips and muttering some sounds that passed for prayers, waving the laurel up and down, from Charikleia’s head to her toes, and yawning blearily, for all the world like some old beldam. I kept this up for some time, until, by the time I came to an end, I had made a complete fool of myself and the girl, who shook her head again and again and smiled wryly as if to tell me that I was on quite the wrong track and had no idea what was really wrong with her. (4,5,3-4) Kalasiris himself emphasizes that he behaves like an actor on the stage. He performs a fake rite and resorts to theatrical tricks. The alleged religious moment becomes a scene of comedy. Kalasiris is certainly acting like a charlatan, but he fails to impress Charikleia. She thinks he does not have a clue to what she is really suffering. She is wrong, but she has understood he is trying to cheat her. Kalasiris’ gift for fraud is not unlimited. But he can still lie to Charikles and tell him that Charikleia is unsettled because she is possessed by the heavenly powers and by the demons he has called upon her who resist the assault of another god. This is another lie which involves the gods, but Charikles trusts Kalasiris and gives him the strip which had been left with Charikleia when she was a baby (4,7,12-13). He trusts him too when Kalasiris falsely explains to him that the dream he has seen and understood rightly as a bad sign is a good sign and even blames him for being short-sighted: For a priest, and the priest of the god with the greatest powers of prophecy at that, you strike me as a pretty poor interpreter of dreams. (4,15,1)

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This seems to be a peak in Kalasiris’ career as a religious charlatan. He takes advantage of the sacred authority of Apollo and of the foolishness of Charikles to hide the truth from the latter. Charikles could have taken action to prevent Charikleia from leaving Delphi with Theagenes. Kalasiris cannot accept to run that risk. He has only one goal: he must help the youngsters to get away and protect them on their way to Egypt. This is why he does not hesitate to act as a charlatan if he thinks the situation requires of him to do so. His charlatanism is not limited to Delphi. When he is in Egypt, he becomes the guest of Nausikles, a rich merchant. Nausikles retrieves Charikleia who was in the custody of the Persian officer Mitranes. When he returns her to Kalasiris, he asks for a ransom. He means it as a joke, but Kalasiris chooses to be careful. He thinks that Nausikles, as a merchant, is interested in money. He wants to prevent him from discovering the jewels Charikleia is carrying with her, the jewels which had been left with her when she was a baby. He decides to buy Nausikles out. He offers him one of the jewels, a ring which he pretends to discover in the fire during a sacrifice as if it were a gift from the gods. He stages this fake discovery like a consummate charlatan: The rite was quickly performed. Kalasiris briefly inspected the entrails: the play of expressions on his face showed that the future he saw foretold was one of alternating joy and sorrow. Then he passed both his hands over the altar, all the while pronouncing an invocation, and drew – or pretended to draw – from the altar fire what he had had in his hand all along. ‘This is the price of Charikleia’s release, Nausikles,’ he said, ‘which the gods convey to you by way of me.’ As he spoke, he pressed into Nausikles’ hand one of the royal rings. (5,13,2-3) Kalasiris takes advantage of a sacrifice, one of the holiest rites in ancient religion, to cheat Nausikles. He pretends to see in the entrails of the victims mixed signals he actually does not see. He pronounces a false invocation and points out the gods as the authors of the scene he has manufactured himself. His lie borders on ungodliness. This episode goes on with a very long ekphrasis of the ring. It has been rightly interpreted by E.L. Bowie18 as an allegory of Heliodorus’ own literary activity and ambition. But if we consider the scene of the sacrifice from a religious point of view, it is an additional sign of Kalasiris’ shameless charlatanism. In comparison with it, the lies he tells later to the pirates to save Theagenes and Charikleia from slavery and death, this terrible dodge which leads to the slaughter of many men seem to be almost innocent wiles. They are not thrown in the same ————— 18

Bowie 1995.

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shining relief as the deliberate perversion of the sacrifice. But they point to the same goal: Kalasiris lies and cheats people to protect the youngsters. He is a priest who behaves like a charlatan to reach this aim. He succeeds, but his success is not always easy. He is a consummate liar and a trickster, but he also suffers hardships. He does not always know what to do and where he is going to. As he turns over those questions in his mind, he cannot sleep well at night (3,11,4, 3,15,2). When he reads the confession of the Ethiopian queen Persinna, he has mixed feelings: he marvels at the governance of the gods, he is pleased and sad, he is thankful because the destiny of Charikleia has been explained to him and troubled about her future, he pities the instability and insecurity of human life (4,9). The seemingly all-knowing priest appears to be an unsettled man. When the youngsters beg for his help, he has his heart in his mouth, but manages to hide from them his emotion (4,18,3). Later he publicly cries over their misfortune (5,33,3-4). He cannot control their fate and does not know what the future has in store for them. He gradually understands the design of their destiny, and the meaning of his own mission.19 When he tells Charikleia that Persinna has sent him to fetch her (4,12), some scholars think he is lying again.20 They suspect he uses this lie to convince her to leave Delphi. But the episode fits well the plot of gradual discovery which Heliodorus has traced for Kalasiris. Kalasiris does not see the end of this plot. He gets away from Delphi with Theagenes and Charikleia and becomes their companion on their way to Egypt and Ethiopia. But he dies in Memphis where he comes back just in time to prevent his own sons from murdering each other as he had known they would try to for a long time (2,25,5-6). His death shows the limits of his power. It is just the death of a man, not of a theios anēr. The god-sent science of Kalasiris does not enable him to escape the constraint of human condition. The occasional charlatan does not triumph over the circumstances of life. He cannot even attend the outcome of the story he had worked so hard to understand without ever being totally in command of it. To conclude: Kalasiris is a genuine priest, if not a mystical leader, who sometimes acts as a charlatan to protect and serve Theagenes and Charikleia. His charlatanism is not selfish. It is not all-powerful either. Kalasiris lives, works and die like a man. He has unquestionably dedicated his life to the gods, but he is not devoid of the shortcomings of a human being who tries to find and follow his way

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Winkler 1999, 339-343. Anderson 1984, 126; Plazenet 2008, 88.

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on earth. He is not a simple character. K. Dowden21 has rightly argued that Heliodorus had ‘serious intentions’ when he wrote the Aithiopika. His elaborate portrait of Kalasiris bears evidence of this seriousness.

Bibliography Anderson, G. 1984. Ancient Fiction: The Novel in the Graeco-Roman World, London – Sydney – Totowa: Rowman & Littlefield. Bowie, E.L. 1995. ‘Name and a Gem: Aspects of Allusion in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica’, in: D. Innes – H. Hinnes – C. Pelling (eds.), Ethics and Rhetoric: Classical Essays for Donald Russell in his Seventy-Fifth Birthday, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 269-280. Colonna, A. 1938. Heliodori Aethiopica, Rome: Typis Regiae Officinae Polygraphicae. Dowden, K. 1996. ‘Heliodorus: Serious Intentions’, CQ 46, 267-285. Elmer, D.F. 2008. ‘Heliodoros’ “Sources”: Intertextuality, Paternity, and the Nile River in The Aithiopika’, TAPhA 138, 411-450. Gernet, L. – Boulanger, A. 1970. Le génie grec dans la religion, Paris: Albin Michel. Heiserman, A. 1977. The Novel Before The Novel: Essays and Discussions about the Beginnings of Prose Fiction in the West, Chicago, London: University of Chicago Press. Hunter, R. 1998. ‘The Aithiopika of Heliodorus: beyond interpretation?’ in: R. Hunter (ed.), Studies in Heliodorus, Cambridge: Cambridge Philological Society, 40-59. Morgan, J.R. 2003. ‘Heliodoros’, in: G.L. Schmeling (ed.), The Novel in the Ancient World, revised edition, Boston – Leiden: Brill, 417-456. Most, G.W. 2007. ‘Allegory and Narrative in Heliodorus’, in: S. Swain – J. Elsner (eds.), Severan Culture, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 160-167. Parker, R. 1996. Miasma: Pollution and Purification in Early Greek Religion, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Plazenet, L. 2008. Héliodore, L’Histoire aethiopique: Traduction de Jacques Amyot, Paris: Honoré Champion. Reardon, B.P. (ed.) 1989. Collected Ancient Greek Novels, Berkeley – Los Angeles – London: University of California Press. Sandy, G.N. 1982. Heliodorus, Boston: Twayne. Stephens, S.A. – Winkler, J.J. 1995. Ancient Greek Novels: The Fragments, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Winkler, J.J. 1999. ‘The Mendacity of Kalasiris and the Narrative Strategy of Heliodoros’ Aithiopika’, in: S. Swain (ed.), Oxford Readings in the Greek Novel, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 286-350 (= YCS 27, 1982, 93-158). Yunis, H. 2001. Demosthenes, On the Crown, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Dowden 1996.

Apollonius of Tyana as Proteus: theios anēr or Master of Deceit? M ICHAEL P ASCHALIS University of Crete Chapter 1,4 of the Life of Apollonius tells the following story about a supernatural experience of the sophist’s mother while she was carrying him. She had a vision of the Egyptian god Proteus who told her that she would give birth tο himself: κυούσῃ δὲ αὐτὸν τῇ μητρὶ φάσμα ἦλθεν Αἰγυπτίου δαίμονος ὁ Πρωτεὺς, ὁ παρὰ τῷ Ὁμήρῳ ἐξαλλάττων· ἡ δὲ οὐδὲν δείσασα ἤρετο αὐτόν, τί ἀποκυήσοι· ὁ δὲ ‘ἐμέ’ εἶπε. ‘Σὺ δὲ τίς;’ εἰπούσης ‘Πρωτεὺς’ ἔφη ‘ὁ Αἰγύπτιος θεός’. ὅστις μὲν δὴ τὴν σοφίαν ὁ Πρωτεὺς ἐγένετο, τί ἂν ἐξηγοίμην τοῖς γε ἀκούουσι τῶν ποιητῶν, ὡς ποικίλος τε ἦν καὶ ἄλλοτε ἄλλος καὶ κρείττων τοῦ ἁλῶναι, γιγνώσκειν τε ὡς ἐδόκει καὶ προγιγνώσκειν πάντα; καὶ μεμνῆσθαι χρὴ τοῦ Πρωτέως, μάλιστα ἐπειδὰν προϊὼν ὁ λόγος δεικνύῃ τὸν ἄνδρα πλείω μὲν ἢ ὁ Πρωτεὺς προγνόντα, πολλῶν δὲ ἀπόρων τε καὶ ἀμηχάνων κρείττω γενόμενον ἐν αὐτῷ μάλιστα τῷ ἀπειλῆφθαι. When his mother was still carrying him, she had a vision of an Egyptian divinity, Proteus who changes shape in Homer. She was not at all frightened, but asked him who her child would be. He replied ‘Myself.’ When she asked ‘Who are you?’ he said, ‘Proteus, the Egyptian god.’ Now for those who know the poets why should I describe how wise Proteus was, how shifting, multiform, and impossible to catch, and how he seemed to have all knowledge and foreknowledge? But the reader must bear Proteus in mind, especially when the course of my story shows that my hero had the greater prescience of the two, and rose above many difficult and baffling situations just when he was cornered.1

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The text and translation of the Vita Apollonii are by Jones 2005. Holy Men and Charlatans in the Ancient Novel, 133–150

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The god Proteus who appeared to Apollonius’ mother is here identified with the shape-shifting Homeric Proteus. In Odyssey 4,431-461 Menelaus and his companions, on the advice of Proteus’ daughter Eidothea, put on seal skins, capture Proteus as he is lying among his flock of seals and hold him down until he has stopped changing form and returned to his original shape, so that Menelaus may question him about his nostos and the nostoi of other Achaean warriors. Eidothea’s speeches to Menelaus provide an image of Proteus and an account of the hero’s forthcoming encounter with the sea-god: πωλεῖταί τις δεῦρο γέρων ἅλιος νημερτής, ἀθάνατος, Πρωτεὺς Αἰγύπτιος, ὅς τε θαλάσσης πάσης βένθεα οἶδε, Ποσειδάωνος ὑποδμώς· τὸν δέ τ’ ἐμόν φασιν πατέρ’ ἔμμεναι ἠδὲ τεκέσθαι. τόν γ’ εἴ πως σὺ δύναιο λοχησάμενος λελαβέσθαι, ὅς κέν τοι εἴπῃσιν ὁδὸν καὶ μέτρα κελεύθου νόστον θ’, ὡς ἐπὶ πόντον ἐλεύσεαι ἰχθυόεντα. καὶ δέ κέ τοι εἴπῃσι, διοτρεφές, αἴ κ’ ἐθέλῃσθα, ὅττι τοι ἐν μεγάροισι κακόν τ’ ἀγαθόν τε τέτυκται, οἰχομένοιο σέθεν δολιχὴν ὁδὸν ἀργαλέην τε. […] ἦμος δ’ ἠέλιος μέσον οὐρανὸν ἀμφιβεβήκῃ, τῆμος ἄρ’ ἐξ ἁλὸς εἶσι γέρων ἅλιος νημερτὴς πνοιῇ ὕπο Ζεφύροιο, μελαίνῃ φρικὶ καλυφθείς, ἐκ δ’ ἐλθὼν κοιμᾶται ὑπὸ σπέεσι γλαφυροῖσιν· ἀμφὶ δέ μιν φῶκαι νέποδες καλῆς ἁλοσύδνης ἁθρόαι εὕδουσιν, πολιῆς ἁλὸς ἐξαναδῦσαι, πικρὸν ἀποπνείουσαι ἁλὸς πολυβενθέος ὀδμήν. ἔνθα σ’ ἐγὼν ἀγαγοῦσα ἅμ’ ἠοῖ φαινομένηφιν εὐνάσω ἑξείης· σὺ δ’ ἐῢ κρίνασθαι ἑταίρους τρεῖς, οἵ τοι παρὰ νηυσὶν ἐϋσσέλμοισιν ἄριστοι. πάντα δέ τοι ἐρέω ὀλοφώϊα τοῖο γέροντος. φώκας μέν τοι πρῶτον ἀριθμήσει καὶ ἔπεισιν· αὐτὰρ ἐπὴν πάσας πεμπάσσεται ἠδὲ ἴδηται, λέξεται ἐν μέσσῃσι, νομεὺς ὣς πώεσι μήλων. τὸν μὲν ἐπὴν δὴ πρῶτα κατευνηθέντα ἴδησθε, καὶ τότ’ ἔπειθ’ ὕμιν μελέτω κάρτος τε βίη τε, αὖθι δ’ ἔχειν μεμαῶτα καὶ ἐσσύμενόν περ ἀλύξαι. πάντα δὲ γιγνόμενος πειρήσεται, ὅσσ’ ἐπὶ γαῖαν ἑρπετὰ γίγνονται καὶ ὕδωρ καὶ θεσπιδαὲς πῦρ·

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ὑμεῖς δ’ ἀστεμφέως ἐχέμεν μᾶλλόν τε πιέζειν. ἀλλ’ ὅτε κεν δή σ’ αὐτὸς ἀνείρηται ἐπέεσσι, τοῖος ἐών οἷόν κε κατευνηθέντα ἴδησθε, καὶ τότε δὴ σχέσθαι τε βίης λῦσαί τε γέροντα, ἥρως, εἴρεσθαι δέ θεῶν ὅς τίς σε χαλέπτει, νόστον θ’, ὡς ἐπὶ πόντον ἐλεύσεαι ἰχθυόεντα.2 (Hom. Od. 4,384-424) ‘[…] This is the haunt of an unerring immortal, Egyptian Proteus, the Old Man of the Sea, Who serves Poseidon and knows all the deeps. They say he’s my father. If you can Somehow catch him in ambush here, He will tell you the route, and the distance too, Of your journey home over the teeming sea. And he will tell you, prince, if you so wish, What has been done in your house for better or worse While you have been gone on your long campaign.’ […] ‘I’ll tell you exactly what you need to know. When the sun is at high noon, the unerring Old Man of the Sea comes from the saltwater, Hidden in dark ripples the West Wind stirs up, And then lies down to sleep in the scalloped caves. All around him seals, the brine-spirit’s brood, Sleep in a herd. They come out of the grey water With breath as fetid as the depths of the sea. I will lead you there at break of day And lay you in a row, you and three comrades Chosen by you as the best on your ship. Now I’ll tell you all the old man’s wiles. First, he will go over the seals and count them, And when he has counted them off by fives, He will lie down like a shepherd among them. As soon as you see him lying down to rest, Screw up your courage to the sticking point And pin him down, no matter how he struggles And tries to escape. He will try everything, ————— 2

The passage is quoted from Allen 1917.

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And turn into everything that moves on the earth, And into water also, and a burning flame. Just hang on and grip him all the more tightly. When he finally speaks to you of his own free will In the shape you saw him in when he lay down to rest, Then ease off, hero, and let the old man go, And ask him which of the gods is angry with you, And how you can sail home over the teeming sea’.3 The association of Apollonius with Proteus has received considerable attention in recent years and has been variously interpreted. Sophistic ‘shifty’ attitudes had been negatively associated with Proteus since Plato (Euthphr. 15d, Euthd. 288bc, Ion 541e).4 Before telling the story of Apollonius’ birth, however, Philostratus had compared him in advance with Socrates and Plato (VA 1,2) and not with Socrates’ interlocutors and their Protean slipperiness. Hence interpretations of Apollonius as Proteus exploited other potential aspects of this relationship. I cite some examples. Anderson understood VA 1,4 as an allusion to Apollonius’ various impersonations: ‘Apollonius performs the labours of Herakles, the voyages of Odysseus, the conquests of Alexander, the trial of Socrates and the transmigrations of Pythagoras, all in one. To these modest beginnings are added casual glimpses of Jesus Christ and Herodes Atticus. Not for nothing is Apollonius son of Proteus’.5 According to Flinterman the Proteus parallel functions as a metaphor for the ‘elusive’ quality of Philostratus himself: ‘Virtually every aspect of his life and opinions is the object of controversy, and any scholar who attempts to wade through the substantial volume of literature to arrive at a survey of the communis opinio is bound to end up with a meager result’.6 Along similar lines Elsner attributed a Protean dimension to the Philostratean corpus, in the sense that it ‘offers a systematic resistance to generic repetition’.7 Gyselinck applied the association with Proteus to the text of VA and the wide and rich spectrum of interpretations it generates: ‘it unremittingly proves to be indeed as protean a text and difficult to pin down as its protagonist’.8 Finally Gyselinck and Demoen have suggested that the

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Translated by Stanley Lombardo. For further references, see Whitmarsh 2001, 228 n.184. Anderson 1986, 235. Flinterman 1995, 52-53. Elsner 2009. Gyselinck 2007, 203.

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reference to the Protean poikilia in VA 1,4 might be read as ‘metafictional commentary by the author on the overall formal and stylistic versatility that he is about to display in writing the life of a champion of Hellenic culture’.9 Though VA 1,4 mentions specifically the Homeric Proteus, little attention has been paid to the fact that Philostratus’ representation of Apollonius as Proteus is strikingly different from the Odyssean account. Schirren has noted this point but interpreted it as a puzzling contradiction: The apparently conventional reference to the Proteus of the Odyssey, though, is ambivalent. For there the god does not defy capture nor does he escape the hands of Menelaus and his companion, and his foreknowledge is of a limited nature, as the unforeseen, successful attack of mortal beings demonstrates. […] Thus the problem arises of whether the phasma’s prophecy is well chosen for a theios anēr of this kind. For Plato associates the sophist in general with the identity-changing Proteus. As is well known, this is definitely not meant as a compliment. What therefore does the implied author have in mind here when he creates a super-protean hero? The reader remains puzzled.10 Based on the difference between the Homeric account and Philostratus’ reading of it, it is perfectly clear that Apollonius is not another Homeric Proteus. But was Philostratus in a state of confusion when he introduced the Homeric parallel and actually gave it a programmatic place in the VA? The programmatic significance is such that the end of Apollonius’ life which concludes the VA looks back to his birth and the identification with Proteus. A careful reading of the VA passages where an association with the Homeric Proteus is suggested will show that Philostratus enters into a contest with the Homeric model and re-writes it, approximately as Nonnus does in the Proem of the Dionysiaca with the same Odyssean episode.11 In addition, interpretations of Proteus as a proto-sophist and proto-wizard or magician12 were damaging to the image of Apollonius as a true σοφός, a philosopher who, according to Philostratus, pursued the traditions of Pythagoras, Empedocles, Democritus, Plato, Anaxagoras, and Socrates (1,1-2). In full harmony with the polemical position outlined in VA 1,2 that Apollonius was not a γόης13 or μάγος, Philostratus set himself the task of dissociating Apollonius from similar adaptations and connotations of the Homeric Proteus. ————— 9 10 11 12 13

Gyselinck – Demoen 2009, 107. Schirren 2009, 163. Paschalis 2014. Herter 1957, 967-968. The term was also associated with sophistry; see Whitmarsh 2001, 228 n.185.

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The conclusion of the narrator’s commentary in VA 1,4 asserts the superiority of Apollonius over Proteus as regards the capacity of foreknowledge and especially of escape from difficult situations: ‘he rose above many difficult and baffling situations just when he was cornered’. The present study focuses on this latter aspect. When Philostratus tells of the Homeric Proteus that ‘he was impossible to catch’ (κρείττων τοῦ ἁλῶναι) he has already ‘corrected’ the Homeric story, adapting it to Apollonius’ superior skills. Of particular significance is the fact that he adduces as evidence for his assertion his narrative of the life and deeds of Apollonius (ἐπειδὰν προϊὼν ὁ λόγος δεικνύῃ). He thus directs the reader’s attention to Apollonius’ capacity for escape or release from situations analogous to the situation in which the Homeric Proteus was found in Odyssey 4. The clearest allusions to the Proteus episode occur in the Domitian narrative of the VA and associate defiance of capture with resistance to tyranny and unjust imprisonment. Since self-liberation was practiced by magicians, the Domitian narrative creates situations analogous to the Odyssean account in order to suggest that Apollonius was not just another Proteus and not a sorcerer. Within this context of restriction of freedom Philostratus’ Apollonius develops in addition the philosophical topic of the soul imprisoned in the body and of human servitude in general, which sheds light on the final chapters of the VA dealing with the end of the sophist. One last point concerns the issue of transformation which is central to the figure of the Homeric Proteus. Gyselinck and Demoen have pointed out that, contrary to the portrayal of Apollonius as poikilos in VA 1,4, the sophist prides himself on being always like himself (ἐμαυτῷ ὅμοιος, twice in VA 8,7) and that the narrator repeats the same notion when he says that Apollonius is a true sage because he always remained himself (τὸ μὴ αὐτὸς μεθίστασθαι).14 This is perfectly true and I would add that the employment of ‘ποικίλος’ is not especially flattering in the VA. But the Domitian narrative challenges Homer on this point too: Philostratus puts Apollonius in a situation of confinement which requires Protean transformations, but the sophist voices his rejection of such practices. In Homer the art of Proteus is labeled an ‘art of deception’ (δολίη τέχνη), but Philostratus’ Apollonius makes it plain that he is not a γόης who might perform such tricks. The narrative advocates a kind of transformation that concerns our inner self, while the end of the VA introduces the only admissible transformation of the body. The ‘correction’ of the Homeric model is thorough and systematic. In VA 7,22 Apollonius is arrested on the orders of Domitian and placed in the ἐλευθέριον δεσμωτήριον (the part of the prison in which free persons were held), until the emperor has the time to talk to him in private. In order to comfort the ————— 14

Gyselinck – Demoen 2009, 106.

