Host or Parasite?: Mythographers and their Contemporaries in the Classical and Hellenistic Periods 9783110672824, 3110672820

Table of contents :
Preface
Contents
Abbreviations
Introduction
Mythographic Discourse among non- Mythographers: Pindar’s Ol. 1, Plato’s Phaedrus and Callimachus’ Hymn to Zeus
Myth(ography), History and the Peripatos
Questions of Mythology as Seen through the Eyes of a Hellenistic Critic
Diodorus the Mythographer?
Does Mythography Care About Good or Bad?
Vergil the Mythographer
The Mythographical Topography of Pausanias’ Periegesis
Bibliography
About the Contributors
Index Locorum
Index of Names and Subjects

Citation preview

Host or Parasite?

Trends in Classics – Supplementary Volumes

Edited by Franco Montanari and Antonios Rengakos Associate Editors Stavros Frangoulidis · Fausto Montana · Lara Pagani Serena Perrone · Evina Sistakou · Christos Tsagalis Scientific Committee Alberto Bernabé · Margarethe Billerbeck Claude Calame · Jonas Grethlein · Philip R. Hardie Stephen J. Harrison · Richard Hunter · Christina Kraus Giuseppe Mastromarco · Gregory Nagy Theodore D. Papanghelis · Giusto Picone Tim Whitmarsh · Bernhard Zimmermann

Volume 92

Host or Parasite?

Mythographers and their Contemporaries in the Classical and Hellenistic Periods Edited by Allen J. Romano and John Marincola

ISBN 978-3-11-067279-4 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-067282-4 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-067285-5 ISSN 1868-4785 Library of Congress Control Number: 2019948523 Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2019 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Editorial Office: Alessia Ferreccio and Katerina Zianna Logo: Christopher Schneider, Laufen Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck www.degruyter.com

Preface This volume collects written versions of five of the papers delivered at the conference ‘Host or Parasite?’ held in February 2015 at Florida State University in Tallahassee. Since two of the speakers were unable to contribute to the printed volume, we solicited two additional papers to round out the offerings. We are grateful to the Langford Endowment of the Classics Department at Florida State for the ability to hold the conference, and to the members and staff of the Department for their assistance in making the meeting a success. We thank Alex Lee, currently a graduate student in the Department, who served as our editorial assistant and supervised the compilation of the Bibliography, the Index Locorum, and the Index of Names and Subjects. We are grateful to the editors of the Trends in Classics Supplements series, Franco Montanari and Antonios Rengakos, for their encouragement and for their acceptance of the volume into the series. Allen J. Romano John Marincola Tallahassee, May 2019

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110672824-202

Contents Preface  V Abbreviations  IX John Marincola and Allen J. Romano Introduction  1 Andrew Ford Mythographic Discourse among Non-Mythographers: Pindar, Plato and Callimachus  5 Robert Fowler Myth(ography), History and the Peripatos  29 René Nünlist Questions of Mythology as seen through the Eyes of a Hellenistic Critic  53 John Marincola Diodorus the Mythographer?  75 Jessica Wissmann Does Mythography Care about Good or Bad?  95 Ken Dowden Vergil the Mythographer  113 Greta Hawes The Mythographical Topography of Pausanias’ Periegesis  135 Bibliography  153 About the Contributors  165 Index Locorum  167 Index of Names and Subjects  181

Abbreviations BNJ

I. Worthington (ed.), Brill’s New Jacoby, online publication.

BNJ2

I. Worthington (ed.), Brill’s New Jacoby, second edition, online publication.

CA

J.E. Powell (ed.), Collectanea Alexandrina: reliquiae minores poetarum Graecorum aetatis Ptolemaicae 323–146 A.C. (Oxford, 1925).

CAF

T. Kock (ed.), Comicorum Atticorum Fragmenta, 3 vols (Leipzig, 1880–1888).

EGM

R.L. Fowler (ed.), Early Greek Mythography, 2 vols (Oxford 2000, 2013); fragments are cited by Fowler’s number in volume 1; prefatory or commentary material is cited by volume (‘I’, ‘II’) and page number.

FGrHist

F. Jacoby et al. (eds.), Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, 3 vols in 15 parts (Berlin/Leiden, 1923–1958; Leiden, 1994–).

FRHist

T.J. Cornell (ed.), The Fragments of the Roman Historians, 3 vols (Oxford, 2013).

FHG

C. Müller (ed.), Fragmenta Historicorum Graecorum, 4 vols (Paris, 1878–1885).

HRR

H. Peter (ed.), Historicorum Romanorum Reliquiae, 2 vols (Stuttgart, 19142, 1906).

IEG2

M.L. West (ed.), Iambi et Elegi Graeci, 2nd edition, 2 vols (Oxford, 1989–1992).

LCL

Loeb Classical Library.

PCG

R. Kassel and C. Austin (eds.), Poetae Comici Graeci, 8 vols to date (Berlin and

PMG

D.L. Page (ed.), Poetae Melici Graeci (Oxford, 1962).

PMGF

M. Davies (ed.), Poetarum Melicorum Graecorum Fragmenta (Oxford, 1991).

TrGF

B. Snell, S. Radt, and R. Kannicht (eds.), Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta, 5

New York, 1983–).

vols in 6 (Göttingen, 1981–2004).

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110672824-204

John Marincola and Allen J. Romano

Introduction

The last several decades have seen a remarkable flourishing in the study of mythography in the Greco-Roman world. New editions of or new commentaries on mythographic authors began to appear already in the 1980s, with more following in successive decades, and culminating in Robert Fowler’s magisterial collection of the early Greek mythographers, completed in 2013.1 During this same period, there have been new English translations,2 overviews of the genre and its practitioners,3 surveys of the ever-increasing bibliography,4 and a series of studies that have sought to give more attention to the contextualisation of individual mythographers as well as to the various methodologies which they employed.5 All these studies have helped to show that mythography, far from being an arid or superficial genre, was alive with scholarship and intellectual debate. The protean status of myth in antiquity perhaps determined that mythography also would have a protean form. Indeed, although most of the mythographical works from antiquity are lost, we can nonetheless see a remarkable variety of approaches and interests even in the works that do survive or are summarised for us. The ‘survey’ approach of pseudo-Apollodorus’ Library,6 though perhaps the best known, is only one manifestation of mythographical study in antiquity. Other approaches, such as thematic collections—those of ‘Eratosthenes’, for example, on catasterisms, or Parthenius on love stories, or Antoninus Liberalis on metamorphoses—also feature prominently in the genre. Dionysius Scytobrachion, Palaephatus, and Euhemerus offered rationalising guides to myth, sometimes violently altering the stories so as to make them congruent with the human world of today.7 There were, of course, mythographic commentaries on particular authors (perhaps the best known being the Mythographus Homericus on the most

 1 E.g., Dionysius Scytobrachion: Rusten 1982a; Palaephatus: Stern 1996; Parthenius: Lightfoot 1999; Conon: Brown 2002; ‘Eratosthenes’: Pàmias i Massana/Zucker 2013; Antoninus Liberalis: Papathomopoulos 2002; Heraclitus: Stern 2003. 2 E.g., Condos 1997; Smith/Trzaskoma 2007. 3 Pellizer 1993; Higbie 2007; Meliadò 2015; Trzaskoma 2017. 4 Particularly valuable is Smith/Trzaskoma 2013, in the Oxford Bibliographies Online series; for Apollodorus see the on-line bibliography maintained by Marc Huys. 5 Henrichs 1987 is rightly praised as seminal; see also Henrichs 1999; Cameron 2004; Fowler 2006, 2011, and EGM II, passim. 6 And to a lesser extent from Hyginus and the Vatican mythographer. 7 On rationalisation see Buxton 1999; Winiarczyk 2002; Hawes 2014a. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110672824-001

  John Marincola and Allen J. Romano important poet of all) or genres (e.g., Asclepiades of Tragilos’ Stories from Tragedy).8 The present volume, building on these previous studies, seeks to continue and deepen the aspects of engagement with myth that was characteristic of the Greco-Roman intellectual world by looking at the ways in which mythography interacted with other genres, or, from the opposite point of view, how writers who were not mythographers engaged with and used the elements and methods of myth and mythography in their own work. The dichotomy ‘host or parasite’ refers to the different ways in which mythography could appear or be implemented in classical texts. Looked at from one point of view, mythography quarries from existing texts to create its own approach, i.e., its own genre; it analyses, comments upon, or seeks to ‘resolve’ mythical stories: in this sense it is parasitical on more ‘established’ works of literature such as epic or tragedy. On the other hand, the existence of mythographical works offered would-be writers a rich locus for a large body of knowledge on the mythical tradition, sometimes (often?) with a good deal of scholarly excavation to back it up: here mythography was much more the host. In this volume we try, therefore, to bring out both roles for mythography in antiquity, in authors from Pindar to Pausanias, and over a range of genres including epic, epinician, hymn, philosophy, history, and periegetic literature. Some chapters discuss the ways in which ancient writers engaged in the study of myth employed particular techniques or approaches: Robert Fowler, for example, looks at the ways in which the Peripatetics evinced ‘a very lively interest in mythology…and its penumbra’, and in particular how Dicaearchus in his Life of Greece worked with but adapted received myths in his attempt to delineate what early Greek life was like. René Nünlist similarly examines how Aristarchus engaged with the vast mythical tradition of the gods and heroes when writing his commentary on Homer, using fixed but not rigid principles to try to explicate what was distinctive about Homer’s approach to and treatment of traditional stories. Jessica Wissmann, on the other hand, asks to what extent mythography, usually thought of as a genre more devoted to narration than explanation, concerned itself with issues of morality, with questions of good and bad, and she shows how mythography, by employing small narrative gestures or indirect characterisation or even by structural means, could give guidance to the reader about moral choices.

 8 See, on the former, Montanari 1995 and van Rossum-Steenbeek 1998, 85–118; on the latter, FGrHist 12; Villagra Hidalgo 2012; and BNJ 12 (S. Asirvatham).

Introduction  

The remaining chapters examine how non-mythographers employed the manners and techniques of mythographic discourse, and the purposes to which such employment was directed. Andrew Ford sees mythographic discourse as evident already in Pindar and Plato (when mythography itself as a genre was still in its infancy) as well (rather less surprisingly) in Callimachus. Ford sees a variety of uses for these authors’ allusion to mythographic discourse, believing that it served not the purposes of piety or religion but ‘the pleasurable sharing of learning lightly worn for the connoisseurship of the “wise”’. In a different context, Diodorus of Sicily, according to John Marincola, found in mythographic discourse an ideal way to treat the labours of Heracles within a historical work, presenting Heracles’ deeds in a straightforward and unproblematic manner, but overlaying it with certain ‘historical’ gestures that sought to integrate Heracles both into the various lands through which he travelled and into the long series of mythical and historical figures whom Diodorus marked out as benefactors of mankind. Ken Dowden argues for a deep knowledge of mythographic traditions and discussions in Virgil, and shows how the poet alludes both to the controversies and to the variant versions which he knows but does not utilise in his own epic. Dowden also argues that apparent contradictions in Virgil’s use of different traditions do not reflect carelessness on the author’s part but a deliberate manipulation of the tradition, ‘designer inconsistency’. Greta Hawes examines Pausanias Periegesis by carrying further her and Charles Delattre’s idea of ‘mythographic topography’, an analysis of the rhetorical strategies and organisational structures used by writers to bring order to myth. She exploits the three meanings of topos—place, literary passage, and rhetorical commonplace. Pausanias emerges as a de facto mythographer, although he does not seek a unified Hellenic mythography but portrays instead a patchwork of local traditions and local contestation. It should go without saying that the contributions in this volume are in no way to be seen as comprehensive. Rather, as noted above, the work here builds on recent research to extend our appreciation of the variety of mythographic discourse and of how mythographic approaches and concerns can be found in a number of works of classical literature. Whether host or parasite (or something in between), mythography was an important, indeed nearly omnipresent component of how both Greeks and Romans looked at literature and at the world itself.

Andrew Ford

Mythographic Discourse among nonMythographers: Pindar’s Ol. 1, Plato’s Phaedrus and Callimachus’ Hymn to Zeus It may seem ungrateful to observe that, although Robert Fowler’s Early Greek Mythography (EGM) has cast a flood of light on the Greek mythographic tradition from the later sixth century BCE up to the Hellenistic age, mythography remains a shadowy affair in its formative stages. Fowler himself, however, introduces both volumes of EGM with remarks on the difficulties in getting a grasp on the field in the late-archaic and early classical periods: on the one hand, such works as the Genealogies of Hecataeus of Miletus and Acusilaus of Argos allow us to trace mythography back to the time before the Persian wars; on the other, it is only at the end of the classical period that Fowler is willing to say that mythography had become a ‘flourishing business’ (I.xxvii),1 one that presented ‘a recognizable generic face to the reader’ (II.xiii–xiv). Indeed, Fowler observes that it is only in Hellenistic times that muthographia gets named as a discipline in its own right and its specialist is titled a muthographos (I.xxvii).2 Before that time, writers like Hecataeus and Acusilaus would likely have called themselves logopoioi and presented their works as logoi or historiai (I.xxviii). For these reasons, Fowler calls what he has collected in EGM only ‘the predecessors of Hellenistic mythography’ (I.xxxi). This modest description does nothing to detract from the value of EGM as a collection. After all, none of Diels’ Vorsokratiker would have called himself a ‘pre-Socratic’, and few of Jacoby’s Griechische Historiker called themselves historians, and when they did so the word had a different meaning than it does now.3 Fowler was warning us that, in interpreting early mythography, we should be wary of imposing a teleological view on the material. Yet the situation remains puzzling: how is it that this innovative approach to a fundamental and ubiquitous aspect of Greek cultural life—and one that enlisted the talents and industry of figures from all parts of Greece—should have failed to leave more traces in the record than the late reports Fowler has collected about the early mythographers’ views and the very rare ipsissima verba that have come down to us?

 1 Cf. Fowler 2006. 2 In Palaephatus On Incredible Tales §26 (dated ca. 340 by Hawes 2014a, 227–238) muthographos means ‘writer of legends’. 3 Branscome 2013, 11–16 is a recent discussion. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110672824-002

  Andrew Ford One way we might try to shed more light on Fowler’s picture is to look for reflexes of mythographic practice among writers who are not classified as mythographers and yet who share an interest in mythography as Fowler defines it, the practice of collecting, synthesising and critiquing Greek myths with a view to arriving at a ‘reasoned account of the remote past’ (II.xvi, 665). Such reflexes among non-mythographers are bound to be there, for the very gradualness of mythography’s emergence as a distinct and independent branch of inquiry implies that its interests and methods were not at first confined to a discrete set of intellectuals we can isolate as proto-mythographers. One obvious place to look is early historical texts that reflect critically on myth, and Fowler points to Herodotus’ analysis of Helen’s role in the Trojan War (2.112–117) and Thucydides on the legends of early Sicily (6.1–5) as ‘belong[ing] in important ways’ to the same genre as the mythographers.4 But one can also look further afield: Greta Hawes’ Rationalizing Myth in Antiquity discerns contemporary mythographic analysis underlying Teiresias’ disquisition on the birth of Dionysus in Euripides’ Bacchae and Socrates’ analysis of Boreas’ rape of Oreithyia in Plato’s Phaedrus. On this basis Hawes suggests that ‘by the Classical period at least, rationalistic interpretation was so recognisable that its use could be subjected to critical analysis, or indeed satirized’.5 The present paper furthers this approach by proposing that reflexes of early mythography can be discerned not only in the content of non-mythographic texts but in their rhetoric as well. I offer three case studies that span the era of early mythography to suggest that already in the late archaic period mythography had developed a distinctive discursive style, an authoritative rhetoric favouring a set of terms and topoi, that was imitated or parodied by non-mythographers. I hope thereby both to make the influence of this important intellectual project more palpable in the record and to bring out new dimensions in the texts that borrow from it. Such an approach can also reveal continuities between earlier forms of presenting myth with authority and the new styles of self-presentation that were forged by early mythographers for their new sophia.6 I accept, then, Fowler’s contention that mythography was an emergent form of intellectual investigation in pre-Hellenistic Greece, though I will also support and extend

 4 EGM II.xvii n. 7, and on later historians in this volume. Cf. Marincola 1999, and Andolfi 2017b, 183 on ‘how unprofitable it is to rely upon a rigid distinction among the production of early prose writers who clearly share a common goal and, to some extent, a similar communicative strategy’. 5 Hawes 2014a, 13–17, quotation from 13. 6 For discussion of the contexts of myth-telling and the oral/literate divide see Buxton 1994, chs. 2–3; Ford 2002, 152–157; 2003.

Mythographic Discourse among non-Mythographers  

Hawes’ view and argue that it was already in the early fifth century a conspicuous, identifiable enterprise, presenting ‘a recognizable generic face to the reader’. In taking a rhetorical approach to mythographic discourse I must push back to an extent against Fowler’s stress on early mythography as an ‘eminently literate activity’, noting that Pherecydes’ Historia filled 10 books.7 Fowler allows, of course, that a fifth-century writer seeking to spread new ideas did well to supplement writing with oral apodeixeis, as did Herodotus and the many wise men documented in Rosalind Thomas’ Herodotus in Context.8 An instance of such a mythological ‘display’ speech is referred to in Plato’s description of Hippias of Elis. In the Greater Hippias, Hippias is a polymath (Hp. mai. 285c), and among the topics on which he was prepared to lecture was ‘the races of the heroes and of men’ and archaeologia in general (285d6–e2 = FGrHist 6 T 3)9: Περὶ τῶν γενῶν, ὦ Σώκρατες, τῶν τε ἡρώων καὶ τῶν ἀνθρώπων, καὶ τῶν κατοικίσεων, ὡς τὸ ἀρχαῖον ἐκτίσθησαν αἱ πόλεις, καὶ συλλήβδην πάσης τῆς ἀρχαιολογίας ἥδιστα ἀκροῶνται, ὥστ’ ἔγωγε δι’ αὐτοὺς ἠνάγκασμαι ἐκμεμαθηκέναι τε καὶ ἐκμεμελετηκέναι πάντα τὰ τοιαῦτα. The [Lacedaimonians], Socrates, are very fond of hearing about the genealogies of heroes and men and the foundations of cities in ancient times and, in short, about ancient history in general, so that for their sake I have been obliged to learn by heart all that sort of thing and to have it at my fingertips.

Fowler remarks that Hippias’ specialty is ‘a rather good description of mythography as a classical genre’ (I.xxxii),10 and I would note that the verbs ἐκμεμαθηκέναι, ‘to learn by heart’, and ἐκμεμελετηκέναι, to ‘rehearse again and again’, indicate that Hippias worked his material up for oral presentation. In speculative areas in which authority had to be asserted and contested for, presenting a new way of thinking about myth, which amounted to a new claim on the right to pronounce upon its truth, called for a new way of talking; mythographic discourse may thus be defined as the stance that such performers developed in order to present themselves, on the podium and on the page, as experts in this new way of inquiry. As a discursive practice/knowledge, mythographic discourse had of course sociological and political aspects, but for the present study its rhetorical forms are of

 7 Fowler 2001, 95–115, esp. 115; cf. EGM II.xii. Cole 1991, 74 describes these as texts for ‘reference and consultation’. 8 Thomas 2000. 9 See the excellent discussion by M. Węcowski at BNJ 6. 10 Isoc. Antid. (15) 45 refers to mythography as a specialty of prose writers: οἱ μὲν γὰρ τὰ γένη τὰ τῶν ἡμιθέων ἀναζητοῦντες τὸν βίον τὸν αὑτῶν κατέτριψαν. So too Panath. 1: τοὺς μυθώδεις, sc. λόγους.

  Andrew Ford most importance,11 and I will sketch how early mythographers projected an ethos of trustworthiness and expertise as they asserted that traditional tales needed reassessing and that the present speaker was the one qualified to do it.12 Hecataeus’ brief first fragment exhibits several salient elements of mythographic discourse so defined (EGM F 1 = FGrHist 1 F 1a): Ἑκαταῖος Μιλήσιος ὧδε μυθεῖται· τάδε γράφω ὥς μοι δοκεῖ ἀληθέα εἶναι· οἱ γὰρ Ἑλλήνων λόγοι πολλοί τε καὶ γελοῖοι, ὡς ἐμοὶ φαίνονται, εἰσίν: ‘Hecataeus of Miletus speaks (μυθεῖται) thus: I write these things as they seem to me to be true; for the tales of the Greeks are to my mind many and ridiculous.’

Hecataeus presents himself as both a speaker (μυθεῖται) and a writer (γράφω), for he, like Hippias, aims at audiences beyond his polis. In introducing himself to this wider audience, his self-presentation exhibits four noteworthy features. First, there is the authorial ‘I’ taking responsibility for the discourse and implicitly offering to defend it against other views. In an excellent analysis of this fragment, Lucio Bertelli interprets the shift from the third- to the first-person verb as both an assertion of authority—being modelled on Near Eastern introductions to royal messages—and as agonistic, comparing Hector’s ὧδε δὲ μυθέομαι in challenging the Greeks (Il. 7.76).13 A second noteworthy element is Hecataeus’ critical attitude toward tradition: ‘the tales of the Greeks’ are regarded as data not as dogma, and the fact that these are ‘many’ suggests an awareness of variant versions, which implies that some stories at least cannot be true.14 Thirdly, the sentence as a whole projects a non-partisan, analytical approach to the stories: Hecataeus speaks neither as rhapsode nor as poet, nor indeed as logios anêr, a local expert whose authority derives from his integration in a particular community:15 the inquirer is indifferent to the source of the story, and will critique tales handed down by poets no differently than by tale-tellers in prose. In this light we should take Hecataeus’ μοι δοκεῖ not as a modest tempering of his claims but as signalling that he will reason from probability, not authority. Finally, this new science  11 Foucault 1972; Bourdieu 1988. 12 Mythographic discourse is thus a sub-genre of the rhetoric of fifth-century science and medicine as described by Lloyd 1987, 70, stressing ‘the habit of scrutiny and…the expectation of justification—of giving an account—and the premium set on rational methods of doing so’. Cf. Fowler 1996, 70–71 on ‘the historian’s voice’. 13 Bertelli 2001, esp. 80–84. For a recent discussion with bibliography, see Andolfi 2017a, esp. 188–192. 14 Bertelli 2001, 83. 15 Luraghi 2009.