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prisoners, Apollonius prepares to converse with them; he compares his words to a ‘φάρμακον νηπενθές ἄχολον’, the potion which Helen poured into the wine of the Achaean heroes in Odyssey 4,219-234 and so relieved them of their sorrow, blending conversation and wine. Right from the start of the Domitian narrative Philostratus creates a context for dialogue with Odyssey 4 and VA 1,4. Apollonius attributes Helen’s knowledge of this φάρμακον to her association with Proteus (7,22,2 εἴπερ ἐς Αἴγυπτόν τε ἦλθε καὶ ὡμίλησε τῷ Πρωτεῖ).15 Several prisoners tell Apollonius stories of unjust imprisonment (7,22-25) and he comforts them with a speech, which he again compares to the ‘φάρμακον νηπενθές’ administered by Helen to the Achaeans to comfort their grief. His speech is concluded in the following way: ‘[…] οἱ ἄνθρωποι ἐν δεσμωτηρίῳ ἐσμὲν τὸν χρόνον τοῦτον, ὃς δὴ ὠνόμασται βίος· αὕτη γὰρ ἡ ψυχὴ σώματι φθαρτῷ ἐνδεθεῖσα πολλὰ μὲν καρτερεῖ, δουλεύει δὲ πᾶσιν, ὁπόσα ἐπ’ ἄνθρωπον φοιτᾷ, οἰκία τε οἷς ἐπενοήθη πρῶτον, ἀγνοῆσαί μοι δοκοῦσιν ἄλλο δεσμωτήριον αὑτοῖς περιβάλλοντες, καὶ γὰρ δὴ καὶ ὁπόσοι τὰ βασίλεια οἰκοῦσιν, ἀσφαλῶς ἐν αὐτοῖς κατεσκευασμένοι, δεδέσθαι μᾶλλον τούτους ἡγώμεθα ἢ οὓς αὐτοὶ δήσουσι. […] ταῦτ’ ἐνθυμούμενοι καὶ πολλοὺς τῶν σοφῶν τε καὶ μακαρίων ἀνδρῶν, οὓς δῆμοι τ’ ἀσελγεῖς ἔδησαν, τυραννίδες δὲ προὐπηλάκισαν, δεχώμεθα καὶ ταῦτα, ὡς μὴ τῶν δεξαμένων αὐτὰ λειποίμεθα.’ (VA 7,26,4-5) ‘[…] We mortals are in prison for the whole of the time named ‘life.’ This soul of ours is chained to a perishable body, has many sufferings, and is a slave to everything that befalls a human being. Whoever first had the idea of a house seems to me to have enclosed himself in a second prison without knowing it. Why, even those who live in palaces, safely ensconced within them, we may consider to be more confined than those whom they hope to confine. […] Think of all that, and of the many wise and blessed men whom a licentious citizenry imprisoned or a tyranny insulted, and let us too accept our lot, and not fail those who accepted theirs.’ Apollonius’ words altered (7,26,6 μετέβαλεν) those in prison so much that most of them took food, stopped crying and became hopeful that no harm would come to them as long as he was with them. Regarding the effect this speech has on the prisoners, which amounts to a complete change of disposition and state of mind, ————— 15

He also mentions as the alternative Homeric account that Helen learnt it from Polydamna, the wife of Thon.

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one should keep in mind its earlier association with Proteus. The narrative uses Odyssey 4 (the Helen episode) against Odyssey 4 (the Proteus episode) and Apollonius’ Proteus against Homer’s Proteus, in order to correct the notion of bodily transformation, of shape-shifting. The message is, I think, clear: the true transformation is the one that affects the soul, not the body, because man’s life itself is a prison and he is a permanent prisoner. Transforming the body, as Proteus did, is meaningless, because the body, in whatever shape, is a prison of the soul. Apollonius does not promise a miraculous release from prison bonds or other kinds of escape. What the wise man can do is plead the cause of the unjustly imprisoned with those in power, as Apollonius will later do with Domitian. Here there is a complete rewriting of the Homeric Proteus episode in a political and philosophical context and this section functions also as a commentary on VA 1,4. The narrative achieves its aim by inserting the doctrine of the imprisonment of the soul in the human body into a situation where the body itself has been cast in jail. After five days of imprisonment, the emperor orders Apollonius to go to court. But he first wants to talk to him in private in order to find out what kind of person he is (29,1 ὅστις ὢν τυγχάνεις). As he is escorted to the palace, the people display admiration for his appearance and detect a divine majesty in his expression (31,1 θεία ἐδόκει ἡ περὶ τῷ εἴδει ἔκπληξις). When Domitian first sees him (7,32,1), he is taken aback by his appearance and addressing Aelianus, the praetorian prefect, he exclaims: ‘Aelianus, you have brought a demon before me’ (‘Αἰλιανέ,’ […] ‘δαίμονά μοι ἐπεισήγαγες’). Domitian is at that moment sacrificing to Athena in the court of Adonis. Apollonius grasps the opportunity to observe to the emperor that, while Athena in Iliad 5,127 removed from the eyes of Diomedes the mist that prevents men from seeing fully and gave him the power to distinguish gods from men on the battlefield, she has not on the contrary cleansed Domitian’s own vision; because if she had, he would have been able to see the goddess herself more clearly and not number men among demons (μὴ ἐς τὰ τῶν δαιμόνων εἴδη τάττοις), in other words not take men for demons in disguise. When Domitian asks Apollonius when he was cleansed of this mist, he replied ‘Long ago […] ever since I became a philosopher’ (πάλαι […] κἀξ ὅτου φιλοσοφῶ) (7,32,2).16 The ‘demon’ the emperor recognizes in the person of the detained Apollonius is actually a Proteus-like sorcerer and thus he will later request of him to change shape. By denying the identification with this kind of demon Apollonius rejects in advance the action which is expected of him and thus conspicuously disassociates himself from the ‘demon’ Proteus of VA 1,4. In order to ‘correct’ the image of himself as just another Homeric Proteus, he plays Homer against Homer, Iliad ————— 16

On this and other Homeric echoes in the Domitian section of the VA, see Praet – Demoen – Gyselinck 2011.

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5 against Odyssey 4: it is precisely the mist over Domitian’s eyes that causes him to mistake Apollonius for a Proteus-like figure, for a demon who has changed shape to appear before him. Domitian accuses Apollonius of conspiring with Nerva against him (7,32,3). Apollonius defends Nerva and his associates (7,33,1) and Domitian becomes furious. Among other accusations he labels him a γόης (sorcerer). Domitian begins his outrages against the sophist by shearing off his beard and hair and next removes him from the ἐλευθέριον δεσμωτήριον and shackles him among the most hardened criminals (ἔν τε τοῖς κακουργοτάτοις δήσας). There follows this exchange between Apollonius and the emperor: ἄρχεται τὸ ἐνθένδε τῆς ἐς τὸν ἄνδρα ὕβρεως γενείων τε ἀποκείρας αὐτὸν καὶ χαίτης ἔν τε τοῖς κακουργοτάτοις δήσας, ὁ δ’ ὑπὲρ μὲν τῆς κουρᾶς ‘ἐλελήθειν, ὦ βασιλεῦ,’ ἔφη ‘περὶ ταῖς θριξὶ κινδυνεύων,’ ὑπὲρ δὲ τῶν δεσμῶν ‘εἰ μὲν γόητά με ἡγῇ,’ ἔφη ‘πῶς δήσεις; εἰ δὲ δήσεις, πῶς γόητα εἶναι φήσεις;’ ‘καὶ ἀνήσω γε οὐ πρότερον,’ εἶπεν ‘ἢ ὕδωρ γενέσθαι σε ἤ τι θηρίον ἢ δένδρον.’ ‘ταυτὶ μὲν’ ἔφη ‘οὐδ’ εἰ δυναίμην, γενοίμην ἄν, ὡς μὴ προδοίην ποτὲ τοὺς οὐδεμιᾷ δίκῃ κινδυνεύοντας, ὢν δ’, ὅσπερ εἰμί, πᾶσιν ὑποθήσω ἐμαυτὸν οἷς ἂν περὶ τὸ σῶμα τουτὶ πράττῃς, ἔστ’ ἂν ὑπὲρ τῶν ἀνδρῶν ἀπολογήσωμαι.’ ‘ὑπὲρ δὲ σοῦ’ εἶπε ‘τίς ὁ ἀπολογησόμενος ἔσται;’ ‘χρόνος’ ἔφη ‘καὶ θεῶν πνεῦμα καὶ σοφίας ἔρως, ᾗ ξύνειμι.’ (VA 7,34) At this point he began his outrages against the Master, shearing off his beard and his hair, and shackling him in the company of the most hardened criminals. Apollonius said about his shearing, ‘I had not realized, Majesty, that my hair had put me in the dock,’ ‘and about being chained up, ‘If you think me a sorcerer, how will you chain me? And if you chain me, how will you say I am a sorcerer?’ ‘Yes,’ replied the other, ‘I will not set you free until you turn into water, or some animal or tree.’ ‘I would not turn into such things,’ replied Apollonius, ‘even if I could, since I would never betray people who are in the dock for no crime at all. In my own self I will submit to everything you may do to this body of mine, until I have defended those heroes.’ ‘Whom do you expect to defend you?’ asked the emperor. ‘Time,’ said Apollonius, ‘the Divine Spirit, and the love of my companion, Wisdom.’ Flinterman has pointed out that the reference to the transformations requested by Domitian is ‘an unmistakable allusion to the problems experienced by Menelaus and his companions in catching Proteus’ as well as to VA 1,4, adding that ‘the

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allusion anticipates the hero’s self-liberation in prison’.17 According to Praet, Demoen, and Gyselinck, ‘The reference to the metamorphoses of Proteus (Od. 4,450460) should be called tragic irony in light of VA 1,4, where Apollonius is presented as an incarnation of the old sea god’.18 The truth of the matter is that Philostratus turns the Homeric episode completely around. Apollonius argues that a confined sorcerer, as he claims him to be, is a contradiction in terms, while the Homeric Proteus becomes a captive of Menelaus. In essence Apollonius argues that, despite being a prisoner, he is actually ‘impossible to catch’ (VA 1,4 κρείττων τοῦ ἁλῶναι). On his part Domitian does not ask for a pronouncement on Apollonius’ part in order to set him free, as Menelaus seeks to extract a prophecy from Proteus, but for Protean transformations as evidence that he is a sorcerer in order to use it against him at court. Philostratus transferred Apollonius from the ‘free’ prison to the condition of a chained prisoner in order to create an analogy with Proteus pinned down by Menelaus and his men, and in a more general fashion he designed the episode in such a way as to challenge every aspect of the Homeric narrative. At the heart of the exchange between the emperor and Apollonius stands the issue of metamorphosis. Apollonius rejects metamorphosis because he does not profess to be a sorcerer and also because such practices would distract attention from the mission of the wise man, which is to defend those unjustly imprisoned. The true metamorphosis, he implies, and the one truly worth going through is not self-induced Protean transformation but offering one’s body to suffer every kind of punishment (πᾶσιν ὑποθήσω ἐμαυτὸν οἷς ἂν περὶ τὸ σῶμα τουτὶ πράττῃς) for the purpose of defending and hence liberating the unjustly imprisoned. In a polemical engagement with Homer Philostratus substitutes the willful suffering for the Protean transformations of the body and replaces the sorcerer’s tricks of selfliberation with the liberation of the innocent from Domitian’s prison. It has been noted by Flinterman that Philostratus blends here the Euripidean precedent of Pentheus and Dionysus, where Pentheus imprisons Dionysus as a sorcerer and an enchanter (Bacchae 234 γόης ἐπῳδός) and cuts off his hair; Dionysus’ subsequent self-liberation is the culmination of a series of divine epiphanies.19 But Philostratus’ Apollonius challenges this mythical precedent as well: it is of no importance to him to make a display of the powers he possesses before Domitian, as Dionysus did before Pentheus. ————— 17 18 19

Flinterman 2009, 232. See also Gyselinck – Demoen 2009, 106 n.29. Praet – Demoen – Gyselinck 2011, 1061-1062. Flinterman 2009, 230-231. On the same subject see, in greater detail, Praet – Demoen – Gyselinck 2011.

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After Apollonius returns to prison, he has a conversation with Damis. The ἀπορία in which Damis is found is such as to cause him despair, because he sees no human λύσις of their imprisonment except through extraordinary divine favor. Then he asks the sophist, if he will ever be liberated, and Apollonius, the man who according to VA 1,4 ‘found a way out of many difficult and inescapable situations just when he was cornered’ replies by taking one of his legs out of the shackle and then inserting it again into it. Damis confesses that only then did he realize that ‘the nature of Apollonius was godlike and more than human’. Here is the relevant passage: Διαλέγεσθαι μὲν δὴ τὸν Ἀπολλώνιον πλείω τοιαῦτα, ἑαυτὸν δὲ ὁ Δάμις ἀπορεῖν μὲν ὑπὲρ τῶν παρόντων φησί, λύσιν δὲ αὐτῶν ὁρᾶν οὐδεμίαν, πλὴν ὅσαι παρὰ τῶν θεῶν εὐξαμένοις τισὶ κἀκ πολλῷ χαλεπωτέρων ἦλθον, ὀλίγον δὲ πρὸ μεσημβρίας ‘ὦ Τυανεῦ,’ φάναι, σφόδρα γὰρ δὴ χαίρειν αὐτὸν τῇ προσρήσει ‘τί πεισόμεθα;’ ‘ὅ γε ἐπάθομεν,’ ἔφη ‘πέρα δ’ οὐδέν.’ ‘οὐδὲ ἀποκτενεῖ ἡμᾶς οὐδείς;’ ‘καὶ τίς’ εἶπεν ‘οὕτως ἄτρωτος;’ ‘λυθήσῃ δὲ πότε;’ ‘τὸ μὲν ἐπὶ τῷ δικάσαντι’ ἔφη ‘τήμερον, τὸ δὲ ἐπ’ ἐμοὶ ἄρτι.’ καὶ εἰπὼν ταῦτα ἐξήγαγε τὸ σκέλος τοῦ δεσμοῦ καὶ πρὸς τὸν Δάμιν ἔφη ‘ἐπίδειξιν πεποίημαί σοι τῆς ἐλευθερίας τῆς ἐμαυτοῦ καὶ θάῤῥει.’ τότε πρῶτον ὁ Δάμις φησὶν ἀκριβῶς ξυνεῖναι τῆς Ἀπολλωνίου φύσεως, ὅτι θεία τε εἴη καὶ κρείττων ἀνθρώπου, μὴ γὰρ θύσαντα, πῶς γὰρ ἐν δεσμωτηρίῳ; μηδ’ εὐξάμενόν τι, μηδὲ εἰπόντα καταγελάσαι τοῦ δεσμοῦ καὶ ἐναρμόσαντα αὖ τὸ σκέλος τὰ τοῦ δεδεμένου πράττειν. (VA 7,38) Apollonius gave other discourses of the sort, according to Damis, though he himself was in despair at their predicament, and saw no way out of it, except the kind that the gods have granted to some people’s prayers in much worse circumstances. Shortly before noon he said to him, ‘Man of Tyana’ (since Apollonius liked very much to be addressed this way), ‘what will become of us?’ ‘What has already,’ replied Apollonius, ‘and nothing more.’ ‘And no one will kill us?’ ‘Who is so invulnerable as that?’ was the reply. ‘And when will you be set free?’ ‘As far as my judge is concerned, today,’ said Apollonius, ‘but as far as I am, immediately.’ So saying, he took his leg out of its shackle and said to Damis, ‘I have given you proof of my own freedom, so take courage.’ That was the first time, says Damis, that he clearly understood Apollonius’s nature to be godlike and more than human. Without sacrifice (for how could he sacrifice in jail?), or prayer, or a single word, he made light of his chains, and then put his leg back into them and acted like a prisoner.

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The point this chapter makes is that Apollonius is ‘κρείττων τοῦ ἁλῶναι’ as regards the confinement of his body, but he is not interested in playing the sorcerer by performing tricks as γόητες do. He possesses extraordinary powers but demonstrates them only before the eyes of Damis as proof of his freedom and for the sole purpose of giving him courage (ἐπίδειξιν πεποίημαί σοι τῆς ἐλευθερίας τῆς ἐμαυτοῦ καὶ θάῤῥει). The true issue, here and elsewhere, is not the powers that Apollonius may possess and which put him in a position to ‘laugh at chains’ (καταγελάσαι τοῦ δεσμοῦ), but the use to which he puts these powers. The idea introduced in VA 1,4 that Apollonius is ‘impossible to catch’ (κρείττων τοῦ ἁλῶναι) was earlier thematized also in VA 4,44, again in a political context. Tigellinus had Apollonius arrested and had a conversation with him. He remained so perplexed by his replies that he decided to let him go, but only after imposing a bond for his person (καταστήσας ἐγγυητὰς τοῦ σώματος). Apollonius replied to him: ‘And who will go bond for a person that no one can imprison?’ (‘καὶ τίς’ εἶπεν ‘ἐγγυήσεται σῶμα, ὃ μηδεὶς δήσει;’). Tigellinus’ reaction is extremely interesting: ἔδοξε τῷ Τιγελλίνῳ ταῦτα δαιμόνιά τε εἶναι καὶ πρόσω ἀνθρώπου, καὶ ὥσπερ θεομαχεῖν φυλαττόμενος, ‘χώρει’, ἔφη ‘οἷ βούλει, σὺ γὰρ κρείττων ἢ ὑπ’ἐμοῦ ἄρχεσθαι.’ (VA 4,44,4) Tigellinus decided that these words were supernatural and superhuman, and as if reluctant to fight a god he said, ‘Go where you like, for you are too powerful to be ruled by me.’ Tigellinus’ concluding phrase ‘σὺ γὰρ κρείττων ἢ ὑπ’ἐμοῦ ἄρχεσθαι’ picks up κρείττων τοῦ ἁλῶναι from the Proteus passage (VA 1,4) and applies it to a situation of restriction of freedom. Unlike the Homeric Proteus, Apollonius cannot be restricted; and unlike Menelaus, Tigellinus cannot control him. The verb θεομαχεῖν carries reminiscences of the Pentheus episode20 but Apollonius does not display his powers as Dionysus does nor does he liberate himself like a γόης. It is only the power of his words which convinces Tigellinus that he is ‘too powerful to be placed under control’ and thus wins him his freedom. Philostratus concludes the VA by listing rumors about the place and manner of Apollonius’ death, while also raising the possibility that he may not have died (29,1 εἴγε ἐτελεύτα). Particular interest is presented by his presumed ascension to heaven at the sanctuary of Dictynna in Crete. Apollonius visited the sanctuary at ————— 20

See Praet – Demoen – Gyselinck 2011, 1061.

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the dead of night. The dogs guarding it did not even bark at his appearance but ran up and greeted him wagging their tails. But the officials put him in chains as a sorcerer and a robber, claiming that he had used a concoction to pacify the dogs. At about midnight he released himself; after calling his jailers to witness his actions, he ran to the doors of the sanctuary which opened miraculously and, when he had entered, they closed of themselves behind him; then girls were heard singing ‘Proceed from earth! Proceed to heaven! Proceed!’. Here is the relevant passage: οἱ δ’ ἐν Λίνδῳ τελευτῆσαι αὐτὸν παρελθόντα ἐς τὸ ἱερὸν τῆς Ἀθηνᾶς καὶ ἔσω ἀφανισθέντα, οἱ δ’ ἐν Κρήτῃ φασὶ θαυμασιώτερον ἢ οἱ ἐν Λίνδῳ· διατρίβειν μὲν γὰρ ἐν τῇ Κρήτῃ τὸν Ἀπολλώνιον μᾶλλον ἢ πρὸ τούτου θαυμαζόμενον, ἀφικέσθαι δ’ ἐς τὸ ἱερὸν τῆς Δικτύννης ἀωρί, φυλακὴ δὲ τῷ ἱερῷ κυνῶν ἐπιτέτακται φρουροὶ τοῦ ἐν αὐτῷ πλούτου, καὶ ἀξιοῦσιν αὐτοὺς οἱ Κρῆτες μήτε τῶν ἄρκτων μήτε τῶν ὧδε ἀγρίων λείπεσθαι, οἱ δ’ οὔθ’ ὑλακτεῖν ἥκοντα σαίνειν τε αὐτὸν προσιόντες, ὡς μηδὲ τοὺς ἄγαν ἐθάδας. οἱ μὲν δὴ τοῦ ἱεροῦ προϊστάμενοι ξυλλαβόντες αὐτὸν ὡς γόητα καὶ λῃστὴν δῆσαι, μείλιγμα τοῖς κυσὶ προβεβλῆσθαί τι ὑπ’ αὐτοῦ φάσκοντες. ὁ δ’ ἀμφὶ μέσας νύκτας ἑαυτὸν λῦσαι, καλέσας δὲ τοὺς δήσαντας, ὡς μὴ λάθοι, δραμεῖν ἐπὶ τὰς τοῦ ἱεροῦ θύρας, αἱ δ’ ἀνεπετάσθησαν, παρελθόντος δὲ ἔσω τὰς μὲν θύρας ξυνελθεῖν, ὥσπερ ἐκέκλειντο, βοὴν δὲ ᾀδουσῶν παρθένων ἐκπεσεῖν. τὸ δὲ ᾆσμα ἦν· ‘στεῖχε γᾶς, στεῖχε ἐς οὐρανόν, στεῖχε.’ οἷον· ἴθι ἐκ τῆς γῆς ἄνω. (VA 8,30,2-3) Others say that he died in Lindos after passing into the sanctuary of Athena and vanishing inside. Another version is that he died in Crete even more miraculously than is related at Lindos. Apollonius was staying in Crete, admired even more than before, when he visited the sanctuary of Dictynna at dead of night. Protection of the sanctuary is entrusted to dogs that guard its treasures, and the Cretans consider them nothing short of bears or other animals equally savage. But they did not even bark when Apollonius arrived, but ran up and greeted him even more than they did those they were fully accustomed to. The officials of the sanctuary put him in chains as a sorcerer and a robber, claiming that he had thrown something to the dogs to pacify them. But at about midnight he set himself free, and after calling his jailers so that they would notice, he ran to the doors of the sanctuary, which flew open. As he entered, the doors returned to their original position, and there emerged the sound of girls singing, and their song went, ‘Proceed from earth! Proceed to heaven! Proceed!’ In other words, ‘Ascend from earth.’

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Apollonius’ departure from life caused amazement but nobody dared deny that he was immortal. At Tyana there was a group of young followers of his who discussed his teaching of the immortality of the soul. They were joined by a youth who did not accept the doctrine of immortality and protested that he had been praying for nine months to Apollonius to reveal to him the doctrine of the soul, but he had not appeared, which in his view was proof that he was truly dead. Four days later, during discussion of the same topic, he fell asleep but suddenly jumped up looking like a madman and claiming that Apollonius was present among them, listening to their conversation and reciting the doctrine of the soul. But his fellow students could not see or hear him, so he revealed Apollonius’ doctrine himself. According to it, the soul is immortal and in life it undergoes a sort of imprisonment in the mortal body, having to endure a fearful and heavy servitude (δεινὴν καὶ πολύτλητον … λατρείην); but at death it starts forth like a swift racehorse from the gate (ἅτ’ ἐκ δεσμῶν θοὸς ἵππος) and mingles with the light air above: Περὶ ψυχῆς δέ, ὡς ἀθάνατος εἴη, ἐφιλοσόφει ἔτι, διδάσκων μέν, ὅτι ἀληθὴς ὁ ὑπὲρ αὐτῆς λόγος, πολυπραγμονεῖν δὲ μὴ ξυγχωρῶν τὰ ὧδε μεγάλα· ἀφίκετο μὲν γὰρ ἐς τὰ Τύανα μειράκιον θρασὺ περὶ τὰς ἔριδας καὶ μὴ ξυντιθέμενον ἀληθεῖ λόγῳ, τοῦ δὲ Ἀπολλωνίου ἐξ ἀνθρώπων μὲν ἤδη ὄντος, θαυμαζομένου δ’ ἐπὶ τῇ μεταβολῇ καὶ μηδ’ ἀντιλέξαι θαῤῥοῦντος μηδενός, ὡς οὐκ ἀθάνατος εἴη, λόγοι μὲν οἱ πλείους ὑπὲρ ψυχῆς ἐγίγνοντο, καὶ γὰρ νεότης τις ἦν αὐτόθι σοφίας ἐρῶντες, τὸ δὲ μειράκιον οὐδαμῶς τῇ τῆς ψυχῆς ἀθανασίᾳ ξυντιθέμενον ‘ἐγώ,’ ἔφη ‘ὦ παρόντες, τουτονὶ μῆνα δέκατον Ἀπολλωνίῳ διατελῶ εὐχόμενος ἀναφῆναί μοι τὸν ὑπὲρ ψυχῆς λόγον, ὁ δ’ οὕτω τέθνηκεν, ὡς μηδ’ ἐφίστασθαι δεομένῳ, μηδ’, ὡς ἀθάνατος εἴη, πείθειν.’ τοιαῦτα μὲν τὸ μειράκιον τότε, πέμπτῃ δὲ ἀπ’ ἐκείνης ἡμέρᾳ περὶ τῶν αὐτῶν σπουδάσαν κατέδαρθε μὲν οὗ διελέγετο, τῶν δὲ ξυσπουδαζόντων νέων οἱ μὲν πρὸς βιβλίοις ἦσαν, οἱ δ’ ἐσπούδαζον γεωμετρικοὺς ἐπιχαράττοντες τύπους τῇ γῇ, τὸ δ’, ὥσπερ ἐμμανές, ἀναπηδῆσαν ὠμόυπνον ἱδρῶτί τε πολλῷ ἐῤῥεῖτο καὶ ἐβόα ‘πείθομαί σοι.’ ἐρομένων δ’ αὐτὸ τῶν παρόντων, ὅ τι πέπονθεν, ‘οὐχ ὁρᾶτε’ ἔφη ‘ὑμεῖς Ἀπολλώνιον τὸν σοφόν, ὡς παρατυγχάνει τε ἡμῖν ἐπακροώμενος τοῦ λόγου καὶ περὶ ψυχῆς ῥαψῳδεῖ θαυμάσια;’ ‘ποῦ δ’ οὗτος;’ ἔφασαν ‘ὡς ἡμῖν γε οὐδαμοῦ φαίνεται καίτοι βουλομένοις ἂν τοῦτο μᾶλλον ἢ τὰ πάντων ἀνθρώπων ἀγαθὰ ἔχειν.’ καὶ τὸ μειράκιον ‘ἔοικεν ἐμοὶ μόνῳ διαλεξόμενος ἥκειν ὑπὲρ ὧν μὴ ἐπίστευον· ἀκούετ’ οὖν, οἷα τῷ λόγῳ ἐπιθειάζει· ἀθάνατος ψυχὴ κοὐ χρῆμα σόν, ἀλλὰ προνοίης, ἣ μετὰ σῶμα μαρανθέν, ἅτ’ ἐκ δεσμῶν θοὸς ἵππος,

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ῥηιδίως προθοροῦσα κεράννυται ἠέρι κούφῳ, δεινὴν καὶ πολύτλητον ἀποστέρξασα λατρείην· σοι δὲ τί τῶνδ’ ὄφελος, ὅ ποτ’ οὐκέτ’ ἐὼν τότε δόξεις; ἢ τί μετὰ ζῳοῖσιν ἐὼν περὶ τῶνδε ματεύεις;’ καὶ σαφὴς οὗτος Ἀπολλωνίου τρίπους ἕστηκεν ὑπὲρ τῶν τῆς ψυχῆς ἀπορρήτων, ἵν’ εὔθυμοί τε καὶ τὴν αὑτῶν φύσιν εἰδότες, οἷ τάττουσι Μοῖραι, πορευοίμεθα. τάφῳ μὲν οὖν ἢ ψευδοταφίῳ τοῦ ἀνδρὸς οὐδαμοῦ προστυχὼν οἶδα καίτοι τῆς γῆς, ὁπόση ἐστίν, ἐπελθὼν πλείστην, λόγοις δὲ πανταχοῦ δαιμονίοις, καὶ ἱερὰ Τύανάδε βασιλείοις ἐκπεποιημένα τέλεσιν· οὐδὲ γὰρ βασιλεῖς ἀπηξίουν αὐτὸν ὧν αὐτοὶ ἠξιοῦντο. (VA 8,31) The immortality of the soul continued to be his doctrine, and he taught that the account of it is correct, but discouraged curiosity about such weighty matters. A young man arrived in Tyana who was eager for disputes, and did not accept the true doctrine. Apollonius had then departed from humanity, but his transfiguration caused amazement and nobody ventured to deny that he was immortal. Most of their discussions concerned the soul, since there was a group of young men devoted to wisdom. The young man, who in no way accepted the immortality of the soul, said ‘I, my friends, have continually prayed to Apollonius for nine months now to reveal the doctrine of the soul. But he is so truly dead that he has not even appeared as Ι asked, or persuaded me of his immortality.’ That was what the young man said then, but four days later he was discussing the same subject when he fell asleep on the spot where he had been talking, while his young fellow students concentrated on their books, or busied themselves with drawing geometrical figures on the ground. But he, as if he were mad, jumped up out of a deep sleep sweating profusely, and shouted, ‘I believe you.’ When those present asked what had happened, he said, ‘Don’t you see the wise Apollonius? He is with us listening to our conversation, and rhapsodizing marvelously about the soul.’ ‘Where is he?’ they asked; ‘We cannot see him anywhere, though we would prefer that to all the riches in the world.’ The youth said, ‘It seems that he has come to talk to me alone about the things I failed to believe, so let me tell you how he immortalizes the doctrine: Immortal is the soul, and is not yours But Providence’s. When the body wastes, The soul starts like a racehorse from the gate,

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And nimbly leaping mingles with light air, Hating its fearful, heavy servitude. For you, what use is this? When you ’re no more You will believe it: why then while alive Pry uselessly into such hidden things?’ This is Apollonius’s clear pronouncement on the mysteries of the soul, enabling us with courage and knowledge of our own natures to journey to the place where the Fates station us. As for a tomb or cenotaph of the Master, I do not remember ever having met with one anywhere, although I have crossed most of the present world, but I have met with unearthly accounts of him everywhere. There is also a sanctuary to him at Tyana, built at imperial expense, since emperors have not denied to him what has been conferred on themselves. The circumstances surrounding Apollonius’ departure from life, namely capture and miraculous escape form a kind of ring composition with the representation of Proteus in VA 1,4 as ‘impossible to catch’ (κρείττων τοῦ ἁλῶναι). The word used for Apollonius’ departure from life is ‘μεταβολή’, the basic meaning of which is ‘change’; the reader will undoubtedly recall the use of ‘μετέβαλεν’ to record the comforting effect of Apollonius’ speech on the soul of the imprisoned victims of Domitian (7,26,6). Since no dead body is mentioned and no tomb was anywhere to be found, a logical conclusion would be that, if Apollonius did vanish from the earth and did not escape through a back door, his body was changed into a spirit form.21 His association with the Homeric Proteus is here fully clarified: contrary to the shifting and multiform Proteus of Odyssey 4 Apollonius undergoes only one transformation, or rather transfiguration. It consists in the passage from life to the beyond in the form of ascension from earth to heaven, and is portrayed as the release of the soul from the harsh prison of the body. As in the Domitian narrative, restriction of the body is linked with the doctrine of the imprisoned soul; Apollonius’ release from the chains of the temple guardians anticipates his teaching about the release of the soul from the body in death. As noted above, Apollonius avoided the public display of his power to escape bonds, in order not to be taken for a sorcerer; in the prison of Domitian he exercised this power only in front of Damis, as proof of his freedom and for the purpose of giving him courage. If in the present case he called the officials to witness his actions, it was so that they could testify to his presumed vanishing from the earth into heaven. ————— 21

On the question of Apollonius’ end, see Flinterman 2009.

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In conclusion, the prophetic sea-god Proteus, the old man of the sea, was known in antiquity primarily through the Odyssean episode with Menelaus, where he is captured and changes himself into various shapes in order to escape but eventually yields to force and tells him about his nostos and the nostoi of other Achaean warriors. Because of his capacity to transform himself he was later represented as a proto-sophist and proto-wizard. In VA Apollonius identifies himself with the Homeric Proteus, as possessing the extraordinary powers of this god and even as being superior to him. I have argued that Philostratus enters into a contest with Homer from the beginning to the end of the VA, ‘correcting’ original features of Proteus and later associations. Unlike the Homeric Proteus, the Philostratean Apollonius is ‘impossible to catch’ (κρείττων τοῦ ἁλῶναι) but he is not a sorcerer (γόης) either. He remains a free person though imprisoned by Domitian, and argues that the true prison is the human body where the immortal soul is jailed. His teaching affects his fellow-prisoners to the point of transforming their inner selves and in general he invests strongly in the transforming power of philosophical persuasion. In other words in his case the capacity of poikilia (shape-shifting) attributed to the Homeric Proteus in VA 1,4 acquires a different meaning. Standing before Domitian he asserts his freedom and refuses to conduct Protean transformations as requested of him by the emperor. The only bodily transformation acceptable to Apollonius consists in the passage from earthly life to the beyond, a transfiguration consisting in ascension to heaven.

Bibliography Allen Th.W. (ed.) 19172. Homeri opera. Tomus III Odysseae libros I-XII continens, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Anderson, G. 1986. Philostratus: Biography and Belles Lettres in the Third Century AD, London – Dover, N.H.: Croom Helm. Demoen, K. – Praet, D. (eds.) 2009. Theios Sophistes: Essays on Flavius Philostratus’ Vita Apollonii, Leiden – Boston: Brill. Elsner, J. 2009. ‘A Protean corpus’, in: E. Bowie – J. Elsner (eds.), Philostratus, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 3-18. Flinterman, J.J. 1995. Power, Paideia and Pythagoreanism: Greek identity, conceptions of the relationship between philosophers and monarchs and political ideas in Philostratus’ Life of Apollonius, Amsterdam: J.C. Gieben. Flinterman, J.J. 2009. ‘Apollonius’ Ascension’, in: Demoen – Praet (eds.), 225-248. Gyselinck, W. 2007. ‘Pinning Down Proteus: Some Thoughts on an Innovative Interpretation of Philostratus’ Vita Apollonii’, AC 76, 195-203. Gyselinck, W. – Demoen, K. 2009. ‘Author and Narrator: Fiction and Metafiction in Philostratus’ Vita Apollonii’, in: Demoen – Praet (eds.), 95-127. Herter, H. 1957. ‘Proteus. 1’, RE XIII.1, 940-975.

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Jones, C.P. (ed., transl.) 2005. Philostratus: The Life of Apollonius of Tyana, 2 vols, Loeb Classical Library, Cambridge, Mass. – London: Harvard University Press. Lombardo, S. (transl.) 2009. Homer: The Essential Odyssey, Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, Inc. Paschalis, M. 2014. ‘Ovidian Metamorphosis and Nonnian poikilon eidos’, in: K. Spanoudakis (ed.), Nonnus of Panopolis in Context, Berlin – Boston: Walter de Gruyter, 97-122. Praet D. – Demoen, K. – Gyselinck, W. 2011. ‘Domitian and Pentheus, Apollonius and Dionysus. Echoes of Homer and Euripides’ Bacchae in Philostratus’ Vita Apollonii’, Latomus 70, 1058-1067. Schirren, Th. 2009. ‘Irony versus Eulogy: The Vita Apollonii as Metabiographical Fiction’, in: Demoen – Praet (eds.), 161-186. Whitmarsh, T. 2001. Greek Literature and the Roman Empire: The Politics of Imitation, Oxford: Oxford University Press.

The Life of Aesop and the Gospels: Literary motifs and narrative mechanisms M ARIO A NDREASSI Univ. degli Studi di Bari «Aldo Moro»

Aesop, as portrayed in the anonymous biography (The Life of Aesop or The Aesop Romance), has often been compared to the profile of Socrates, due to the indisputable similarities, such as the oxymoronic coexistence of physical ugliness and extraordinary wisdom, and their unjust condemnation to death.1 The very image of Aesop-philosopher, a man endowed with knowledge precluded to other men, lends the anonymous author of the Vita further scope: to depict the protagonist in a constant and sometimes ambivalent relation to the divine sphere. In this way, the figure of the wise man is superimposed by that of the holy man: a lay-saint, devoted to the Muses and Isis, who, at the moment of death, appeals to Apollo (who listens to him) in spite of the bitter conflict – according to the recensio G – which had until then characterized their relationship. In recent years, scholars have been examining these aspects of Aesop’s life, attempting to extend their investigations into some unexpected, yet surprising similarities with another extraordinary life, that of Jesus, as recounted in the Gospels (and especially in Mark’s Gospel).2 Taking inspiration from these studies, I shall now attempt to pinpoint the numerous literary and narrative aspects of the

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Schauer – Merkle 1992. Wills 2006, 222: ‘Aesop was a well-known personage in the Greco-Roman world who bore some resemblance to the figure of Jesus’. Elliott 2009, 181: ‘The Life of Aesop […] shares […] numerous, direct, and obvious similarities with the Gospel of Mark’. Already Pervo 1998, 78 suggests ‘to read the Aesop-Romance like a “gospel”’. In turn, the GrecoRoman biografical genre is now considered to be the bedrock wherein the Gospels are collocated: ‘the scholarly consensus has begun to turn toward the acceptance of GrecoRoman biography as the genre of the canonical Gospels’ (Smith 2007, 184). Holy Men and Charlatans in the Ancient Novel, 151–166

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Life of Aesop and the Gospels, which contribute in defining the exceptional characteristics of the protagonists and vindicate the immortalization of their memory.3 My investigation is divided into three parts – corresponding to three phases in the lives of both Aesop and Jesus, the two hero-protagonists of each narrative account – and does not aim to establish a relationship of dependence or allusiveness between the texts4 nor to focus on any religious or theological implications of the Gospels, neither does it aspire to tracing pre-Christian elements in the Aesop biography. Instead, I shall attempt to show – not only from a chronological,5 geo-historical,6 linguistic,7 formal-stylistic,8 and textual-historical9 point of view – the surprising common ground upon which both narrative accounts rest.10 ————— 3

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As for Jesus, my analysis will concern the four synoptic Gospels, but the apocryphal acts too show significant analogies with the Life of Aesop: ‘In form the Aesop-Romance resembles the apocryphal acts, in that it relates in relatively simple style the career of a charismatic hero who seems to overcome one obstacle after another until the last episode, when he is killed. Like several of the apocryphal acts the relatively simple style derives from authorial decision rather than from sheer inability’ (Pervo 1998, 118-119). It is undoubted, however, that ‘many ancient Jews and Christians were familiar with traditions about Aesop’ (Beavis 1992, 45). Elliott 2005, 405: ‘The Life of Aesop is a popular novel written […] around the same general period as the Gospel of Mark’; Wills 2006, 223 (and already Wills 1997, 23): ‘the Life of Aesop is roughly contemporary with the Gospels’; Salomone 2007, 61: ‘In un periodo in cui si diffonde il primo Cristianesimo e vengono redatti i Vangeli, gli Apocrifi, gli Atti degli Apostoli, vede la luce anche il Romanzo di Esopo’. Levine 2006, 14: ‘Jesus and his fellow first-century Jews were also heirs to Greek and Roman thought. Galilee and Judea, like the rest of the Middle East, became part of the empire established by Alexander the Great’. Pervo 1998, 77 n. 5: ‘A software search indicates that the second English edition of Bauer’s lexicon includes 120 references to the Life of Aesop. This is one mark of its stylistic proximity to early Christian narrative’. Wills 1997, 24: ‘The Life of Aesop […] is written in a […] lower style, much closer to that of the gospels’. Dealing with the ‘episodic narrative’ of the Aesop-Romance, Shiner 1998, 156 notes that ‘[l]ike the Gospels large portions of The Life of Aesop are built from narrative episodes that are largely independent’; according to Wills 1997, 31 in the Vita there is a typical characteristic of Mark’s Gospel, namely ‘the sandwiching of one episode within another to provide a subplot while maintaining continuity’; Elliott 2005, 405: ‘The narrators of both The Life of Aesop and the Gospel of Mark characterise their protagonists primarily by means of dialogue’. The Life of Aesop ‘was liable to frequent revision, including deletions, expansions, and abridgment’, and ‘the same observation may be made about popular narratives known from the Jewish and Christian traditions, examples of which are Esther, Daniel, and the canonical and apocryphal gospels and Acts’ (Pervo 1998, 82 and n. 30); ‘both Mark and the author of the Life of Aesop made use of significant amounts of pre-existing material’ (Shiner 1998, 157 n. 4). In some respects, Aesop’s and Jesus’ biographies, due to their celebrative and paradigmatic functions, can be considered aretalogies, if I may use this term as ‘a formal account of the

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Origins and divine predilection The four synoptic Gospels provide a concordant account of the modest origins of Jesus: born in a humble manger in Bethlehem, he comes from the minor locality of Nazareth;11 hearing him preach in the synagogue, his fellow-citizens wonder how he gained such wisdom, being only ‘the carpenter’s son’, ‘the son of Mary’.12 Precisely these humble origins, in the narration of the Gospels, highlight the remarkable nature of Jesus’ wisdom and his status as ‘beloved Son’ (Ev. Marc. 1,9). While Aesop is defined βιωφελέστατος in the incipit of the Vita, meaning ‘very useful for life’, ‘great benefactor of mankind’, he is, in effect, an ugly and misshapen13 slave of Phrygian origin who, throughout most of the biography, is

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remarkable career of an impressive teacher that was used as a basis for moral instruction’ (Hadas, in Hadas – Smith 1965, 3); see also Watson 2010, 699, referring especially to the Gospel of Mark (‘Both may […] be considered aretalogical, novelistic biographies’) and Ludwig 1997, 70-72, who provides a list of motifs shared both by Aesop-Romance and aretalogy. Pervo 1998, 97, attempting to read the Vita like a gospel, focuses on the teaching function of Aesop (not dissimilar to that of Jesus): ‘the romance is a popular, anti-establishment account of the life and death of a teacher of wisdom who preferred short figurative stories to long-winded rhetoric, dialectic, and metaphysics’. ‘Can anything good come from Nazareth?’, Nathanael sceptically asks when Philip says to him he had just recognised the Messiah in ‘Jesus, son of Joseph, from Nazareth’ (Ev. Jo. 1,45-46). Ev. Matt. 13,55 and Ev. Marc. 6,3. According to Collins 1998, 191 and 192, ‘[c]riticism of social background was a standard mode of invective’ and the ‘reference to Jesus as “son of Mary” could lead an uninformed or hostile reader to infer that the mother is named and not the father because the father was unknown and the son illegitimate’. Aesop’s ugliness is pitilessly described in the eikonismos at the beginning of the Romance and is referred to throughout (for a closer examination see Salomone 1999; Lissarrague 2000; Jouanno 2003; Ruiz Montero – Sánchez Alacid 2003; Lefkowitz 2008); a partial comparison can be made with Jesus’ appearance: according to Isaiah ‘there was in him no stately bearing to make us look at him, nor appearance that would attract us to him. He was spurned and avoided by men, a man of suffering, accustomed to infirmity, one of those from whom men hide their faces, spurned, and we held him in no esteem’ (53,2-3; but cf. also Ps. 22,7), and few Christian Fathers – following Isaiah and not realizing that ‘testi di questo genere non miravano alle fattezze fisiche del futuro Messia, ma valevano come semplici allegorie, adombrando […] i dolori […] del Messia’ (Gharib 1993, 59) – think Jesus was really ugly and deformed: ‘per san Giustino martire, Gesù era deforme; per Clemente Alessandrino, era brutto in viso; secondo Tertulliano, era privo di beltà, e il suo corpo non aveva avvenenza […]; sant’Efrem Siro lo dice alto tre cubiti, cioè poco più di un metro e 35 centimetri e Origene non sembra prendere le distanze dal ‘pagano Celso secondo cui Gesù era piccolo, sgraziato e senza avvenenza’ (Gharib 1993, 59); and already in the apocryphal Acts of John (middle 2nd century AD) Jesus is short, bald, long-bearded, and constantly with wide-open eyes (see Gharib 1993, 60).

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at the service of his master, Xanthus. In his case too, it is the modest, or better, lowly, origins which make the hero’s life so remarkable. However, the origins of birth do not prevent either Jesus or Aesop from being the deity’s chosen ones. In both cases, there is a specifically formalized narration of the event which forms the backdrop of their future lives.14 The turning point for Jesus is his baptism along the banks of the Jordan river: at the beginning of their Gospels, Mark and John recount this very episode, omitting all reference to the infancy of Jesus, as does the anonymous author of the Life of Aesop.15 No sooner has Jesus been baptised by John than the heavens open and the Holy Spirit ‘descends upon him in the form of a dove’, while the voice of God announces: ‘You are my beloved Son in whom I am well pleased’.16 Therefore, the reader of the Gospel account knows, from the beginning, of the authority guiding the actions of the protagonist.17 On the other hand, it is Isis who, accompanied and aided by the Muses, chooses Aesop: the respectful devotion shown by the fabulist towards a priestess of the goddess who has lost her way, causes that Isis wishes to reward him by healing his muteness.18 Thus, in a bucolic atmosphere charged with ————— 14

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Divine intervention is considered by Shiner 1998, 167 to be the macronarrative mechanism both in the Gospel by Mark and the Romance determining the causal relationship whereby the story acquires its plausibility and unity: ‘Both Mark and Aesop use divine causation to enhance the plausibility of the narrative. The two pivotal points in the narrative of Aesop, the bestowal of the gift of language upon Aesop and his death at Delphi, are the result of divine intervention’; analogously, Elliott 2005, 405 (= Elliott 2009, 181) points out that both texts ‘include representations of divine activity at key points in relation to the plot’ (yet, the scholar expresses his perplexity at pp. 408-410, regarding ‘divine causation’ as being a unifying narrative element). Wills 1997, 29: ‘An account of the birth of the protagonist is […] as unnecessary for the Life as it is for Mark and John’. Pervo 1998, 81: ‘Failure to describe the subjects’s birth, childhood, and education is a feature shared by some ancient lives, including the Gospel of Mark’. Elliott 2005, 405: ‘Each story begins with a divine intervention that interrupts the status quo preceding the narrative’. Ev. Marc. 1,10-11; Ev. Luc. 3,22. Elliott 2005, 405 (= Elliott 2005, 214): ‘God as a character is present and active at the beginning of the story, where he is seen as the originator – one might say the author, the divine narrator – of the story about to unfold’; Elliott 2009, 213: ‘God’s role in the prologue is […] that of laying the necessary groundwork for establishing Jesus’ character and positioning him as the protagonist’. In the W recensio Tyche is the deity who protects and miraculously cures Aesop, but that ‘in questo caso G ricalchi più da vicino il modello si evince dal fatto che in W Tyche viene invocata proprio da sacerdoti di Iside (sono essi infatti, non una singola hierophóros della dea, che in questa versione smarriscono la strada carraia)’ (Bonelli – Sandrolini 1997, 67 n. 12). Many studies have been devoted to Isis and her role in the Romance (see recently Avlamis 2011, with a large bibliography [I would add only Robertson 2003]); in any case, it is undoubtedly a superior entity which cures Aesop and gives him all the endowments necessary for his exceptional life.

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strong literary influences,19 the early chapters of the Romance (6-8) present the miracle which marked the life of Aesop: Isis endows him with the gift of speech and the Muses with the skill in using it.20 This is the turning point in the life of Aesop, his rise from slave to wise counselor of cities and kings. It is no coincidence that the author of the Romance frequently underlines, in these chapters, the pietas of the protagonist, as if in explanation of his being a chosen one: by assisting the priestess, Aesop demonstrates that he is ‘pious towards the gods’ (θεοσεβής, § 4); Isis’ priestess refers to him as a ‘pious’ man (εὐσεβής, § 5), who ‘has shown piety’ to Isis; Isis in person defines him as a ‘man who may be illfavored in appearance but who rises above all criticism in his piety’ (§ 7); lastly, he himself, realizing he has the power of speech, says ‘piety is a good thing’ (καλόν ἐστιν εὐσεβεῖν, § 8).

Ministry Following the description of the moment when the hero is chosen by the divinity, the lives of Jesus and Aesop are drawn in parallel narration of the events preceding the tragic death of each protagonist. This may be defined as the period of their ministry: this term is, undoubtedly, appropriate in defining Jesus’ work of evangelization and, in its broadest and most flexible sense, connotes the life path of Aesop, too.

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See Mignogna 1992, who pinpoints ‘le matrici e […] la complessa rete di modelli che costituisce il tessuto di un Glanzstück destinato a rimanere isolato nel seguito dell’opera’. As with Hesiod and Aesop, rural settings are the locations of some divine investitures in the Sacred Scriptures (Pervo 1998, 109): Amos was ‘a shepherd from Tekoa’, ‘a shepherd and a dresser of sycamores’, when he experienced visions from the Lord (Am. 1,1; 7,14); ‘Moses was tending the flock of his father-in-law Jethro’ (Ex. 3,1), when God called him from the burning bush on Mount Horeb. Similarly, in the case of Jesus, ‘his Baptism […] endowed him with prophetic and oratorical gifts’ (Pervo 1998, 109), and already in the Old Testament God bestows the faculty of speech on men called to perform special deeds: when Moses tries to evade his task (Ex. 4,10: ‘If you please, Lord, I have never been eloquent, neither in the past, nor recently, nor now that you have spoken to your servant; but I am slow of speech and tongue’), God retorts: ‘Who gives one man speech and makes another deaf and dumb? Or who gives sight to one and makes another blind? Is it not I, the Lord? Go, then! It is I who will assist you in speaking and will teach you what you are to say’ (Ex. 4,11-12); when Isaiah is worried because he is ‘a man of unclean lips, living among a people of unclean lips’ (Is. 6,5), one of the seraphim flies to him, holding an ember, touches his mouth with it, and says: ‘See, now that this has touched your lips, your wickedness is removed, your sin purged’ (Is. 6,7).