Mythographic Discourse among non-Mythographers  

distinguishes itself by exclusions: those naïve enough to credit the old stories are dismissed as γελοῖοι.16 I do not insist that all the items on this checklist will be found in each and every reflex of mythographic discourse among non-mythographers; but the examples below exhibit enough family resemblances to indicate that mythographic discourse was already an established, imitable performative stance in the early fifth century and to show that it continued to provide a recognisable role for a speaker or writer to adopt through the end of the classical period. In what follows I will begin with the parody of mythographic discourse in Plato’s Phaedrus: while the passage has been much-studied to determine Plato’s ambivalent attitude toward myth,17 my analysis will be from a rhetorical point of view and consider it as a social practice: in this way the jargon and posturing of myth-experts at the time become more apparent and so make it easier to see that Pindar also speaks as a modern myth-expert for a long stretch in the beginning of Olympian 1 of 476. Finally, a reflection on Callimachus’s Hymn to Zeus will suggest that the exchange between mythographers and poets did not stop when mythography assumed its place as a fully recognisable and named discipline. Taken together, these samples will not only confirm how early and long-lived was the influence exerted by mythography; they will also reveal how polymorphic the pose of the myth-expert could be as it was inflected in different genres with different relations to discourses about the past. Indeed, in the longest perspective mythographic discourse can be seen as a characteristically ‘enlightened’ variation on an earlier and ongoing critical tradition that was always reflecting on the powers and limitations of narrative.

 Boreas and Oreithyia in Plato’s Phaedrus ‘Tell me by Zeus, Socrates, do you believe this bit of mythology is true?’ (Phdr. 229c4–5: ἀλλ’ εἰπὲ πρὸς Διός, ὦ Σώκρατες, σὺ τοῦτο τὸ μυθολόγημα πείθῃ ἀληθὲς εἶναι). With the keyword μυθολόγημα the littérateur Phaedrus invites Socrates to reflect on the myth of Boreas and Oreithyia in line with the latest modern thought. LSJ defines μυθολόγημα as a ‘mythical narrative or description’ but this is merely glossing a very rare word, first attested here, that is found once or perhaps twice

 16 Cf. Foucault 1972 on discourse seeking power by rules of exclusion. 17 Hawes 2014a, 15 is an exception, with bibliography at n. 24. Cf. Ferrari 1987, 11–12; Clay 2007, esp. 212–213; Hunter 2012, 84–85; Trabbatoni 2012, esp. 309–311; Werner 2012, 27–43.

  Andrew Ford again in classical Greek.18 As an out-of-the-ordinary term, μυθολόγημα is an expression on a par with Levi-Strauss’ ‘mytheme’: its quasi technical formation suggests a scientific and analytical attitude toward traditional tales, but equally important is its rarity: Plato is not coining language but reporting jargon in which the novel word signals the speaker’s distance from (and superiority to) common understandings of myth. Thus cued, Socrates embarks on an ostentatiously learned discourse (229c6– d2): Ἀλλ’ εἰ ἀπιστοίην, ὥσπερ οἱ σοφοί, οὐκ ἂν ἄτοπος εἴην, εἶτα σοφιζόμενος φαίην αὐτὴν πνεῦμα βορέου κατὰ τῶν πλησίον πετρῶν σὺν Φαρμακείᾳ παίζουσαν ὦσαι, καὶ οὕτω δὴ τελευτήσασαν λεχθῆναι ὑπὸ τοῦ Βορέου ἀνάρπαστον [229d] γεγονέναι– ἢ ἐξ Ἀρείου πάγου· λέγεται γὰρ αὖ καὶ οὗτο ὁ λόγος, ὡς ἐκεῖθεν ἀλλ’ οὐκ ἐνθένδε ἡρπάσθη. If I disbelieved, as wise men do, I should not be extraordinary; I then might say, taking a scientific approach, that a blast of the north wind [boreas] pushed her off the neighbouring rocks as she was playing with Pharmacea, and that when she had died in this manner she ended up being said to have been [229d] carried off by Boreas—or from the Areopagus, for this story is also told with her being taken from there and not from this place.

Here the σοφοί are wise in the sense of sophisticated:19 when they come across myths their response is to σοφίζεσθαι, ‘to be scientific, to speculate rationalistically’; at Politicus 299b this verb expresses the acquisition by experts of special knowledge about things of which everyone has some experience (e.g., seafaring, medicine, climate). Plato often invests the word with a touch of ‘crafty dealing’ and associates it with the likes of Gorgias and Hippias (and never Socrates). To σοφίζεσθαι about myth, then, is to take a critical attitude toward it in the best modern way, but at the same time the word connects modern thinkers with earlier experts in the tradition.20 Ibycus attributes ‘being expert’ about myth to the Muses themselves in a recusatio preceding a catalogue of Greek ships bound for Troy (S151.23–29 PMGF = 282a PMG): καὶ τὰ μὲ[ν ἂν] Μοίσαι σεσοφ[ισμ]έναι εὖ Ἑλικωνίδ[ες] ἐμβαίεν ‡ λόγ[ωι

 18 It is found one other time in Plato, Laws 663e, and in what is perhaps a comic line: παίδων γάρ ἐστι ταῦτα μυθολογήματα (CAF 503 = Lib. Orat. 31.43; not in PCG). 19 Good remarks on sophoi here in Ferrari 1987, 234–235, n. 12 and Yunis 2011, 92–93. 20 Theognis used it of himself in his sphrêgis (18), apparently investing it with a double sense to include both the moral wisdom conveyed by his verse and his technical cleverness in devising the trick of the seal. On Hesiod’s οὔτε τι ναυτιλίης σεσοφισμένος (Op. 649), see Scodel 2001, 122– 123.

Mythographic Discourse among non-Mythographers  

θνατὸς ‡ δ’ οὔ κ[ε]ν ἀνὴρ διερὸ[ς] τὰ ἕκαστα εἴποι, ναῶν ὅ[σσος ἀρι]θμὸς ἀπ’ Αὐλίδος Αἰγαῖον δ[ιὰ πό]ντον ἀπ’ Ἄργεος ἠλύθο[ν ἐς Τροία]ν ἱπποστρόφο[ν, ἐν δ’ φώτες…

[25]

On these themes the expert Muses of Helicon might embark in story, but no mortal man could tell each detail, the great number of ships that came from Aulis across the Aegean sea, from Argos to horse-rearing Troy [and aboard were... (Tr. Campbell, adapted)

Ibycus’ combination of topos and theme can be paralleled in Homer’s preface to his own catalogue of ships in Iliad 2.21 But whereas Homer grounded his authority in the Muses’ divine, eyewitness knowledge—they ‘are goddesses, are present, have seen and know all’—Ibycus depicts them as experts about the past. Without impiety—like Homer, Ibycus avers that no mortal could retail this information unaided—the Muses are modernised as students of myth. Because every age will throw up its own ‘experts’ on myth, the rise of mythography should not be seen as the first encroachment of logos upon muthos but as a discursive change in which certain forms of rationality are highlighted and invested with social value and political importance. By Plato’s day the discourse of mythological expertise stressed their scientific and methodical stance: his moderns take note of variants, such as the alternate locations of the rape story (229d1–2), as indeed Acusilaus had discussed variants in the Oreithyia myth (EGM F 30).22 Confronted with conflicting accounts of the unknowable past, Plato’s wise men suspend their credulity and use their reason to figure out what is probable. In the continuation Plato uses a key concept for early mythography, τὸ εἰκός, ‘the probable’ (230e2). The word occurs quite suggestively in a testimonium to Hecataeus when Pausanias reports his ‘probable account’ (εἰκότα λόγον) of the ‘hound of Hades’ story as referring to a poisonous snake in the region (EGM F 27a). As Fowler observes, even if the word belongs to Pausanias rather than Hecataeus, the notion of the probable does reflect the latter’s spirit.23 In Plato the probable account of the Oreithyia story reduces the divine rape to natural causes: Socrates reads ‘boreas’ in lower case, as it were, and gives an essentially naturalistic story in which a blast of wind (pneuma) pushed Oreithyeia from the high rocks nearby. It is noteworthy that this same probabilistic reasoning not only can  21 Ford 1992, 60–61, 72–73. 22 On the transmission of the tale, see Finkelberg 2014. 23 Fowler, EGM II.xv, noting that Pindar, like Hecataeus, could rationalise one story while accepting irrationality in others; cf. Bertelli 2001, 83–88.

  Andrew Ford purge old myths of impiety and irrationality but can also suggest how such stories are likely to have arisen: when Socrates says that Pharmacea ‘ended up being said to have been carried off by Boreas’, the expression τελευτήσασαν λεχθῆναι (229c9) implies that people kept repeating ‘αὐτὴν πνεῦμα βορέου ὦσαι’ and ‘ended up’ saying ‘αὐτὴν Βορέας ἀνηρπάσαι’; implicit is a theory that myth arises from the decay of language. Up to this point Plato has given us a nice snapshot of contemporary mythologists in which we can spot some of their characteristic language and methods. No less revealing is the judgement Socrates goes on to pass on the enterprise, for it amounts to a photographic negative of how they wished to appear (229d2– 230a1): ἐγὼ δέ, ὦ Φαῖδρε, ἄλλως μὲν τὰ τοιαῦτα χαρίεντα ἡγοῦμαι, λίαν δὲ δεινοῦ καὶ ἐπιπόνου καὶ οὐ πάνυ εὐτυχοῦς ἀνδρός, κατ’ ἄλλο μὲν οὐδέν, ὅτι δ’ αὐτῷ ἀνάγκη μετὰ τοῦτο τὸ τῶν Ἱπποκενταύρων εἶδος ἐπανορθοῦσθαι, καὶ αὖθις τὸ τῆς Χιμαίρας, καὶ ἐπιρρεῖ δὲ ὄχλος τοιούτων Γοργόνων καὶ Πηγάσων καὶ ἄλλων ἀμηχάνων πλήθη τε καὶ ἀτοπίαι τερατολόγων [229e] τινῶν φύσεων· αἷς εἴ τις ἀπιστῶν προσβιβᾷ κατὰ τὸ εἰκὸς ἕκαστον, ἅτε ἀγροίκῳ τινὶ σοφίᾳ χρώμενος, πολλῆς αὐτῷ σχολῆς δεήσει. ἐμοὶ δὲ πρὸς αὐτὰ οὐδαμῶς ἐστι σχολή· τὸ δὲ αἴτιον, ὦ φίλε, τούτου τόδε. οὐ δύναμαί πω κατὰ τὸ Δελφικὸν γράμμα γνῶναι ἐμαυτόν· [230a] γελοῖον δή μοι φαίνεται τοῦτο ἔτι ἀγνοοῦντα τὰ ἀλλότρια σκοπεῖν. In my view, Phaedrus, such explanations may well be amusing but the person who comes up with them has to be overly ingenious, a drudge, and hardly enviable, for no other reason than because after this he must explain the form of Centaurs, and then that of the Chimaera, and then is beset by a whole crowd of such creatures, Gorgons and Pegasuses, and multitudes of strange, inconceivable, [229e] monstrous creatures. If a person refuses to credit these creatures and with a rustic sort of wisdom undertakes to force each one to conform to probability, he will need a great deal of leisure. But I have no leisure for them at all; and the reason, my friend, is this: I am not yet able, as the Delphic inscription has it, to know myself; [230a] so it seems to me ridiculous, when I do not yet know that, to investigate irrelevant things.

Socrates grants that the pastime is ‘pleasant’ or ‘amusing’ (χαρίεντα, 229d3), a characterisation to which I suspect mythographers would have assented: Hippias and Socrates repeatedly use the same word to describe how the sophist’s discourses are received (Hp. mai. 284c8, 285b7, c3, e10) and Pindar will speak about the kharis of myth in his mythographic passage. Equally unexceptionable is Socrates’ association of this activity with leisure (σχολῆς); the pursuit of special insight into myth is not a necessary or a banausic art, but an appropriate use of noble leisure. It follows that a display of mythographic expertise could serve to signal the speaker’s superiority to utilitarian pursuits and his dedication to personal excellence.

Mythographic Discourse among non-Mythographers  

Nonetheless, Plato turns the tables on these attitudes by saying that, far from being enviable scholars at play, mythologists are actually pitiable drudges (229d4); having committed themselves to expunging the irrational in myth, they are confronted by innumerable fantastic beasts that they must attempt to force into conformity with what is probable (προσβιβᾷ κατὰ τὸ εἰκός, 229e2). The most stinging insult is Socrates’ calling their expertise ‘a rustic sort of wisdom’ (ἀγροίκῳ τινὶ σοφίᾳ, 229e3), the exact antithesis of the urbane sophistication they sought to project.24 Socrates caps his attack by declaring their entire project ridiculous (γελοῖον, 229e6), which of course flings back at them the very insult that Hecataeus directed at those who would not bow to the new learning. Plato’s subtle mimicry allows us to see that mythographic discourse had spread through intellectual circles in the fourth century and become available as an avocation for amateurs, an arena for displaying one’s self-cultivation and dedication to reasonable norms. Note that, although Socrates’ interpretation has the result of exculpating a divinity from a crime of sexual violence, the impulse driving his rationalising is not offended piety; the tone of the entire passage is one of playful wit, not threatened traditionalism. For those in on the game, like Phaedrus and Socrates sophizomenos, the stories are not taken seriously from a religious point of view but as challenges to normative rationality, as fabrications like Centaurs that present contradictory combinations of forms. The problems to which mythographic logic is being applied are what Herodotus termed ‘marvels’, thaumata, and we can see this same urbane rationality deployed to understand another mythic marvel in a text around a century earlier, Pindar’s Olympian 1.

 Pelops’ Ivory Shoulder in Olympian 1 Plato’s parody of high-level talk about myth prepares us to notice similar resonances in Pindar’s excursus critiquing another story of a god snatching up a lovely mortal. Before getting to the text a methodological note on σοφοί is in order: almost any time Pindar refers to ‘wise men’ the word is taken as ‘poets’ and the passage is read as a statement about poetry. Certainly Pindar frequently declares how valuable poets are to patrons, but not all sophoi are poets, and because a tyrant’s court included wise men of all stripes a poetry-centred view risks missing Pindar’s ability to evoke and mimic other discourses of power/knowledge. What is at stake in Ol. 1 is how we interpret Pindar’s opening tableau presenting

 24 On agroikia, cf. Ferrari 1987, 12–15.

  Andrew Ford sophoi arriving at Hiero’s hearth. In my reading, they are not the performing poets but ‘sophisticated’ courtiers, and this portion of his ode, like the excursus in Phaedrus, incorporates a parody of high mythographic discourse. To be sure, the parody is in a different mode: whereas Plato’s pastiche was meant to show the shallowness of such expertise and its uselessness for self-knowledge, for Pindar the rhetoric of the myth expert allows the commissioned praise-singer to pose as a pious sophos bringing distinction to Hiero’s hospitable court.25 After the famous priamel climaxes by naming Olympia the best of contests, Pindar transitions to Syracuse and the victory celebration there (Ol. 1.8–20): ὅθεν [sc. Ὀλυμπίας] ὁ πολύφατος ὕμνος ἀμφιβάλλεται σοφῶν μητίεσσι, κελαδεῖν Κρόνου παῖδ’ ἐς ἀφνεὰν ἱκομένους 10 μάκαιραν Ἱέρωνος ἑστίαν, θεμιστεῖον ὃς ἀμφέπει σκᾶπτον ἐν πολυμήλῳ Σικελίᾳ δρέπων μὲν κορυφὰς ἀρετᾶν ἄπο πασᾶν, ἀγλαΐζεται δὲ καί μουσικᾶς ἐν ἀώτῳ, 15 οἷα παίζομεν φίλαν ἄνδρες ἀμφὶ θαμὰ τράπεζαν. ἀλλὰ Δωρίαν ἀπὸ φόρμιγγα πασσάλου λάμβαν’, εἴ τί τοι Πίσας τε καὶ Φερενίκου χάρις νόον ὑπὸ γλυκυτάταις ἔθηκε φροντίσιν. From there [Olympia] the glorious song is wreathed round the wits of the wise, so that they loudly celebrate [10] the son of Cronus, when they arrive at the rich and blessed hearth of Hiero, who wields the sceptre of law in Sicily of many flocks, reaping every excellence at its peak, and he glories as well [15] in the choicest part of music, such sport as we men often play around his hospitable table. Come, take the Dorian lyre down from its peg, if the splendour of Pisa and of Pherenicus placed your mind under the influence of sweetest thoughts.

With the move to Syracuse the performer(s)26 take on a persona as sophoi, friends of Hiero who are evidently musical: today a song from Olympia has captivated their attention (8–9). This πολύφατος ὕμνος is variously understood:27 if the chorus speaks as or for the poet, the ‘glorious hymn’ could be taken as a proleptic stand-in for Ol. 1. In this case, sophoi are not wise men generally but ‘poets’, or indeed specifically Pindar meditating Ol. 1. But because the definite article suggests a victory song that is already in existence and known, I prefer to identify ὁ πολύφατος ὕμνος

 25 Cf. Gostoli 1989, 16. Cf. Wissmann, below, on moralising aspects of later mythography. 26 I bracket the question of solo vs. choral performance. If a single singer, he mimics a coterie. 27 See Gerber 1982, ad loc. Valuable discussions for the line taken here are Scodel 2001, 121– 129; Morgan 2015, ch. 6.

Mythographic Discourse among non-Mythographers  

as ‘the much-repeated chant’, referring to an informal cry like the ‘Hip-hip-hooray!’ that greeted victors at Olympia.28 In this case, the beginning of Ol. 1 executes what Chris Carey has called Pindar’s ‘oral subterfuge’;29 he presents a scene in which Ol. 1 itself is still in the offing: it seems about to begin at verse 17, when the speaker calls for a lyre to strike up a Dorian song suited to a Dorian victor, but before he celebrates the victory of Pherenikos the wise dinner guest will treat us to a mythological disquisition. What we hear at the opening of Ol. 1, then, is a speech upon arrival, led by Pindar (or his representative in Syracuse) as they enter Hiero’s hall. In this proem the chorus poses not as a gaggle of poets or as one proud poet attempting to talk about his art; they are Hiero’s musically sophisticated friends about to enjoy, as they have before (θαμά, 17), his lavish hospitality; and this prominently includes sporting (παίζομεν, 16) in the Muses’ arts. Restricting σοφῶν in 9 to poets drains the opening tableau of its richness and deprives Hiero of the ceremonious act of ‘receiving the kômos’, conspicuously embodying his great success.30 This picture should guide our reading of ἀμφιβάλλεται in verse 8, which the scholiast (ad 14e1) takes as a metaphor for putting on crowns (plausibly reading it as a sort of passive of ἀμφιτίθησι): Hiero’s Olympic victory, in furnishing a theme for his talented guests, has as it were garlanded them in advance for the symposium they are about to join.31 This is, after all, a patron that Pindar insistently depicts as combining military and political might with an appreciation for high art (12–14):32 when Pindar describes Hiero as ‘delighting in’ (ἀγλαΐζεται, 14)33 the ‘finest specimens of the musical art’ (μουσικᾶς ἐν ἀώτῳ, 15–16), the host’s sophistication is underscored by the diction, for this is one of the earliest instances of mousikê as a substantive: just as Ibycus modernised his Muses, Pindar’s modern and rational attitude toward musical activity sees it as a human art susceptible to perfection, and this may entail correction.  28 Like the Archilochean τήνελλα ὦ καλλίνικε that Olympian 9 tells us was repeated as a triploos kelados by the victor’s friends at Olympia, sufficing as celebration until the performance of Ol. 9 itself; so Morgan 2015, 222 (though still identifying the sophoi in Ol. 1 with poets), citing Slater 1969; Gerber 1982, 25. 29 Carey 1981, 4–5; cf. Maslov 2015, 21. 30 On the importance of the theme in Pindar, Heath 1988. 31 See Morgan 2015, 221–223. Carey 2007 notes that, even in cases where an autocrat may have commissioned an epinician for a public festival, (re)performances of such odes in less formal settings such as symposia were essential to their ensuring lasting fame. 32 Pindar reiterates this compliment near the end of the song when Hiero is praised both as a connoisseur of fine things and very powerful, 104–105: ἀμφότερα καλῶν τε ἴδριν †ἅμα καὶ δύναμιν κυριώτερον /τῶν γε νῦν. 33 I take ἀγλαΐζεται as middle with Slater 1969, s.v. Gerber 1982, 36–37 ad 14 suggests deliberate ambiguity.