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While their perspectives and aims are altogether incomparable, both heroes however share, in their ministry, an antagonistic and dissenting vision of reality. Jesus subverts the beliefs and values of his time,21 proclaims the Reign of Heaven and his deep criticism leads him to the point of ‘turning shame into honor’ (Watson 2010, 706) and setting a high value on crucifixion.22 Aesop, while not proclaiming other-worldly truths, demystifies the earthly world, unmasks its contradictions and hypocrisy and, through relentless rhetoric, demolishes the intrinsic fragility of the wisdom boasted by the philosopher Xanthus: whether the fruit of a carnivalization of reality (maybe by an upper-class author),23 or rather a corrosive manifestation of folk wisdom ‘from below’24 which challenges the dominant values (without subverting them, indeed),25 Aesop views reality from a new standpoint, exactly in ————— 21

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Jesus’ subversive teachings – as well as Aesop’s – led some scholars to draw an analogy with Cynic philosophy: he is ‘the Cynic-like philosopher [who] teaches a subversive wisdom and so calls into question the status quo’ (Levine 2006, 12); see also Watson 2010, 709: ‘The Cynics, like the Jesus of Mark’s Gospel, hold up as honorable behavior what would typically be regarded as shameful’. Watson 2010, 712: ‘It is hard to imagine what could be more unappealing to the elite Hellenistic mind than the language of slavery and crucifixion, but Jesus has redefined the significance of this language, making these marks of derision into marks of righteousness and divine favour. In essence, he has, like Aesop, committed blasphemy against the Hellenic world’. ‘[T]he narrative of Aesop offered up the experience of a temporary release through entertainment, a Mardi-Gras sense of the carnivalesque’ (Wills 1997, 25-26, with further bibliography); according to Watson 2010, 716, the Romance has a liberating function: ‘While the Life of Aesop might have given voice to the resentment and anger of the lower classes, it also perhaps allowed the fears and desires of the upper classes to surface briefly, only to be put to rest with the story’s conclusion’; see already Hopkins 1993, 25-26: ‘This novel about Aesop […] [l]ike much comedy […] works by the inversion of normality, and by the suspension of probability. But the rebellion is soon put down. And in the end, the antihero […] is forced to his death […]. Society has exacted its revenge, and normality has been restored’. According to Kurke 2011, 12, Aesop is a kind of hypostasis: ‘a mobile, free-floating figure in ancient culture, the narrative of whose life, discourses, and death remained endlessly available and adaptable for all kinds of resistance, parody, and critique from below’; see also Kurke 2011, 53: ‘Aesop, like other folkloric trickster figures in other cultural traditions, enabled or gave voice to critiques of power and inequitable power relations from below’. After a careful and close examination, Watson points out that both the Life of Aesop and the Gospel of Mark ‘criticize values associated with the elite classes of the Hellenistic world’; yet, the Romance ‘makes no serious claims on its audience to change social structures related to slavery or class’, whereas Mark ‘criticizes the elite value system while demanding fundamental changes in action and attitudes toward status relations’ (2010, 700). See Hopkins 1993, 26, who is dealing only with Vita Aesopi: ‘the plot may have been only a ruse, just as authoritarian governments […] sometimes encourage displays of initiative, and so foster the hope and the illusion of freedom among the oppressed, all the better

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the way that Jesus’ words shatter the most solid beliefs of his time, creating fear and consternation in the religious authorities of Jerusalem.26 Therefore, if we accept the thesis that the Life of Aesop and the Gospels, in spite of their undeniable differences, describe the life path of a man who questions the dominant beliefs to the extent of demonstrating their delusory evanescence, we can pinpoint, in the respective phases of their ministry, narrative themes corresponding to analogous functions. (a) Opponents. Aesop and Jesus constantly have to deal with their antagonists, that is, individuals or groups who are hostile to their message and actions: Jesus is fiercely contested by scribes and Pharisees in the name of the tradition of the Fathers; Aesop, on the other hand, before encountering the fatal hatred of the Delphians, is in permanent verbal conflict with his master, the philosopher Xanthus, who, always defeated by the astuteness of the slave,27 is obliged to free him in the presence of the people of Samos.28 In both lives, the protagonist has to fight either the religious or intellectual establishment, against the undoubted authority of adversaries, which would appear to condition the result of the challenge from the outset: therefore, the hero’s triumph is rendered all the greater.29

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subsequently to reinforce repression. The very tactic of inversion implies its opposite. Disorder implies order’. Watson 2010, 714: ‘The Gospel of Mark […] reverses the system of values that define the qualities of the power elite […]. Rather than abolishing hierarchies, Mark offers a new, inverted hierarchy of honor’. On account of his clever and cunning ideas Aesop has been judged a trickster: ‘In such all instances, he proves to be an authentic sophos by acting as a most successful trickster’ (Jedrkiewicz 2009, 149; see also Konstantakos 2006; Kurke 2011, 11-12, 53; and, above all, Jouanno 2009, 42-47): to this literary, mythological, and folkloric figure and to the common ‘story of a slave who outsmarts his master and thereby wins his master’s approval’, Beavis 1992, 51 traces back the parable of the unjust steward (Ev. Luc. 16,1-8), which precisely ‘repeats a common motif in Mediterranean folklore, as typified in the Life of Aesop and Plautus’ (on the analogies between Aesop and the Plautine Pseudolus, both acting as tricksters, see Stewart 2012, 163-189 [especially 172-173]). Winkler 1985, 288-289: ‘The Life of Aesop can […] be interpreted as a witness to a submerged, largely unwritten and unlettered cultural tradition in which the Deformed Man speaks both comically and seriously against tyranny of conventional wisdom’. Shiner 1998, 165: ‘In Aesop the essential point of the narrative is that the protagonist repeatedly and consistently outwits his antagonists. […] Jesus’ superiority to his opponents can be shown only by his repeatedly outwitting them. […] Jesus becomes the one who can heal, who defeats his opponents in dispute, and so on. Aesop becomes the one who outwits the philosopher, who can solve all riddles, who excels in fables’. Elliott 2009, 203-204: ‘Like Aesop, the figure of Jesus is placed in one battle of wits after another and repeatedly bests his opponents with a show of deft cunning’.

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(b) The last. Alongside the conflict with power, in the Romance as well as in the Gospels, is the constant focus of attention upon those who, not worthy of esteem, prove to be better than those who marginalize them. Prostitutes, publicans, the sick, children, the poor, are that heterogeneous humankind, relegated to the margins of society, chosen by Jesus as the main recipients of his message. Obviously, it is pointless to search for such high aspirations in the Life of Aesop. Yet, on closer observation, Aesop – slave, barbarian, and deformed dwarf30 – is the embodiment of the outcast: a pariah who overturns the state of affairs and redeems himself thanks to the extraordinary gifts bestowed upon him by the gods. Neither would I underestimate the episode where Aesop gives Xanthus’ she-dog the dainty morsels ordered by the philosopher to be given to the one who loves him, evidently referring to his capricious wife. Aesop’s gesture provokes a furious reaction in his mistress who demands the restitution of her dowry and threatens to abandon her husband, thus confirming the fabulist’s theory: it is not his spouse who truly loves Xanthus but rather the she-dog, ready to suffer the most severe punishments without ever betraying loyalty to her master. Although in a provocatory and paradoxical fashion (consistent with the spirit of the Romance), like Jesus, the hero of the Vita identifies the most noble and profound sentiments in the least accredited individuals. (c) Salvation. Aesop and Jesus are fountains of salvation. The spiritual salvation referred to by Jesus is reflected in those miracles where he heals people deemed to be incurable. So too the actions of Aesop, while not guided by a doctrine of salvation, serve to save people in seemingly irresolvable situations: the fabulist comes to the aid of Xanthus, when he foolishly maintains he can swallow the sea, and later saves him from committing suicide by interpreting an omen in his place; he then saves the people of Samos from the threats of King Croesus; lastly, during his sojourn in Babylon, he saves the city from the demands of the Egyptian Pharaoh. It is precisely the reputation of Aesop and Jesus as saviours that underlies the question posed to each hero at the moment of death (mockingly to Jesus,31 with sorrowful empathy to Aesop [§ 130]): how can it be that he, who so often saved others, is unable to save himself.

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These three distinguishing traits of Aesop, ‘the very opposite of the ideal Greek male’, are thoroughly examined by Watson 2010, 700-702, who considers, as the fourth cause of exclusion, his lack of paideia (at least until Isis and the Muses help him): ‘Aesop thus occupies a strange space: he becomes in many ways like a pepaideumenos without what one would normally call paideia. He has verbal skill and wisdom, but not Greek cultural formation’ (2010, 703). Ev. Marc. 15,29-31, Ev. Luc. 23,35-39, Ev. Matt. 27,39-44.

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(d) Parables and fables. In order to spread his message, Jesus, as is well known, uses parables. Fully aware of their importance in communicating with the masses,32 he regularly uses them in public, while ‘to his own disciples he explained everything in private’ (Ev. Marc. 4,34). The narrative process of the parable is straightforward. A theme is introduced through parallelism with an even totally unrelated subject but which is very familiar to the listeners and, consequently, appropriate in activating an analogical process. Aesop uses the exact same process in the Vita,33 where, from chapter 94, he begins to use the fable to express his thoughts, frequently addressing, like Jesus, huge crowds of listeners (citizens of Samos and Delphi). The similarities are further accentuated by the fact that in the Gospels and the Life of Aesop the listeners are often given a type of explanation. Through a clear analysis, Jesus explains to the twelve Apostles, one by one, the allegorical equivalents contained in the parable of the sower (Ev. Marc. 4,13-20); equally detailed is his explanation of the parable of the good shepherd (Ev. Jo. 10,1-5), not understood by the Jews (Ev. Jo. 10,6) but patiently illustrated by Jesus (Ev. Jo. 10,6-18). Aesop, too, provides explanatory comments on his fables, more synthetic than Jesus’ exegesis but no less important in adapting the fable to the historic context: the six fables recounted in swift succession in the final section of the Vita are all concluded with a brief comment which, like an epimythium, makes explicit the analogical connection which relates them to the delicate situation in which Aesop finds himself.34 (e) Journey towards the fatal city. The ministry of Aesop and Jesus is characterized by numerous travels, which, in both cases, contribute to the growth of fame of each protagonist and spread knowledge of their unique gifts: Aesop starts out as a slave in the area of Phrygia, is sold at Ephesus and again at Samos (§ 20), from where, having gained freedom and notoriety, departs on a diplomatic mission to Lydia, at the court of Croesus (§ 98); hence, having undertaken a brilliant activity as an itinerant orator, travels through many regions until reaching Babylon (§ 101) from whence to a new diplomatic engagement in Egypt (§ 111). Jesus, on the other hand, travels the length and breadth of Galilee (Ev. Matt. 4,23, 9,35), carrying out his ministry, healing the sick, gathering disciples and inspiring the admiration of the crowds. There comes a point when the paths of Jesus and Aesop ————— 32 33

34

Ev. Marc. 4,10-12. Wills 2006, 222 and 223: ‘Aesop […] had a distinctive means of imparting his teachings – animal fables – just as Jesus used a distinctive kind of parable that utilized social scenes from everyday life’; ‘Aesop’s fables can be formally compared to Jesus’ parables’. Pervo 1998, 104: ‘both the parables of Jesus and the fables of Aesop acquire interpretation from their narrative contexts. Outside of these settings, their meaning is frequently ambiguous’.

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converge from the periphery to the center35 and lead them to a city of paramount religious importance which will prove to be fatal for both: the fabulist wishes to reach Delphi (§ 124), while Jesus determinedly sets out for Jerusalem,36 where, as he had frequently prophesied to his disciples,37 he knows he will meet his death. The arrival at Delphi and Jerusalem occur at the culmination of a journey of teaching and personal acclaim: the time of journeying is now ending in the lives of both protagonists and the hour of condemnation to death is nigh.

Condemnation to death The reasons leading to capital punishment, for Aesop and Jesus, are obviously different. Yet, on examining the texts of the Vita and the Gospels there is evidence that both lives often possess analogous narrative sequences and structures. (a) Accusation and offence. Aesop, as reported in the Life, on arriving at Delphi as an orator, is given no remuneration by the city’s inhabitants even though they appreciate listening to him. Irritated, he uses a rapid series of verbal affronts: first, he insults them through an irreverent citation from the Iliad whereby he compares their greenish complexion to that of leaves (§ 124); then he equates them with a log of wood seen floating on the sea, impressive from a distance but mediocre on closer examination (§ 125); lastly, he refers to their ignoble origins as descendants of slaves offered to Apollo by those who conquered a city (§ 126). As a consequence, a highly conflictual relationship was bound to be established, causing the dramatic events which followed. There is an equally conflictual relationship between Jesus and Jerusalem. Even before he reaches the city, he weeps for its future, its blindness in the face of events and its demise;38 having entered the Temple, he drives out the sellers and money lenders;39 again, inside the Temple, he accuses the Jews of not being free men, to which they angrily reply they have never been slaves nor born of prostitutes;40 again in Jerusalem, he recounts the parable of the wicked tenants,41 ————— 35

36 37 38

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Wills 2006, 223: ‘At the end of the Life there is a geographic shift from Samos to Delphi, that is from the periphery to the center of the worship of Apollo, just as there is a shift in the Gospels from the periphery of Galilee to the center at Jerusalem’. Ev. Marc. 10,32, Ev. Luc. 9,51. Ev. Luc. 13,33, 18,31, Ev. Matt. 16,21, 20,17. Ev. Luc. 19,41-44; see also Ev. Marc. 13,14-19, Ev. Luc. 21,5-6, 21,20-24, Ev. Matt. 24,1521. Ev. Marc. 11,15, Ev. Matt. 21,12, Ev. Jo. 2,13. Ev. Jo. 8,32-33, 41. Ev. Marc. 12,1-12, Ev. Luc. 20,9-19, Ev. Matt. 21,33-46.

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addressing the rulers of the city, as the priests and scribes fully understand; it is precisely the latter who are ready to eliminate Jesus but refrain out of fear of the people. Jesus’ strongest contestations are often directed against the highpriests, scribes and Pharisees of Jerusalem. He criticises their hypocritical behaviour42 or retorts cogently to their insidious observations.43 There is an entire chapter in Matthew (23) devoted to the long and bitter attack by Jesus against the hypocrisy and vanity of the scribes and Pharisees, upon whom he casts seven curses, followed by a severe apostrophe to Jerusalem, a city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to her.44 (b) Hostility and deceit. Aesop’s verbal attack against the Delphians provokes their resentment. The authorities (οἱ ἄρχοντες)45 fear the defamation of the city by the fabulist-orator during his travels, thus decide ‘to eliminate him through deception’ (ἀνελεῖν δόλῳ): unbeknown to him, they place a sacred bowl, stolen from the Temple of Apollo, in his baggage and accuse him of being a sacrilegious thief (§ 127).46 In the Gospels, too, the hero is contested by an hegemonic group, which includes high priests and scribes,47 who, in disagreement with the protagonist’s teachings, wish to physically remove him;48 in this case, too, the antagonists fear Jesus’ prowess in communicating with the masses;49 therefore, not wishing to vex them, need to seek a way to arrest Jesus by treachery50 and condemn him to

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48

49 50

Ev. Marc. 7,6, 12,38-40, Ev. Luc. 12,1, 20,46-47, Ev. Matt. 22,18. Ev. Marc. 11,27-33, Ev. Matt. 21,23-27, 22,22 and 46. Ev. Matt. 23,37-39; see also Ev. Luc. 13,34-35. So recensio G; in W we read, more generally, ‘the Delphians’ (οἱ Δελφοί). The motif of the cup hidden unbeknown to the person who would be accused of stealing it comes from the Ahiqar Romance, upon which §§ 101-123 of the Vita are based; besides, the topos is also referred to in Genesis (44), whose origin ‘is probably not too far removed from the date of the formation of the Story of Ahiqar and of the most ancient versions of the Aesop-Romance’ (Grottanelli 1987, 16; see also Salomone 2007, 54). Sometimes the Pharisees (Ev. Jo. 11,47 and 57), the leaders of the people (Ev. Luc. 19,47), the elders (Ev. Matt. 26,3) are mentioned in addition (or as an alternative to) high priests and scribes. The Gospels use the verbs ἀποκτείνειν (Ev. Marc. 14,1, Ev. Matt. 26,4, Ev. Jo. 11,53), ἀπόλλυμι (Ev. Marc. 11,18, Ev. Luc. 19,47), and ἀναιρέω (Ev. Luc. 22,2): the last one recurs too in both recensiones of the Life. Ev. Jo. 7,32, 11,45-53. Ev. Marc. 14,1 and Ev. Matt. 26,4 employ the word δόλος (‘treachery’), as does Vita 127.

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death:51 they slander him,52 speciously put him to the test,53 accuse him of blasphemy,54 seek out false testimony55 and, through the betrayal of Judas and the deceitful kiss, they finally succeed in imprisoning him. (c) Death. The deaths of Jesus and Aesop are characterized by their immense public impact: it is the whole body of the people in both Delphi and Jerusalem who, step by step, follows the condemnation, and moreover, explicitly demands it. The fables, repeatedly used by Aesop to dissuade the Delphians and show them the damaging consequences of their action, prove ineffectual as do the bitter words of Jesus, on the way to Calvary, regarding the tragic demise awaiting Jerusalem (Ev. Luc. 23,28-31). In both texts, the description of the hero’s death is followed by disastrous events for the city: Aesop predicts that his death will prove fatal for the people of Delphi (§ 133) and the conclusion of the Vita confirms that Delphi will be scourged by pestilence until Zeus’ oracle obliges the inhabitants to expiate the tragic death of Aesop; Jerusalem, upon Jesus’ death, experiences a solar eclipse and an earthquake;56 later, it is struck by great tribulation, already predicted by Jesus in his so-called eschatological lesson.57 (d) The pharmakos. Starting from the studies of Wiechers and the following work by Nagy,58 the death of Aesop at Delphi – that conclusive moment of an ambiguous relationship with the city and Apollo – has been assimilated with the rite of purification of the pharmakos59 with whom the protagonist of the Vita

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Attempts at arresting and/or killing Jesus are often recorded by John: 5,18; 7,1, 25, 30, 32, 44; 8,20, 37, 40, 59; 10,39; 11,53. Ev. Marc. 3,22-30. Ev. Jo. 8,6. Ev. Marc. 2,6-7, 14,63-64; Ev. Luc. 5,21; Ev. Matt. 9,3, 26,65-66; Ev. Jo. 10,31-33. Ev. Matt. 26,59. Ev. Luc. 23,44, Ev. Matt. 27,45 and 51. Ev. Marc. 13,8; Ev. Luc. 21,10-11. The death of Aesop corresponds to the topos of the poet protected by a divinity but killed by thankless men yet vindicated post mortem by the divinity: the Vita – like the biographies of Homer, Hesiod and Archilochus – reflects ‘a deep ambivalence in the figure of the poet-hero, who was a despised outcast and at the same time a benefactor of humankind’, and also the ‘curriculum vitae of Jesus in the Gospel of Mark is remarkably similar to that of these poets’ (Collins 1998, 191; see also 195-196). See Wiechers 1961; Nagy 1979. An updated bibliography is in Kurke 2011, 75 n. 58. The rite, which is referred to in Hipponax, involves the violent expulsion of one or two people who embody all the evil of the city. This is a rite of substitution which, states Collins 1998, 181-182, was an integral part of the Hittite culture and later of Hebrew culture, evidenced in Leviticus (16, 20-22), in reference to the scapegoat sent into the desert by Aaron after having transferred upon him all the sins of the Israelites.

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shares many characteristics.60 Also scholars of the Gospel texts have noted in the pharmakos pattern, ‘[s]imilarities to the expiatory death of Jesus’,61 and have pinpointed, specifically, strong analogies between the rite of the pharmakos and the Gospel scene where the Roman soldiers deride Jesus who has been condemned to death (Ev. Marc. 15,16-20): ‘mock[ing] Jesus seems to be a literary reconfiguration of the ritual in which the pharmakos takes on himself all the impurity, disease, and sin of the community’.62 (e) The resurrection. The resurrection of Jesus is the very heart of the Gospels, the event upon which the Christian faith and tradition are based. The Life of Aesop, while presenting an episode of Scheintod in the Babylonian section of the Romance,63 does not, however, depict the resurrection of the protagonist; at the same time, the figure of Aesopus redivivus is evidenced as early as the second half of

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See Jedrkiewicz 1989, 99-107; in Compton 2006, 32-36 there is a detailed list of themes and characteristics which relate the figure of Aesop and that of the pharmakos, which further broadens Wiechers’ theories (on the pharmakos figure see Bremmer 1983 and, again, Compton 2006, 3-18). Lastly, Kurke 2011, 85-90 has suggested a novel hypothesis that in the Life of Aesop ‘the making of a pharmakos is a competitive activity’: if it is true that Aesop has characteristics of the pharmakos, it is equally true – according to Kurke – that the very Aesop himself, through the fables he recounted before dying, provides proud opposition, ‘endowing the Delphians themselves […] with all the characteristics of pharmakoi’ (Kurke 2011, 85). Wills 1997, 28. Although ‘the Jewish authors were generally reluctant to describe Jesus as scapegoat’, ‘Christ as a scapegoat became a central part of the Christian imaginaire’: to such an extent that it ‘can be measured by the ease with which we use the term ‘scapegoat’ for Jesus’ (Stökl 2002, 220 and 228). It was precisely that familiarity with the Greek rite of the pharmakos which facilitated, amongst the Fathers of the Church, the identification of Jesus as a scapegoat: ‘its rationale was easily understandable to non-Christian Jewish converts […] and as well to opponents in the polemic struggle because of its comparability to their own cultural institution of pharmakos rituals and their aetiological tales’ (Stökl 2002, 225); also Salomone 2007, 60-61 too makes reference to the fascinating thematic analogy between the Vita Aesopi and the Gospels as regards the protagonist’s role as scapegoat. Collins 1998, 196. The scholar adds that, ‘[f]rom the point of view of the pharmakós ritual, his [sc. Jesus’] dress and treatment as a king make him a fit offering to redeem the people. He is crowned with thorns, a wild plant which does not benefit society, analogous to the twigs of the wild fig tree with which the pharmakós is driven out […]. He is struck with a reed, as a pharmakós is struck with the twigs’ (186-187). In § 104 Aesop is condemned to death by the king but is hidden by Hermippus, the officer responsible for his execution; the sovereign’s difficulties, under challenge by the Pharaoh of Egypt, cause Hermippus to confess and announce, with great relief, that Aesop is still alive (§ 107).

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the 5th century BC64 and reports the exceptional gifts attributed to the fabulist in the Greek cultural imaginary.65 While individually heterogeneous, the analogies so far highlighted show the similarities in narrative structures of the biographies of Aesop and Jesus. However, analogy certainly does not mean textual interdependence, but it does lead to the thesis that the authors of the Life of Aesop and the Gospels aimed, where possible, to place the life of the protagonist in a literary and narrative context known to the public and variously attested in the lives of the philosophers and in the Christian aretalogies. Apart from its complex editorial genesis and notwithstanding many severe judgments in the last century,66 the Aesop Romance belongs within a wider and consciously literary production:67 it is no paradox to maintain that ‘those who wrote the Gospels were likely influenced by the same literary model that gave rise to the Life of Aesop’.68 ————— 64

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Hermippus states that the fabulist Pataikos said that he had inherited the soul of Aesop (fr. 10, 30-31 Wehrli); Zenobius mentions that Aesop was so dear to the gods that he was brought back to life in the same way as had been Tyndareus, Heracles and Glaucus (Paroemiographi I 47, p. 18); Photius cites the evidence of Ptolemaeus Chennus according to whom, Aesop resurrected following his killing by the Delphians, fought with the Greeks at Thermopylae (Bibl. 152b, 11-13); Plato Comicus hints at the resurrection of Aesop’s soul (fr. 70 K.-A.); besides, there may also be a reference to resurrection in Alexis’ Aesop, the only play known to us entitled Aesop, where, in fr. 9 K.-A., he is on the stage together with Solon. The above-mentioned Zenobian connection (Paroemiographi I 47, p. 18) between the resurrection of Aesop and those of Heracles and Glaucus shows how ‘popular fantasy riffs on high mythological traditions […]. […] Aesop’s success is the most extreme imaginable within the semiotic systems of Greek mythology and religion’ (Kurke 2011, 93). Even Perry, one of the most important scholars of the Vita Aesopi, wrote that it is ‘a naïve, popular, and anonymous book, composed for the entertainment and edification of the common people rather than for educated men, and making little or no pretense to historical accuracy or literary elegance’ (1936, 1). The re-examination of the biography of Aesop is a process which also concerned the Gospel texts: in the same way that the long-standing view held that the Vita Aesopi was simply a narrative framework wherein the Aesop fables were collocated (even Holzberg 1986, 23 believed this, with radical and well-founded retractatio in Holzberg 2001, 84-93 [at pp. 84-85 a list of negative judgements on the Romance], while equally persistent was the opinion ‘about the structure of the Gospels, in particular the Gospel of Mark, which […] were viewed as random collections of material largely devoid of structure’ (Pervo 1998, 84). And the importance of studying the Gospel texts in terms of ‘genre’, of historicalliterary ‘form’ was rightly underlined by Levine 2006, 1: ‘Those who recorded the stories of Jesus would have presented their materials according to the forms of their time, and in turn their readers would have understood the Gospel accounts in light of these forms’. Wills 2006, 225. More generally, Collins 1998, 191, while not negating the influence of the ‘biblical and Jewish tradition’, notes that Mark ‘was familiar with Greek mythic, ritual,

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Bibliography Avlamis, P. 2011. ‘Isis and the People in the Life of Aesop’, in: P. Townsend – M. Vidas (eds.), Revelation, Literature, and Community in Late Antiquity, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 65101. Beavis, M.A. 1992. ‘Ancient Slavery as an Interpretive Context for the New Testament Servant Parables with Special Reference to the Unjust Steward (Luke 16:1-8)’, JBL 111, 37-54. Bonelli, G. – Sandrolini, G. 1997. Romanzo di Esopo, introduzione e testo critico di F. Ferrari, traduzione e note di G. Bonelli e G. Sandrolini, Milano: Rizzoli. Bremmer, J. 1983. ‘Scapegoat Rituals in Ancient Greece’, HSPh 87, 299-320. Collins, A.Y. 1998. ‘Finding Meaning in the Death of Jesus’, JR 78, 175-196. Compton, T.M. 2006. Victim of the Muses: Poet as Scapegoat, Warrior and Hero in GrecoRoman and Indo-European Myth and History, Cambridge Mass. – London: Harvard University Press. Elliott, S.S. 2005. ‘‘Witless in Your Own Cause’: Divine Plots and Fractured Characters in the Life of Aesop and the Gospel of Mark’, Religion & Theology, 12, 397-418. Elliott, S.S. 2009. “The Son of Man Goes as It Is Written of Him”: the Figuration of Jesus in the Gospel of Mark, Ann Arbor: University Microfilms International. Gharib, G. 1993. Le icone di Cristo: Storia e culto, Roma: Città Nuova. Grottanelli, C. 1987. ‘The Ancient Novel and Biblical Narrative’, QUCC 56 (n.s. 27), 7-34. Hadas, M. – Smith, M. 1965. Heroes and Gods: Spiritual Biographies in Antiquity, London: Routledge and Kegan Paul [repr. 1970, Freeport: Books for Libraries Press]. Hock, R.F. – Chance, J.B. – Perkins, J. (eds.) 1998. Ancient Fiction and Early Christian Narrative, Atlanta: Scholars Press. Holzberg, N. 1986. Der antike Roman: Eine Einführung, München, Zürich: Artemis Verlag. Holzberg, N. 20012. Die antike Fabel: Eine Einführung, Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Holzberg, N. (ed.) 1992. Der Äsop-Roman: Motivgeschichte und Erzählstruktur, Tübingen: Gunter Narr Verlag. Hopkins, K. 1993. ‘Novel Evidence for Roman Slavery’, P&P 138, 3-27. Jedrkiewicz, S. 1989. Sapere e paradosso nell’Antichità: Esopo e la favola, Roma: Edizioni dell’Ateneo. Jedrkiewicz, S. 2009. ‘A Narrative Pastiche: Aesop’s Death in Delphi (Vita Aesopi, chapp. 124142)’, SemRom 12, 135-157. Jouanno, C. 2003. ‘Ésope, ou le portrait d’un anti-héros?’, Kentron 19, 51-64. Jouanno, C. 2009. ‘Novelistic Lives and Historical Biographies: the Life of Aesop and the Alexander Romance as Fringe Novels’, in: G.A. Karla (ed.), Fiction on the Fringe: Novelistic Writing in the Post-Classical Age, Leiden: Brill, 33-48. Konstantakos, I. 2006. ‘Aesop Adulterer and Trickster: A Study of Vita Aesopi Ch. 75-76’, Athenaeum 94, 563-600. Kurke, L. 2011. Aesopic Conversations: Popular Tradition, Cultural Dialogue, and the Invention of Greek Prose, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Lefkowitz, J.B. 2008. ‘Ugliness and Value in the Life of Aesop’, in: I. Sluiter – R.M. Rosen (eds.), Kakos: Badness and Anti-Value in Classical Antiquity, Leiden: Brill, 59-81.

————— and popular biographical traditions’, so much so that he refers to them ‘deliberately or intuitively’: in fact, ‘the Gospel owes much of its original and enduring effect’ to the Greek literary model.

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Levine, A.-J. 2006. ‘Introduction’, in: A.-J. Levine – D.C. Allison – J.D. Crossan (eds.), The Historical Jesus in Context, Princeton, Oxford: Princeton University Press, 1-39. Lissarrague, F. 2000. ‘Aesop, Between Man and Beast: Ancient Portraits and Illustrations’, in: B. Cohen (ed.), Not the Classical Ideal: Athens and the Construction of the Other in Greek Art, Leiden: Brill, 132-149. Ludwig, C. 1997. Sonderformen Byzantinischer Hagiographie und ihr Literarisches Vorbild: Untersuchungen zu den Viten des Äsop, des Philaretos, des Symeon Salos und des Andreas Salos, Frankfurt am Main et al.: Peter Lang. Mignogna, E. 1992. ‘Aesopus bucolicus. Come si “mette in scena” un miracolo (Vita Aesopi c. 6)’, in: Holzberg (ed.), 76-84. Nagy, G. 1979. The Best of the Achaeans: Concepts of the Hero in Archaic Greek Poetry, Baltimore – London: The Johns Hopkins University Press. Perry, B.E. 1936. Studies in the Text History of the Life and Fables of Aesop, Haverford: American Philological Association. Pervo, R.I. 1998. ‘A Nihilist Fabula: Introducing The Life Of Aesop’, in: Hock – Chance – Perkins (eds.), 77-120. Robertson N. 2003. ‘Aesop’s Encounter with Isis and the Muses, and the Origins of the Life of Aesop’, in: E. Csapo – M.C. Miller (eds.), Poetry, Theory, Praxis: The Social Life of Myth, World and Image in Ancient Greece: Essays in Honour of William J. Slater, Oxford: Oxbow Books, 247-266. Ruiz Montero, C. – Sánchez Alacid, M.D. 2003. ‘El retrato de Esopo en la Vita Aesopi y sus precedentes literarios’, in: J.M. Nieto Ibáñez (ed.), Lógos Hellenikós: Homenaje al profesor Gaspar Morocho Gayo, León: Universidad de León, 411-422. Salomone, S. 1999. ‘Una risata veramente diabolica: l’eidos di Esopo nel Romanzo di Esopo (C. 24 W): sue possibili influenze sull’iconografia bizantina, medievale, umanistica e rinascimentale dei mostri e del demonio’, StudUmanistPiceni 19, 176-187. Salomone, S. 2007. ‘Esopo ‘capro espiatorio’’, in: S. Isetta (ed.), Il capro espiatorio: Mito Religione Storia, Atti del Convegno (Genova - Palazzo Ducale 13-14 marzo 2007), Genova: D.AR.FI.CL.ET., 49-64. Schauer, M. – Merkle, S. 1992. ‘Äsop und Sokrates’, in: Holzberg (ed.), 85-96. Shiner, W. 1998. ‘Creating Plot in Episodic Narratives: The Life of Aesop and the Gospel of Mark’, in: Hock – Chance – Perkins (eds.), 155-176. Smith, J.M. 2007. ‘Genre, Sub-genre and Questions of Audience: a Proposed Typology for Greco-Roman Biography’, JGRChJ 4, 184-216. Stewart, R. 2012. Plautus and Roman Slavery, Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. Stökl, D.J. 2002. ‘The Christian Exegesis of the Scapegoat between Jews and Pagans’, in: A.I. Baumgarten (ed.), Sacrifice in Religious Experience, Leiden: Brill, 207-232. Watson, D.F. 2010. ‘The Life of Aesop and the Gospel of Mark: Two Ancient Approaches to Elite Values’, JBL 129, 699-716. Wiechers, A. 1961. Aesop in Delphi, Meisenheim: Hain. Wills, L.M. 1997. The Quest of the Historical Gospel: Mark, John, and the Origins of the Gospel Genre, London – New York: Routledge. Wills, L.M. 2006. ‘The Aesop Tradition’, in: A.-J. Levine – D.C. Allison – J.D. Crossan (eds.), The Historical Jesus in Context, Princeton – Oxford: Princeton University Press, 222-237. Winkler, J.J. 1985. Auctor & Actor: A Narratological Reading of Apuleius’s The Golden Ass, Berkeley – Los Angeles – London: University of California Press.

The Monk’s Story: the Narrationes of pseudo-Neilos of Ankyra1 J.R. M ORGAN KYKNOS, Swansea University

Volume 53 of Liverpool University Press’s series Translated Texts for Historians is entitled History and Hagiography from the Late Antique Sinai. Shortly after its publication, the volume’s editor, Daniel Caner, kindly sent me a copy of one of the texts translated, pseudo-Neilos’ Narrations, with a letter including the following words: ‘Fearing that it will get lost among the other texts, I think I need to do some extra work to promote it and get the attention of classicists – sending it to you is a start! I am a historian of late antiquity and not a classicist, but I’ve grown fond of Ps.-Nilus and fear for his future as I move on to other things.’ My curiosity was reawakened, and this paper is the result. This strange work is not completely unknown to scholars of the ancient novel. Henrichs exploited it to elucidate the fragments of Lollianus, and Conca has associated some of its literary features with the Greek romances.2 In the introduction to his translation, Caner provocatively describes it as ‘an original Christian narrative that also represents the last great example of the ancient novel’.3 The text itself is something of a mystery. In the earliest manuscripts, from the 10th-11th centuries, it is attributed to Neilos the Monk or Neilos the Eremite Monk,4 but already in the 11th century its author was identified with St. Neilos of Ankyra (a learned monk who died around 430).5 It is transmitted alongside other works attributed to him, and was printed as part of his corpus in Volume 79 of Migne’s ————— 1

2 3 4

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This paper is dedicated to Swansea City AFC, who won promotion to the English Premier League on the evening before I delivered it in Rethymnon. Fly high, you Swans! Henrichs, 1972; Conca 1983b. Caner 2010, 73. νείλου μονάζοντος (KS); νείλου μονάζοντος ἐρημίτου (RV); νείλου μοναχοῦ (G); τοῦ ἐν ἁγίοις νείλου μοναχοῦ ἐρημίτου (P). The sigla are those of Conca’s Teubner edition. Text, German translation and commentary are provided by Link 2005. This attribution is found in Z (11th century). Holy Men and Charlatans in the Ancient Novel, 167–193

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Patrologia Graeca. However, it is clear from doctrinal inconsistencies that not everything attributed to Neilos of Ankyra can be by the same author, and some of the treatises ascribed to him can be reassigned with certainty to Euagrios of Pontos.6 So we have to face the possibility either that the Narrations is the work of another Neilos (not a rare name), whom someone wrongly identified with the better known Neilos of Ankyra; or that the manuscript attributions are no more than a retrojection from its inclusion, for whatever reason, in the works of Neilos of Ankyra, leaving its true author anonymous. A terminus ante quem for its composition is provided by a Syriac translation of an excerpt of the Narrations in a manuscript dated to 886,7 but its story belongs in the fifth century, when the monasteries of Sinai were subjected to repeated attacks by Bedouin tribesmen. The attribution to Neilos of Ankyra was first called seriously into question by Heussi, on grounds of style and doctrine.8 This is a difficult case to argue: when the authorship of much of the corpus is uncertain, it is difficult to say with any certainty what exactly were the doctrines and style of the true Neilos of Ankyra. At least some of the letters attributed to him are the work of a monk living in a coenobitic monastery, who has harsh words to say about eremitic monasticism, a fact which Heussi thought incompatible with what he took to be unqualified enthusiasm for eremitism in the Narrations.9 Otherwise, the letters tell us little about the personal history of their writer, though there is no sign in them that he had ever been in Sinai or indeed outside Ankyra. Of particular interest has been one letter (4,62) which tells a story of a miraculous rescue from the Bedouins of Sinai that bears some similarity to the plot of our Narrations.10 From this developed the hypothesis that the Narrations records a real experience in the life of St. Neilos. In its simple form, this position is untenable: the letter is not autobiographical first-person narrative, but relates in the third-person the story of a monk called Galation, whose son is abducted by barbarians and rescued by the miraculous intervention of St. Platon (who appears on a horse in answer to the monk’s prayers and is recognised by his resemblance to an icon). In the story told by the letter, there is no massacre of monks, and in the story told by the Narrations there is no ————— 6 7 8 9

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Caner 2010, 74. Caner 2010, 75; the extract is translated by Sebastian Brock in Caner 2010, 136-137. Heussi 1917. The distinction between these two models of monasticism will form an important part of the argument of this paper. ‘Coenobitic’ refers to communal monasticism, with a number of monks living together in an institution we can call a monastery, and possibly maintaining links with the wider community; ‘eremitic’ refers to the solitary life of a hermit-monk, with as little contact as possible with other monks or civil society. Translation of this letter in Caner 2010, 138-140.

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miraculous epiphany of a saint.11 Nevertheless, the similarities between the two texts have led to the hypothesis of an ur-Sinai-narrative exploited independently by the two of them.12 It will already be obvious that one of the focuses of previous work on this text has been its authorship and authenticity. If there is a consensus, it is that the Narrations is not the work of Neilos of Ankyra, or at least is not the work of the person responsible for most of the texts attributed to Neilos of Ankyra.13 I do not propose to pursue this issue any further at this point: it is of limited interest and importance for my present purpose. The second focus of work on the Narrations has been on its value as historical source. This is not a question of the veracity of the story itself, rather of the authenticity of its detailed setting. Henninger found little of value in the work, arguing that its novelistic nature renders it suspect in its entirety, particularly when there is no other evidence to support, for example, its description of the sacrifices practised by the barbarians of Sinai.14 On the other hand, Christides, assuming that the intended readership was the monastic denizens of Sinai, argued that inaccuracies in the setting would not have been acceptable, and therefore the work must reflect reality.15 Mayerson contests the view that the Narrations is ‘a pariah in the community of historical documents’, and concludes that ‘it is not a romance and is not completely worthless as a historical document’.16 His rather curious argument is that it is precisely the elements that are not attested elsewhere that are likely to be authentic, and that the work thus provides evidence for an otherwise completely unknown monastic sect on Sinai. These narrowly historical approaches have in common that they regard the work’s most interesting features – its complex narrative structure and generic affinity to the novels – as negatives which either condemn it as ‘useless’ or need to be filtered out before it can be put to any serious use. Its novelistic features were noted by Heussi merely as part of an argument to exile it from the corpus of the serious Neilos of Ankyra, a logical non sequitur, particularly as hagiographic narrative abounds in novelistic elements. Henrichs noted some resemblances to the sections of the third book of Achilleus Tatius describing the cannibalistic sacrifice of Leukippe, but only as part of an argument that pseudo-Neilos lacks any value ————— 11

12 13

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The argument against common authorship of the letter and the Narrations is elaborated by Link 2005, 1-24, in response to Ringshausen 1967 (which I have not seen). Solzbacher 1989, 200-229. Caner 2010, 75 leaves the question of attribution open, pending further research on the corpus. Henninger 1955. Christides 1973. Mayerson 1975, 51, 57.

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as a document for religious history.17 Apart from some suggestive but inconclusive remarks by Conca,18 however, what is lacking is an unapologetic reading of the work as a piece of narrative literature, regardless of whether it is fact or fiction. So in this paper I shall say something about its extraordinary narratology, its metaliterary interest in the effect and purpose of narrative, its romantic intertextuality, and finally offer a deviant interpretation of it.

Narrative The full Greek title of the work as printed at the head of Conca’s text is: Νείλου μονάζοντος διήγημα [διήγησις GK; διηγήματα R; om. NSZ] εἰς τὴν ἀναίρεσιν τῶν ἐν τῷ Σῖνα ὄρει μοναχῶν καὶ εἰς τὴν αἰχμαλωσίαν Θεοδούλου τοῦ υἱοῦ αὐτοῦ. The narrative of Neilos the Monk on the slaughter of the monks on Mount Sinai and on the capture of his son Theodoulos. This is unlikely to be authentic as it employs monastic terminology conspicuously avoided in the narrative itself, where neither of the words for ‘monk’ (monazōn, monachos) occurs. The conventional Latin title employs the plural form Narrationes in recognition, presumably, of the work’s structure of multiply embedded narratives and its polyphony of narrative voice. Before we begin an analysis of the narrative, it is important to clarify some terminology. This work is a narration by a primary narrator who is himself a character in the narrative. I shall call him and other secondary narrators who also tell of events in which they themselves participated internal narrators, but I shall also want to make a distinction between the primary narrator, looking back on his own experiences from an unspecified distance in time as he narrates, and the same person at an earlier time as a participant in the events narrated. This distinction is familiar to those of us who work on Petronius, Apuleius or Achilleus Tatius. The narrator of the Narrations is never named: I want to avoid calling him Neilos, so I shall refer to him as ‘x’, further specified as appropriate as x-narrator and xcharacter. The situation is complicated here, as we shall see, because x-character is also, in the past, the narrator of a narrative in which he appears as a character, whom I shall call x-character². ————— 17 18

Henrichs 1972, 53-56. Conca 1983b.

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If the text we have is complete (no one has suggested it is not), the work begins abruptly in medias res with a frame-narrative (a¹) delivered by x-narrator, to unidentified narratees.19 It concerns his experiences as x-character. There is no contextualisation or preliminary explanation. ‘After the attack of the barbarians’, x-character has found his way to the city of Pharan in Sinai. He overhears some passers-by praising the eremitic life and begins to lament over his appalling, but as yet undisclosed experiences. They stop and ask him what the matter is. This provides the situation for the first embedded narrative, as x-narrator reports the speech that x-character made to these people. For several paragraphs he continues to lament his misfortune, gradually releasing tantalising details of it, not only to his new acquaintances (the secondary narratees) but also to the primary narratees (the audience to which x-narrator’s narrative is directed) and the reader of the text. He mentions that he had abandoned his family to lead an eremitic life, and visualises the death of someone called Theodoulos, who is identified after a few sentences as his child (1,5). He is clearly not sure whether Theodoulos is dead or alive: he imagines the abuse he might be suffering as a slave of the Barbarians, or the gruesome forms of death he may have met at their hands, bewailing his own lack of a body over which to mourn. After nine paragraphs, in a short reversion to the frame-narrative, x-narrator recounts how x-character looked up from his lamentations and was urged by his in-frame audience to go over his whole story in order (πάντα κατὰ μέρος 1,10). The two levels of narratees are experiencing similar aporia at this point: both are compelled to try to integrate unconnected details into a coherent story and fail to do so. The appeal of the secondary narratees for a systematically ordered analeptic narrative inscribes the desires of the primary narratees. This systematic narrative is provided in a second lengthy speech by x-character [(b), 2,1-4,14] at the end of which the frame narrative of x-narrator is again resumed. x-character relates how, having raised two children, he stopped having sex with his wife and was seized with a desire for the tranquility of a hermit’s life, stronger even than his love for his wife. Reluctantly, his wife acceded to his choice (though she was not consulted in it), and they parted, each taking one of their two sons. He passed a considerable time (2,6) in desert serenity, until the storm broke, not just on him but on the ‘holy men’ (hoi hagioi), who are here mentioned for the first time. His interlocutors seem to know who these ‘holy men’ are, and what has happened; but they interrupt and ask how their slaughter (anairesis) could have occurred, citing Old Testament examples of God smiting His enemies; it is a curious fact of this text as a whole that its biblical references are solely to the ————— 19

See Appendix for a schematic summary of the text’s narrative structure. The letters (a), (b) etc. denote the different narratives and narrative layers that make up the text.

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Old Testament, and that Christ is not directly mentioned. x-character replies with a series of biblical counter-examples where the innocent suffered and the guilty prospered, asserting his faith in ultimate Judgement. He relapses into lamentation, before embarking on a kind of ethnographic excursus, in which he describes the life of the Barbarians, and then of the Holy Men. Among the barbarians’ barbarities is their custom of human sacrifice to the Morning Star. Their favoured victims are beautiful young boys, but if they have no one suitable to hand, they make do with a white camel, around which they process before killing it and eating it raw, bones and all. A much longer section is devoted to the hermits (3,4-18), covering their diet (with a detailed diatribe against gourmets), their generosity to each other, their lack of desire for human praise, their life of solitude and prayer, with Sunday meetings in Church, when, in an extended wrestling metaphor, they share their moral wisdom and techniques for combatting temptation, beginning with gluttony, lust and culminating in pride. Thus the scene is set for the Barbarian attack on the Church of the Bush, where the hermits were gathered. The older men were stripped for execution. First the priest was killed, then his companion and their boy-servant, in graphic detail. Inexplicably (4,4, οὐκ οἶδα τί παθόντες, x-character says), the barbarians then let the older men go. x-character², however, was held by the bonds of nature, unable to flee, until his son caught his eye and signed that he should go with the others, who were making their way up Mount Sinai. Looking back, he saw his son being led away. After more comments on the strength of the natural bonds of parenthood, illustrated with examples from the animal kingdom, x-character reports a lament he uttered at the time (so this is a lament by x-character² within a narration by x-character within a narration by x-narrator). At nightfall the Barbarians moved away and x-character² and his colleagues returned to the scene of the crime, finding one of the holy men still alive. With his dying breath he affirmed his faith, and was buried. x-character concludes this inset narrative by saying that he came to Pharan during the night; thus we are informed that the events he has just narrated took place on the previous day. There follows a short section in the voice of x-narrator (4,14 possibly an interpolation), giving the precise date of the massacre (14 January) and connecting its commemoration with that of another much earlier massacre on the same date.20 ————— 20

Caner 2010, 76-77 identifies the earlier attack with that described in the Relatio of Ammonios (translated in Caner 2010, 141-171), dated to the 370s. Caner also lists the years in the 5th century when 14 January fell on a Sunday, as possible dates for the events described in the Narrations. This is to push the historicity of fiction too far, however: the synchronisation of the two massacres is a purely literary effect adding significance and poignancy to the narrative of the Narrations.

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Now begins the second embedded narrative situation [(c), 5,2-20], as the conversation is interrupted by the arrival of someone who has escaped from the barbarian camp, another secondary internal narrator. His identity remains unknown until he himself discloses it in the course of his narrative. He begins by saying that a fellow-captive who understood the Barbarians’ language had overheard them planning to sacrifice himself and Theodoulos at dawn. He ran away under cover of night, but Theodoulos chose to remain in the Barbarian camp, putting his trust in God. He then backtracks into a lengthy analepsis within his analeptic narrative describing his own capture and previous experience of the Barbarians’ cruelty. He is a slave whose master – we only learn later from x-narrator himself (6,10) that the master’s name was Magadon – was a public official of Pharan who had been ambushed while travelling across the desert. Other members of the party had been murdered on the spot, but the Barbarians had held out the hope of ransom for the master and his son, and even allowed them to go home under escort to collect food and water. This was only a cruel trick, and they had both been killed just outside the camp within earshot of the narrating slave. In an analepsis within the analepsis within the analepsis he recalls, in gruesome detail, a previous atrocity, the murder of a slave, which ought to have warned his master not to trust his captors. After murdering his master, the Barbarians had continued their trail of destruction, first killing two hermits in a cave by a spring, then another hermit whose courage in refusing to reveal the whereabouts of his colleagues had impressed even the savages; his final speech of resolve is reported at length in direct speech (5,15-16). Next they had killed three travellers in the desert, and then had separated to attack two more cells; the slave is able to report only what he had witnessed. He omits to narrate the attack on the church in which Theodoulos was captured, saying merely that after these events he had run away (5,20). He cannot tell any more about Theodoulos’ fate, but holds out no hope of his survival. Now x-narrator takes over in the work’s longest stretch of primary narration [(a²), 6,1-24], which is still rigorously focalised through x-character, and observes the protocols of first-person narrative: it narrates only what x-character knew and in the order in which he learned it, and avoids using information or attitudes acquired later. After hearing the narrative of Magadon’s slave, he first recalls a dream (the occasion of which is unspecified) in which an acquaintance brought him a letter signed by ‘the blessed Theodoulos’ (6,1 ὁ μακάριος Θεόδουλος), which he now understands to be an indication of his son’s death. He is paralysed with grief until the fortitude of the mother of the courageous hermit murdered by the barbarians – displayed in a lengthy reported speech (6,3-7) – strengthens his resolve. The council of Pharan decide to complain to the king of the Barbarians, and while they wait for the messengers to return x-character and his companions

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collect the dead bodies of the hermits, miraculously protected from putrefaction despite the passage of five days since the killings.21 The messengers then return with the news that the king wishes to preserve the peace, offering to hand the culprits over for justice and return their booty. A formal embassy is sent, including x-character. After eight days of travel their water runs out, and in the search for fresh supplies x-character gets separated from the rest of the party, only to run straight into the camp of the very Barbarians who had captured his son. In the hope of finding him, x-character allows himself to be taken prisoner. At that moment help arrives, in the shape of some soldiers who are mysteriously described as ‘warriors of your forces’ (6,16 οἱ τῆς ὑμετέρας δυνάμεως μάχιμοι).22 The Barbarians run away, and the embassy continues on its journey. They are kindly received by the Barbarian king, whose name is Ammanes (6,17). When the ambassadors come out from their audience with him, x-character assumes from their expressions that they have bad news about his son, but they tell him that Theodoulos has been sold to someone in the city of Elousa. He sets off for Elousa, but on the way is overtaken by a young man, who has followed him from the camp. This person’s narrative is presented in summary form (6,20): he has been in Elousa, has met Theodoulos and carries a letter from him. Enigmatically, the narrator comments that this young man’s appearance had been foreshadowed and that he was not a complete stranger: we are left to deduce that he is the letter-bearer from x’s dream. He brings the encouraging news that Theodoulos’ purchaser is ‘a priest of the divine mysteries of Christ’ (τῶν κατὰ Χριστὸν θείων μυστηρίων ἱερεύς, the only time that Christ’s name is mentioned in the entire work), and that the boy has been selected for ordination. On arrival in Elousa, x-character goes to the temple, to find that his story is already public knowledge. He is escorted by a crowd to the priest’s house, and there is an emotional reunion of father and son. The final narrative situation is when Theodoulos tells his father of his experiences since they were separated [(d), 7,1-11]. He avoids repeating what Magadon’s servant has already told, and picks up the story from the point at which the servant escaped. After lengthy prayers, which he repeats verbatim, the Barbarians discovered that one of their sacrificial victims was missing, and that the moment for the ceremony – sunrise – had passed. To Theodoulos’ surprise they ————— 21

22

It is not clear exactly how that time is made up, but it includes a day or two between the Barbarians’ first atrocities and the capture of Theodoulos, and another day or two while the people of Pharan hold their council meeting. The journey to the Barbarian king will take x-character eight days; the messengers can be presumed to travel more quickly, but nevertheless a fortnight passes unnarrated. This is the unanimous reading of the manuscripts, printed by Conca 1983a and Link 2005. Migne (PG 79,668) tacitly emended to ἡμετέρας. The argument to be developed in this paper sees narratological and interpretative significance in the second-person possessive.