  Andrew Ford The opening of Ol. 1 thus praises Pindar’s patron as, in part, a mousikos anêr (as was Hippias: Hp. mai. 295d4, 298a4), a sophisticate who appreciates sophizesthai about traditional stories. To such a patron Pindar offers not a standard epinician but a discourse prompted by the thought of Pelops and his ivory shoulder (Ol. 1.23–53): λάμπει δέ οἱ κλέος ἐν εὐάνορι Λυδοῦ Πέλοπος ἀποικίᾳ· τοῦ μεγασθενὴς ἐράσσατο Γαιάοχος Ποσειδάν, ἐπεί νιν καθαροῦ λέβητος ἔξελε Κλωθώ, ἐλέφαντι φαίδιμον ὦμον κεκαδμένον. ἦ θαύματα πολλά, καί πού τι καὶ βροτῶν φάτις ὑπὲρ τὸν ἀλαθῆ λόγον δεδαιδαλμένοι ψεύδεσι ποικίλοις ἐξαπατῶντι μῦθοι. Χάρις δ’, ἅπερ ἅπαντα τεύχει τὰ μείλιχα θνατοῖς, ἐπιφέροισα τιμὰν καὶ ἄπιστον ἐμήσατο πιστόν ἔμμεναι τὸ πολλάκις· ἁμέραι δ’ ἐπίλοιποι μάρτυρες σοφώτατοι. ἔστι δ’ ἀνδρὶ φάμεν ἐοικὸς ἀμφὶ δαιμόνων καλά· μείων γὰρ αἰτία. υἱὲ Ταντάλου, σὲ δ’ ἀντία προτέρων φθέγξομαι, ὁπότ’ ἐκάλεσε πατὴρ τὸν εὐνομώτατον ἐς ἔρανον φίλαν τε Σίπυλον, ἀμοιβαῖα θεοῖσι δεῖπνα παρέχων, τότ’ Ἀγλαοτρίαιναν ἁρπάσαι, δαμέντα φρένας ἱμέρῳ, χρυσέαισί τ’ ἀν’ ἵπποις ὕπατον εὐρυτίμου ποτὶ δῶμα Διὸς μεταβᾶσαι· ἔνθα δευτέρῳ χρόνῳ ἦλθε καὶ Γανυμήδης Ζηνὶ τωὔτ’ ἐπὶ χρέος. ὡς δ’ ἄφαντος ἔπελες, οὐδὲ ματρὶ πολλὰ μαιόμενοι φῶτες ἄγαγον, ἔννεπε κρυφᾷ τις αὐτίκα φθονερῶν γειτόνων, ὕδατος ὅτι τε πυρὶ ζέοισαν εἰς ἀκμάν μαχαίρᾳ τάμον κατὰ μέλη, τραπέζαισί τ’ ἀμφὶ δεύτατα κρεῶν σέθεν διεδάσαντο καὶ φάγον. ἐμοὶ δ’ ἄπορα γαστρίμαργον μακάρων τιν’ εἰπεῖν· ἀφίσταμαι· ἀκέρδεια λέλογχεν θαμινὰ κακαγόρους.

25

28 28b

30

35

40

45

50

Mythographic Discourse among non-Mythographers  

[Hiero’s] glory shines in the settlement of fine men founded by Lydian Pelops, [25] with whom the mighty holder of the earth Poseidon fell in love, when Clotho took him out of the pure cauldron, distinguished by a gleaming ivory shoulder. Surely marvels are many, and mortal speech reaches beyond truth. Stories (muthoi), decked out with cunning lies, deceive. [30] And Kharis, who makes all that is sweet for mortals, has many a time, by bestowing honour, rendered even the incredible credible; but the days to come are the wisest witnesses. [35] It is seemly for a man to speak well of the gods; for the blame is less that way. Son of Tantalus, I will speak of you contrary to the men of old. When your father invited the gods to a very well-ordered banquet at his own dear Sipylus, in return for the meals he had enjoyed, [40] then it was that the god of the splendid trident seized you, his mind overcome with desire, and carried you away on his team of golden horses to the highest home of widely-honoured Zeus, to which at a later time Ganymede came also, [45] to perform the same service for Zeus. But when you disappeared, and people did not bring you back to your mother, for all their searching, right away some envious neighbour whispered that they cut you limb from limb with a knife into the water’s rolling boil over the fire, [50] and among the tables at the last course they divided and ate your flesh. For me it is impossible to call one of the blessed gods a glutton. I stand back from it. Often the lot of evil-speakers is profitlessness. (tr. Diane Svarlien, adapted)

A chariot victory at Olympia leads the wits of the Syracusan wise to Pelops in v. 24, which affords Pindar the occasion to present a revised version of the cult myth of the hero’s ivory shoulder: Pelops’ gleaming ivory shoulder that caused34 Poseidon to fall in love with him was merely a birthmark, for when Clotho took him out of a ‘pure’ cauldron at his birth, the epithet preemptively denies the story of the evil cauldron in which Pelops was cooked and his shoulder eaten.35 In Pindar’s revised myth, Pelops’ ivory shoulder is not a scar covering an ancient crime but an innocent, natural event. Such a birthmark is of course out of the ordinary, a marvel (θαύματα, 28), and what follows in 27–29 is a disquisition on marvels: they do happen in the course of things (27), but oral retelling may exaggerate the original kernel of truth (τὸν ἀλαθῆ λόγον, 28b). Here again it would be misleading to take δεδαιδαλμένοι ψεύδεσι ποικίλοις in 29 as referring only to poetry; like Hecataeus, Pindar’s interest is rather in oral tradition generally, the βροτῶν φάτις, in 28b.36 And like Socrates, he is interested in how such a false tale took hold: the answer is kharis in 29–32. Those seeking Pindar’s theory of poetry have trouble with his saying that

 34 I read ἐπεί in 26 as causal, with Köhnken 1983; cf. Athanassaki 2004, 326. 35 So too the epithet τὸν εὐνομώτατον ἐς ἔρανον at 37 pre-emptively denies the story of Tantalus’ cannibal feast. 36 Nom. pl.; cf. Pyth. 3.110–115.

  Andrew Ford kharis, which he often associates with his own songs, is responsible for lies getting believed. Certainly, Pindar and the tradition know that poets can lie (e.g. Nem. 7.17–30), but here kharis is not the charm of poetry specifically but a divinised, universal power that governs all things that produce pleasure in mortals and invite their approval (30).37 There are many ways to say pleasure, and it is worth remembering that in Hippias Major and in Phaedrus kharis describes not only the powerful allure of tales but also the pleasure that a critic’s performance can give to a discerning audience. Pindar’s demystified understanding of the appeal of myth has a remarkable parallel (or descendent) in a very clear-eyed analysis in Aristotle’s Poetics about why and how to make up myths. Aristotle recognises that tales of the marvellous (τὸ θαυμαστόν) are appealing, observing that people exaggerate when they tell stories in order to give pleasure (χαριζόμενοι) to their listeners. He counsels poets, who aim at pleasure, to do the same thing and to follow the example of Homer who succeeded by a kind of false inference called paralogismos (Poet. 1460a17– 22): when B happens if A happens, people tend to assume that if B happened A must have happened. That is the fallacy of affirming the consequent, but it provides storytellers with a trick to give instant authority to their innovations by presenting the new story (A) as a precedent for an accepted old one (B). Pindar uses exactly Aristotle’s recipe for ‘traditionalising’ his new myth of Poseidon’s snatching Pelops up to Olympus when he says that Ganymede was ‘on a later occasion’ brought up to heaven to serve the same function for Zeus (43–45). Pindar’s δευτέρῳ χρόνῳ is genealogically plausible (Pelops is earlier than Ganymede), but it also ironically exposes his game: putting Ganymede’s translation (mentioned in passing by Homer)38 at a later time than Pelops’ turns what we can be sure was Pindar’s model (B) into a copy of his story (A), its sequel. I think we should see Aristotle and Pindar both as profiting from the mythographers’ rational approach to explaining the origins and appeal of tall tales, for Pindar also goes on to give an explanation of how the false story got started (46ff.): when Pelops was nowhere to be seen after the banquet, his mother instituted searches, as is only natural;39 and when these proved fruitless, some envious neighbour began a whispering campaign (47: ἔννεπε κρυφᾷ τις αὐτίκα φθονερῶν γειτόνων), again

 37 Cf. Scodel 2001, 127. 38 Il. 5.266ff., 20.234ff. 39 The pathetic scenario in 45–46, ματρὶ πολλὰ μαιόμενοι, may suggest Demeter’s quest for Persephone in the Hymn to Demeter, (H.Hymn 2.44ff.; μαιομένη), which led to her allegedly eating Pelops’ shoulder.

Mythographic Discourse among non-Mythographers  

perfectly naturally, the envious are the stock villains in epinician.40 From this probable origin sprang the much repeated tradition of the cannibalistic feast. All that remains for Pindar is to supply a new, replacement crime to explain Tantalus’ famous punishment in the underworld, and so in 60ff. he has Tantalus anger Zeus by giving the food of the gods to his sympotic mates in an attempt to make them immortal, blending the innovation into the song’s running theme of hospitality and feasting. What difference does it make if we see Pindar speaking here not as poet but as mythologist? It all comes down to the stance. Pindar does not want to speak as a poet, as one whose compositions give him a stake in debates about true and false values to the community. Ruth Scodel’s essay on ‘Poetic Authority and Oral Tradition’ suggests that when a poet brings to an audience’s attention the possibility that traditions may be false, he is projecting an ethos of credibility by taking a position above local contention, posing as an objective outsider competent to give an impartial presentation of old stories. In the case of Ol. 1, she locates Pindar ‘not far from the mainstream of mythography’ as, like Hecataeus, he faces multiple and contradictory versions handed down by tradition.41 Speaking in the accents of a highly developed and recognised form of expertise at the time, Pindar expands the sophia to which he has a right as a poet into a broader sophia for which, at the end of the poem, he hopes to be pointed out, at the side of art-loving Hiero, as a wise man among the Greeks. Unlike the mythographic texts we have considered, Pindar says he changes the stories for reasons of piety (45),42 but our speaker is no rigid traditionalist and his piety is in no way incompatible with being sophos: when he says at 36 that he will sing about Tantalus in a different way from ‘men of old’, he declares his modernity—the same value explains his faith in time to bring the truth to light in 33– 34. He is a modernist like Xenophanes who (fr. 1 IEG2) prescribes that at their symposia ‘sound-minded men’ (εὔφρονας ἄνδρας, 13) should deploy ‘tales of good

 40 On envy, see Athanassaki 1990, 146–149. In shaping what happened after Pelops’ ravishment Pindar could have had a model in the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite (H. Hymn 5.203ff.), in which Zeus gave Tros, Ganymede’s distraught father, some fine horses in compensation for his loss. In Pindar, it is Pelops’ mother who vainly seeks her vanished son and Pelops himself who receives Poseidon’s equestrian gift. One difference between the two accounts is notably non-naturalising, but apt for an equestrian victory: in the Hymn it is a ‘marvellous wind’ (θέσπις ἄελλα, 208), that carries Ganymede up to Zeus (cf. the πνεῦμα of the North Wind in Phaedrus 229c), whereas Pindar puts Pelops on Poseidon’s horses (41). 41 Scodel 2001, 135; cf. 123–125. 42 Cf. Scodel 2001, 136.

  Andrew Ford omen and purified language’ (εὐφήμοις μύθοις καὶ καθαροῖσι λόγοις, 14).43 Xenophanes rejects tales of war in heaven as old-fashioned fabrications (πλάσματα τῶν προτέρων, 22) and like Pindar urges a pious regard for the gods (θεῶν δὲ προμηθείην αἰὲν ἔχειν ἀγαθήν, 24). As in Pindar we find an ideal of sympotic discourse that excludes themes of violence and rises above the standards of ‘men of former times’ (προτέρων), all in the service of avoiding impiety. With his posture of prudent restraint (see also 52–53), Pindar appears very much as an expert discourser on myth in a company that relishes the heights of musical sophistication. Olympian 1, then, shows that already in the first quarter of the fifth century mythographic discourse was a distinctive and recognisable way of performing the role of ‘wise man’. If we are tempted to ask how far further back we might go, we should recall how the topoi and the jargon σοφίζεσθαι in Phaedrus suggested ways to see fourth-century mythography as a new stylisation of performances like that of Ibycus at the court of Polycrates (and, further back, of Hesiod σεσοφισμένος, Op. 649); in this light, Pindar’s bravura performance is not merely evidence for a new way of rationalising myth but an updating of a long continued project. Indeed, his mythologist’s stance has much in common with the ‘messenger of the Muses’ in Theognis (769–772): Χρὴ Μουσῶν θεράποντα καὶ ἄγγελον, εἴ τι περισσόν εἰδείη, σοφίης μὴ φθονερὸν τελέθειν, ἀλλὰ τὰ μὲν μῶσθαι, τὰ δὲ δεικνύεν, ἄλλα δὲ ποιεῖν· τί σφιν χρήσηται μοῦνος ἐπιστάμενος; The Muses’ servant and messenger, if he has some exceptional wisdom, should not begrudge the sharing of it, but should conduct research, give presentations of some of it, and work up other parts in writing; for what use will it be to him if he alone understands it?44

Our last text, accordingly, will go forward rather than back, sampling Callimachus to see that, even after mythography has established itself as a field with a definite identity and methodology, even after Euhemerus, its discourse continued to be a resource for non-mythographers.

 43 Cf. above on καθαροῦ λέβητος at 26. On Xenophanes’ modernism in fr. 1, see Ford 2002, 53– 66 and cf. Heraclitus B 40 DK, pairing Xenophanes with Hecataeus as lacking intelligence despite their wide learning, polymathia. 44 My interpretative translation follows Fowler 1996, 86–87, building on Woodbury 1991, 483– 490.

Mythographic Discourse among non-Mythographers  

 Zeus’ Career in Callimachus’ To Zeus Callimachus’ Hymn to Zeus (Hymn 1) ostensibly introduces a collection of stichic hymns modelled on the archaic hexameter hymns attributed to Homer. For his inaugural piece Callimachus chose a theme that left him wide scope for innovation, for the Homeric Hymns included no full-scale address to Zeus. In filling this gap Callimachus resorted to Hesiod’s Theogony for its canonical account of Zeus’ ascent to the throne of heaven and also for its metapoetic reflection on the connections between the Muses, kings and poets (Theog. 96, ἐκ δὲ Διὸς βασιλῆες, is quoted at Hymn to Zeus 1.79). Callimachus then complicated Hesiod’s version of Zeus’ career with competing details drawn from recent mythographers such as Hecataeus of Abdera and Euhemerus of Messene, with predecessors like Democritus and Prodicus in the background.45 Threading through these mythological sources were allusions to poetry ranging from Pindar to Antagoras of Rhodes.46 The intertexts of the Hymn to Zeus are so numerous as to unsettle its generic pose as a ‘Homeric hymn’: Callimachus speaks in so many voices that recent readings of the poem have seen it as above all a song revelling in polyphony;47 my remarks will bring out the important, orientating role that mythographic discourse plays in the mix. Although the bulk of the song’s 96 verses are devoted to standard hymnic topics, praising Zeus’ birth (10–54) and his excellence (55–89), the Hymn to Zeus is a genre-bending composition that is not even, in formal terms, itself a hymn. Reading it in light of the texts considered above will suggest that it is best described as a versified discourse about putting the mythic past to work in praise, for my claim is that Callimachus invokes mythographic discourse at three key points in his song in order to frame his polyphonic play as a display of mythographic expertise that is situated, like Pindar’s, not at a festival but at a ruler’s learned symposium. The passages to be considered are the opening ‘invocation’ (1–9) and the epilogue (90–96), as well as a transitional self-reflecting moment near the middle of the praise section (60–67). We expect a hymn in the tradition of the Homeric hymns to begin with an invocation, but Callimachus’ opening only evokes an invocation, and grammatically frustrates the expectation (1–9):

 45 Cuypers 2006, 102–105 on Hymn to Zeus 1.5–10 and Stephens 2003, 32–39, 89–90 on 1.46– 54, citing Cole 1967, 153–163 for Democritus and Rusten 1982a, 102–106 for Prodicus. 46 On these see Fantuzzi/Hunter 2004, 351–353; Cozzoli 2006. 47 Notably Goldhill 1986; Lüddecke 1998; Morrison 2007, 76, 120–122; Fantuzzi 2011.

  Andrew Ford Ζηνὸς ἔοι τί κεν ἄλλο παρὰ σπονδῇσιν ἀείδειν λώϊον ἢ θεὸν αὐτόν, ἀεὶ μέγαν, αἰὲν ἄνακτα, Πηλαγόνων ἐλατῆρα, δικασπόλον Οὐρανίδῃσι; πῶς καί νιν, Δικταῖον ἀείσομεν ἠὲ Λυκαῖον; ἐν δοιῇ μάλα θυμός, ἐπεὶ γένος ἀμφήριστον. Ζεῦ, σὲ μὲν Ἰδαίοισιν ἐν οὔρεσί φασι γενέσθαι, Ζεῦ, σὲ δ’ ἐν Ἀρκαδίῃ· πότεροι, πάτερ, ἐψεύσαντο; ‘Κρῆτες ἀεὶ ψεῦσται’·

5

At libations to Zeus what else should rather be sung than the god himself, mighty forever, king forevermore, driver of the Pelagonians, dealer of justice to the sons of Heaven? How shall we sing of him—as lord of Mt Dicte or Mt Lycaeum? My soul is all in doubt, since there are two opposed versions of his birth. [5] O Zeus, some say that you were born on the hills of Ida; others, Zeus, say in Arcadia; which of the two is lying, Father? ‘Cretans are ever liars’.

The poem’s first word cues up a hymnic invocation but then shifts to a rhetorical question: the fronted theonym is perfectly conventional in hexameter hymns, but here Ζηνός sets up a paraprosdokian: more than half of our Homeric Hymns begin with a proper name or nominal phrase that identifies the recipient of the hymn; usually, it is an accusative as the object of a verb ἀείδειν, e.g, Zeus in H.Hymn 23: Ζῆνα θεῶν τὸν ἄριστον ἀείσομαι ἠδὲ μέγιστον.48 Callimachus’ Ζηνός is a genitive, of course, but hymnic grammar allowed fronted genitives in combination with paraphrases for ‘sing’, as for example in H.Hymn 25: Μουσάων ἄρχωμαι Ἀπόλλωνός τε Διός τε.49 The paraprosdokian arises when the genitive turns out to depend not on any verb of singing but attaches itself first to σπονδῇσιν further down the line and then momentarily to λώϊον in 2. Coincident with this floating grammar comes a disorientingly specific indication of context: we do not proceed into the usual neutral, vaguely marked festive space typical of the Homeric Hymns but we are specifically informed—something that never occurs in the Hymns— that the song is being sung during libations, evidently libations to Zeus Soter.50 The opening poem of this collection of hymns, then, opens with a cunningly faux hymnic invocation,51 and it is set not at the traditional venue for Homeric Hymns, Panhellenic festivals such as the Delia recalled in the Hymn to Apollo, but  48 Cf. H.Hymns 2, 4, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 17, 18 20, 27, 28, 30, 31, 32; variations metri gratia: 6, 16, 26 (epithets fronted) and 7, 19, 22, 33 (fronted ἀμφί followed by accusative). 49 Cf. H.Hymn 3. 50 In favour of a reference to the triple libations opening symposia and the custom of dedicating the third to Zeus Soter (cf. Athen. 15.692f–693c), see Hopkinson 1984, 139 (‘The setting is at a (any?) symposium’) and Cuypers 2006, 106; Fantuzzi 2011, 448–449 also finds the sympotic reference undeniable, taking it to underscore the hymn’s place as first in the collection. 51 Lüddecke 1998, 12–13 describes the anti-invocation.

Mythographic Discourse among non-Mythographers  

at an unidentified party.52 Callimachus, like Pindar, makes the point that he has come upon the theme that best suits the present festive occasion, and then affects to deliberate about how to start: the context calls for Zeus, but the poet is in the embarrassing position of not knowing what epithet to use because the question of Zeus’ birth is a matter of heated dispute (ἀμφήριστον, 5).53 Callimachus resumes hymnic style by multiplying local epithets (modulating to the expected accusative) and his hesitation over where to begin praising a deity so much praised is another standard hymnic topos (as, e.g., in H.Hymn 1.1–7; H.Hymn 3.19–24, 207–215). The problem ‘whether to sing of Zeus as Dictaean or Lycaean’, however, is not due to the richness of the god’s cult places but is a mythological controversy over whether the god was born in Crete (with Hesiod) or in Arcadia (first attested here).54 This most fundamental question is immediately settled in favour of Arcadia with breezy insouciance: the old joke about Cretans always being liars. Once embarked on his new path, Callimachus is able to use paralogismos to connect his birth story to the tradition, for example by recounting how the Ὀμφάλιον πέδον got its name when baby Zeus’ omphalos fell off as he was being transported from Arcadia to Crete (45).55 The suggestion of the opening as a whole, and this will be confirmed by passages from the poem’s middle and end, is that the Hymn to Zeus is delivered not as a hymn by a cult celebrant or festive competitor but as a mythographic disquisition delivered by some erudite mousikos among peers with the leisure to reconsider and reason about the god’s mythology. Recounting the new version of Zeus’ birth takes the song up to 54, but as the poet turns to his aretology, mythographic antagonism breaks out again and the transition to the second half of the song is marked with a metapoetic passage polemicising against improbable accounts of Zeus’ ascent. Callimachus objects to the tradition, which can claim no less an authority than Homer,56 that Zeus and his brothers divided up their realms by lottery (60–65):

 52 Those who identify the unnamed honouree of the song as Ptolemy II propose various state rituals as its original performance context: reviewed in Clauss 1986, 156–157 nn. 3–5; Cameron 1995, 10, 93; Stephens 2003, 77–79; questioning the utility of such reconstructions: Hopkinson 1984, 148; Lüddecke 1998, 25–26, 29–30. 53 See Stephens 2003, 79–80 on ἀμφήριστον in 5, comparing ἀμφίσβητον in Antagoras’ Hymn to Eros (F 1, CA 120). 54 Cf. Depew 1993, 73: ‘Callimachus has adapted the premise of a priamel—that the poet is telling the truth for a particular occasion of praise—only to emphasize the artificiality necessarily involved in imitating conventions of this sort’. Cf. Hunter/Fuhrer 2002, 173–174. 55 As Hopkinson 1984, 143 notes, this occurs at the omphalos of the hymn. 56 In Hom. Il. 15.187ff. and Pind. Ol. 7.54ff., also in Pl. Gorg. 523a.

  Andrew Ford δηναιοὶ δ’ οὐ πάμπαν ἀληθέες ἦσαν ἀοιδοί· φάντο πάλον Κρονίδῃσι διάτριχα δώματα νεῖμαι· τίς δέ κ’ ἐπ’ Οὐλύμπῳ τε καὶ Ἄϊδι κλῆρον ἐρύσσαι, ὃς μάλα μὴ νενίηλος; ἐπ’ ἰσαίῃ γὰρ ἔοικε πήλασθαι· τὰ δὲ τόσσον ὅσον διὰ πλεῖστον ἔχουσι. ψευδοίμην, ἀίοντος ἅ κεν πεπίθοιεν ἀκουήν.

65

The singers of olde were not truthful in every detail, for they said that the three sons of Cronus drew lots to secure their realms. But who would draw lots for Olympus and for Hades except an utter fool? The reasonable thing (ἔοικε) is to cast lots for equal stakes, but these could not be more different. When I speak fiction, be it such fiction as persuades the listener’s ear!

Like Hecataeus’ F 1 and like Pindar on thaumata,57 Callimachus spins out a new version of the topos that poets’ stories cannot always be trusted (proverbial in the Solonian saying, πολλὰ ψεύδονται ἀοιδοί and canonical in Theog. 27). Our speaker finds the story incredible because it is not probable (ἔοικε, 63), though probability is reckoned on a humorously low level: only a fool would draw lots for stakes as disparate as Olympus and Hades. Like Hecataeus and Pindar, the speaker takes on oral tradition (φάντο, 61) and like them he applies, or affects to apply up-to-date standards of rationality to a body of tradition that must appear, except to rubes, old-fashioned. Hence the tactic of setting the wise apart from the witless (νενίηλος), the γελοῖοι skewered in Hecataeus and turned back on the experts in Plato. And like Xenophanes and Pindar, Callimachus reduces the ‘traditional’ to the passé: his expression δηναιοὶ…ἀοιδοί uses an old but non-traditional epithet to say ‘old’ and tropes it neatly: LSJ glosses it here as ‘ancient’, but in heroic poetry (notionally, old poetry par excellence) it means ‘long lived’ (as in μάλ’ οὐ δηναιὸς ὃς ἀθανάτοισι μάχηται, Il. 5.407); his usage here taints the word’s favourable connotations of the long-lived/canonical58 with disfavoured notions of ancient/old-fashioned. Finally, note here that this wise critic accepts, like Aristotle, that the poet’s task is to lie, provided he tell the kind of lies that win conviction (65, ἅ κεν πεπίθοιεν ἀκουήν), or as Aristotle put it, ‘Homer is most instructive for poets in the right way to lie’ (1460a19–20: εδίδαχεν δὲ μάλιστα Ὅμηρος καὶ τοὺς ἄλλους ψευδῆ λέγειν ὡς δεῖ). Callimachus’ revised myth is, to the contrary, that it was Zeus’ might that made him sovereign of the gods (cf. Theog. 881ff.), which provides a segue to praising the sovereigns whom Zeus protects and finally to praising ‘our Zeus-like  57 Fuhrer 1988, 54–60 connects this section and Pindar’s Ol. 1. 58 Cf. Theoc. Id. 16.54 applying the adjective in a favourable sense to ‘long-continued’ poetic κλέος: Odysseus got no δηναιὸν κλέος εἰ μή σφεας ὤνασαν Ἰάονος ἀνδρὸς ἀοιδαί.

Mythographic Discourse among non-Mythographers  

ruler’ (86). Having introduced this unnamed but evidently focal figure in the group (the host?), Callimachus can then close with a version of the common hymnic formula and petition (90–96): χαῖρε μέγα, Κρονίδη πανυπέρτατε, δῶτορ ἐάων, δῶτορ ἀπημονίης. τεὰ δ’ ἔργματα τίς κεν ἀείδοι; οὐ γένετ’, οὐκ ἔσται· τίς κεν Διὸς ἔργματ’ ἀείσει; χαῖρε, πάτερ, χαῖρ’ αὖθι· δίδου δ’ ἀρετήν τ’ ἄφενός τε. οὔτ’ ἀρετῆς ἄτερ ὄλβος ἐπίσταται ἄνδρας ἀέξειν 95 οὔτ’ ἀρετὴ ἀφένοιο· δίδου δ’ ἀρετήν τε καὶ ὄλβον. Hail! Most high Son of Cronus, giver of good things, giver of safety. Thy works who could sing? There has not been nor will there be one who shall sing the works of great Zeus. ‘Hail! Father, hail again! And grant us goodness and prosperity. Without goodness wealth cannot bless man nor can goodness without prosperity, but come and give goodness and prosperity.

Iterating forms of χαῖρε is the regular way Homeric Hymns announce the song’s impending close, but the particularity of χαῖρε πάτερ may reward scrutiny: it is appropriate to Zeus of course (and was so used by Aratus: Phaen. 15), but Callimachus posits a mortal king in the audience and the phrase is addressed to a mortal hero three times in the Odyssey:59 Philoitios so greets the disguised Odysseus at 20.199; Euryalus makes up to the unfortunate but honoured guest as he offers him a cup at 8.408; and Amphinomos toasts Odysseus the beggar in 18.118–121: ἄρτους ἐκ κανέοιο δύω παρέθηκεν ἀείρας καὶ δέπαϊ χρυσέῳ δειδίσκετο φώνησέν τε· ‘χαῖρε, πάτερ ὦ ξεῖνε· γένοιτό τοι ἔς περ ὀπίσσω ὄλβος· ἀτὰρ μὲν νῦν γε κακοῖσ’ ἔχεαι πολέεσσι’. He took two loaves from a basket and set them before him, and with his golden goblet he toasted him, saying, ‘Hail, father, O Stranger. May you find wealth hereafter, though now beset by many ills.

If the surprising libations from v. 1 activate this toasting context, the poet concludes his song both by heroizing, without divinising, his honouree, and by suggesting, in 94–96, the standard hymnic closing appeal for some reward, ὄλβος, in exchange for the performance.60

 59 Cf. Stephens 2015, 70–71. 60 Cf. H.Hymn 15.9 (Χαῖρε ἄναξ Διὸς υἱέ· δίδου δ’ ἀρετήν τε καὶ ὄλβον); 20.8.

  Andrew Ford The first of Callimachus’ Hymns thus stands revealed at its end as a song mimicking a sympotic speech, a toastmaster’s discourse, full of high sentence, a bit oblique, indeed at times humorous.61 In To Zeus, then, the tradition of hexameter hymns proves to be a feint: this performer utters no opening invocation but begins as would an arkhôn logou at a drinking party: he proposes a theme for discussion and goes on to offer an example of how such a speech might go; in the course of executing it he not only shows great learning but deftly puts such learning to use in forging a high compliment. When viewed in light of mythographic discourse, the antecedents of Callimachus’ song include not only Pindaric epinician and Plato’s Phaedrus but, even more directly, the speech on Eros that Phaedrus makes in the Symposium to inaugurate its feast of speeches (see 178b).62 There our friend Phaedrus genealogises Eros, deploying and critiquing Hesiod’s Theogony and the mythologists Acusilaus and Pherecydes.63 And, taken as a whole, the variety of mythographic sophistication put on display by the speakers in the Symposium exemplifies the many ways that mythological discourse could serve as a vehicle for learned entertainment at elite gatherings. When the speechifying in Callimachus’ To Zeus concludes with praise of the best man among them, the ‘hymn’ joins Plato’s Phaedrus and Pindar’s first Olympian as my third example of mythographic discourse being refracted through other discourses and put to new uses in new contexts. As I have argued, these texts not only show that mythographers had formulated as recognisable style by the early fifth century but also that the new mythographic discourse belongs within a longer tradition of poetic self-reflection. The parallels of mythological critique from Ibycus, Xenophanes, and Theognis, with Hesiod often in the background, suggest that the revolution inaugurated by the authors documented in Fowler’s EGM was not only one of heightened rationalising but of self-presentation—a transformation no doubt influenced by new public fora for intellectual display and by larger audiences for voluminous prose texts. The persistence of the new mythographic discourse across time and its adaptability across genres— we have seen it in works of high lyric, Attic prose mime, and stichic recitative—is so impressive that it is worth hazarding in conclusion a suggestion about its enduring usefulness and appeal. These texts differ widely and yet converge to project a consistent ethical quality of mythographic performance that brought to

 61 Cf. Cameron 1995, 10, 95; on toasting, Węcowski 2014, 50 n. 111. 62 Cuypers 2006, 106 notices the link that the opening sympotic imagery suggests to Plato’s Symposium, though the bulk of his discussion (107–113) is concerned with Diotima’s speech. 63 It is worth noting that Callimachus’ citation of Antagoras of Rhodes (CA 120) in v. 5 was a hymn to Eros that, like Phaedrus’, focused precisely on the gods birth, γένος.

Mythographic Discourse among non-Mythographers  

each of these works an atmosphere of high culture conducted in contexts of leisure, whether it be at court or at a symposium or, in Plato, outside civic contexts altogether. The voice that rises from these texts and speaks in the tones of a modern but modest rationalism by that very act converts the audience or readership into a company of ‘the wise’, of those who appreciate that the finest flower of the Muses’ arts includes not only song and stories but also discourse upon them. For the elites enjoying these works, discoursing about the omnipresent mythic traditions served not piety in the main, nor even certain, ascertainable truth, but the pleasurable sharing of learning lightly worn for the connoisseurship of the ‘wise’. The speech is offered as an act of ungrudging generosity for a group that is free from envy and dedicated to noble leisure, a group that has the privilege to turn away from quotidian concerns and the amusements of the uneducated to an orderly exploration, principled but without presumption, of what can now be said to be true as they venture, once again, to discern what seems likely to be valuable in the time-worn tales of the past.

Robert Fowler

Myth(ography), History and the Peripatos Well before the time of Aristotle Greek writers had articulated a clear distinction between myth and history.1 The construct placed, on one side of a line, myth, poets, imagination, fabrication and falsehood, and, on the other side, history, historians, reason, research and truth. The view was widespread that stories from before the return of the Heraclidae were muthoi, myths. Yet throughout the rest of antiquity such matter kept finding its way into the history books. It would be very facile, however, to judge this an incoherent practice. Myth and history to this day maintain a dialectical relationship, both collaborative and competitive. They are, indeed, thoroughly imbricated with each other. The modalities of the modern dynamic may differ in many ways from the ancient. For instance, modern theorists of myth vs. history do not typically claim that the difference, if any, would involve chronology (so that myths would be only, or predominantly, about the past), whereas the principal challenge for the ancient historian was what to do with the muthoi about the heroes of old.2 Yet there are obvious similarities too, and an examination of the ancient context or contexts encourages reflection on both ancient and modern presuppositions. This paper offers some thoughts on ancient historians’ approaches to the problem of myth, but also highlights the overlooked contribution to these debates of one of the great philosophical schools, the Peripatos. The difficulties are apparent from the beginning. Thucydides was the first explicitly to reject the mythical (τὸ μυθῶδες, 1.21.1, 1.22.4),3 associating the quality with poets and logographers who aimed only to please their audiences. In the Sicilian Archaeology (6.1–5), he mentions, only to dismiss them, the Cyclopes and Laestrygonians whom tradition identified as the island’s first inhabitants: ‘suffice what the poets have said, and what anyone might choose to think about them’ (6.2.1).4 Thucydides also makes no room for gods or fantastical

 1 In general on the history of the term muthos in antiquity (and its relationship to our ‘myth’) see Fowler 2011, with earlier references; for Plato’s usage, see also the essays in Collobert/ Destrée/Gonzalez 2012. 2 Once muthos had acquired its overtones of falsehood and/or fictionality, however, its application to false stories of all kinds became unremarkable (e.g., in Strabo, below, at n. 8). 3 That Thucydides means ‘the mythical’ by this word, in a sense similar to ours, is in my opinion indisputable after Williams 2002, 151–171. 4 The attitude here is very comparable to Herodotus’ at 2.3.2, where he declines to discuss mythology (τὰ θεῖα τῶν ἀπηγημάτων), since ‘everyone is equally knowledgeable on that subject’ https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110672824-003

  Robert Fowler elements in contemporary events, except insofar as they affect actors’ motives.5 Yet he regards Agamemnon as an historical personage, and assesses Agamemnon’s expedition in the same way as he assesses the Persian and Peloponnesian Wars (1.9–12). To a modern reader (except those who, like Schliemann, agree with Thucydides that Agamemnon was a real king), the contradiction leaps out. In one sense the problem is ours; Thucydides thought Agamemnon was historical, and regarded the distortions of poets as simply irrelevant: his distinction between myth and history remains clear. Yet that he was thus obliged to demythologise is the significant point. Before Thucydides Herodotus was already worried about this material; he too demythologised the Trojan War, particularly the tale of Helen, silently excising gods and supernatural doings in order to render the tradition suitable for historical analysis (2.112–120). His procedure in the preface (where rejected mythological explanations for the origin of the Persian Wars have first been rationalised) and in 2.21–23 (scorning poetical, unverifiable theories of the flooding of the Nile) confirm his presuppositions.6 Demythologisation implies pre-existent mythologisation. Both historians were aware of this problem, yet did not regard the tradition as fundamentally compromised. Strictly speaking, Herodotus rejected certain stories on grounds of unknowability and unverifiability (1.5.3, 2.23, 3.122.2) rather than because they were fictions; but at the same time he was clearly questioning their truthfulness. The worries deepened among later historians. According to Diodorus of Sicily, Ephorus chose to begin his history after the return of the Heraclidae because of the obscurity and difficulty of the evidence (Diod. Sic. 4.1.3 = BNJ 70 T 8; I return to this passage below)—a version of Herodotus’ unknowability. It is true that Diodorus may be inferring rather than reporting Ephorus’ motives, and, as Luraghi has demonstrated, the story of the Return had acquired particular potency in contemporary international politics, which may have provided a positive reason for choosing to start here in addition to the negative.7 Ephorus does, in fact, make room for tales from the heroic age (see BNJ 70 FF 11, 13, 14, 32, 34, 60, 119, 120, 123, 127, 147). Yet we lack the contexts of these fragments which would enable us to judge his attitude. Strabo’s lengthy criticism of Ephorus’ treatment of the foundation of the Delphic oracle is promising in this respect, yet

 (πάντας ἀνθρώπους ἴσον περὶ αὐτῶν ἐπίστασθαι). Myth, being unverifiable, is beyond the reach of scientific discussion, and therefore any opinion is as valid as the next. Cf. Fowler 2011, 62. 5 See Hornblower 2011 for religion (or the lack of it) in Thucydides. 6 Fowler 2015, 201–203. 7 Luraghi 2014; cf. Tully 2014, 178–184.

Myth(ography), History and the Peripatos  

still leaves questions unanswered (9.3.11–12 = BNJ 70 F 31b). According to Strabo, Ephorus on the one hand rebuked those who love myths (οἱ φιλομυθοῦντες), but on the other hand occasionally indulged in such things himself, thus flouting his own policy (προαίρεσις) and the promises he made at the outset of his work. Strabo instances the account of the Delphic oracle in particular, because Ephorus had first gone out of his way in this passage to stress the importance of truthfulness, which made the contradiction even more glaring. In Ephorus’ account, the god Apollo founded the Delphic oracle, either assuming human form to undertake the task or communicating his desires to men; later on in his book, Ephorus told how Apollo descended to earth personally to slay Python and Tityos. What could be more mythical (μυθωδέστερον) than that, asks Strabo. As Strabo reports it, however, some elements of the story are ordinary rationalisations: Themis was a human woman, not a goddess; Tityos a human evildoer, not a supernatural monster; Python a human nicknamed Draco, not an enormous snake. Strabo himself quite strictly separates fanciful myth from truthful history, but believes that history can be got out of myth by familiar methods such as rationalisation, euhemerism and allegorical interpretation.8 So the point of the criticism is not that Ephorus worked myths into his narrative, or that rationalisation is pointless, since such myths are simply worthless (as Socrates implies in the Phaedrus, 229d), but that Ephorus was inconsistent, and thus unclear on the principles.9 ‘Unless he thought these stories were myths’ harumphs Strabo, ‘what need was there to call the mythical Themis a woman, or the mythical snake a man? Unless, that is, he was willing to confound the categories of myth and history.’10 If one is reporting a myth qua myth for some  8 Strabo spends most of his first book defending Homer as a trustworthy geographer, explaining how a kernel of truth becomes encrusted with myth in the hands of poets. He rationalises myths at e.g. 8.6.16 and 10.2.19; he explains that early theological myths can be read allegorically (10.3.23). He often uses ‘myth’ simply to mean ‘falsehood’ or ‘fiction’ of any kind, not necessarily about gods and heroes (e.g. 4.2.1 about Pytheas, 13.2.4 about the tale of Arion in Herodotus). Other indicative passages are 3.2.12, 3.5.4, 5.1.9, 5.3.2, 5.4.4, 5.4.9, 6.2.4, 6.3.9, 7 fr. 14a, 8.3.9, 8.6.22, 9.1.4, 9.1.22, 9.2.34, 9.3.9, 10.2.19, 10.3.6, 10.3.23, 10.5.2, 11.6.3, 13.1.32, 13.1.69, 15.1.57. For Strabo’s attitude to myth see also Kim 2010, 47–84; Patterson 2013. 9 Strabo criticises Ephorus on grounds of inconsistency (though not, as here, about myth and history) also at 9.3.12 = BNJ 70 F 122b); 10.3.3 = BNJ 70 F 122a. In general, as Parmeggiani 2011 demonstrates (e.g., 684–687; see also Parmeggiani 2001), Ephorus’ methods for dealing with myth are quite similar to Strabo’s, which may account for the latter’s disappointment in a kindred spirit. 10 εἰ δὲ ταῦτα μὴ ὑπελάμβανε μύθους εἶναι, τί ἐχρῆν τὴν μυθευομένην Θέμιν γυναῖκα καλεῖν, τὸν δὲ μυθευόμενον δράκοντα ἄνθρωπον, πλὴν εἰ συγχεῖν ἐβούλετο τόν τε τῆς ἰστορίας καὶ τὸν τοῦ μύθου τύπον; Compare his praise of Theopompus at 1.2.35 = BNJ 115 F 381 (W. Morison) for

  Robert Fowler reason, there is no need to demythologise it. One infers too that demythologisation is not worth the effort in some cases, such as this one, or are irredeemably mythical by nature; and that one needs to demythologise the whole thing, not leave Apollo as a god. It seems unlikely that Strabo misread Ephorus; possibly he misremembered him, and Ephorus had in some way made it clear that Apollo too was an ordinary mortal turned into a god by tradition. Such a supposition would save his consistency in Strabo’s eyes. Or perhaps Strabo was right, and Ephorus’ piety somehow led him astray in this case, or his usual acumen was for once not in evidence (Strabo stresses his admiration for Ephorus otherwise). However that may be, Strabo’s comment about Ephorus’ general stance and promises at the outset of his work tends to support what Diodorus says about him, viz. that he regarded the time before the Heraclidae as, on the whole, unknowable. Strabo’s remarks also suggest that Ephorus did provide some justification for his procedure, as indeed we would expect him to do in a preface. His omission of the whole ‘history’ of heroic Greece was indeed striking, and its significance should not be downplayed. His occasional forays into deeper time were doubtless explicable in their contexts. In a similar way Herodotus, in spite of his strictures about the knowability of the remote past, feels able on occasion to use myth as evidence, if it fits his presuppositions or can be rationally analysed. But for the early stretches of ‘history’ this possibility was the exception, not the rule, and Ephorus’ implicit or explicit admission of this general characteristic makes that remote time a spatium mythicum where philomythia runs riot.11 Austere Polybius, too, euhemerises the mythical Aeolus: he was in actuality an outstanding pilot for ships in the treacherous straits of Messina. From this passage (34.2.4–9), preserved and quoted with approval by Strabo (1.2.15), we learn that Polybius had similar explanations for the legends of Danaus, Atreus, and others. Like Strabo, he regarded Jason (4.43.6), Odysseus, and the Trojan War as historical; in the manner of Thucydides he simply ignores the mythical accretions.12 Strabo himself is the clearest and most consistent of these writers on  honestly admitting his use of myths, and (by contrast with other authors censured there) keeping the categories distinct. 11 For Ephorus’ handling of myth see further Vattuone 1998, 192–196; Parmeggiani 1999; 2001; 2011, 75–78, 91–96, 147–153, 684–687; Clarke 2008, 98–106. 12 For Polybius’ attitude to myth see further 2.16.13–14, 2.17.6, 3.47.8, 3.38.3, 3.91.7, 4.40.2, 9.2, 12.24, 15.36.1–2, 16.12, 31.9.3, 34.4.1, 34.10.6, 34.11.20. At 18.54.8–12 he expresses his belief in divine punishment (as in Herodotus, such a belief in the ultimate guiding hand of god can coexist comfortably with refusal to believe in their direct interaction with men). In general, Pédech 1964, 391–397; Walbank 1990.

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the difference between myth and history, and the means required to separate them. The following remark is particularly noteworthy (Strabo 11.5.3, C504):13 τὰ γὰρ παλαιὰ καὶ ψευδῆ καὶ τερατώδη μῦθοι καλοῦνται, ἡ δ’ ἱστορία βούλεται τἀληθές, ἄν τε παλαιὸν ἄν τε νέον, καὶ τὸ τερατῶδες ἢ οὐκ ἔχει ἢ σπάνιον. Myths are fictional tales of olden times and marvellous doings; history aims at the truth, whether about the old or the new, and deals in miracles but rarely, if at all.

History aims at the truth, whether about the old or the new. There are at least three implications of this comment. Firstly, Strabo recognises that the impulse that makes myth out of ancient history is the same as that which produces tales about Amazons and other wonders around the edges of the contemporary world. ‘Myth’ for him has become a general phenomenon of the human imagination; the ‘Greek myths’ (poetic accounts of ancient history) are merely the most outstanding example. Secondly, Strabo thinks that history should be able in principle to treat primeval matters that are the natural home of myth, given the right evidence and approach. In other words history can claim the whole of human time as its province and need yield none of it to the poets. Usually, of course, the evidence is lacking, so the spatium mythicum remains what it is. But, thirdly, Strabo’s comment implies that the spatium mythicum was no different in quality from the spatium historicum. Its people lived in a world like ours; they had a past, and we are living in their future. Owing to the passage of time, however, myth has taken over, confusing the record with tales of gods and monsters. If this clutter could be removed, we could write the history. We could attempt to see the world through the eyes of people of those days. This is an eminently historical attitude. On a charitable reading of the situation, one may say that the problem of myth vs. history for ancient historians is simply a way of saying that, the further back you go, the harder it is to do history. True enough; and serious scholars could train themselves to ignore the supernatural trappings of myth, and regard ‘myth’ as nothing more than a word meaning ‘history that is just out of reach’. But if this is all that is meant, why talk of myth at all? The problem runs deeper than that. It is clear that historians could not bring themselves to throw myth over; the power of tradition, and the conviction that there might just be something in it, were too strong to dismiss. At some level they wanted to believe in these myths. Given this commitment, they must choose from the same limited menu of methods of dealing with myths, as Marincola remarks: ignore them;  13 The context (see also 11.5.4–5) is the peculiarity of stories about the Amazons, which, unlike others, are the same now as were those told of old (in both cases, unbelievably).