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took him to the village of Sybaita and offered him for sale. At first there were no takers, and they proposed to kill him, but eventually someone took pity on him. He ends with pious exhortations, which are taken up by x-character. The final paragraphs of the text revert to the primary narrative [(a³), 7,12-19]. Theodoulos’ owner, who turns out to be the local bishop, takes care of father and son, and insists that they enter the priesthood. Their protestations of unworthiness are overruled, Theodoulos is released and they are allowed to travel home (7,18 οἴκαδε), but it is not immediately clear whether this means back to their desert cell, or to the home that x left for his eremitic vocation, where his wife, Theodoulos’ mother, still lives. Here the narrative ends, at what x calls ‘a beginning of the brighter life’ (ἀρχὴν … τῆς φαιδροτέρας ζωῆς). At this stage we can take a brief overview of the narrative structure. The story is distributed over four main narrative voices (x-narrator, x-character, Magadon’s slave and Theodoulos: all internal or homodiegetic narrators), three of them reported by the primary narrator. One of these secondary narrators is the primary narrator himself as a character within his own narrative: it is important to observe the distinction between the primary narrator addressing his narration to the primary narratees, and his report of narratives delivered by himself within the story to secondary narratees, the people he meets in Pharan. As a character within the story he also acts as the secondary narratee of two of the embedded narratives (Magadon’s slave and Theodoulos). This polyphonal presentation goes hand in hand with a radically anachronic time scheme, as emerges when we try to put the events of the story into ‘chronological’ or ‘fabula’ order:23 Narrative units: A) Frame narrative of x-narrator B) Embedded narrative of x-character C) Embedded narrative of Magadon’s slave D¹) Extended narrative by x-narrator, including E) Embedded narrative of Theodoulos D²) Frame narrative of x-narrator Fabula-order Early life (B) Events before the capture of Theodoulos (C) Capture of Theodoulos (B) Meeting with people in Pharan (A) ————— 23

The fabula is defined as the events related in the story, abstracted from their disposition in the text and reassembled in their chronological order.

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Experiences of Theodoulos after capture (E) Search for Theodoulos and reunion (D¹) Ordination and new life (D²) Even within each of the narrative units, the narration is not temporally ordered: we have observed for example the nested analepses in the narrative of Magadon’s slave. The occasion of the primary narrative and its addressee are not specified. However, I want to suggest that the burden of the priesthood imposed on the narrator by the bishop at the end of the story involves some sort of ministry, and that when he heads off ‘home’, this is not to resume to his solipsistic eremitical lifestyle, but rather is a re-entry into the community, a re-socialisation, with a new set of pastoral responsibilities. x-narrator is, we learn only at the end of the text, a priest. This makes sense of the one second-person reference (6,16), when the soldiers who rescue him from the barbarians are described as from ‘your forces’ (second person plural). His primary narrative is addressed by a priest to the community he now serves, possibly as a sermon.

Meta-narrative When so much of the primary action consists of people telling ostensibly autobiographical stories to one another, it is not surprising that the text exhibits a recurrent concern with the purpose and effect of narrative. In so doing, it obviously problematises its own reception. This is the theme of the second section of this paper. In the opening frame-dialogue, x first thinks of the act of narration as a painful re-enactment of experience, in terms which come very close to classical conceptions of enargeia. The narration of the drama compelled my consciousness to see the events for a second time, as if in the present, having impressed (tupōsasa) in my thoughts what experience had presented to my senses (1,2).24 The vocabulary of impression on the imagination and memory recurs during xcharacter’s lament, as he pictures his son’s possible fate

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τὸν λογισμόν αὖθις ἠνάγκασεν ἰδεῖν ὡς παρόντα τὰ πράγματα ἡ ἀπαγγελία τοῦ δράματος, ἐκεῖνα τῇ ἐννοίᾳ τυπώσασα ἅπερ ἡ πεῖρα τῇ αἰσθήσει παρέδωκε.

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‘… nor having the image of his dead body, such as it was at his end, impressed on my imagination (phantasiai tetupōmenon). For of those things of which sight did not present the engraved marks (charaktēras) to the memory, the forms are unstable and indefinite, impressed (tupoumenai) in different ways at different times’ (1,8).25 Here memory is conceived as a text inscribed in the mind by the sense of sight, which can be read to recall experience. Now the earlier antithesis of narrative and experience is suggestively replaced by one of imagination (phantasia) and experience, effectively assimilating narrative and phantasia. The concept of the pain of narrative is then extended to the recipient: ‘Since I see that you share my pain (sympatheis) and are in the same condition as I who suffered …. I shall narrate my experiences in order, not speaking at great length … for narrating [or listening (Link)] is a heavy thing for a distressed soul, more so than listening [or narrating (Link)], when it applies its thought to the object of anxiety’ (1,10).26 Sadly there is a textual problem at precisely this point; Link’s correction suits the drift of the passage, but obscures the reason for not speaking at length. But the sense of the comparison between telling and hearing a story seems to be that narrative communicates the pain of experience to its audience, that it makes them suffer with the narrator. This concept of narrative as shared pain constitutes one wing of a basic antinomy, opposing ideas of narrative as respectively painful re-enactment and pleasurable release. The other wing is voiced immediately by x-character’s interlocutors, who compare their role to that of a physician in graphically medical terms: ‘What other pursuit is more valuable than healing an aching heart and draining the grief of a soul in agony? For as a cloud sheds its darkness by dripping raindrops, and is gradually cleansed (kathairetai) of gloom by being drained ————— 25

26

… οὐδὲ τοῦ νεκροῦ τὸ εἴδωλον ἔχων, οἷον ἦν ἐν τῇ τελευτῇ, φαντασίᾳ τετυπωμένον. ὧν γὰρ ἡ ὅρασις τοὺς χαρακτῆρας τῇ μνήμῃ οὐ παρέδωκε, τούτων αἱ μορφαὶ ἄστατοι καὶ ἀόριστοι, ἄλλοτε ἄλλως τυπούμεναι … ἐπεὶ δὲ συμπαθεῖς ὑμᾶς ὁρῶ καὶ οὐκ ἄλλως διακειμένους ἢ ὡς αὐτὸς ὁ παθών … πάντα κατὰ μέρος τὰ ἐμὰ ὡς ἔχει διεξελεύσομαι, οὐ μακρηγορῶν … βαρὺ γὰρ διήγησις περισπωμένῃ ψυχῇ μᾶλλον τῆς ἀκροάσεως, ἐχούσῃ τὸν λογισμὸν πρὸς τὸ μεριμνώμενον. [ἀκρόασις … διηγήσεως Link]

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of water vapour, so a soul is relieved of its sadness by making a tragic narration of its own misfortunes (tas oikeias tragōidousa symphoras), the sorrow being drained away, as it were, by the narration of painful experiences. For a pain unspoken can hurt like the moisture of an inflamed wound when the pus throbs and has no channel through which it can be drained and discharged’ (1,11).27 We can note in particular here the adduction of tragedy as a model for narrative, and the medical metaphor coheres exactly with the Aristotelian notion of tragic catharsis. x-character himself later takes up the idea of narrative as a relief from pain, which experience has impressed on memory: But I shall tell you now what suffering impels me to say; maybe I shall be easier if I am unburdened of a little of the unbearable pain (2,15).28 This occurs at the point when he is about to begin his ethnographic digression, and we may infer that the secondary narratees have de facto won the initial debate about the function of narrative, that it is indeed better for a narrator to share experience than to internalise it. This is only part of the text’s thematic concern with narrative, however, and in its later sections it comes to concentrate more on the effect of narrative on its audience than on its benefits for the narrator. This theme surfaces notably in the episode of the mourning mother: I had thought that the accusations I had brought against God for the things I had suffered were justified, but I recognised that I had been wrong, when, by the woman’s example, I learned that the onslaught of every misfortune can be borne. For when consciousness collapses into despondency because of what is believed to be unbearable, it is often roused to courage by the sobriety of

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καὶ τίς … ἄλλη σχολὴ προτιμότερα τοῦ θεραπεῦσαι ἀνιωμένην καρδίαν καὶ κενῶσαι λύπην ὀδυνωμένης ψυχῆς; ὡς γὰρ νέφος ἀποτίθεται ζόφον, ἀποστάζον ὀμβρίους σταγόνας, καὶ κατ’ὀλίγον καθαίρεται τοῦ γνόφου, κενούμενον τῆς τοῦ ὕδατος ἀχλύος, οὕτως κουφίζεται τῆς ἀθυμίας ψυχή, τὰς οἰκείας τραγῳδοῦσα συμφοράς, τῇ διηγήσει τῶν λυπηρῶν συνεκκενουμένης ὥσπερ τῆς ἀηδίας. πλήττειν γὰρ οἶδε σιωπώμενον πάθος ὡς ἂν ὑγρὸν φλεγμαίνοντος τραύματος, ὑποσφύζοντος ἀεὶ τοῦ πύου καὶ ὁδὸν οὐκ ἔχοντος ὅθεν κενωθῇ προελθόν. ἃ δέ με νῦν τὸ πάθος ἐπείγει εἰπεῖν τέως τὸ ἐμόν, ταῦτα λέξω· τάχα τι ῥάῳν ἔσομαι μικρὸν ἐπικουφισθεὶς τῆς ἀφορήτου ὀδύνης.

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one who has suffered the same, learning not to yield easily to pain from one who has mastered it (6,8).29 Her lengthy anti-lament, voicing her refusal to grieve for the death of her son, has a direct, and explicitly didactic, effect on the narrator. He takes her account of her experience as shaming his own emotional weakness, and repents for having expressed doubts about the divine wisdom. He learns from her example that no suffering is beyond bearing. This inscribes a possible function of the text itself for its readers: that it similarly teaches by example that suffering should not be allowed to diminish faith (a theme also expounded in the frame conversation, where biblical examples of God punishing the wicked or allowing them to prosper are traded between x-character and the people of Pharan). The most extended reflections on narrative cluster around x-character’s reunion with Theodoulos. This is where the concept of pleasure is introduced into the equation. After the emotional reunion itself, he asks his son for a narrative of his experiences, resuming the medical metaphor: Finally I asked him to narrate the sufferings of his time with the Barbarians; for, as the experience had passed, the account was no longer painful. For as health after illness or healing after trauma brings cheer instead of despair, so too a narrative of unpleasant events after release from them contains much pleasure, perhaps as much as the experience contained pain (6,24).30 This is a trope familiar from the Greek romances, which often end in narrative exchanges.31 The nature of the pleasure (hēdonē) to be had from such occasions is not more closely defined, and it is not grammatically specified who experiences it. At one level it is clearly a matter of joy and gratitude that one’s own ordeals are over, but there is also more than a hint that there is pleasure in storytelling as

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δίκαια γὰρ ἐγκαλεῖν ἐφ’οἷς ἔπαθον νομίσας θεῷ, τότε ἔγνων ἁμάρτων, ὅτε τῷ παραδείγματι τῆς γυναικὸς φορήτην ἔμαθον παντὸς δεινοῦ προσβολήν. ἡ γὰρ συνείδησις καταπεσοῦσα εἰς ἀθυμίαν τῷ νομισθέντι ἀνυποίστῳ πολλάκις ἐγείρεται πρὸς τὸ εὔθυμον τῇ νήψει τοῦ τὰ ἴσα παθόντος, τὸ μὴ εἴκειν εὐκόλως πάθει παρὰ τοῦ κρατήσαντος τούτου εὐχερῶς διδαχθείς. τέλος δὲ διηγήσασθαι παρεκάλουν τὰ πάθη τοῦ παρὰ τοῖς βαρβάροις καιροῦ· καὶ γὰρ ἦν οὐκέτι λυπηρὰ ἡ ἀπαγγελία παρελθούσης τῆς πείρας. ὡς γὰρ ὑγίεια μετὰ νόσον καὶ θεραπεία μετὰ τραύματα εὐφραίνει οὐκ ἀνιᾷ, οὕτως διήγησις τῶν σκυθρωπῶν μετὰ τὴν ἀπαλλαγὴν ἡδονὴν ἔχει πολλὴν καὶ τάχα τοσαύτην ὅσην εἶχεν ὀδύνην ἡ πεῖρα. Compare Ach. Tat. 8,4: ‘a narrative of past events provides more pleasure than pain for one whose sufferings are over’.

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such, for both narrator and narratee: the ability to narrate emphasises that the content of the narrative lies in the past and the arrangement of it into a narrative form is pleasurable, while, for the audience, vicarious participation through narrative in unpleasant experience, with the assurance of a happy ending, is an emotionally pleasurable ride in its own right. This idea is promptly taken up and contradicted at length by Theodoulos himself: What profit is there … in the recollection of unpleasant experiences? For memory has a way of scratching a sufferer’s sores. Even if the account charms the ears of the hearer because of his love of stories, making pleasure for another from vicarious suffering, nevertheless it does not let the one who had the experience go free from pain in respect of the past suffering, stirring up sympathetic emotion in almost the same way, and, as it were, hurting with its touch a scar that has not yet healed properly. But since I know that you will not stop pestering until you learn what you desire – for you seek to have the paradox of my salvation as a theme for a doxology, since you are accustomed to hymn God even for chance benefactions – listen with a manly frame of mind, and do not, being mastered by paternal gut-feelings in sympathy for the pains of the misfortunes that befell me, make me break down into tears as well, if I am hindered by the lamentation of grief from continuing the story, my voice being shattered, naturally, by the disjointed sounds of sorrow (7,1).32 Stories of other people’s misfortunes may bring delight (terpsis) to the hearer, but they simply reawaken the pain of the teller. The antithesis is complicated here, however, because the potential narratee (x-character) was as internal to the narrative as the narrator (Theodoulos), and therefore would not be able to listen with simple vicarious pleasure. This narratee would suffer pains identical to those of ————— 32

τί κέρδος … τῆς τῶν ἀνιαρῶν ὑπομνήσεως; ἐπιξαίνειν γὰρ ἡ μνήμη τοῦ παθόντος εἴωθε τὰ ἕλκη· κἂν γὰρ τοῦ ἀκούοντος ἡ ἀπαγγελία διὰ τὸ φιλόμυθον θέλγει τὰ ὦτα, τέρψιν ἄλλῳ ποιοῦσα τοῖς ἀλλοτρίοις πάθεσιν, ὅμως τὸν πεπειραμένον οὐκ ἀφίησιν ὀδύνης ἐλεύθερον πρὸς τὸ παρελθὸν πάθος, μικροῦ δεῖν ὁμοίως κινοῦσα τὸ συμπαθὲς καὶ ὥσπερ οὐλὴν οὔπω καλῶς θεραπευθέντος τραύματος ὀδυνῶσα τῇ ἐπαφῇ. ἀλλ’ἐπειδή σε οὐκ ἀφεξόμενον οἶδα τῆς ὀχλήσεως ἕως ἂν μάθῃς ἃ ποθεῖς – ὑπόθεσιν γὰρ δοξολογίας τὸ παράδοξον ἔχειν ζητεῖς τῆς ἐμῆς σωτηρίας καὶ ἐπὶ ταῖς τυχούσαις εὐεργεσίαις ὑμνεῖν τὸν θεὸν εἰωθώς –, ἄκουσον ἀνδρείῳ φρονήματι, μὴ πρὸς τὰ δεινὰ τῶν συμπεσόντων ἀτυχημάτων πατρικοῖς σπλαγχνοῖς συμπαθῶς ποτνιώμενος κἀμὲ κατακλάσῃς πρὸς οἰμωγάς, λυγμοῖς θρήνου ἐμποδιζόμενον εἰς τὴν προφορὰν τοῦ λόγου, ἐξάρθροις, ὡς εἰκός, φθόγγοις τοῦ κλαυθμοῦ θρυπτομένης μοι τῆς φωνῆς.

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the experiencing narrator, and his reaction would set up a feed-back loop of negative emotions that, without manly self-control, would render the narrative act itself impossible and hence abort the second-order doxological narrative that would see x-character metamorphose from narratee to narrator. The hymn of praise that x-character wishes to make from the miracle of his son’s rescue (with a nice pun on paradox and doxology) is, of course, nothing other than the text of x-narrator that we are reading; like Daphnis and Chloe this narrative is generated from within itself.33 It thus subsumes the protocols of the various narratives of which it is composed, and, like Theodoulos’ narrative, its very creation and didactic effect can be jeopardised by the wrong sort of response: its true function, as paradigmatic doxology, like the mourning mother’s anti-lament, depends on, and promotes by example, self-control on the part of both narrator and narratee. We are in effect being told that the whole text can bring both pleasure and profit; but both can be lost if the narratee becomes too personally and painfully involved in the sufferings of the story, and so loses sight of its didactic function. Ultimately, as Theodoulos’ words make clear, it must be read as a hymn of praise to the greater glory of God. The status of that hymn is elucidated in the pious conversation between father and son in the work’s last pages (7,12-16): they agree to repay God’s benefaction with dutiful service, secure in the knowledge that God will regard the repayment of the debt as a loan to be repaid by His further benefaction. The dutiful service is to be identified with the onerous ministry which, on the bishop’s behest, both assume at the end, and of which this text, addressed to the congregation as a didactic sermon, is an element. The text’s meditations on narrative thus inscribe its own intended reception, at two levels (those of the primary narratees and of the reader) with some reflexive sophistication.

Intertextuality This is all fine, but in the next sections of this paper I shall argue that this text is rather more slippery and ambiguous than its self-designation as doxology would suggest. Even before it identifies itself from within as a hymn of praise to God, it has already alerted its readers to the deceptive power of words:

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Morgan 2004, 193.

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Speech, when it wishes, can report even sad things brightly (phaidrōs) by lightness of utterance, clothing its sounds in whatever form it chooses, like an ugly courtesan who by her skill covers her natural appearance with cosmetics, transforming the truth with deceitful colours (chrōmasin) (6,18).34 This comes from the passage where the ambassadors of Pharan emerge from their audience with King Ammanes, and x-character jumps to conclusions from the grim expression on their faces. He contrasts the sincerity of facial expression with the insincerity of the deceptively hopeful words he expects. This is highly ironical, of course, since his interpretation of their expressions (which he claims to be incapable of falsehood) is wrong, and the words they speak (which he characterises as capable of deceit) are truthful ones. Although it deconstructs itself, however, the passage cannot annul the potential duplicity of speech, and in fact it contains verbal echoes of an earlier section describing the simple life-style of the monks in contrast to the elaborate preparation of gourmet food, which conceals its true nature beneath highly coloured sauces (3,5-6). So a fundamental polarity is constructed between, on the one hand, the artful and deceptive, and, on the other, the austere, simple and true. But the text is elaborately and counter-generically rhetorical in its style, and its very artfulness thus, on its own precepts, calls into question the truthfulness of its own message. More important, however, is the matter of intertextuality. Conca noted a number of features which the Narrations shares with Greek novels, specifically and generically.35 These are things like chronological disordering, embedded narration, and a few stylistic tropes. Henrichs noted similarities with Achilleus Tatius in the passages describing human sacrifice, which are specific enough to be direct allusions.36 There is no other evidence to connect such practices with the historical Bedouins marauding in Sinai in the 3rd-4th century C.E., so the claim is that these details are derived from Achilleus’ novelistic account. The two most recent commentators, Caner and Link, are in no doubt that the author of the text knew ————— 34

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λόγος μὲν γὰρ καὶ τὰ λυπηρὰ τῇ εὐκολίᾳ τῆς προφορᾶς ἀπαγγέλλειν φαιδρῶς, ὅταν ἐθέλῃ, δύναται, σχῆμα περιτιθεὶς τοῖς φθογγοῖς οἷον ἂν βούληται, δίκην ἑταίρας εἰδεχθοῦς κομμωτικῷ κόσμῳ τὸ φυσικὸν ἐπικαλυπτούσης εἶδος τῇ τέχνῃ καὶ μεταμορφούσης τὸ ἀληθὲς ἀπατηλοῖς χρώμασιν. κομμωτικῷ Link; κομματικῷ codd. Note that the cosmetic arts of the prostitute are described with a word (chrōmata) which can also denote literary elaboration; it would be pleasing to accept the MSS reading κομματικῷ (according to LSJ ‘consisting of short clauses’) but Link’s correction κομμωτικῷ (‘of embellishment’) is indisputable. Conca 1983b. Henrichs 1972, 54-56.

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Achilleus Tatius’ novel. For the sake of completeness I list the relevant passages here: 1) 3,2 καὶ ἁγνῆς σῶμα ψυχῆς ὑπὲρ τῶν ἀκαθάρτων ἀνενεχθῇ τοῖς παλαμναίοις ἱερεῖον δαίμοσι, λύτρον αὐτοῖς καὶ καθάρσιον … ἐσόμενον (… a pure soul’s body should be offered up as a sacrificial victim to abominable demons on behalf of unclean people, to be … their atonement and cleansing) Cf. Ach. Tat. 3,12,1 ἱερεῖον ἐσομένην καὶ καθάρσιον τοῦ στρατοῦ (… to be a sacrificial victim and a cleansing of the army) 2) 3,3 They make a camel that is white in colour and immaculate bend down on its knees and as it lies there they go around it in a circle three times (περιέρχονται … κύκλῳ) in a procession of the whole people. Someone who is either one of their kings or one of those distinguished by old age leads both the circuit and a hymn (ᾠδῆς) they have composed in honour of the star. After the third circuit, but before the people have finished their hymn (ᾠδῆς), while the fag-end of the refrain is still carrying on their tongues, he draws a sword and vigorously strikes it in the hamstring, and eagerly he is the first to taste the blood. Then the rest run up, and with their daggers some cut off a little bit of the hide with its hair, while others, seizing whatever bit of flesh comes to hand, chop it off, and others go as far as the guts (σπλάγχνων) and entrails, leaving nothing of the sacrifice undigested that can be seen by the sun when it rises… Cf. Ach. Tat. 3,15,2: Two figures led out a girl with her hands tied behind her back. I could not tell who they were, as they were wearing armour, but the girl I recognised as Leukippe. Then they sprinkled holy water over her head and led her round the altar in a circle (περιάγουσι … κύκλῳ). Someone played the flute over her, and the priest began to chant (ὁ ἱερεὺς ᾖδεν) what was in all probability an Egyptian hymn (ᾠδήν): the shape of his mouth and the twisted contortions of his face suggested a hymn. Then a signal was given and the assembly retreated a long way from the altar. One of the two young men laid her on her back and tied her down to some pegs driven into the earth (just as the artists represent Marsyas tied to a tree). Then he took his sword and plunged it in below her heart; twisting it downwards he ruptured her belly. Her guts (τὰ σπλάγχνα) leaped out at once. Tearing them out with his hands

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he placed them upon the altar. When they were roasted each man cut off a portion and ate it.37 3) 1,6 ποῖος τῶν φωστήρων τὰ μυστήρια τῆς σῆς ἐπιτέλλων εἶδε γαστρός (Which of the luminous stars as it rose saw the holy secrets of your belly?) Cf. Ach. Tat. 3,16,3 ὅτι σου τῆς γαστρός τὰ μυστήρια ἐμέρισαν (… because they shared out the holy secrets of your belly). 4) 3,2 καὶ οἶκτον οὐκ εἰδόσι λαβεῖν τῶν ἀναιρουμένων παίδων, κἂν σειρήνια θρηνωδοῦσι δεόμενοι (… unable to feel pity for the children who are slaughtered, even if they lament like Sirens as they plead). Cf. Ach. Tat. 3,10,3 κἂν Σειρήνων τις γένηται πιθανώτερος, ὁ ἀνδροφόνος οὐκ ἀκούει (even if one becomes more persuasive than the Sirens, the muderer does not listen) 5) 1,11 τὰς οἰκείας τραγῳδοῦσα συμφοράς (… making a tragic narration of its own misfortunes) Cf. Ach. Tat. 5,25,4 ἡ δὲ ἐτραγῴδει πάλιν ( … she started her tragic laments again) Over and above these verbal similarities (of which the first three are the most significant), Caner points to a wider relation, in that the relevant sections of Achilleus come in that part of the novel where the hero and heroine have been separated in a raid by Egyptian bandits (called barbarians), who decide to perform a cannibalistic human sacrifice. In the Narrations, the heterosexual couple is replaced by a father and son, but they too are separated in Egypt during a bandit raid, by Barbarians with a propensity to cannibalistic human sacrifice (they sacrifice camels only if no children are available). Caner also notes that ‘the author shares Tatius’ habit of breaking up his narrative with detailed digressions on how passions affect a person’s body … Indeed in no other ancient authors is this stylistic tic so prominent.’38 However, the intertextual connection with Achilleus is more than a simple matter of sourcing information. The whole narrative procedure is similar: both texts feature an internal narrator, whose narrative is framed by a chance encounter with his narratee(s); the narratees’ overhearing of a chance remark by an unhappy ————— 37

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I have used Whitmarsh’s translation, with slight adaptations to make the verbal similarities clearer. Caner 2010, 78.

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person results in that person becoming a secondary narrator. In Achilleus’ novel, an unnamed primary narrator meets the protagonist Kleitophon looking at a painting of Eros, and a comment on the god’s power gives him the opening to solicit Kleitophon’s story (Ach. Tat. 1,2,1). Our text allows its unnamed narrator to double up the roles of primary and secondary narrators (as x-narrator and x-character), but his correspondence to Kleitophon is clear enough. This immediately casts Theodoulos in the role of Leukippe. Like Achilleus’ lovers, father and son run away from home, following a difficult scene with the mother. Both pairs are separated by an attack of bandits, and in both cases one partner is presumed or feared dead after a ceremony of human sacrifice. Achilleus’ cannibalism is displaced into the account of camelophagy in pseudo-Neilos’ ethnography of the barbarians’ life style, but it is not too difficult to see a reflection of Leukippe (whose name means ‘white horse’) in the immaculately white camel, which the Barbarians dismember and devour, in a ceremony remarkably like that performed by Menelaos and Satyros over Leukippe (quoted in (2) above). The beneficent bishop at the end of the Narrations combines two roles from Achilleus. Firstly, as the master of the enslaved Theodoulos, he is a rewriting of Thersandros, the brutal owner of Achilleus’ enslaved heroine, from whom the hero must recover her; secondly, as priest and facilitator of resolution, he recasts the benevolent but smutty-mouthed Aristophanic priest who promotes the lovers’ cause in the novel in the last two books of the novel. Leukippe’s second Scheintod occurs after she is captured by pirates at Pharos near Alexandria;39 Theodoulos is presumed dead after being captured by Barbarians at Pharan in the Sinai Peninsula. Each of them provides an analeptic narrative at the end of the text which provides the final piece of the jigsaw and resolves the last mysteries of how they escaped death. The temporal structure of the two texts is different, in that the frame encounter at the beginning of Achilleus takes place after the events described at the end of the text, whereas pseudo-Neilos arranges things so that the opening frame leads into later events. This avoids the situation at the end of Leukippe and Kleitophon where the frame is not resumed: I am sure this is what Achilleus intended, but it is arguable that the Narrations is structured as it is partly in order to avoid the ostensible anomaly.40 The Narrations’ temporal structure in this respect is closer to Heliodoros’ novel, which also begins in mediis rebus, uses embedded narratives to fill in the earlier parts of the story, but then moves on temporally from the frame in which the embedded narrative are set. This would make of x a second Kalasiris, a priest who is a flamboyantly devious manipulator of narrative. Conca also notes some ————— 39 40

Narrated by Kleitophon at Ach. Tat. 5,7 and by Leukippe at 8,16. On this problem in Achilleus, see Repath 2005.

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similarities of style between the Narrations and Heliodoros, and it is certainly true that pseudo-Neilos writes Greek a cut above bog-standard hagiographical prose. We can add that in Heliodoros, as here, the climax of the narrative is constituted by the entry of the protagonists into a priesthood associated with the story’s deepest religious truths. Nevertheless, the intertextuality with Achilleus is of a different and more specific order, and requires interpretation. There is nothing implausible in this text being known to a Christian author.41 For what it is worth, there is a manuscript of Achilleus Tatius in the library of St. Catherine’s monastery in Sinai.42 Achilleus and Heliodoros both enjoyed a reputation as Christians. Achilleus’ novel actually has a Christian sequel, in which Leukippe and Kleitophon feature as the parents of St. Galaktion. Sententiae from these two novels are quoted in early Byzantine florilegia. Byzantine readers, such as Photios and Psellos, regarded Achilleus as morally suspect, though stylistically distinguished, but he continued to be widely read in Late Antiquity and beyond. One way to read the Narrations, then, is precisely as a pious rewriting of a favourite text, as a sanitised and Christianised variant of an esteemed pagan author, from which the objectionable elements have been removed and whose narrative thrust has been redirected to edifying ends. However, the fictional intertext also destabilises the narrative, in several ways. Firstly, it suggests an analogy between sexual or romantic love and religion. The sexualisation of the love of Christ is a common trope in martyrologies and hagiographies, and certainly is not absent from the Narrations. x’s decision to leave his wife for the eremitic life, in particular, directly correlates marital love with religious vocation: both are described as epithymia (2,2), and they are distinguished by degree not by kind. The situation corresponds to Kleitophon’s engagement to Kalligone being superseded by his inamoration with Leukippe. The scene where x breaks the news to his wife is as self-centred and insensitive to others as anything Kleitophon can manage. The intertextuality, in fact, problematises the nature and legitimacy of the eremitic vocation. More importantly, the recasting of a fictional narrative casts doubt on the truth-status of the result. In what sense can the Narrations present itself as an authentic record of genuine experience when it invites us to read it off against a text from a genre defined by its fictionality (i.e. as untruth not intended to deceive, ————— 41

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The monkish reception of the Greek romances can be surprising and amusing; compare the famous miniature Florence manuscript of Chariton, Xenophon, Longus and Achilleus (Laur.Conv.Sopp.627), which conceals the erotic texts between pious homilies, and seems to have been designed to provide a monk with furtive reading in chapel. Caner 2010, 77 n.17.

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acknowledged as untruth by sender and recipient) and particularly when its primary intertext within that genre is one which thematically complicates its fictionality to the point of inducing migraines? And if the Narrations’ fictionality is patent, what is the value of its didactic exemplarity? We have already seen that the Narrations consistently raises the issue of the correct function of and response to narrative, and raises the possibility from within of reading it for pleasure and as untruth decked out with rhetoric. Although at the surface level it appears to renounce all but piously didactic functions, it conspicuously leaves the back door open to other, less sanctioned readings; in fact it leaves prominent signs by the front door to guide us round the side of the house, both by its intertextual engagements and affiliations, and by its direct thematisation of the function of narrative.

Conversion There is another intertext which I would like to explore, and it is a surprising one: Apuleius’ Metamorphoses. Despite the large scale similarity of narrative structure to Heliodoros, the polyphony of narrative voices of the Narrations corresponds more closely to the Metamorphoses than to anything else in the corpus of ancient narrative. The opening conversation where x-character involves himself in a controversy among some passers-by is very reminiscent of Lucius catching up with Aristomenes and his companion on the road to Hypata, and joining in their conversation.43 Their discussion of the reality of magic is readily analogous to a discussion of the blessings of eremitic life. In one sense the place of the story of Cupid and Psyche is taken, structurally (as a didactic centre-piece of which the text’s primary narrator is a secondary narratee) and thematically, by the scene of the mourning mother. I do not want to press the thematic parallels too closely, and the narrators’ reactions are importantly different: even as narrator, Lucius remains oblivious to the similarity of the old woman’s narrative to his own experience, whereas x-character profits from the example of the mother’s faith and fortitude. Nevertheless, we are not far from the mark if we summarise the mother’s antilament as concerned with large truths about Love and Soul. As the texts move into their final acts, Lucius’ prayers to Isis at his nadir and her apparition at the beginning of Book 11 are echoed by Theodoulos’ prayers to God as he awaits the dawn which will bring his sacrifice (7,4-8):

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Apul. Met. 1,2. This intertextuality is a reading strategy. I do not mean to suggest that the author of the Narrations had read the Golden Ass.

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‘Master and Maker of all creation known to sight and mind, who hold the hearts of your creatures in your hand and turn the fury of senseless anger to pity, whenever you wish by your merciful judgment to save those abandoned to death by the verdict of authority … ‘44 Most importantly both works end with their narrators’ ordination into the priesthood. In both cases this tells us something about the identity of the narrator which has been concealed hitherto and from which meaning flows back into the narrative in retrospect. Once we realise that the story of the Metamorphoses has been told to us by an Isiac priest who can now look upon his experiences as a sort of theodicy, the text’s meaning and our understanding of the narrator’s previous fixation with magic are radically altered. The concealment of the narrator’s full identity enables the reader of the text to re-enact its narrator’s experience of conversion (however we interpret the author’s intentions). Likewise, the knowledge that the narrative of the Narrations is put in the mouth of a priest engaged in active ministry in the community, and that it is addressed precisely to that community, compels us to reappraise the anti-social, solipsistic eremitic vocation espoused so enthusiastically at the beginning. In fact, the Apuleian intertext suggests a reading of the Narrations as a conversion-narrative, from a deviant to a correct religious position. x’s persistent infatuation with the hermit’s life corresponds to Lucius’ fascination with magic; and just as Lucius’ misadventures arise from his mistaken religious choice, so x-character, at the point of reunion with his son, traces the source of his misfortunes to his choice of life: For a long time I had been no different from a corpse by reason of my sorrow, except for seeing and breathing while being a corpse. So by embracing me and holding me in his arms, Theodoulos, with difficulty, made me revive from my unconsciousness, made me recognise who I was, where I was, and whom I was looking at with my eyes. So I responded by embracing him in return and greeting him with embraces like his, hungrily satisfying the desire I had felt for so long. Then, turning to words, I tried to apologise and convince him that I was to blame for all the evils that he had experienced, having taken him from his homeland and made him dwell in a land that was constantly being ravaged, and truly it was as I said. For when, while he lived in the land that nurtured him and dwelt in the land of his birth, had he experienced anything one might pray to avoid? That was a land at peace on all sides and with no ————— 44

δέσποτα … πάσης φαινομένης καὶ νοουμένης κτίσεως καὶ τῶν δημιουργημάτων ἔχων ἐν χειρὶ τῇ σῇ τὰς καρδίας, καὶ τρέπων εἰς οἶκτον τὸ ἀγριαῖνον τῆς ἀλόγου ὀργῆς, ὅταν ἐθέλῃς εὐλόγῳ κρίσει σῴζειν τοὺς ψήφῳ τῆς ἐξουσίας προδιδομένους θανάτῳ…

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fear from anywhere of such treachery. Begone with those who think the Fates cannot be escaped and say that some necessity leads its victims towards Destiny! (6,24)45 This is a pregnant moment, presented as a metaphorical rebirth after death,46 a realisation of true identity and a repentance of former errors, confirmed as correct by the authority of x-narrator (‘truly it was as I said’). The final exclamations renounce a world-view that has no place for free will and personal responsibility, the pagan concepts of Fate (ta peprōmena) and Destiny (ta heimarmena) standing derogatively for the inert and irresponsible faith in the Providence of God which characterise the eremitic life. It thus appears that the argument against attributing this text to Neilos of Ankyra on the grounds that it is incompatible with his hostility towards eremitic monasticism is founded on a reading of the work that ignores its narrative procedures.47 As we have seen, that eremitic life was conspicuously never associated with Jesus Christ: all the biblical parallels adduced in its support were drawn from the Old Testament. We cannot argue that the hermits are not formally Christian (perhaps an ascetic Jewish sect), as they assemble in Church on Sundays. But the praise of the eremitic vocation in the early chapters is presented very much as praise of the hermits’ solitary struggle for individual access to the divine. The only reference to Christ in the entire text is in describing the man who saved father and son as ‘a priest of the divine mysteries of Christ’ (6,20). Although he is not allowed to voice an interpretation of the story, as are his structural counterparts the Isiac priest in Apuleius, and Sisimithres in Heliodoros,48 this designation marks him out in the text as the representative of a new and different religion, ultimately the only one which is truly worthy of Christ. It is only through his agency that the ————— 45

46

47 48

ἤμην γὰρ καὶ πάλαι τῇ λύπῃ νεκροῦ διαφέρων οὐδὲν παντάπασιν, πλὴν τοῦ ὁρᾶν καὶ ἀναπνεῖν ὢν νεκρός. περιλαβὼν οὖν με καὶ περιπτυξάμενος μόλις ἐκ τῆς λιποθυμίας ἐποίησεν ἀνενεγκεῖν καὶ γνῶναι τίς τε ἤμην καὶ ὅπου ἐτύγχανον ὢν καὶ τίνα τοῖς ὀφθαλμοῖς ἐθεώρουν. ἀντιπεριλαβὼν οὖν αὐτὸν καὶ ἀντισπασάμενος ταῖς αὐταῖς ἠμειβόμην περιπλοκαῖς, χρονίας ἐπιθυμίας ἐμφορούμενος ἀπλήστως· εἶτα ἐπὶ λόγους τραπόμενος ἀπελογούμην τε καὶ ἔπειθον ὡς αἴτιος αὐτῷ πάντων γενόμενος ὧν πεπείραται κακῶν, ἐξαγαγὼν τῆς πατρίδος καὶ χώραν οἰκεῖν ποιήσας συνεχῶς πορθουμένην, καὶ ἦν ὡς ἔλεγον ἀληθῶς. πότε γὰρ οἰκῶν τὴν θρεψαμένην καὶ διάγων ἐπὶ τῆς ἐνεγκαμένης ἐπειράθη τινὸς ἀπευκτοῦ, εἰρηνευομένης πάντοθεν καὶ φόβον τοιαύτης ἐχούσης οὐδαμόθεν ἐπιβουλῆς· ἐρρέτωσαν γὰρ οἱ τὰ πεπρωμένα δοξάζοντες ἄφυκτα καὶ ἀνάγκην τινὰ πρὸς τὰ εἱμαρμένα λέγοντες ἄγειν τοὺς πάσχοντας. Similarly Apul. Met. 11,18,2; the rite of initiation also involves death and rebirth, as at 11,21,7, and 11,23,7. This is not, of course, to endorse the attribution. I am not interested in that question. Apul. Met. 11,15; Hld. 10,39.

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narrator achieves true, communal, Christianity. In retrospect, with a reversal of meaning, the ethnographic excursuses, which appeared to contrast the life of the Barbarian with that of the hermits, turn out to have made an equivalence between them, as opposite and complementary anti-communal deviances. And the diatribe against luxurious food and misleading rhetoric also seems to have forged equivalences rather than antitheses with eremitic monasticism, which is recast as selfish pleasure. x’s narrative then not only demonstrates God’s benevolence and Love, but enacts a realisation that an earlier approach to the divine was the wrong one. In Apuleian terms, eremitic asceticism equates to asinine servitude. Released into their full humanity and liberated from a world full of suffering and regulated by Chance and Destiny, the narrator-protagonists, ass-man and redeemed hermit both, re-enter society as men reborn into the truth, freely accepting the heaviest kind of servitude. The text ends with an implicit prolepsis, as the narrator looks forward from the time of the setting of the narrative to the time of the act of narration, describing his new life as ‘brighter’ or ‘gladder’ (phaidrotera): Let this be the end of my story, where the experience of misfortunes has ended, providing, by God’s grace, after much hardship, a beginning of the brighter life (7,19).49 This too resembles the ending of the Metamorphoses, where the new Lucius wears his ritual baldness with a joy that characterises his new faith, a faith that finds its fulfilment in the act of narrating the novel that we have just finished reading. But there is a closer analogy still with the ending of Heliodoros’ novel, whose narrative ends proleptically with an extraordinary future participle: The people cheered and clapped and danced as they escorted them into the city, where the more mystic parts of the wedding ritual were to be performed more brightly (phaidroteron) (Hld. 10,41,3).50 Particularly when Heliodoros populates his concluding procession with white horses and oxen, it is clear that he is giving us a final punning reminder of Plato’s Phaidros, whose myth of the incarnation of the soul and its re-ascent to god ————— 49

50

ἐμοὶ δὲ ὁ λόγος ὧδε πεπαύσθω, ὅπου καὶ ἡ πεῖρα πέπαυται τῶν δυσχερῶν, ἀρχὴν παρασχοῦσα θεοῦ χάριτι μετὰ πολλὴν ταλαιπωρίαν τῆς φαιδροτέρας ζωῆς. σὺν εὐφημίαις καὶ κρότοις καὶ χοροῖς ἐπὶ τὴν Μερόην παρεπέμποντο, τῶν ἐπὶ τῷ γάμῳ μυστικωτέρων κατὰ τὸ ἄστυ φαιδρότερον τελεσθησομένων.

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through the guidance of love is rewritten in the plot of the Aithiopika.51 If we can find a similar reference to Plato at the end of the Narrations – and why not, when the Phaidros was such a canonical text at all periods? – we have a final hint that this text too rewrites the Platonic myth of the fall of the soul, identifying the hermits’ life as the earthly existence from which the soul must escape, and true communal Christianity as the Love which can guide it to true joy in God. So: the ‘last great example of the ancient novel’? Maybe not, but a not inconsiderable literary text that deserves to be reclaimed from the historians.

Appendix: Narrative structure a¹) 1,1-1,3 Frame narrative of x-narrator [primary narrator] 1,4-1,10 x-character [secondary narrator] laments his misfortunes 1,11 Frame narrative b) 2,1-4,14 narrative of x-character [secondary narrator] to people in Pharan [secondary narratees] 2,1-2,6 x-character’s narrative of earlier life 2,7-2,14 debate about Justice of God 3,1-3,18 x-character’s excursus on life of barbarians and holy men 4,1-4,6 x-character’s narration of barbarian attack 4,7-4,9 x-character’s lament (direct speech) 4,9-4,14 x-character’s narration of aftermath of attack 4,14-5,1 Frame narrative c) 5,2-5,20 Narrative of Magadon’s slave [secondary narrator] to xcharacter [secondary narratee] 5,2-5,4: his escape 5,5-5,14 Analepsis of events before Theodoulos’ capture 5,15-5,16 Courageous hermit’s defiance (direct speech) 5,17-5,19 Events before Theodoulos’ capture continued 5,20: his escape

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The adjective φαιδρός is heavily loaded in the Greek novels for precisely this reason.

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a²) 6,1-6,24 narrative of x-narrator [primary narrator] 6,1 x-character’s reaction to slave’s story 6,1 focalised analepsis of dream 6,1-3 x-character’s grief 6,3-6,7 the mother of the courageous hermit (direct speech) 6,8-6,18 embassies to king of barbarians 6,19-20 news that Theodoulos is in Elousa 6,20 the letter-bearer’s narrative (indirect speech) 6,20-6,24 journey to Elousa and reunion d) 7,1-7,11 narrative of Theodoulos [secondary narrator] to x-character [secondary narratee] 7,1-7,4 Events after escape of Magadon’s slave 7,4-7,6 first prayer (direct speech) 7,7 daybreak 7,7-7,8 second prayer (direct speech) 7,9-7,11 Theodoulos’ salvation a³) 7.12-7.19 narrative of x-narrator [primary narrator] 7,12-7,16 pious conversation (direct speech) 7,17-7,18 liberation and ordination 7,19 prolepsis: beginning of new life

Bibliography Caner, D.F. (ed.) 2010. History and hagiography from the Late Antique Sinai, Translated Texts for Historians 53, Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Christides, V. 1973. ‘Once again the ‘Narrations’ of Nilus Sinaiticus’, Byzantion 43, 39-50. Conca, F. 1983a. Nilus Ancyranus: Narratio, Leipzig: Teubner. Conca, F. 1983b. ‘Le «Narrationes» di Nil e il romanzo greco’, in: P.L. Leone (ed.), Studi bizantini e neogreci: atti del IV Congresso nazionale di studi bizantini, Saggi e ricerche (Università degli Studi di Lecce. Istituto di Storia medioevale e moderna) 7, Galatina: Congedo, 349-360. Henninger, J. 1955. ‘Ist der sogennante Nilus-Bericht eine brauchbare religionsgeschichtliche Quelle?’, Anthropos 50, 82-148. Henrichs, A. 1972. Die Phoinikika des Lollianos: Fragmente eines neuen griechischen Romans, Papyrologische Texte und Abhandlungen 14, Bonn: Rudolf Habelt. Heussi, K. 1917. Untersuchungen zu Nilus dem Asketen, Texte und Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur 42, Leipzig: J.C. Hinrichs. Link, M. 2005. Die Erzählung des Pseudo-Nilus: ein spätantiker Märtyrerroman, Beiträge zum Altertumskunde 220, Munich: Saur.

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Mayerson, P. 1975. ‘Observations on the ‘Nilus’ Narrationes: evidence for an unknown Christian sect?’, Journal of the American Research Center in Egypt 12, 51-74. Morgan, J.R. 2004. Longus: Daphnis and Chloe, Oxford: Oxbow Books. Repath, I.D. 2005. ‘Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon: what happened next?’, CQ 55, 250-265. Ringshausen, H. 1967. Zur Verfasserschaft und Chronologie der dem Nilus Ancyranus zugeschriebenen Werke, PhD. Frankfurt. Solzbacher, K. 1989. Mönche, Pilger, und Sarazenen: Studien zum Frühchristentum auf der südlichen Sinaihalbinsel, von der Anfängen bis zum Beginn der islamischen Herrschaft, Münsteraner theologische Abhandlungen 3. Altenberge: Telos.

Abstracts K EN D OWDEN Kalasiris, Apollonios of Tyana, and the Lies of Teiresias Kalasiris’ authority is fundamental to the understanding of Heliodoros’ Aithiopika. Though some narratives may be open-ended or resist ‘a single “theological” meaning’ (Barthes), others do not. The Prophet is a type that is well-suited to impose a definitive view (Teiresias does not lie), however corrupt or fraudulent some real-life specimens (and their narrative reflections) may be. Kalasiris should be seen as a version of Philostratos’ Apollonios of Tyana, with whom he shares so many features – as Heliodoros in effect reworks and geographically transposes Philostratos. If Kalasiris seems deceitful at times, if he plays a role to suit particular audiences, then that is because he is on a different epistemological level, a Platonic level, and he has a better understanding of (Socratic) irony than Apollonios. Nor is he seeking personal profit from his descent into the Greek world.

G ARETH S CHMELING The Small World of the Holy Man: a Small Beginning in the Satyrica Though it has often been observed that Trimalchio is exceedingly superstitious (e.g. 39,8), in many of the major decisions he makes in his life (37,3 choosing a wife; 76,8 building a house; 76,3-8 traveling and building ships) Trimalchio does not seem to have consulted an astrologer. When he does finally admit that he conferred with an astrologer, a holy man named Serapa (76,10-77,2), he uses Serapa’s predictions, as he had used his own frequent boasts about millions of HS here and there, to reassure his investors and creditors.