  Robert Fowler rationalise them in some manner; or tell them straight, and leave the reader to decide.14 Those who do face up to the problem, and bravely parade their discomfort, deserve our commendation, but to conventional modern ways of thinking (which are not necessarily superior, let it be said) they are missing the problem. Two writers in whom the desire to believe is evident are Dionysius of Halicarnassus and Diodorus of Sicily. Dionysius made ample use of legendary material, suitably demythologised, to support his theories about the origins of Rome; he is as clear as anyone on the difference between myth and history (e.g. Ant. Rom. 1.84.1, 2.20, 2.61.1, Thuc. 5). Yet at the same time he is prepared to accept the truth of divine miracles and other stories which sterner critics would reject (for instance, those about the birth of Servius Tullius in Ant. Rom. 4.2), such that in the eyes of some modern critics he is simply self-contradictory. Lindsay Driediger-Murphy has argued in an important study that Dionysius is inclined to accept those stories that reinforce his theological presuppositions about the goodness and providence of the gods; in this way, if it is piously supposed that the gods, being omnipotent, can break the laws of nature, his consistency can be saved.15 Whether or not one accepts that defence, once again it is significant that such manoeuvres (or self-deceptions) were necessary on the part of ancient historians, and, depending on how one reads Dionysius (or Ephorus, or Herodotus), one may think they were not always perfectly consistent in carrying them out. In moving away from empirical standards of veracity towards a more symbolic understanding of received accounts, Dionysius keeps company with Diodorus, whose struggles with the problem bring its intractability into high relief.16 In a much-discussed passage he justifies the inclusion of mythology in his history:

 14 Marincola 1997, 118. Ironically, if one was writing pure mythography like Apollodorus in his Library, which has no pretension to being anything other than myth, no strategy was required. 15 Driediger-Murphy 2014. In a paper delivered at the Celtic Conference in Classics, Dublin, May 2016, Daniele Miano accepted this conclusion in general, but suggested that the degree of consistency is less than perfect; he argues that the simple pedagogical benefit of some myths may induce Dionysius to accept them as true. 16 Cf. Gabba 1991, 129: ‘As Dionysius saw it, the essential historical and moral validity of a traditional narrative history, where divine and human actions are confounded, is far removed from what Strabo, when working on Homer, had in mind as the basic and scientifically sound nucleus to be found at the heart of fantastic and wonderful poetic texts. Dionysius is clearly, and understandably, closer to Diodorus, even if he cannot, again understandably, bring himself to accept

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(4.1.1) οὐκ ἀγνοῶ μὲν ὅτι τοῖς τὰς παλαιὰς μυθολογίας συνταττομένοις συμβαίνει κατὰ τὴν γραφὴν πολλοῖς ἐλαττοῦσθαι. ἡ μὲν γὰρ τῶν ἀναγραφομένων ἀρχαιότης δυσεύρετος οὖσα πολλὴν ἀπορίαν παρέχεται τοῖς γράφουσιν, ἡ δὲ τῶν χρόνων ἀπαγγελία τὸν ἀκριβέστατον ἔλεγχον οὐ προσδεχομένη καταφρονεῖν ποιεῖ τῆς ἱστορίας τοὺς ἀναγινώσκοντας· πρὸς δὲ τούτοις ἡ ποικιλία καὶ τὸ πλῆθος τῶν γενεαλογουμένων ἡρώων τε καὶ ἡμιθέων καὶ τῶν ἄλλων ἀνδρῶν δυσέφικτον ἔχει τὴν ἀπαγγελίαν· τὸ δὲ μέγιστον καὶ πάντων ἀτοπώτατον, ὅτι συμβαίνει τοὺς ἀναγεγραφότας τὰς ἀρχαιοτάτας πράξεις τε καὶ μυθολογίας ἀσυμφώνους εἶναι πρὸς ἀλλήλους. (4.1.2) διόπερ τῶν μεταγενεστέρων ἱστοριογράφων οἱ πρωτεύοντες τῇ δόξῃ τῆς μὲν ἀρχαίας μυθολογίας ἀπέστησαν διὰ τὴν δυσχέρειαν, τὰς δὲ νεωτέρας πράξεις ἀναγράφειν ἐπεχείρησαν...17 (4.1.4) ἡμεῖς δὲ τὴν ἐναντίαν τούτοις κρίσιν ἔχοντες, καὶ τὸν ἐκ τῆς ἀναγράφης πόνον ὑποστάντες, τὴν πᾶσαν ἐπιμέλειαν ἐποιησάμεθα τῆς ἀρχαιολογίας. μέγισται γὰρ καὶ πλεῖσται συνετελέσθησαν πράξεις ὑπὸ τῶν ἡρώων τε καὶ ἡμιθέων καὶ πολλῶν ἄλλων ἀνδρῶν ἀγαθῶν· ὧν διὰ τὰς κοινὰς εὐεργεσίας οἱ μεταγενέστεροι τοὺς μὲν ἰσοθέοις, τοὺς δ’ ἡρωικαῖς θυσίαις ἐτίμησαν, πάντας δ’ ὁ τῆς ἱστορίας λόγος τοῖς καθήκουσιν ἐπαίνοις εἰς τὸν αἰῶνα καθύμνησεν. (4.1.1) I am not unaware that those who compile a record of the old myths find themselves disadvantaged in many ways as they set to work. The antiquity, and therefore the obscurity, of the sources create enormous difficulties for authors, while the fact that any account of the chronology cannot be subjected to the the most accurate scrutiny induces a low opinion of the history in its readers.18 Add to this the complexity and multitude of genealogies of heroes, demigods and others, and it becomes hard even to produce a satisfactory account; worst of all, and most troublesome, is the circumstance that authors of ancient mythological exploits contradict each other.19 (4.1.2) Thus the most reputable of later historians have eschewed ancient mythology on account of its difficulty, and set their hand to writing modern history...20 (4.1.4) We judge entirely differently from these writers; we have undertaken the labour of the writing, and devoted all possible care to ancient history. Great and many were the exploits performed by heroes, demigods and other good men; and for their common services rendered, later generations have honoured them, some with divine sacrifice, others with heroic, and the voice of history has hymned them all with fitting and everlasting praise.

Diodorus stresses the inconsistency, complexity, and obscurity of the legends, which deterred other historians from attempting the task; whereas, he says, he  the necessity of a different set of historical criteria for the archaic period in Rome, as opposed to later epochs.’ On Diodorus and myth see also Marincola, below, Ch. 4. 17 In the omitted portion, Ephorus, Callisthenes, and Theopompus are instanced. 18 This may be a hit at Castor of Rhodes, who had just published such a chronology (Sacks 1990, 65–66). But Diodorus’ complete omission of dates in this pseudo-history leaves the problem untouched, and can be read as an admission that he has not himself done the hard graft of sorting out the data. 19 On contradictions in the record cf. e.g. 3.62.2, 3.63.1, 4.26.2–3, 4.44.5–6. 20 Dionysius makes the same point about difficulty at Ant. Rom. 1.8.1, also contrasting his work with that of earlier writers.

  Robert Fowler will tackle them head on, because…myth is full of noble deeds worth emulating (4.1.4). This is a surprising continuation; one expects him to say, for instance, that, where others have failed, he has succeeded in untangling the evidential skein and showing that the myths do, after all, contain truth. The path to truth in myth once discovered, the nobility (or otherwise) of the deeds it records would be the conclusion of the investigation, not its premise. In jumping over the suppressed middle of the argument to its conclusion Diodorus reveals what in fact all historians accepted with varying degrees of overt acknowledgement and discomfort, that the myths somehow are true, and ways had to be found to save them. In fact Diodorus has not really made an effort to adjudicate between or reconcile conflicting accounts; he tends to follow one source at a time with adaptations and occasional supplements.21 Diodorus offers further comment on these matters in his introduction to his account of Heracles (4.8). The difficulties in the enormous, contradiction-ridden record about this hero threaten to overwhelm the writer, he says. He offers two arguments in defence of his procedures. The second (4.8.5) echoes the sentiment of the first passage (4.1.4) that, where all of subsequent history has honoured Heracles as a god, it would be ‘strange’ (ἄτοπον) if we did not maintain the pious observance handed down by our fathers (μηδὲ τὴν πατροπαράδοτον εὐσέβειαν διαφυλάττειν). Plato had offered a similar argument at Timaeus 40d–e, which is still familiar from the modern pulpit: if so many millions have believed it, there must be something in it (and who are you to disagree?). The first argument bears longer quotation: (4.8.2) διὰ δὲ τὴν παλαιότητα καὶ τὸ παράδοξον τῶν ἱστορουμένων22 παρὰ πολλοῖς ἀπιστουμένων τῶν μύθων, ἀναγκαῖον ἢ παραλιπόντας τὰ μέγιστα τῶν πραχθέντων καθαιρεῖν τι τῆς τοῦ θεοῦ δόξης ἢ πάντα διεξίοντας τὴν ἱστορίαν ποιεῖν ἀπιστουμένην. (4.8.3) ἔνιοι γὰρ τῶν ἀναγινωσκόντων οὐ δικαίᾳ χρώμενοι κρίσει τἀκριβὲς ἐπιζητοῦσιν ἐν ταῖς ἀρχαίαις μυθολογίαις ἐπ’ ἴσης τοῖς πραττομένοις ἐν τοῖς καθ’ ἡμᾶς χρόνοις, καὶ τὰ δισταζόμενα τῶν ἔργων διὰ τὸ μέγεθος ἐκ τοῦ καθ’ αὑτοὺς βίου τεκμαίρομενοι, τὴν

 21 On Diodorus’ use of sources see the works cited at EGM II.388 n. 14, and Wiemer 2013, 286. 22 That ἱστορία means ‘story’ (of which ‘myth’ is a species), but also means ‘history’, enables an intellectual sleight of hand by which ‘myth’ (properly understood, demythologised) becomes ‘history’, even ‘true history’ in spite of the marvels in which it trades: this move is explicit or implicit in the genre of paradoxography (note τὸ παράδοξον in 4.8.2), mocked by Lucian in his True History. See Gabba’s classic article (Gabba 1981) and Pédech 1964, 392–393. ἱστορία also means ‘research’, including into mythology, and moreover can mean ‘the tradition’ (as in τὰ ἱστορούμενα in the quotation); see especially mythographical scholia such as schol. Il. 2.585, Od. 4.1, Eur. Or. 1497, Andr. 17, 107, 224, Rhes. 508, Tr. 943. These senses bolster Diodorus’ attitude here, and help him overcome his uneasiness.

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Ἡρακλέους δύναμιν ἐκ τῆς ἀσθενείας τῶν νῦν ἀνθρώπων θεωροῦσιν, ὥστε διὰ τὴν ὑπερβολὴν τοῦ μεγέθους τῶν ἔργων ἀπιστεῖσθαι τὴν γραφήν. (4.8.4) καθόλου μὲν γὰρ ἐν ταῖς μυθολογουμέναις ἱστορίαις οὐκ ἐκ παντὸς τρόπου πικρῶς τὴν ἀλήθειαν ἐξεταστέον. (4.8.2) Owing to the antiquity and marvellousness of what is told, many people disbelieve the myths; one must either leave out the greatest of the deeds and to some extent undermine the god’s reputation, or include everything and render one’s history unbelievable. (4.8.3) For some readers apply inappropriate standards and demand the same accuracy in the ancient myths as they do in deeds of our own time; when they come to judge the exploits which, because of their magnitude, seem doubtful, they consider the strength of Heracles in the light of the weakness of modern men, and so one’s book is discredited on account of the magnitude of his deeds. (4.8.4) In general one should not by any means examine too closely the truth of mythological tales.

The last sentence is a remarkable admission in the historian, effectively claiming exemption from criticism; if this alludes pejoratively to Thucydides’ vaunted accuracy (akribeia, 1.10 and 1.22), as Thomas Johansen suggests to me, one can imagine the Athenian’s response. Although for vast tracts of his work, Diodorus deploys the usual methods of demythologisation (especially euhemerism), by suggesting here that myth should be judged differently from history, he seems to concede that myth is not, after all, history. Alternatively, and superficially more creditably to Diodorus’ intelligence, one could read this as saying that history itself has changed, and that there has been a sort of evolution in the human race.23 It is surely too generous, however, to regard Diodorus as a modern historicist avant la lettre, who saw the historian’s task as one of re-imagining the fundamentally different environment and mentalité in which humans of past eras conducted their affairs. Rather, this is a reflection of an attitude as old as Homer, whose heroes effortlessly lift boulders as large as two men nowadays would struggle to hoist (Il. 5.304, cf. 12.383). They were different then, not because history was different, but because this was the magical time of myth. There is among ancient historians no attempt to re-think the categories, or challenge the dichotomy. But our serious scholar would need to be extremely self-disciplined to keep the mythical at bay in a culture in which, as we have seen, the inhabitants of the heroic period were thought to be qualitatively different. They were children of gods. Elite historians may have thought the spatium mythicum was mythical only in a manner of speaking—because only history, not myth, was real—but ordinary people thought differently. One may adduce in this

 23 On Diodorus’ treatment of myth see Sacks 1990, 55–82; Gabba 1991, 126–127; Ambaglio 1995, 39–53 (‘evolution’: p. 40); Mariotta/Magnelli 2012, vii–x, 1–8, 39–41, who cite other literature. On Diodorus’ moralising, Hau 2016.

  Robert Fowler regard an interesting passage in Demosthenes’ funeral oration (60.9; its authenticity is immaterial here): τῶν μὲν οὖν εἰς μύθους ἀνενηνεγμένων ἔργων πολλὰ παραλιπὼν τούτων ἐπεμνήσθην, ὧν οὕτως ἕκαστον εὐσχημόνας καὶ πολλοὺς ἔχει λόγους ὥστε καὶ τοὺς ἐν μέτροις καὶ τοὺς τῶν ᾀδομένων ποιητὰς καὶ πολλοὺς τῶν συγγραφέων ὑποθέσεις τἀκείνων ἔργα τῆς αὑτῶν μουσικῆς πεποιῆσθαι· ἃ δὲ τῇ μὲν ἀξίᾳ τῶν ἔργων οὐδέν ἐστι τούτων ἐλάττω, τῷ δ’ ὑπογυώτερ’ εἶναι τοῖς χρόνοις οὔπω μεμυθολόγηται, οὐδ’ εἰς τὴν ἡρωϊκὴν ἐπανῆκται τάξιν, ταῦτ’ ἤδη λέξω. While omitting many of the exploits that have been accorded the status of myth, I have mentioned those of which the traditions are so many and decorous that poets of recitative and song, and many prose writers, have adopted their deeds as subjects of their own compositions. I turn now to deeds which are no less worthy, but which, being more recent, have not yet been turned into myth, or achieved heroic status.

Given the occasion, we may assume the speaker’s remarks reflect widely-held values. For him and his audience, the worthy dead simply are superior beings. Remarkably, the speaker openly acknowledges the process of mythologisation. The implication is that the latest generation of the war dead, in time, will be mythologised, and cross the boundary between human and heroic, i.e. semidivine. It will not do to claim that ‘myth’ here merely means a kind of symbolic discourse, old stories that have come to hold a special place in people’s hearts. Time really does hallow these warriors, and changes their ontological status. Moreover, being turned into myth is clearly no bad thing; it raises no question mark about the truth of the stories. On the contrary, though ordinary truth is implicitly not in play, through mythologisation these people have come to exemplify a quite special kind of Truth. The process began immediately after their death, which showed them for the sort of people they were: ἄνδρες ἀγαθοὶ ἐγένοντο, they are become good men. As Simonides’ Plataean Ode shows (frr. 10– 18 IEG2), the events of the Persian Wars were mythologised immediately after the event. Herodotus reports, even if he does not believe them himself, the stories of epiphanies and miracles. The epitaphian orators catalogued the virtues of the fallen—everyone of them was a faultless paragon: they never misbehaved as children; they learned their lessons well in school; they did everything their parents, city, and gods expected of them; they were intelligent, brave, congenial. The retrospective revision of biography is blatant, but who would dare say the audience did not believe it? There is more to myth than history plus accretions. A fruitful way to think about the dynamic here, and the difficulty in context of re-thinking the

Myth(ography), History and the Peripatos  

categories, is to recognise the interplay between mythology and ideology.24 Ideology has the power to make adherents subscribe to and act on its propositions even when they know they are, from one point of view, not true. Indeed denial may be ideology’s most characteristic function. Strong conviction can respond to criticism; ideology finds it much harder. In return for clarity, group solidarity, and sense of purpose, ideology demands that we suppress doubt and disregard evidence to the contrary. The operations of overt ideology are easily detected; covert ideology less so, but it works the same way. Not all ideology is sinister, but no human has ever existed without it. Some years ago Charles Segal wrote an interesting paper on Greek myth as a mega-text.25 Working within a semiotic framework, Segal suggested that, in the same way that a text is a web of signifiers, Greek myth is the mega-text of Greek society as a whole, encoding its values in a vast network of stories whose characters, motifs, imagery and so on exist in relation to one another and derive their meaning from these relationships. Any given telling sets the web of associations vibrating. Segal’s description of the resonances set up by myth is reminiscent of the way John Miles Foley describes the working of Homeric formulae in his model of traditional referentiality:26 any one formula is an entrée into the system and, in a very few steps, leads us to all of its other constituents. The idea of a mega-text is attractive, but not quite sufficient to account for the ideological power of myth, even if Segal notes that the system thus described is not merely good to think with, but serves to reinforce values. The (certainly very fruitful) exploration of the last forty years of Greek myth as a semiotic system has focused more on the system than on individuals. It is one thing, however, to observe that myths of youths and maidens teach young Greeks to be good youths and maidens, another to ask how an individual young person might have engaged with this instruction. The recent emphasis on belief (a concept obviously related to ideology) can be understood as shifting the focus from system to individual.27 Definitions of ideology differ widely, but they tend to agree on the link to action. Ideology requires buy-in and commitment; it determines what people do. Greek myth does much more than teach the young how to behave. As the Romantics knew, and bet their eternal souls on, Greek myth encodes a way of

 24 For ideology generally and problems of definition see e.g. Jost/Federico/Napier 2009; Hawkes 2003. For the conceptual links between ideology and mythology, see e.g. Halpern 1961 and Csapo 2005, 262–315. The modern discussion was inaugurated by Barthes 1957. 25 Segal 1983. 26 Foley 1991; 1997; 1999. 27 See Harrison 2015 for a masterful overview.

  Robert Fowler looking at life. And these myths were everywhere: they underpinned and contextualised every moment of everyday life; they seeped into every corner of consciousness from birth to death. You could not walk for more than fifty yards in any Greek polis without being reminded of a myth, if only by the herms at doorsteps or the images on the coins in your purse. Greek myth went all the way down. In her recent book Sarah Iles Johnston has shed brilliant light on the Greek story-world in all its richness and ubiquity, and in particular the way in which individuals engaged with it.28 Among other things she explores the intricate, deeply interactive relationship between the ‘primary world’ of those who tell and hear the stories, and the ‘secondary world’ of the story itself (the terms are J.R.R. Tolkien’s). The partition between the two is extraordinarily porous in Greek consciousness, however; small wonder, given that the primary world was populated on all hands by the living memorials of the denizens of the secondary, in the rich built and visual environment, in cults and festivals. As parallels to the network of Greek myth, Johnston instances fictional modern worlds set up by series of novels, movies, or popular television shows, in which ‘hyperseriality’— the awareness that a character has a place not only in the story-line at hand (‘seriality’), but in the wider network—adds resonance and depth to such characters, not unlike Foley’s referentiality. The emotional engagement of consumers can be very intense; ‘parasocial relationships’ with fictional characters have much in common with real ones. Fan fiction offers a further parallel to Johnston’s examples, a world in which fans not only add to the narratives offered by their original creators, but claim ownership of the narrative universe. Participants number in their millions and the commitment can be obsessive. The narrative world is only superficially fictional; occultists among the fans regard the stories as symbolic discourses encoding truth, providing access to the eternal and the supernatural. The parallels with the world of myth are clear.29 Johnston also notes the parallel with modern religious sects, where narratives inculcated from a young age by multiple methods (‘plurimediality’, as in the Greek mythical environment) effect total belief, to the point where speaking of ‘belief’ at all is almost impertinent, since belief implies doubt. The Greek narrative universe was ubiquitous and all-encompassing, and buy-in was automatic if you were born Greek. There was no way of escaping it. In such an environment it is unlikely that an ancient historian, even our serious, self-disciplined sceptic, would re-think the categories and find a way to talk  28 Johnston 2018. 29 Willis 2016.

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about history without making room for the Greek myths, especially heroic legend. Even the ostensible challenge to its conceptual framework represented by rationalisation and similar strategies only strengthened myth by admitting the need to accommodate it.30 These strategies did not really substitute a new framework; they merely showed you how to read the old one. Thus, thorough reconceptualisation was very unlikely. But not impossible. At this point the philosophers make their entry. Particularly stunning in his originality was Plato, who dismissed traditional myths as pernicious fictions, not worth even the effort of rationalisation, yet at the same time assigned an important place in his philosophy to imaginative stories (muthoi) as an avenue to truth. Since truth for Plato is inaccessible in pure form to humans while on earth, myth, even if suitably guided by reason, can offer no more than indications, but these can take us a considerable distance. Plato’s myths often deal with the afterlife, but in the case of the Timaeus and the unfinished Critias the subject is ostensibly the early history of Athens. Plato insists his account is true (Tim. 20d, 21d), but makes it extraordinarily difficult to understand just in what sense he means it.31 We are told that the antediluvian Athens to be described corresponds in every particular to the ideal city set out the day before by Socrates in the Republic, which is branded a muthos at Tim. 26c. The inquiry of the Timaeus itself is described as a muthos at 29d. The echoes of Herodotus in Plato’s telling of the Atlantis tale are surely ironic, and an account of human events can be no more true for Plato than any other account of this world of reflections. However one deals with this conundrum, for present purposes the relevant point is the new work the concept of myth is doing. The project to save myths that had begun during the sixth and fifth centuries suggested that the narratives were not to be taken literally, but understood as clues to a hidden meaning below or beyond the surface; this is to take the stories themselves as the starting-point. Plato, by contrast, took as his starting-point the source of myth in the power of imagination. The received myths could only be the misguided inventions of unphilosophical poets’ and historians’ imagination, and so could be, for the most part, ignored.32 But the human faculty of imagination was still there and cannot  30 Hawes 2014a. 31 Fowler 2011, 64–65; several essays in Collobert/Destrée/Gonzalez 2012 (see the index locorum), especially that of Brisson. 32 The Statesman is an instructive exception. There, the received myths of Cronus and of primeval autochthony are presented as intimations of the true early history of the world; there is a similarity to the way allegorists dealt with myth. Plato has, however, excogitated this early history from first principles; he does not seriously engage with traditional myth here. The gesture reads more like a conversational gambit. One can concede, however, that since Plato must accept

  Robert Fowler be ignored. Like the non-rational parts of the soul, it needs to be harnessed. Thus Plato invented his own, new myths, moving beyond simple rejection or reinterpretation of the old ones to substitute a positive model of myth-making. The way his myths convey their truths is not a matter of one-to-one correspondence, of riddling statements to be mechanically decoded (e.g. that this or that god stands for this or that physical element), but a much more sophisticated matter in which the narrative taken as a whole, through its content, imagery and emotional tenor, reinforces truths already partly established by other means. These truths go well beyond simple statements about historical figures or physical phenomena, such as rationalisers and allegorists extracted from myths, to encompass the meaning of reality generally. Plato was not in the least interested in demythologising the world: it is a place of both muthos and logos.33 Though Plato’s understanding and application of myth was too closely allied to his own brand of philosophy to find general purchase amongst a broad public, or transfer straightforwardly to an historian’s project, nonetheless his grander vision of what myth could do and how it could signify opened up possibilities of interpretation well beyond those envisaged by the Sophists. Suitably adapted it might even provide a warrant for the historian who hoped to find truth in the received myths without, on the one hand, draining them of their mythic power, or, on the other, uncritically believing the unbelievable. Bridging the gap between Plato’s rarefied world and the empirical fact-bound enterprise of the historians are the Peripatetics, who engaged theoretically with the problem of myth at a time when the issues had become acute. Thomas Johansen has provided a superb assessment of Aristotle’s own attitude.34 There are various passages where Aristotle dismisses nonsensical views as myth, or dismisses myths as fictions (e.g. Gen. an. 756b6, Hist. an. 579b5, 580a17, Metaph. 1000a18). Yet, writes Johansen, ‘Aristotle, like Herodotus, is willing to accept an account from “what is said” without any empirical evidence if it is consistent with

 traditional belief in the gods as reflecting reality, some myths might be insightful at a basic level; the majority of poetic elaborations (such as Boreas ravishing Orithyia) obviously are not. In this passage of the Phaedrus (230a) Socrates says (ironically, as one might think) that he is happy to accept traditional ideas about, e.g., Typhon, but rather than investigating Typhon he examines himself, to see what kind of creature he is, whether more or less savage than the mythical monster (see Ford in this volume); Hunter 2016, 252 suggests that this ‘employment of myth in the investigation of human psychology, rationality, and passion’ points the way forward to allegory. Cf. Morgan 2000, 214–215; Horn 2012. On the Phaedrus passage see also Ford, above, Ch. 1. 33 Various essays in Collobert/Destrée/Gonzalez 2012 address these matters; see especially those of Dixsault, Collobert, and Trabattoni. 34 Johansen 1999.

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his theoretical presuppositions’.35 The explanation of this apparent contradiction is that a cornerstone of Aristotle’s method is the use of ‘endoxa, that is “reputable or received opinions”, or more generally phaenomena, “appearances”, to establish his own philosophical and scientific principles’.36 One collects and analyses the endoxa and attempts to resolve difficulties they present, while preserving as many of them as possible. Myths count as endoxa; moreover, they often tackle the same problems as the philosopher confronts. Myth, like poetry, can thus be relevant and useful. Furthermore, Aristotle’s cyclical theory of history as a series of cataclysms, after each one of which life moves from origins to telos, allows him to believe that myths contain basic insights left over from the previous cycle (for instance, that first principles in the cosmos are divine), but in a fractured and inchoate form, liable to be overlaid with fanciful accretions, which it is the task of the philosopher to remove. Thus the opening sections of the many Peripatetic constitutional histories recounted the foundation legends of the cities, since these are endoxa and could serve as raw material for further study of many topics. Unfortunately this stretch of the Constitution of Athens does not survive, so we cannot tell how the early Athenian material was handled. One might expect it to be done in a fairly neutral way, this being merely the database not the conclusions, though one might also expect that frankly fabulous matter would be silently edited out. So far as our fragmentary remains of the Constitutions allow us to say, this seems to be mostly the case. For instance, in fr. 485 (Rose3), from the Constitution of the Bottiaei, Plutarch (Thes. 16) tells us that Aristotle denied that the Minotaur devoured the Athenian youths: they stayed in Crete and grew old in servitude.37 On the other hand, in fr. 490 (Constitution of the Delians) we learn about Glaucus the seadaemon settling in Delos with the Nereids and prophesying; in fr. 504 (Constitution of the Ithacans) we hear about Cephalus’ congress with a she-bear, who became pregnant, metamorphosed into a woman and gave birth to Arcisius; in fr. 512 (from the Constitution of the Corcyreans) Demeter intercedes with Poseidon to prevent the silting up of the strait between Drepane and the  35 Johansen 1999, 283. 36 Johansen 1999, 285, reprising a classic article by G.E.L. Owen (Owen 1961). 37 In many fragments Aristotle records the testimony of heroic legend on foundations, eponyms, early events and so on, for the most part without obvious mythical overtones: see frr. 473– 474 (Aetolians), 477 (Ambraciots; here Helios is noted as the divine ancestor of Dexamenos, eponym of Dexamenai), 482 (Argives), 488 (Delians: the island so named owing to its suddenly becoming ‘apparent’, δῆλος; was its appearance a miracle, or a natural phenomenon in this account?), 491 (Epidaurians), 506–507 (Ithacans), 518–519 (Cretans), 523 (Cythnians), 546 (Leucadians), 550 (Megarians), 560–561 (Opuntians), 598 (Trozenians).

  Robert Fowler mainland; the island was thereafter called Scheria for the ‘holding back’ of the mainland rivers. Without the original context we cannot be sure how to assess these reports. Where we encounter myths in other Peripatetic works we may suspect that there too the intention at least in part was to assemble the endoxa. Unfortunately the fragments are usually so meagre that we are unable to determine the attitude to myth these works might have displayed. Hieronymus of Rhodes, for instance, wrote a book called On Myths; fr. 44A (White) is on the appearance of Heracles, fr. 44B is on his death, and fr. 46 is about Tithonus. More we cannot say. Hermippus of Smyrna wrote on myths of stars (frr. 95–102 Wehrli). Betegh has argued very convincingly that the views of ‘theologians’ (poets and prose writers who concerned themselves with myths of the gods; distinguished from early philosophers who wrote on physics) listed in Eudemus fr. 150 Wehrli came from a collection of endoxa.38 Then there is the evidence for books recounting the plots of tragedies—muthos, of course, also bore the sense of ‘plot’ of a drama by this date— particularly Dicaearchus’ Summaries of the Plots of Euripides and Sophocles (frr. 112–115 Mirhady). From the hypothesis to the Rhesus (hyp. b Diggle) we know that Dicaearchus concerned himself with hypotheses;39 a citation in the hypothesis to Sophocles’ Ajax (Dicaearchus said the play’s title was The Death of Ajax) points in the same direction.40 It used to be thought that the hypotheses of Euripides found in papyri also came from this book; the opinion in this crude form is now generally rejected, though there might have been some relationship between the book in the papyri and Dicaearchus’ book, whatever its exact title and scope.41 Even if the connection is no more than a false attribution (already in antiquity) to Dicaearchus on the grounds that he was known for such things, that is meaningful testimony for our purposes here. The contemporary Tragodoumena

 38 Betegh 2002. 39 ‘Dicaearchus’ is an all but certain conjecture of Nauck’s for δικαίαν in the MSS. He is described as ὁ ἐκτιθεὶς τὴν ὑπόθεσιν τοῦ Ῥήσου. 40 Demetrius Triclinius added Δικαιάρχου after the words Ὑπόθεσις Ἀλκήστιδος in MS L of that play; we cannot be sure of his authority for doing this (cf. Rusten 1982b, 261). 41 See Rusten 1982b; van Rossum-Steenbeek 1998, 3; Liapis 2001; Luppe 2001; Diggle 2005, 66– 67; Meccariello 2014, 67–82. Kassel 1985, 57 (= 1991, 213) points out that if Sextus Empiricus’ Δικαιάρχου τινὰς ὑποθέσεις τῶν Εὐριπίδου καὶ Σοφοκλέους μύθων is supposed to give the book’s title, τινάς is odd; Kassel also shows that Sextus’ citation of the work fits his context poorly, raising a question as to its accuracy and as to what he understood by ὑπόθεσις. If the purpose of the collection was at least partly to collect endoxa, the argument that simply recording plots was beneath the dignity of a Dicaearchus (and therefore that the papyrus fragments represent a completely different kind of work) falls away.

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of Asclepiades of Tragilos (BNJ 12) suggests that the purpose of such books was at least as much to inform readers of myths as they happened to be treated in tragedy (not only plots, but prequels and sequels as well), as it was to tell them about tragedians’ poetical treatment of the myth (in other words they focused more on myth than tragedy). Again, assembly of raw data for readers to use as they saw fit seems to have part of the motive. Myth-collecting was certainly in the air. Apart from Asclepiades and Dicaearchus, Philochorus is credited with a book On the Myths (or Plots: μύθων) of Sophocles (BNJ 328 T 1) and several other literary works, including a Letter in Response to Asclepiades; the subject in the single attested fragment is Hecuba’s parents, so this letter was probably addressed to the mythographer of that name.42 One Glaucus wrote a book on Aeschylus’ myths.43 Usually this is thought to be the late fifth-century author Glaucus of Rhegium; though Jacoby agreed this was at least possible, he went on to remark with justice: ‘If only the name were not so frequent among the grammarians! And after all the title looks more like that of a Hellenistic book.’44 I think this is correct and, although we cannot know whether Glaucus was contemporary with Dicaearchus or lived later, it is possible that he was part of this late fourth-century burst of mythography. Often mentioned in this connection too is Heraclides of Pontus, as a Peripatetic who wrote a book On the Myths of Euripides and Sophocles (Περὶ τῶν παρ’ Εὐριπίδῃ καὶ Σοφοκλεῖ , Diog. Laert. 5.87). It should first be noted that the supplement is unnecessary and rightly rejected by recent editors; as other titles in Diogenes’ list demonstrate, no noun is needed, and the book could have been about miscellaneous problems in these writers. However, myths/plots could certainly have been one of the aspects discussed. Probably pertinent is Antiphanes F 111 (PCG II.370), where an unknown character is said to have ‘explained’ Heraclitus to the world, and to have written Euripides’ kephalaia, which probably means ‘outlines’, i.e. of his plots; the target could be Heraclides, to whom Diogenes Laertius also credits a book Explanations of Heraclitus. A greater obstacle in the path of citing Heraclides as a Peripatetic who wrote on myth is that he was really an Academician, even if Wehrli included his  42 BNJ 328 F 91 = BNJ 12 T 3. See the Biographical Essay by N. Jones at BNJ 328 for Philochorus’ literary activity. 43 Cited in the hypothesis to the Persae; the Glaucus quoted in schol. Eur. Hec. 41 is perhaps the same author. 44 ‘Wenn nur der Name unter den Grammatikern nicht so häufig wäre! Auch der Titel sieht schließlich doch mehr nach einem hellenistischen Buche aus’ (Jacoby 1910, 1418). On these collections see Meliadò 2015, 1067–1069 (but on ‘Demaratus’ and his ilk, see the commentary on BNJ 12A (M. Cuypers)).

  Robert Fowler fragments in Die Schule des Aristoteles.45 However, as Meier, who most forcefully makes this case, also notes, Heraclides shared many interests with Peripatetics, particularly in literary matters, and thus he may count as evidence of a contemporary trend; let us consider him an honorary Peripatetic for present purposes. His work On Discoveries (frr. 144–145 Schütrumpf) shares a title with works by the Peripatetics Theophrastus of Eresus (frr. 728–736 Fortenbaugh et al.) and Strato of Lampsacus (frr. 84–86 Sharples);46 since many inventors were legendary or divine, here was another opportunity for myth. We may note further that Heraclides’ On Foundations of Sanctuaries must have contained many myths; fr. 142 concerns the sanctuary of Apollo Smintheus at Chryse, and fr. 143 concerns Dionysus’ cult title Lysius. The same may be said of On Piety (frr. 26–27) and On Oracles (frr. 117–126). Extant fragments display a predilection for stories of miracles and divine intervention in support of a moralising view of events (evident also in the fragments of On Justice, frr. 22–25).47 Members of the Peripatos wrote a great many other books on the classic authors, and although the fragments suggest a focus predominantly on biographical, literary-critical and literary-historical topics, myths could figure whenever allusions or elliptical references needing explaining.48 All in all, these titles and fragments attest a very lively interest in mythology in the Peripatos and

 45 Meier 2009. 46 On myths in Theophrastus see Obbink 1988, 283–286; Fortenbaugh 2014, index s.v. mythology. Heraclides fr. 109, though not from On Discoveries (rather from his history of music), is on early legendary musicians. On the copious works of heurematography in the Hellenistic period, of which Ephorus too was an initiator (BNJ 70 FF 2–5), see M. Baumbach, BNP s.v. ‘Protos heuretes’. Some of the frr. in the citations above are conjecturally assigned to the works in question; this does not affect the issue here. 47 A somewhat disappointing stance in an Academician, even if some of the stories were related by characters in dialogues; Plutarch, Cam. 22.3 = Heraclides fr. 49, bluntly calls Heraclides μυθώδης. Cf. Gottschalk 1980, 110. Platonic-style eschatological myth figured in his works On the Soul (frr. 46–58) and On the Underworld (frr. 79–80). 48 For instance, Chamaeleon fr. 17 Martano discusses Nysa; fr. 23 discusses the Argonauts Thestor and Idmon; Hieronymus fr. 42 White tells the story of the hero Anagyrus. For an overview of Aristotelian and Peripatetic scholarship on these topics see Novokhatko 2015, 49–59. If the Peplos (Arist. frr. 637–644), a collection of epigrams, genealogical and other information about the heroes who fought at Troy, is Peripatetic, we may add it to our catalogue; Gutzwiller 2010 argues strongly that it is. Theophrastus too is accredited with a (the same?) Peplos; see Fortenbaugh 2014, 148–149. Note that this was not just a collection of existing epigrams (in the spirit of assembling endoxa) but included not a few original compositions; mythographically too their content is often distinctly heterodox, perhaps wilfully so. A jeu d’esprit, like Theophrastus’ Characters?

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its penumbra, but, as remarked above, the attitude to myth is not really visible in the evidence. There are, however, two exceptions. The first is the mythographer Palaephatus, but he is slightly problematic. In the first place it is not quite certain that he was Peripatetic.49 Most scholars accept that he was; the evidence is not quite conclusive, but Theon at least calls him Peripatetic (Progymnasmata p. 96 Spengel), and the Suda entry, confused though it is, points in the same direction. In an undated fragment of the comic Athenion (fr. 1, PCG IV.12–16), in which a garrulous cook is said to be ‘a new Palaephatus’, the subject of the cook’s discourse is the history of eating, including the origin of sacrifice: the echoes of Theophrastus and Dicaearchus’ Life of Greece (our second case below) are loud, and this fragment further supports the Peripatetic connection. Palaephatus’ Troica (BNJ 44) appears to be a conventional mythographical history, including some geography and ethnography; no philosophical tendency is visible, unless the Athenion fragment (= BNJ 44 F 8) alludes to content in this book, but this cannot be known. However, the Palaephatus who wrote the Troica is usually thought to be the same Palaephatus who wrote On Unbelievable Tales, and that is certainly a philosophical text of a kind. The introduction explains that there is a reality behind the myths, which should not be either dismissed or believed just as they are; poets and early historians have introduced distortions, but, since nature has always been the same, one can recover the original truth about the past by diligent inquiry. Palaephatus claims, Herodotus-like, to have done much research and travelled far. There follows one po-faced rationalisation after another: the Centaurs, for instance, were not a mixed breed but simply the first horseback riders. Scholars differ as to whether or not the whole undertaking is ludic, but even if meant as parody it presumes a certain attitude to myth, according to which it is possible to reconcile myth, science and history. The understanding of myth is no deeper than that of the rationalisers dismissed by Socrates, but if readers thought the book bore the Peripatetic seal of approval, it would boost considerably the prestige of this kind of activity. The other case is of a different stripe. Dicaearchus’s major work The Life of Greece, in 3 books, made ample use of myth. Some extensive fragments survive from his discussion of the Golden Age (frr. 53–77 Mirhady), and the book must have been distinctive and widely known.50 It recounted not only the history of

 49 Stern 1996; commentary on BNJ 44 (R. Nünlist); Hawes 2014a; Hunter 2016. 50 The fragments come from Varro, Demetrius On Style, Plutarch, Athenaeus, Censorinus, Porphyry, Jerome, scholia to Homer, Euripides and Apollonius, Zenobius the paroemiographer,

  Robert Fowler Greece, from origins through the mythical period to the recent past, but treated the history of barbarians, and gave an account of such things as the origins of musical instruments and dances. The subject of fr. 71 appears to be Parmenides, and fr. 70 explains the etymology of Academus, hero of the Academy. Some of the myths in his book are, by usual standards, quite obscure (e.g. fr. 65 on Placian Thebe daughter of Atramys), and the scope and structure of the work remains unclear; with only three books to work with he must have been very selective. His overall aim was, however, extremely ambitious. As Wolfram Ax shows,51 the word ‘life’ in the title has several applications: it means the course of events in a person’s life; it also denotes ‘means of living’, i.e. sustenance; and it denotes ‘way of life’, i.e. customs. Ax well quotes Aeschylus fr. 181a (TrGF III.296), where Palamedes speaks of the ‘life of all Greece’ and what he did for it; this is the beginning of an account, like that in the Prometheus Bound, of the advance of civilisation: ἔπειτα πάσης Ἑλλάδος καὶ ξυμμάχων βίον διῴκισ’ ὄντα πρὶν πεφυρμένον θηρσίν θ’ ὅμοιον, πρῶτα μὲν τὸν πάνσοφον ἀριθμὸν εὕρηκ’ ἔξοχον σοφισμάτων Then I set in order the life of all Greece and her allies That hitherto was confused and like that of beasts. First I discovered all-wise numbers, Greatest of the sciences.

It is clear that Dicaearchus in his book gave nothing less than a cultural history of Greek civilisation, writing as it were a biography of the country, but also, by putting Greece in the context of the wider world, a universal history, replete with precise chronography (fr. 59 compares Egyptian and Greek epochs). His overall purpose was ethical, to show not only how life was lived but how it should be lived.52 The Golden Age showed the way: a time when men lived, not luxuriously or in abundance—if anything, in scarcity—but simply, consuming enough to thrive in accordance with their nature, and no more. This is how Dicaearchus

 Phlegon the paradoxographer, Stephanus of Byzantium and Eustathius; of other works, from Cicero and Philodemus, among others. His geography was important for Eratosthenes. 51 Ax 2001. 52 The fragments suggest that Heracles received extensive treatment (see frr. 65–68); doubtless he was treated as an exemplary cultural and moral hero, following earlier precedents such as Herodorus of Heraclea (EGM II.696–698; Moore 2017) and Prodicus of Ceos (Henrichs 1984; Mayhew 2011; Sansone 2015).

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reads the myth that in the Golden Age things grew of their own accord: humans had no need for anything other than what nature gave them, and had not yet learned, for instance, to husband animals. That innovation was the first step on a road leading to greed, jealousy, competition, injustice and war (frr. 56–57). The following passage, taken from the beginning of fr. 56A (ap. Porphyry, De abstinentia 4.2.1–3) gives a valuable insight into Dicaearchus’ method: τῶν τοίνυν συντόμως τε ὁμοῦ καὶ ἀκριβῶς τὰ Ἑλληνικὰ συναγαγόντων ἐστὶ καὶ ὁ Περιπατητικὸς Δικαίαρχος, ὃς τὸν ἀρχαῖον βίον τῆς Ἑλλάδος ἀφηγούμενος τοὺς παλαιοὺς καὶ ἐγγὺς θεῶν φησὶ γεγονότας, βελτίστους τε ὄντας φύσει καὶ τὸν ἄριστον ἐζηκότας βίον, ὡς χρυσοῦν γένος νομίζεσθαι παραβαλλομένους πρὸς τοὺς νῦν, κιβδήλου καὶ φαυλοτάτης ὑπάρχοντας ὕλης, μηδὲν φονεύειν ἔμψυχον. ὃ δὴ καὶ τοὺς ποιητὰς παριστάντας χρυσοῦν μὲν ἐπονομάζειν γένος, ἐσθλὰ δὲ πάντα, λέγειν, τοῖσιν ἔην· καρπὸν δ’ ἔφερε ζείδωρος ἄρουρα αὐτομάτη πολλόν τε καὶ ἄφθονον· οἳ δ’ ἐθελημοὶ ἥσυχοι ἔργ’ ἐνέμοντο σὺν ἐσθλοῖσιν πολέεσσιν ἃ δὴ καὶ ἐξηγούμενος ὁ Δικαίαρχος τὸν ἐπὶ Κρόνου βίον τοιοῦτον εἶναι φησίν, εἰ δεῖ λαμβάνειν μὲν αὐτὸν ὡς γεγονότα καὶ μὴ μάτην ἐπιπεφημισμένον, τὸ δὲ λίαν μυθικὸν ἀφέντας, εἰς τὸ διὰ τοῦ λόγου φυσικὸν ἀνάγειν. Dicaearchus the Peripatetic is among those who have written concisely and accurately about Greek affairs. In his account of the ancient life of Greece he says that the primeval inhabitants were actually53 close to the gods, as they had a superior nature and cultivated the best of lives. Thus they are considered denizens of a Golden Age in comparison to those who live now, who are made of adulterated, cheap stuff; and they killed no living thing. The poets too attest this, he says, and call it a Golden Age [Hes. Op. 116–119]: All fine things were theirs; the fruitful earth yielded its produce of its own accord, abundant and unstinting; and the people willingly and peacefully enjoyed their possessions amid fine bounty. In his exegesis of this Dicaearchus says that life in the age of Cronus was of such a kind, if we are to take it as having existed, not as idle legend, and, omitting the excessively mythical, bring it into the realm of rational nature.