C OSTAS P ANAYOTAKIS Encolpius and the Charlatans Despite his long-standing experience in deceiving people, Encolpius the protagonist of Petronius’ Satyrica is shown to be unable to realise the significance

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of both the linguistic and the non-verbal adverse signs that Encolpius the narrator subtly inserts in his account of the first encounter of his younger self with the selfproclaimed priestess of Priapus, Oenothea. Encolpius the protagonist, in his elevated delusions about the life-style he leads, is too easily impressed by the age and words of old women, which he takes to be a sign of authority and power. His credulous nature squares with Petronius’ intention to reveal Encolpius’ inadequacy in his attempt to be a successful impostor. Petronius uses his protagonist not only as part of his narrative strategy to create humour for his readers at the expense of the hero himself, but also as a way of preventing any explicitly ethical condemnation of the impostors.

I AN R EPATH Cleitophon the Charlatan In the initial scene of Leucippe and Cleitophon, the anonymous narrator meets Cleitophon in front of a painting. Not only does this suggest that the latter might be a knowledgeable interpreter, but the younger man claims knowledge in terms of understanding the power of Eros, as demonstrated by the painting. However, his narrative betrays the fact that he does not seem to have much awareness of the structure of his own story, since he appears unable to make the obvious connections between the contents of the paintings he encounters and what happened to him. His comment about suffering because of Eros means that he claims more knowledge of divine workings than he can have and, more importantly, implies that his understanding of his story is fundamentally faulty.

E WEN B OWIE A Land without Priests? Religious Authority in Longus, Daphnis and Chloe Noting the absence of priests and institutionalised cult from Daphnis and Chloe’s world, I review several of its characters’ claims to be seen as priests, holy men or purveyors of religious truths. Philetas is the only strong candidate within the narrative, but I then scrutinise the shadowy exegetes who, the narrator claims, explained to him the painting in the nymphs’ grove. I conclude both that the novel’s whole universe, with rural divinities more closely involved in human lives than gods in other novels, should be seen as this exegetes’ creation, and that his lack of credentials makes him an untrustworthy source, undermining any expectation that the narrative presents a real or credible world.

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U LRIKE E GELHAAF -G AISER Fickle Coloured Religion: Charlatans and Exegetes in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses The article argues that the charlatans’ prophecies in the Metamorphoses offer ‘show-cases’ to past and future events, by means of which the Metamorphoses’ complex narrative structure becomes transparent. Thus, religious divination and literary interpretation are consistently intertwined, the charlatans even elevated to model exegetes with authorial qualities. However, since the skills of these exemplary interpreters are promptly challenged by vying voices, these literary characters do have a highly ambivalent interpretive potential that oscillates between reliable and entertaining qualities. This point will be illustrated by the examples of the Chaldean Diophanes and the Syrian mendicant priests.

I LARIA L.E. R AMELLI Lucian’s Peregrinus as Holy Man and Charlatan and the Construction of the Contrast between Holy Men and Charlatans in the Acts of Mari In Lucian’s Peregrinus, this personage is represented both as a holy man and as a charlatan, from two opposite points of view: the former that of the Christians, the latter simply that of the non-Christians. Lucian had no apologetic agenda, being uninterested in embracing a religious position for or against Christianity (whose complexity did not escape him: most Christians were simple, but Christianity was also presenting itself as a philosophy). The Christian redactor of the Acts of Mari, instead, intended to discredit official representatives of non-Christian religions, especially ‘pagans,’ as charlatans, to have his hero stand out, with his collaborators, as the apostle of the only true religion and thereby ‘holy man.’ A LAIN B ILLAULT Holy Man or Charlatan? The Case of Kalasiris in Heliodorus’ Aithiopika Kalasiris is a controversial figure in the novel of Heliodorus. His honesty is frequently questioned and he is often described as a charlatan, not as a holy man. This paper resorts to ancient Greek texts by Herodotus, Euripides, Plato, Demosthenes, Lucian, and Philostratus which deal with holiness, charlatanism and religious men to approach his case. Kalasiris is first a genuine priest in Memphis. Then he becomes an exile and meets Theagenes and Charikleia. To protect them at all costs, he sometimes acts as a charlatan. His charlatanism is neither selfish

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nor all-powerful. He is a religious man who is not devoid of the shortcomings of a human being. He is a complex character in a complex novel.

M ICHAEL P ASCHALIS Apollonius of Tyana as Proteus: theios anēr or Master of Deceit? Philostratus re-interprets the identification of Apollonius with the Homeric seagod Proteus (VA 1,4) by entering into a contest with Homer and correcting original features and later associations. The Philostratean Apollonius is ‘impossible to catch’ (κρείττων τοῦ ἁλῶναι) but he is not a sorcerer (γόης). He remains a free person though imprisoned by Domitian, refuses to conduct Protean transformations as requested by the emperor, and argues that the true prison is the human body where the immortal soul is jailed. His teaching has a transforming effect on the inner self of his fellow-prisoners. The only bodily transformation acceptable to Apollonius consists in the passage from earthly life to the beyond, a transfiguration consisting in ascension to heaven.

M ARIO A NDREASSI The Life of Aesop and the Gospels: Literary motifs and narrative mechanisms Many literary motifs and narrative mechanisms reveal the surprising common ground upon which the Life of Aesop and the Gospels rest, and contribute in defining the exeptional characteristics of the protagonists. Similarities in narrative structures of the biographies of Aesop and Jesus certainly do not mean textual interdependence, but they do lead to the thesis that the authors of the Life of Aesop and the Gospels aim, where possible, to place the life of the protagonist in a literary and narrative context known to the public: once again the Life of Aesop shows it belongs within a wider and consciously literary production.

J OHN M ORGAN The Monk’s Story: the Narrationes of pseudo-Neilos of Ankyra The Narrations attributed to St. Neilos of Ankyra purports to be an account by a solitary monk of Mount Sinai of an attack by Barbarians, and the loss and recovery of his son, Theodoulos. This paper analyses the text’s complex narrative structure

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and polyphony of narrative voices, suggesting that it should be read as a sermon to his congregation after the narrator’s restoration to civic society in priestly ministry. The work’s thematic interest in the purpose and effect of story-telling within the narrative frame acts as a commentary on its own procedures and intended reception. However, its intertextual relationship with fictional texts, particularly the novel of Achilleus Tatius, destabilises a simple reading of the Narrations as praise of the eremitic life. I propose to read it instead as a narrative of conversion from eremetic solipsism to a truer Christian vocation.

Contributors M ARIO A NDREASSI is researcher of Greek literature at the University of Bari «Aldo Moro» (Dipartimento di Scienze dell’Antichità e del Tardoantico). Member of the teaching committee of Ph.D. in Greek and Latin Philology, he has published monographs and articles on the ancient novel (Vita Aesopi), humorous literature (Philogelos), popular mime (Moicheutria and Charition), Greek epigram (Meleager), imperial rhetoric (Himerius), and epistolography (Alciphron). A LAIN B ILLAULT is Professor of Greek at the University of Paris-Sorbonne. His main fields of research are the Greek Novel, the Greek prose literature of the Roman Empire, Hellenistic poetry, ancient literary theory and the reception of ancient Greek literature in modern times. E WEN B OWIE was Praelector in Classics at Corpus Christi College, Oxford, from 1965 to 2007, and latterly Professor of Classical Languages and Literature at Oxford. He has published widely on early Greek elegiac and iambic poetry; Aristophanes; Hellenistic poetry; and the Greek literature and culture of the Roman period. He is currently completing a commentary on Longus, Daphnis and Chloe. K EN D OWDEN is Professor of Classics at the University of Birmingham, and Head of the School of Philosophy, Theology and Religion (his page: http://tinyurl.com/lnoah27). He is well known for his work on mythology, e.g., Uses of Greek Mythology (Routledge, 1992); and, with Niall Livingstone, the Companion to Greek Mythology (Blackwell, 2011). He has also edited and commented on many fragmentary Greek ‘historians’ (from Diktys of Crete to Poseidonios) for Brill’s New Jacoby. As for novel, he has written articles especially on Apuleius and Heliodoros and often on their religio-philosophical aspects (as again in the present volume). Many of these are in the pages of the Ancient Narrative supplements, several others (in French) are in the various acts of the colloquia at Tours, ed. B. Pouderon & C. Bost-Pouderon (Collection de la Maison de l’Orient et de la Méditerranée, Lyon).

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U LRIKE E GELHAAF -G AISER studied Classics and Classical Archaeology at Munich and Tübingen; she is Professor of Latin Literature at Göttingen University since 2008. She has published extensively on the cultural and religious history of the Imperial period. She is the author of Kulträume im römischen Alltag: das Isisbuch des Apuleius und der Ort von Religion im kaiserzeitlichen Rom (Stuttgart 2000) and co-editor of the Groningen Commentary on Apuleius’ Metamorphoses XI (Leiden 2015). J.R. M ORGAN is Professor of Greek at Swansea “University”, and is Leader of KYKNOS, a grouping of scholars in Wales who work on Ancient Narrative Literature. His publications include the translation of Heliodoros in Bryan Reardon’s Collected Ancient Greek Novels and a commentary on Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe. C OSTAS P ANAYOTAKIS is Reader in Classics at the University of Glasgow. He researches on low Roman drama (mime and Atellane comedy) and on Petronius’ novel. He is the author of Decimus Laberius: The Fragments (Cambridge 2010), Theatrum Arbitri: Theatrical Elements in the Satyrica of Petronius (Leiden 1995), and of annotated book-length translations into Modern Greek of one play of Plautus and two of Terence. He is currently working towards an edition (with translation and commentary) of the fragments of all the Atellane playwrights and of the sententiae attributed to the mimographer Publilius. M ICHAEL P ASCHALIS is Professor of Classics at the University of Crete. He has published articles on Hellenistic and Roman poetry and prose including the ancient novel, on the reception of the Classics and on Modern Greek literature. He is the author of Virgil’s Aeneid: Semantic Relations and Proper Names (Oxford, 1997) and has edited three volumes of Rethymnon Classical Studies. He has co-edited five volumes of Ancient Narrative Supplements and The Reception of Antiquity in the Byzantine and Modern Greek Novel. I LARIA R AMELLI is Professor of Theology and K.Britt Chair (Graduate School of Theology, SHMS, Angelicum), Senior Fellow in Classics (Durham), Religion (Erfurt), and Ancient Philosophy (Catholic University Milan), Senior Visiting Professor of Greek, and director of research. Among her books, I Romanzi antichi e il Cristianesimo (Madrid 2001; Eugene 2012) and Ancient Christian and Jewish Novels: The Role of Religion in Shaping Narrative Forms, co-edited with Judith Perkins (Tübingen 2015).

CONTRIBUTORS

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I AN R EPATH is lecturer in Classics at Swansea University. He works and has published on the Greek and Latin novels and on the reception of Plato and Homer in antiquity. He is co-editor of Petronius: A Handbook (2009, Wiley-Blackwell, with J.R.W. Prag) and author of several articles on Achilles Tatius. He is a founding member of KYKNOS, the Swansea and Lampeter Centre for Research in Ancient Narrative Literatures. G ARETH S CHMELING is Emeritus Distinguished Professor of Classics, University of Florida and Fellow in Classics, Johns Hopkins University. He authored: Chariton (1974), A Bibliography of Petronius (1977), Xenophon of Ephesus (1980), A Commentary on the Satyrica of Petronius (2011). He edited the Historia Apollonii Regis Tyri (1988), The Novel in the Ancient World (1st ed. 1996, 2nd ed. 2003). He is Leading Editor of the journal Ancient Narrative.

Indices Index locorum Achilles Tatius 1.2.1, 49 1.2.1-2, 59 1.4.3, 51 1.17-18, 64 3.15.4-5, 54 3.15.5-6, 55 5.25.6-27.4, 61 Acts of the Apostles 14.11-18, 114 Ammianus 19.1.39, 106 AP 11.159-164 (Lucillius), 8 Apuleius Met. 2.12-14, 91 2.13-14, 26 8.23.5, 96 8.23.5-25.2, 94 8.24.1, 94 8.24-9.10, 90 8.27.4, 23 9.8.2-6, 99 11.15, 9, 189 11.18.2, 189 Aristoteles EN 1127b, 7 Artemidorus 2.69, 3 Bible, NT John 1.45-46, 153 Luke 9.51, 158, 160 23.28-31, 162

Mark 1.9, 153 4.34, 159 10.32, 160 15.29-31, 158 Bible, OT Ex. 4.10-12, 155 Is. 6.7, 155 Gellius NA 12.11.1-7, 106 Heliodorus 2.24.6, 122 2.26, 11 2.26.1, 125 2.26.5, 125 3.5-7, 13 3.16.4, 126 3.17.1-2, 128 4.5.3-4, 129 4.12, 131 5.13.2-3, 130 6.15, 5 10.39, 189 10.41.3, 190 Herodotus 7.6.3, 6 Homerus Od. 4.431-61, 134 Horatius S. 1.9, 41

206 Longus praef. 1-4, 78 1.27.2-4, 76 2.4-6, 74 2.33.3, 76 3.15.3, 77 3.23, 76 4.17.3, 75 4.25.2, 72 Lucianus Icar. 24, 111 Per. 11, 106 11-13, 105 11-16, 124 16, 105 Petronius 29.4, 19 35.1-2, 19 48.8, 18 76.3-8, 24 76.9-77.2, 20 76.10-77.2, 17 77.2, 25 82.2, 34 134.3, 36 134.3-135.2, 37 134.10, 40, 42 140.15, 35 Philostratus VA 1.4, 133, 142 4.44.4, 144 7.22, 138 7.26.4-5, 139 7.32.1-2, 140

IN D IC ES

7.34, 141 7.38, 143 8.7, 8 8.30.2-3, 144 8.31, 146 Plinius Ep. 1.10.9-10, 23 ps.-Neilos 1.8, 176 1.10-11, 177 2.1-4.14, 171 5.2-20, 173 6.1-24, 173 6.8, 178 6.16, 174 6.24, 188 7.1, 180 7.1-11, 174 7.4-8, 187 7.12-16, 181 7.19, 190 Sophocles OT 387-389, 5 Vita Aesopi 6-8, 155 104, 163 124, 160 130, 158 133, 162 Xenophon Eph. 1.10.7-8, 70 Zenobius Paroem. 1.47, p.18, 164

General Index Acts of Mar Mari, 112 holy men vs. pagan priests, 114 Acts of the Apostles, 114 Aeschines, 124

Aesop and Isis, 154 and Jesus, 152 and Socrates, 151 Aesopus redivivus, 163

207

IN D IC ES

Ahiqar Romance, 161 Alexander of Abonouteichos, 17, 75 allegory, 130, 159 Ammianus, 106 Anderson, G., 17, 24, 90, 93, 96, 126, 136 Apollonius of Tyana, 7, 17, 124 aretalogy, 152 Armini, H., 26 astrology, 23 Diophanes, 91 Athenaeus, 108 auspicium, 88 Avlamis, P., 154 Bakhtin, M., 2 Barthes, R., 2 Bartsch, S., 32, 48, 54, 57 Baumbach, M., 7, 9 Beavis, M.A., 152 Beglaubigungsapparat, 82 Behmenberg, L., 48 Belayche, N., 99 Berdozzo, F., 112 Bodel, J., 18, 26, 27 Bonelli, G., 154 Bowie, E.L., 7, 72, 76, 77, 82, 130 Breitenstein, N., 44 Bremmer, J., 163 Bücheler, F., 39 Burkert, W., 99 Burstein, S.M., 10 Caner, D.F., 167, 182, 184 carnivalization, 156 Caster, M., 109 Celsus, 108 characterization Cleitophon, 47, 53 Diophanes, 92 Encolpius, 32 Kalasiris, 12, 122 Lucius/ass, 94 Oenothea, 42 priest of Dea Syria, 94 charlatanism Latin vocabulary of -, 34 ‘charlatan’ etymology, 32 charlatans religious -, 36

Chew, K., 60 Christianity in the Roman Empire, 112 Christides, V., 169 chronology Philostratus ~ Heliodorus, 10 closure, 64, 190 Collins, A.Y., 153, 163, 164 Colonna, A., 121 Compton, T.M., 163 Conca, F., 167, 170, 174, 182, 185 con-men, 26 Connors, C., 40 Conte, G.B., 36 conversion-narrative, 188 cosmogonic poetry in Longus, 74 Courtney, E., 18, 40 Cramer, F.H., 26 Cresci, R.L., 77 cult of Amphiaraus at Oropus, 71 of Nymphae Anchialiae, 71 cults anc. Greek rural -, 70 Daphnis, 76 de Melo, W., 42 de Temmerman, K., 53 Delphi in Heliodorus, 11 Demoen, K., 136, 140, 142 Dickie, E., 13 Diehl, E., 26 Dionysophanes, 72 Diophanes, 91 divination scenes in Apul. Met., 86 divinatory practices in anc. Rome, 88 lot oracle, 99 divine knowledge of prophets, 6 Dowden, K., 10, 13, 132 dreams in Ach. Tat., 56 in Longus, 74 ecphrasis, 48 Effe, B., 77

208 Elliott, S.S., 151, 154, 157 Elmer, D.F., 121 Elsner, J., 7, 136 embedded tales, 171, 185 enargeia., 176 Encolpius and Lucius, 31 protagonist ~ narrator, 31, 39 Eros in Ach. Tat., 61 in Longus, 74 eros/Eros, 59 ἔρως, 81 Euagrios of Pontos, 168 exile in anc. Greek novels, 123 fable, 159 φαιδρός, 191 Flinterman, J.J., 136, 141, 142 Fortuna in Apul. Met., 94 Futre Pinheiro, M., 117 Gasparro, G.S., 109 Gellius, 106 geography in Heliodorus, 9 in Philostr. VA, 9 gesture head-shaking, 41 Gharib, G., 153 Gnathon, 75 gods and mortals in anc. Greek novels, 82 goēteia, 5 Goldman, M.L., 40 Gospel of Mark, 157 Göttsching, J., 9 Gowers, E., 41 Gratwick, A.S., 34 Graverini, L., 90, 93, 98 Grottanelli, C., 161 Gyselinck, W., 136, 140, 142 Habermehl, P., 34 Hadas, M., 153 Hägg, T., 56 hagiography, 169, 186 Hamer, E., 40 Harrison, S.J., 32, 86

IN D IC ES

Heliodorus dating of Ethiopica, 10 Henninger, J., 169 Henrichs, A., 167, 169, 182 Herter, H., 137 Heussi, K., 168 Hijmans, B.L., 90 Hodkinson, O., 75 Holzberg, N., 164 Hopkins, K., 156 horologium, 26 Hunter, R., 75, 126 hunting imagery, 79 Hurst, A., 117 Iamblichus, 15 intertextuality as reading strategy, 187 in Ach. Tat., 63 in Heliodorus, 15 ps.-Neilos ~ Ach.Tat., 183, 186 ps.-Neilos ~ Greek novels, 182 Theocritus ~ Longus, 77 irony, 182 tragic -, 142 Jedrkiewicz, S., 157, 163 Jones, C.P., 81, 133 Jones, M., 59, 65 Jouanno, C., 153, 157 Kalasiris, 9 Karavas, O., 111 καταγωγή, 72 Keulen, W.H., 32, 86, 90, 92 Kirichenko, A., 86, 90 Konstan, D., 57 Konstantakos, I., 157 Kossaifi, C., 76, 79 Kurke, L., 156, 163 Lamon, 76 Larson, J., 71, 76 Lattimore, R., 26 Lefkowitz, J.B., 153 levator, 35 Levine, A.-J., 152, 164 Link, M., 167, 174, 177, 182 Lissarrague, F., 153 Lombardo, S., 136

IN D IC ES

Longus and Thucydides, 80 narrator and ἐξηγητής in -, 81 lot oracles in Roman Italy, 100 Lucianus Alex., 75 and Christianity, 105, 109 Ludwig, C., 153 Lycaenion, 77 Mara Bar Serapion, 110 Marcus Aurelius, 108 Marinčič, M., 58 Marsilio Ficino Commentary on the Symposium, 14 Martinus Delrius Disquisitionum Magicorum, 13 martyr acts, 186 martyrdom criticized by pagans, 109 Peregrinus, 108 Mayerson, P., 169 Melampus, 124 Merkle, S., 151 metamorphosis, 142 metaphor hunting -, 79 medical -, 178 Proteus -, 136 rebirth, 189 wrestling -, 172 Michael Psellos, 121 Mignogna, E., 155 monasticism coenobitic -, 168 eremitic -, 168, 189 Montanism, 105 Montanists, 107 Montiglio, S., 17 Morales, H., 48, 54, 58, 64 Morgan, J.R., 9, 10, 50, 57, 73, 75, 80, 122, 127, 181 Moss, C.R., 108 Most, G.W., 126

209 motif faculty of speech, 155 hidden cup, 161 market, 86 trade, 86 Nagy, G., 162 Nakatani, S., 48, 61 name Serapa, 21 significant -, 72, 77 narrative analepsis, 173, 185 auctor ~ actor, 31 authentication, 75 authority in -, 3, 7, 62 Beglaubigungsapparat, 82 conversion-, 188 digressions, 184 divine causation in -, 154 embedded -, 171, 185 first-person -, 62, 170, 173 hagiographic -, 169 internal narrators, 170 metalepsis, 93 ‘open-endedness’, 2 pleasure of -, 179 prolepsis, 54, 56, 94, 190 ring composition, 148 - situation in Ach. Tat., 58 - voices, 175, 187 narrative structure of ps.-Neilos’ Narrationes, 175, 191 narrator actor ~ auctor, 170 and ἐξηγητής in Longus, 80 of Apul. Met., 188 of ps.-Neilos Narrationes, 188 of the Old Testament, 3 Nasrallah, L., 117 necromancy, 5, 89 Ní-Mheallaigh, K., 109 Nimis, S., 2, 48 Nisbet, G., 8 North, J.A., 88 nymphs worship of -, 76

210 Oenothea, 39 and Quartilla, 37 old women in anc. literature, 43 opening in medias res, 171 oracle written -, 99 ostentator, 33 O’Sullivan, J.N., 59, 61 paintings interpreters of -, 49 Pan in Longus, 76 Panayotakis, C., 33 parables, 159 parody, 96 Paschalis, M., 79, 137 Peregrinus Proteus, 17, 124 and Christians, 106 and Montanism, 107 Pernot, L., 110 Perry, B.E., 164 Pervo, R., 151, 154, 159, 164 Petronius Cena Trimalchionis, 18 pharmakos, 163 Philetas, 74 Philostratus correcting Homer, 138, 142 Heroicus, 75 Vita Apollonii, 75 plănus, 34 praeco, 95 Praet, D., 140, 142 priests in Heliodorus, 121 priests, -esses in anc. Greek novels, 69 prophet mercenary -, 6 prophets, 5 proverb, 21 ‘Cretan liar’, 91 pseudomanteis, 6 Ptolemaeus Chennus, 164 Ramelli, I., 110, 112

IN D IC ES

reader - role in Apul. Met., 92, 101 demands on the -, 7, 57 of Longus, 79 reader reception inscribed in narrative, 179 Reardon, B.P., 7 reception Christian - of Ach.Tat., 186 Reeves, B.T., 48 Repath, I.D., 57, 65, 185 resurrection, 163 Richlin, A., 44 Rimell, V., 35 Rinaldi, G., 105 Robertson, N., 154 Rohde, E., 9 Rosenberger, V., 88 Rosivach, V., 44 Ruiz Montero, C., 153 Rüpke, J., 86, 99 Salomone, S., 152, 153, 161 Sánchez Alacid, M.D., 153 Sandrolini, G., 154 Sandy, G.N., 13 satire, 85 saviours, 158 Schauer, M., 151 Schirren, M., 137 Schmeling, G., 31, 35, 40, 44, 65 Schmidt, V.S., 90, 95 Schneider, K., 95 Scobie, A., 87 Setaioli, A., 37, 40 Shiner, W., 152, 154, 157 Smith, J.M., 151, 153 Smith, M., 27 Smith, S.D., 2 σοφιστής, 110 solar religion in Philostr. VA and Hld., 9 Sourvinou-Inwood, C., 71 Sternberg, M., 2, 3 Sullivan, J.P., 21 superstition Trimalchio, 18 sycophanta, 34 Tagliabue, A., 2

IN D IC ES

tales ἱεροὶ λόγοι, 81 transmission of -, 81 Tilg, S., 32 Trampedach, K., 6 trickster, 157 tricksters in Petron. Sat., 35, 44 van Mal-Maeder, D., 91, 93, 95 van Uytfanghe, M., 7 Walsh, P.G., 18, 31 Watson, D.F., 153, 156 Whitmarsh, T., 48, 53, 58, 61, 64, 81, 117, 136, 184 Wiechers, A., 162 Wills, L.M., 151, 154, 164 Winkler, J.J., 1, 9, 48, 76, 86, 90, 92, 121, 131, 157 Yunis, H., 124 Zimmerman, M., 14

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