‘Omitting the excessively mythical’ may be taken to refer to the excision of the miraculous and supernatural, such as we have seen in Herodotus and others; but ‘rationalisation’ is too facile a description of what Dicaearchus is doing. In much the same way as Aristotle in Politics 1 builds up from first principles the history of human political organisation, Dicaearchus, starting from first principles about

 53 The skeleton of the sentence, which I have divided into two in the translation, is ‘D. says the ancients killed no living thing’. βελτίστους…βίον explains in what sense they were ‘near to the gods’. Cf. Saunders 2001, 244–245.

  Robert Fowler primitive life, recreates our cultural history. Underpinning the whole edifice is a teleological philosophy of history and the world in which mythology and its endoxa have a natural place.54 At the same time, Dicaearchus’ use of myth resembles Plato’s, in that the construct implies a general understanding of myth’s characteristics and cognitive capacity; but the crucial difference from Plato is that Dicaearchus works extensively with received myths rather than his own inventions. That is what forges the link with history, as practised for instance by Diodorus. Cultural anthropology had its beginnings among the Sophists in the previous century. They had, in my view, invented the muthos/logos distinction,55 and as Protagoras’ creative rewriting of the Prometheus myth in the eponymous Platonic dialogue shows, Sophistic myth could be used to support an anthropological argument.56 With almost nothing of key works like Protagoras’ On Gods or On the Original State of Things surviving, generalisations are risky. As it stands, however, in the one example we have, in Plato’s dialogue, Protagoras uses an invented myth as a just-so story: human justice is as it is now, because of what our imagined first ancestors or creators did then. Prodicus’ myth of Heracles at the crossroad works in a similar way, as did Critias’ myth of how gods were invented (Sisyphus, TrGF 43 F 19). This procedure is a conscious re-working of poetic practice; but though myth used this way can help us to grasp a truth, in the end it is one intellectual weapon among others. Myth is not here theorised in itself as an essential part of an individual’s cognitive powers, as in Plato, still less as an inchoate insight into cosmology, morality or politics vouchsafed to a poet, as in Aristotle. In the Peripatetic scheme, myth is not neutered and re-applied through rationalisation or allegory; it is rewritten in a new, teleological, narrative universe. It is a work not of demythologisation but of remythologisation.57

 54 The argument as to whether or not Dicaearchus was a ‘primitivist’ (idealising the Golden Age) or a ‘progressivist’ (constructing human history as one of constant progress) or something in between (as I think most probable) does not affect the issue here: whichever solution one adopts, a philosophical analysis underlies it. See Schütrumpf 2001; Ax 2001; and Saunders 2001; the latter seems to me to assume too readily that Theophrastus could not disagree with Aristotle. 55 Fowler 2011, 57–59. 56 The sources for early Greek anthropology are thoroughly discussed by Cole 1967; on his theory about Democritus, see the reviews of Solmsen 1969 and Furley 1970. 57 Theophrastus’ use of myth in On Piety, which offers historical explanations for the origin of sacrifice, is similar; see above n. 46.

Myth(ography), History and the Peripatos  

The influence of the Peripatos on Hellenistic thought was pervasive and profound.58 In our context, the rehabilitation of traditional myth was of great significance. It lent the highest philosophical respectability to the idea that myth may, after all, be true, and gave the green light to multitudinous Hellenistic historians to include myth in their histories, no doubt yielding happily to natural inclination. Diodorus’ Universal History bears obvious similarities to Dicaearchus’ Life of Greece. Both reach back to the beginnings of time; both treat Greeks and barbarians alike; both have ample room for myth. Though Diodorus’ intellectual models and sources do not lead directly to the Peripatos (rather ultimately to Prodicus of Ceos by way of Euhemerus and Hecataeus of Abdera),59 and his mechanical treatment of myth does not reach their philosophical heights, he probably regarded himself as an eminently philosophical historian, extracting the eternal symbolic worth from the received myths. It is very possible too that Diodorus was familiar with Palaephatus, who, as we saw, passed as Peripatetic, and claimed to have travelled to the corners of the earth in pursuit of rationalisations—like Euhemerus to Panchaea. Though Palaephatus’ type of rationalisation is, on the whole, quite different from Diodorus’, there is an overlap in the use of the ‘first inventor’ motif,60 and many individual rationalisations occur in both writers.61 The influence of Dicaearchus’ Life of Greece, and of other Peripatetic writings in which mythical exempla bolstered philosophical and historical theses (such as Theophrastus’ On Piety),62 was, as the citing authorities demonstrate, very wide. Aristotelian collections of material like the Constitutions were available to poets and historians alike in the library of Alexandria. In the general conversation of Hellenistic literati, the collaboration of philosophy, poetry and history  58 With respect to Alexandrian scholarship, see Schironi 2009; Lapini 2015, 1037–1038; Montana 2015, 76–82; Novokhatko 2015, 59. All these scholars refute Pfeiffer (1968, 67–104), but note that Pfeiffer only disputed substantial influence of the Peripatos on the first generation of Alexandrian philology (see p. 95). Peripatetic views on the writing of history have not survived, apart from Aristotle’s famous (and dubious) distinction between history and poetry at Poet. 9. There were works On History by Theophrastus and Praxiphanes, but the title can mean many things and we can say little of their content (Martano/Matelli/Mirhady 2012, 99 n. 13). The idea that the Peripatos developed a notion of ‘tragic history’ has been discarded; see the discussion of Duris at BNJ 76 F 1 (F. Pownall). 59 Henrichs 1984. 60 Stern 1996, 21. 61 Palaeph. 1 ~ Diod. 4.70.1; Palaeph. 3 ~ Diod. 19.53.4; Palaeph. 17 ~ Diod. 5.7.7; Palaeph. 18 ~ Diod. 4.26.2–27.2; Palaeph. 21 ~ Diod. 4.76.2–3; Palaeph. 26 ~ Diod. 4.71.1 (though applied to a different mythical person). Cf. Stern 1996, 14–15. 62 Above, nn. 46 and 57.

  Robert Fowler exemplified by the Peripatos must have been powerfully appealing. No doubt many further links between the Peripatos and Hellenistic historiography remain to be discovered. In the first century BC the great Roman polymath Varro, following Hellenistic precedent, divided history into three periods: the utterly obscure (before the Flood), the mythical (down to the first Olympiad), and the historical.63 The mythical stands here between the knowable and the unknowable, as something in principle susceptible of explanation but not yet explained. ‘If we are to take it as having existed’ is my translation above of Porphyry’s report of Dicaearchus’ stand on the mythical period; ‘if as we must’ might do just as well. Myth’s need to be explained nicely answered a wish to explain it—and still answers, one might think. The gray zone between the unknowable and the knowable may shift location, but there will always be such a zone. Is mythography host or parasite? Mythology then and now is an ineluctable part of how humans apprehend the world, and any overt expression of mythology by individual or group is in a broad sense mythography: it will always be a version of, a response to, a writing of, the myth, wherever that may be thought to reside. The ancient genre of mythography represented by Apollodorus and others is only one manifestation of the instinct to come to grips with mythology, which as we have seen makes itself known in many other genres. The issues are most acute in ancient historiography because of the character of heroic legend in Greek and Roman culture; but one can argue that any attempt to acquire knowledge, in any field, derives from the irresistible and ultimately unwinnable challenge of mythology.64

 63 Varro, HRR fr. 3 ap. Censor. DN 21. See Eratosthenes BNJ 241 F 1c. 64 I am very grateful to Thomas Johansen for his helpful comments.

René Nünlist

Questions of Mythology as Seen through the Eyes of a Hellenistic Critic Scholarship and literary criticism of the Hellenistic era have not fared well in the course of textual transmission. Not a single monograph has survived that is of demonstrably Hellenistic origin. All that is left are fragments, which, to make things worse, have undergone multiple stages of transmission and abbreviation, not to mention the countless fragments that remain anonymous and often cannot be dated at all. An attempt to look at ‘Questions of mythology as seen through the eyes of a Hellenistic critic’ is facing once again the difficult task of reconstructing the large picture on the basis of comparatively few and small fragments. This introductory caveat is anything but new, but it is important to remind ourselves right at the beginning of the fact that the evidence is limited. The subsequent reconstruction therefore cannot be more than tentative. An obvious and recurrent problem is the question to what extent the transmitted fragments can be considered representative of the outlook of a particular critic, let alone of the entire era. In order to reduce this problem, this paper concentrates on the one critic about whose activity we know, relatively speaking, the most: Aristarchus of Samothrace (c. 216–144 BC), who was considered the champion of Alexandrian scholarship in antiquity already.1 This preferred treatment does not intend to suggest that his colleagues have nothing important to say on questions of mythology. The main reason is, to repeat, that in Aristarchus’ case we are in a better position to avoid the hazards of sheer randomness and can actually attempt to reconstruct the larger picture, even though in his case too it will remain tentative and patchy. To what extent his views can be considered representative of the Hellenistic era in general is a question that must be left open for lack of evidence. The fact that we possess only fragments that have undergone multiple stages of excerpting turns out to have another important consequence. This process of condensation and abbreviation has done away with a type of information that would in fact be crucial for this paper.2 The medieval scholia that transmit the excerpts of Aristarchus’ works contain virtually no information of a more general nature. As a result, the sections in which he set out his methodological principles  1 Cf. e.g. Cic. Att. 1.14.3; Hor. Ars P. 450. 2 The transmission as such is complex and its details disputed. For an excellent summary see Matthaios 1999, 36–59. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110672824-004

  René Nünlist are almost entirely lost.3 Even the individual note tends to give no more than the gist of his explanation, thereby omitting, for example, his reasons or the general backdrop against which the particular explanation must be read. Consequently, his methodological principles must be deduced from the practice that transpires from these notes on individual passages. This, in turn, means that, in order to build my argument, it is necessary to quote and discuss a comparatively large number of such notes. At the same time, it should also become clear why a critical mass of relevant notes is crucial to make this kind of argument, which is why the focus of this paper is on Aristarchus as the best-known critic of the Hellenistic era.4 As a final introductory point, let it be said that the present argument largely concentrates on Aristarchus’ studies on the Homeric epics, the Iliad in particular. This selection is again to be understood as a reflection of how unevenly distributed the relevant source material is. It is simply the case that the fragments of Aristarchus’ commentary on the Iliad are far more numerous and informative than the combined evidence of all his other works together (the commentary on the Odyssey included). This focus on Homer does raise the question in what way Aristarchus’ treatment of mythographical issues may have been substantially different when he wrote on other poets and authors. Common sense suggests that this was not the case and that his commentary on, say, Pindar followed essentially the same principles. But the extant evidence is too slim actually to demonstrate this. If it is true that in scholarship there are lumpers and splitters, Aristarchus should be counted among the latter. The fragments of his commentaries unmistakably identify him as a splitter in several thematic areas. With a view to mythological questions specifically, the most frequent and therefore most prominent type of this splitting activity is represented by the numerous notes that set off the specifically Homeric treatment of a particular story (or story element) against that of his successors.5 As is well known, the differentiation between Homer, on the one hand, and his successors, on the other, is a central part of Aristarchus’ methodological toolkit. It is directly related to his often-quoted maxim ‘to elucidate  3 Pfeiffer’s well-known view (1968, 227, 231–232) that Aristarchus neither had nor explicitly mentioned principles of methodology is untenable. 4 The paper focuses on uncovering Aristarchus’ principles. It does not attempt to give a comprehensive collection of his notes on mythology. The best such collection, though not complete, can be found in Lehrs 1882, 174–191, alphabetically by character. Roemer’s supplements (1924, 157–170) must be used with caution because it includes much material that is not demonstrably of Aristarchean origin. 5 See e.g. Roemer 1924, 101.

Questions of Mythology as Seen through the Eyes of a Hellenistic Critic  

Homer from Homer’ (Ὅμηρον ἐξ Ὁμήρου σαφηνίζειν), about which more shall be said shortly. The group of post-Homeric poets is collectively referred to by the unspecific term οἱ νεώτεροι (sc. ποιηταί), that is, the poets who are ‘younger’ (or ‘more recent’) than Homer, or, as the alternative expression has it, οἱ μεθ᾿ Ὅμηρον (ποιηταί), the poets ‘after Homer’.6 The term νεώτεροι is Aristarchus’ shorthand for all the Greek poets except Homer. As such it is directly linked to the principle ‘to elucidate Homer from Homer’ because it is the corollary of a reading strategy that is perhaps best called, with the German term, textimmanent. The principle operates, in other words, on the assumption that each text is its best interpreter. Such a reading of a particular author almost automatically leads to a differentiation between this author and all others. Hence the handy, if somewhat unspecific, term νεώτεροι, which, needless to say, can apply to every conceivable aspect. There is plenty of opportunity to single out the specifically Homeric treatment of a particular phenomenon as compared to that of his successors: morphology, vocabulary, syntax, customs, way of life, worldview, etc. Among the relevant notes on mythology in particular, there are, in my count, at least twenty-two notes on the Iliad alone in which Aristarchus explicitly sets off the treatment of the νεώτεροι (counting as a single instance all the cases where several notes refer to the same story or story element).7 For example, in Homer it is Calchas who guides the Greek fleet to Troy, not the Mysian king Telephus, as is the case with the νεώτεροι.8 According to the Homeric epics, Philoctetes is abandoned on the island of Lemnos, not on a small, uninhabited islet.9 Agamemnon is king of Mycenae, not Argos as with the νεώτεροι, and so on.10 The relevant notes make no principal difference between ‘big’ and ‘small’ topics. They also address questions  6 For examples of οἱ νεώτεροι, see below, for οἱ μεθ᾿ Ὅμηρον (ποιηταί), see schol. A Il. 2.2b Ariston., 24.735a Ariston. (quoted in n. 42). 7 Several of them are listed by Bachmann 1902, 16, who, however, includes examples that do not expressly mention the νεώτεροι (cf. Roemer 1924, 113). A focus on how the story goes ‘according to Homer’ (καθ᾿ Ὅμηρον, e.g. schol. A Il. 7.392 Ariston.) does not specify what the (implied) counterpart is. But the general similarity of such notes is undeniable. 8 ὅτι Κάλχας ἡγήσατο τοῖς Ἕλλησι καὶ οὐχὶ Τήλεφος, ὥς τινες νεώτεροι (schol. A Il. 1.71a Ariston.). ‘ because Calchas led the Greeks , not Telephus, as some neôteroi .’ Cf. Lehrs 1882, 187. My translations of the scholia add in angle brackets what is tacitly understood. 9 ὅτι ἐν Λήμνῳ ἔμενε καταλελειμμένος ὁ Φιλοκτήτης, οἱ δὲ νεώτεροι ἐν νησιδίῳ ἐρήμῳ (schol. A Il. 2.722 Ariston.). ‘ because Philoctetes, abandoned, was staying on Lemnos, the neôteroi on an uninhabited islet.’ Cf. Lehrs 1882, 185; Bachmann 1902, 16. 10 ὅτι ἐν Μυκήναις τὰ Ἀγαμέμνονος βασίλεια, οὐκ ἐν Ἄργει, ὡς οἱ νεώτεροι (schol. A Il. 11.46 Ariston.). ‘ because Agamemnon’s palace is in Mycenae not Argos, as the neôteroi .’ Cf. Lehrs 1882, 176.

  René Nünlist that, to modern taste, might seem ‘beneath the expertise of a serious professional scholar’, for instance, the number of Niobe’s children.11 It is true that some of the notes on the post-Homeric version of a story make it explicit that it actually runs against the one in Homer, as in the following example: ‘the νεώτεροι, contrary to Homer, say that Oedipus, after blinding himself, with the help of guides, arrived in Athens and died there. Here [sc. in Il. 23.679], however, it is agreed that he died in Thebes’.12 The expression ‘contrary to Homer’ (παρὰ τὸν Ὅμηρον) is perhaps indicative of Aristarchus’ disapproval. If so, it is worth emphasising that his critique is implied rather than expressed in plain terms. This is important because he does not always display the same sense of discretion. On other occasions, he is only too happy to engage in open polemics, for example, with his predecessor Zenodotus, whose editorial decisions are repeatedly rejected in unflattering terms.13 One cannot help noticing that Aristarchus’ mythological notes are, by comparison, expressed more moderately. The question therefore arises whether he really means to say in all twenty-two cases that the post-Homeric treatment of the story is a priori inferior to Homer’s.14 His main point, in my view, is to alert the readers to the fact that there is a difference that must not be overlooked. Imagine him saying something like this to his students: ‘you may have heard or read the story that the Greeks first missed Troy and landed in Mysia, with the Mysian king Telephus eventually leading them the way to Troy. In Homer, however, this story is in fact neither narrated nor presupposed.’ Or: ‘you may be familiar with the plot of Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonus. According to Homer, however, Oedipus died not in Athens but in Thebes.’ This type of explanation is also apt to eliminate possible puzzlement among the readers, when the version of the story that they are reading seems to clash with another that they already know. To reduce or, if possible, preclude such confusion is a very important goal of Aristarchus’ commentaries in general. Time and again one can observe how he makes a massive effort to remove all kinds of possible obstacles to a proper understanding of the passage under consideration. And a

 11 The phrase is Cameron’s (2004, 178), summing up a section that includes ancient discussions of the number of Niobe’s children (176–177) but misses Aristarchus’ note on the topic (schol. A Il. 24.604a Ariston.). 12 ὅτι οἱ νεώτεροι παρὰ τὸν Ὅμηρον τὸν Οἰδίπουν φασὶν ἑαυτὸν τυφλώσαντα ποδηγούμενον εἰς Ἀθήνας ἐλθεῖν καὶ ἐκεῖ τελευτῆσαι· νῦν δὲ ὁμόλογον ὅτι ἐν Θήβαις ἐτελεύτησεν (schol. A Il. 23.679a Ariston.). Cf. Lehrs 1882, 104. 13 E.g. schol. A Il. 1.46–7, 1.60, 1.62, 1.100a, 1.129a1, 1.216b (all attributed to Aristonicus). 14 Thus, e.g., Roemer 1892, 674; 1924, passim, e.g. 97, 124; Bachmann 1902, 16 n. 1.

Questions of Mythology as Seen through the Eyes of a Hellenistic Critic  

possible obstacle regularly envisaged by Aristarchus is misunderstanding due to false expectations or assumptions on the reader’s part.15 The possibility that Aristarchus actually prefers the Homeric version of the story should perhaps not altogether be ruled out. But the main purpose of these notes, I submit, is to point out the fact that different versions of the mythological story exist. These differences should not puzzle the reader. Nor should they be overlooked, let alone glossed over by adhering to some kind of master narrative or standard version of the myth. To repeat, Aristarchus is a splitter not a lumper. Multiple versions of essentially the same story do exist, so it is better to be aware of them, which is exactly what his commentary aims at.16 Seen from this angle, the collective term νεώτεροι may perhaps look less odd than at first sight. If we accept that the primary goal of a running commentary such as Aristarchus’ is to help the reader understand and appreciate the text under consideration, it is perhaps less important to spell out in detail who among the νεώτεροι is responsible for this or that mythological variant. Needless to say, Aristarchus could have provided this kind of information, and on occasion he does provide it.17 But after all, he is not writing a comprehensive handbook of mythology, which may have required him to specify the details.18 For the purpose of a commentary on the Iliad, it was enough and saved space simply to differentiate between Homer and all the others. From today’s perspective, this solution is perhaps not entirely satisfactory;19 from his, it apparently was.20 Needless to say, not all ancient commentators followed this model. The commentary on Apollonius of Rhodes by the Augustan scholar Theon, for example, appears to have contained extended lists of variants with source citation.21 It may well be relevant, however, that these sources normally predate Apollonius, whereas the νεώτεροι by definition postdate Homer, who could not have been

 15 Needless to say, this concern is in no way limited to questions of mythology. 16 Contrast, e.g., the Mythographus Homericus, who ‘almost never discusses variants’ (Cameron 2004, 62). 17 E.g., Hesiod in schol. A Il. 14.338b (quoted in n. 39), Euripides in schol. A Il. 16.718a, Antimachus in schol. A Il. 4.439–40 + test. (all attributed to Aristonicus). 18 Source citation is a hallmark of mythographical handbooks; see Cameron 2004, esp. 24–32. 19 Cf. e.g. Roemer 1924, 119, who, as usual in his later works, puts the blame on his punching bag Aristonicus. Previously (e.g. 1892, 667), he shared what still is the prevalent view, namely that Aristonicus is largely to be trusted. 20 Another possible answer to this question is to assume that the shorthand νεώτεροι reflects the abbreviation process, which is, however, impossible either to prove or disprove. 21 Cf. e.g. schol. Ap. Rh. 4.57–58 (= Acusilaus, EGM F 36), with Cameron 2004, 95–96.

  René Nünlist aware of them. It would therefore be interesting to see whether Aristarchus’ commentaries on Pindar or the tragedians were more specific about the source of variants than his commentaries on Homer, not least because he expressly acknowledges that Pindar regularly cuts his own way in mythology.22 In the end, too little of Aristarchus’ commentaries on Pindar and the tragedians is known to answer this question. In this connection, a related aspect is worth considering. Scholiastic corpora are an important source of Bob Fowler’s Early Greek Mythography (2000), as a quick glance at the Index fontium reveals. The quantitative weight of the Homeric scholia, however, is less than perhaps expected on the basis of the corpus’ sheer size, especially when one eliminates the D-scholia, which can regularly be identified with the Mythographus Homericus. To write a commentary on poets other than Homer, especially Pindar, Euripides and Apollonius of Rhodes, appears to have invited more consultation of mythographical handbooks. The fact that there often is a didactic purpose behind Aristarchus’ mythological notes on Homer also transpires from a feature comparable to mentioning variants. For Aristarchus occasionally does more than simply indicate them, for instance, when in addition he explains how this particular variant came into existence. The story of the Greek fleet missing Troy and landing in Mysia is again a case in point. In addition to the note quoted above in n. 8, Aristarchus also suggests that the mythological variant owes its existence to a peculiar understanding of Iliad 1.59–60. These lines come from the scene in which Achilles convenes the Greek army, after the plague sent by Apollo has been raging for nine days. He addresses Agamemnon and says ‘I believe now that straggling backwards we must make our way home’.23 As shall become clear shortly, the crucial point here is the exact meaning of the participle παλιμπλαγχθέντας. The A-scholion on the passage has suffered from severe abbreviation: ‘ refers to the story of the νεώτεροι, that, from this passage [ἐντεῦθεν, lit. from here], they fabricated the story about Mysia.’24 In other words, the present Homeric passage triggered the story about the Greek army landing in Mysia instead of Troy. This type of explanation is generally dear to Aristarchus. Time and again his commentary identifies the specific passage that is apt to prove or disprove a particular point. A unique note on Iliad 5 shows that such a passage was called τόπος  22 ὁ μὲν οὖν Ἀρίσταρχός φησιν ὅτι ἰδιάζει καὶ ἐν τούτοις ὁ Πίνδαρος ὡς καὶ ἐν ἄλλοις (schol. Pi. O. 6.23a). ‘Aristarchus says [sc. in response to the question why Pindar mentions seven pyres for the ‘Seven against Thebes’ although not all seven actually received this kind of funeral] that Pindar again has his own version in this passage as in others too’. 23 Ἀτρεΐδη, νῦν ἄμμε παλιμπλαγχθέντας ὀΐω | ἂψ ἀπονοστήσειν (Il. 1.59–60, trans. Lattimore). 24 πρὸς τὴν τῶν νεωτέρων ἱστορίαν, ὅτι ἐντεῦθεν τὴν κατὰ Μυσίαν ἱστορίαν ἔπλασαν (schol. A Il. 1.59c Ariston.). Cf. Lehrs 1882, 92; Dimpfl 1911, 11.

Questions of Mythology as Seen through the Eyes of a Hellenistic Critic  

διδασκαλικός (lit. ‘the instructive passage’), that is, the passage that provides the key to a particular problem (mythological or other).25 Aristarchus’ commentaries identify scores of τόποι διδασκαλικοί. It goes without saying that this type of explanation is particularly suitable to the format of a running commentary. In its extant, heavily abbreviated form, the A-scholion on Il. 1.59 (quoted above) does not make it easy to understand Aristarchus’ argument. The likeliest reconstruction of his reasoning is this. On several other occasions, he insists that the Homeric meaning of the adverb πάλιν is not ‘again’ (i.e., a second time) but ‘backwards’, that is, it must be understood as an adverb of place (τοπικόν).26 This no doubt is how he took it in the compound παλιμπλαγχθέντας too, as in fact it is rendered in Lattimore’s translation (‘straggling backwards’). The νεώτεροι, however, gave πάλιν the temporal meaning ‘again’ and took the passage as their cue for the ‘invention’ of the Mysia episode.27 If this reconstruction of Aristarchus’ reasoning is correct, it would be an example for a case where he does disapprove of the mythological variant because it is built on a mistaken interpretation of the Homeric passage.28 At any rate, it is a good example for how he identifies a τόπος διδασκαλικός in a mythological context.29 Likewise, he maintains, for example, that the passage where Zeus speaks to Ares and names Hera as his (Ares’) ‘mother’ (Il. 5.892) ‘clearly’ (σαφῶς) shows that, according to Homer, it is she who is Ares’ mother, not Enyo, as ‘some’ (τινές) would have it.30 The term σαφῶς (‘clearly’) is regularly used in order to identify a τόπος διδασκαλικός.31 The same point about Ares’ mother recurs in another scholion that is worth looking at because it allows us to add a few touches to the picture drawn so far. In this note Aristarchus argues that Ares’ epithet Ἐνυάλιος derives from the martial goddess Enyo, as in fact there is a comparable epithet  25 Schol. A Il. 5.857b Ariston.; on the subject in general Nünlist 2012. 26 Schol. A Il. 5.257a Ariston. (= fr. 149A Matthaios + test.). 27 Achilles would then be saying in Iliad 1.59 that the Greeks miss their goal twice, once literally when they land in Mysia, once figuratively when they fail to take Troy. 28 His misgivings also transpire from the phrase (τὴν ἱστορίαν) ἔπλασαν (‘they fabricated the story’). Cf. τὰ παρὰ τοῖς νεωτέροις πλάσματα in schol. A Il. 1.5–6 Ariston. (‘the fabrications with the neôteroi’). The point of reference is the explanation that Zeus’ will in Iliad 1.5 allegedly refers to his attempt to wipe out the human population as narrated in the Cypria (fr. 1 Bernabé). 29 Incidentally, it also shows that Aristarchus’ reading is not strictly textimmanent, on which more below. 30 ἡ διπλῆ, ὅτι σαφῶς Ἥρας ὁ Ἄρης, οὐκ Ἐνυοῦς, ὥς τινες (schol. A Il. 5.892a Ariston.). ‘The diplê (marginal sign), because clearly Ares’ mother is Hera not Enyo, as some .’ Cf. Lehrs 1882, 177. This scholion contains with τινές another term that is likely to strike modern readers as vague (cf. ἔνιοι in n. 61). It may, but need not, have the same referent as νεώτεροι. 31 Roemer 1924, 17; Nünlist 2012, 119.

  René Nünlist Ἀρήϊος derived from Ares himself.32 Such epithets, however, do not indicate a blood relationship and therefore Ἐνυάλιος does not make Ares the son of Enyo, as the νεώτεροι believed.33 Nor is there a separate god by the name of Ἐνυάλιος. Evidently, Aristarchus is not a splitter at all costs. Elsewhere he does argue that Apollo and Paieon are in fact two different divinities according to Homer.34 But Ares and Enyalios are not. At the same time, the opposing view is in this case attributed somewhat more specifically to the Ἀττικοί, which is best understood here as short for ‘the Attic poets’.35 Aristarchus may be thinking of the Attic stage. Sophocles and Aristophanes each have a passage that qualifies.36 There may, of course, have been more that are no longer extant. Interestingly, one can also document the case of the apparent τόπος διδασκαλικός. In the same conversation between Zeus and Ares at the end of Iliad 5, the latter says to Zeus ‘for you brought forth this maniac daughter’ (meaning Athena). According to Aristarchus, this sentence is worth singling out ‘because it (or Homer) gives the impression as if Athena were born from Zeus alone’.37 In other words, the passage might give rise to the idea that Athena’s birth was motherless. The wording of the note makes it clear that the Homeric passage does not actually substantiate this idea and is therefore not a true τόπος διδασκαλικός. In light of the fact that scholia have undergone the abbreviation process mentioned before, it is particularly hazardous to resort to arguments from silence with this type of material. In the present case, however, one might speculate that Aristarchus would have pointed the reader to the appropriate τόπος διδασκαλικός, if

 32 ὅτι ἐπιθετικῶς ἀπὸ τῆς Ἐνυοῦς πολεμικῆς οὔσης ὁ Ἄρης ‘Ἐνυάλιος’, ὡς καὶ ‘Ἀρήϊος’ (cf. Il. 2.698 etc.) τὶς ἀπὸ τοῦ Ἄρεως, οὐχ ὡς οἱ νεώτεροι Ἐνυοῦς υἱὸν οὐδὲ ὡς Ἀττικοὶ διαφέροντα τοῦ Ἄρεως θεόν τινα (schol. A Il. 17.211a Ariston.). ‘ because Ares by means of the epithet Enyalios, derived from warlike Enyo, just as some Arêios, derived from Ares, not, as the neôteroi , as the son of Enyo, nor, as the Attic (sc. poets) , as a god different from Ares.’ Cf. Lehrs 1882, 177. 33 The note does not expressly claim but may well imply that the identification of Enyo as Ares’ mother derived from an erroneous interpretation of the relevant epithet. 34 ὅτι ἰατρὸν τῶν θεῶν ἕτερον παρὰ τὸν Ἀπόλλωνα παραδίδωσι τοῦτον (sc. Paieon) (schol. A Il. 5.899 Ariston. + test.). ‘ because represents this one (sc. Paieon) as doctor of the gods, different from Apollo.’ Cf. Lehrs 1882, 177. 35 Roemer 1924, 113. 36 Soph. Aj. 179; Ar. Pax 457, the former with textual problems, though. 37 ὅτι ἐμφαίνει ὡς ἐκ μόνου τοῦ Διὸς γενομένης τῆς Ἀθηνᾶς (schol. A Il. 5.875a Ariston.).

Questions of Mythology as Seen through the Eyes of a Hellenistic Critic  

such existed. But, as a D-scholion on Il. 8.31 rightly observes, the Homeric epics remain silent about who Athena’s mother is.38 The question of Hephaestus’ parents gives rise to a note comparable to the one quoted in n. 37.39 Aristarchus admits that Iliad 14.338, taken by itself, might be ambiguous, but the case is settled once and for all in Book 8 (line 312) of the Odyssey, which thus functions as the τόπος διδασκαλικός.40 In this particular note, Aristarchus does identify the source of the opposing view (Hesiod, cf. n. 17). Such cases must of course be added to the twenty-two νεώτεροι-notes that have been mentioned above. It is perhaps worth adding in parenthesis that a particular story may be distributed over multiple passages which thus supplement each other. Aristarchus’ example for this is Zeus punishing Hephaestus for his support for Hera, which is narrated in Iliad Books 1 and 15.41 Incidentally, his description is using two terms, καιρός and αἰτία, that belong to the six standard constituent parts of a narrative as defined, for example, in the progymnasmata (Theon progymn. p. 78.17–21 Spengel = p. 38 Patillon): person (πρόσωπον), case (πρᾶγμα), place (τόπος), time (καιρός), mode (τρόπος) and reason (αἰτία), or: who? what? where? when? how? and why?

 38 αἱ τοιαῦται προσφωνήσεις σημαίνουσιν τὴν Ἀθηνᾶν ἐκ μόνου Διὸς γεγεννῆσθαι. καὶ γὰρ οὔτε Ὅμηρος οὔτε Ἡσίοδος μητέρα αὐτῆς παραδίδωσιν (schol. D Il. 8.31, ed. van Thiel). ‘Such addresses [sc. ‘our father’] indicate that Athena was born from Zeus alone. For neither Homer nor Hesiod transmit who her mother was.’ The final part of this scholion is problematic because it makes the same claim for Hesiod, whose Theogony actually identifies Metis as Athena’s mother (886–889). This critic may be thinking of her actual birth from Zeus’ head (924–926). And if he takes Athena addressing Zeus as her father as an indication of her motherless birth, he is using the type of argument that Aristarchus treats as insufficient. Aristarchus himself considers the passage from Iliad 8 spurious (schol. A Il. 8.28 Ariston.), so there is no immediate need for him to explain the implication of Athena addressing Zeus as her father. 39 ὅτι ἐκ Διὸς καὶ Ἥρας καθ᾿ Ὅμηρον ὁ Ἥφαιστος. καὶ νῦν μὲν ἴσως τις ἐρεῖ ἀμφιβολίαν εἶναι, ἐν Ὀδυσσείᾳ (sc. 8.312) δὲ αὐτὸ σαφῶς λέγει ὁ Ἥφαιστος. ὁ δὲ Ἡσίοδος (sc. Th. 927–928) ἐκ μόνης Ἥρας (schol. A Il. 14.338b Ariston.). ‘ because, according to Homer, Hephaestus is the son of Zeus and Hera. And someone will perhaps say that there is an ambiguity in the present passage, in the Odyssey, however, Hephaestus says it clearly. Hesiod, on the other hand, from Hera alone.’ Cf. Lehrs 1882, 183; Roemer 1924, 148. 40 Obviously, the note must be read against the backdrop of Aristarchus’ conviction that the Iliad and the Odyssey are both by Homer (e.g. schol. A Il. 4.354a Ariston.), another thematic domain where he is a lumper and not a splitter. 41 ὅτι ἀπὸ δυεῖν τόποιν συμπεπλήρωκε τὸν μῦθον· νῦν μὲν γάρ, ὅτι ἐρρίφη (sc. Hephaestus), κατὰ δὲ τὴν ὑπόμνησιν τῶν τῆς Ἥρας δεσμῶν (sc. Il. 15.18–30) καὶ τὸν καιρὸν καὶ τὴν αἰτίαν (schol. A Il. 1.591a Ariston.). ‘ because has completed the story from two passages; here that was hurled down , and when reminds Hera of her shackles both the occasion and the reason.’ Cf. Nünlist 2009, 171 with n. 36.

  René Nünlist The note on the Mysia episode quoted in n. 24 posits literary dependence from the Homeric passage, a point Aristarchus is making on other occasions as well. For instance, in her lament over her dead husband Hector at the very end of the Iliad, Andromache envisages two possible futures for their infant son Astyanax. Either he shall follow her into slavery or be hurled down from the wall by a Greek (Il. 24.732–735). To Aristarchus’ mind, the second option envisaged by Andromache induced the post-Homeric poets actually to incorporate such a scene into their poems.42 Earlier in the epic, in the famous farewell scene of Book 6, Hector draws a dark picture of what might happen to Andromache after his death. Led into slavery by the Greeks, she shall perform menial tasks such as weaving or carrying water (Il. 6.454–458). Hector’s concern is real and no doubt justified, but the actual tasks, weaving or carrying water, are to be understood exempli gratia and are thus to a certain extent contingent. The latter task is, however, taken literally by the νεώτεροι when they have Andromache carry water in their poems.43 The common denominator of these notes seems to be that what in Homer is a mere idea of how the story might continue is elevated to the level of ‘narrative fact’ by his successors in that they actually present it in their poems after taking their cue from Homer. Modern readers may be struck by the fact that Aristarchus does not seem to consider the possibility that these scenes already belonged to the narrative tradition of the larger Trojan myth. Why not? As shall become clear towards the end of this paper, the answer to this difficult question is not that he generally ignored the pre-Homeric tradition. Another note on literary dependence adds a further aspect. It is dealing with Ajax and Odysseus rescuing the dead body of Patroclus in Iliad 17. When Aristarchus compares this rescue with that of Achilles’ body by the same two heroes (presumably in the cyclic epics), he appears to recognise a general similarity of the underlying motif: one rescue scene is moulded after the other.44 This type of

 42 ὅτι ἐντεῦθεν κινηθέντες οἱ μεθ᾿ Ὅμηρον ποιηταὶ ῥιπτόμενον κατὰ τοῦ τείχους ὑπὸ τῶν Ἑλλήνων εἰσάγουσι τὸν Ἀστυάνακτα (schol. A Il. 24.735a Ariston.). ‘ because, instigated by this passage, the post-Homeric poets represent Astyanax as being hurled from the wall by the Greeks.’ Cf. Lehrs 1882, 177. 43 ὅτι κατὰ τὸ προστυχὸν οὕτως εἰπόντος Ὁμήρου οἱ νεώτεροι τῷ ὄντι ὑδροφοροῦσαν εἰσάγουσιν αὐτήν (sc. Andromache) (schol. A Il. 6.457a Ariston. = trag. adesp. F *40b, TrGF II.31). ‘ because, although Homer mentions this at random [i.e., with no particular purpose], the neôteroi represent her [sc. Andromache] as actually carrying water.’ Cf. Lehrs 1882, 176–177; Nünlist 2009, 183. The term εἰσάγουσιν may, but need not, mean that Aristarchus is thinking of tragedy: see Nünlist 2009, 85 n. 43 (with bibl.), 348. 44 ὅτι ἐντεῦθεν τοῖς νεωτέροις ὁ βασταζόμενος Ἀχιλλεὺς ὑπ᾿ Αἴαντος, ὑπερασπίζων δὲ Ὀδυσσεὺς παρῆκται. εἰ δὲ Ὅμηρος ἔγραφε τὸν Ἀχιλλέως θάνατον, οὐκ ἂν ἐποίησε τὸν νεκρὸν ὑπ᾿

Questions of Mythology as Seen through the Eyes of a Hellenistic Critic  

argument is known today especially from scholars of the so-called neo-analytical school. The main difference is that the neo-analysts tend to turn around the dependence and put Homer on the receiving side.45 Not so Aristarchus, who even argues that Homer would have distributed the tasks differently. What he means to say is that, in a Homeric version, Odysseus would be carrying the body of Achilles and Ajax fighting the Trojans. This distribution of tasks, which can actually be found in Ovid’s Metamorphoses (13.284), is probably preferred because it better reflects the relative fighting strength of the two heroes, since Ajax is second to none but Achilles (Il. 2.768–769). In the notes seen so far, Aristarchus applies his splitting activity to post-Homeric departures from the Homeric version of the story. There is one type of difference that deserves particular attention. One might call it ‘filling the gap’, or from Aristarchus’ point of view, ‘do not fill the gap’.46 As is well known, the Homeric account of the Trojan and other myths contains quite a few gaps. Some are truly remarkable. For instance, there is no reference in Homer to the sacrifice of Iphigenia. Others are less noticeable, for example, the dog in the underworld does not receive a name, while other sources call him Cerberus. Both these examples are among the ones singled out by Aristarchus.47 This means, among other things, that it made no fundamental difference to him whether the gap was striking or hardly noticeable at all (cf. above on the number of Niobe’s children). Either way readers should be alerted to it. His approach appears to be positivist in the best sense of the word: if a particular story element is not found in Homer, readers should take note of it, but refrain from filling the gap by resorting to fuller versions of the story.48  Αἴαντος βασταζόμενον, ὡς οἱ νεώτεροι (schol. A Il. 17.719 Ariston.). ‘ because, based on this passage, with the neôteroi Achilles (sc. his corpse) is represented as being carried by Ajax and Odysseus as defending . If Homer were to write about Achilles’ death, he would not have composed with the body carried by Ajax, as the neôteroi .’ Cf. Lehrs 1882, 174; Nünlist 2009, 259. 45 Edwards 1991, 132, with bibl. 46 Cf. Roemer 1924, 125–126. 47 Iphigenia: schol. A Il. 9.145a Ariston.; Lehrs 1882, 176; Cerberus: schol. A Il. 8.368 Ariston.; Lehrs 1882, 179; Emerson 1881, 17; in both cases expressly contrasting the treatment of the νεώτεροι. For other story elements ‘unknown’ to Homer see e.g. (all attributed to Aristonicus) schol. A Il. 2.106a (enmity between Atreus and Thyestes), 6.183a (Pegasus), 7.392 (+ test., Helen’s marriage to Theseus), 9.489a (Chiron educating Achilles), 16.222b (+ test., Thetis leaving Peleus), 18.117a (Heracles’ deification). Cf. also schol. Eur. Med. 167 (Apsyrtos not mentioned by name), which is in the spirit of Aristarchus; Roemer 1892, 673. 48 See Bachmann 1902, 16. Mythographers are particularly prone to fill the gaps in poetic versions of a story: see Cameron 2004, e.g. 70, 311; Fowler tellingly speaks of ‘mythographical horror

  René Nünlist This is one of the rare exceptions where, at least in my view, we still possess a snippet of Aristarchus’ methodological statement on the issue.49 Admittedly, the note in question normally serves a different purpose in modern scholarship because it has long been considered the backbone of Aristarchus’ allegedly firm opposition to allegorical interpretation.50 But the relevant D-scholion (quoted in n. 50) is open to a much broader interpretation. To understand its second part in decidedly anti-allegorical terms depends on the reading of Eustathius, who inserted the crucial word ἀλληγορικῶς (‘without busying themselves in an allegorical way...’). This insertion is misleading and owed to Eustathius’ own terminology, where the term μυθικῶς would automatically evoke its opposite ἀλληγορικῶς. The clause ‘without busying themselves about anything outside of the things said by the poet’ is, however, best taken as another way of advocating the general principle ‘to elucidate Homer from Homer’ and not to be narrowed down with Eustathius to a specifically anti-allegorical statement. It is true that allegorical interpretation in the style of, say, Heraclitus (the allegorist) cannot be found in Aristarchus’ commentary. Some notes, however, do refer to ἀλληγορία (and cognates).51 To complicate things even further, it is not clear whether these notes actually reflect Aristarchus’ own wording; and ἀλληγορία probably has the meaning ‘string of metaphors’, which is well attested in ancient rhetoric. The combined evidence on the issue appears to be complex and not to allow for simple answers. At the very least, this should make us pause before we picture Aristarchus as a fervent opponent of allegorical interpretation. Luckily, in order to comprehend his position on gaps in mythological stories it is not necessary to agree with how I interpret his methodological statement in schol. D Il. 5.385. The relevant notes on gaps in the Homeric account by themselves suffice to demonstrate that Aristarchus is opposed to filling these gaps, a temptation to which scores of critics—ancient and modern—have succumbed again and again (cf. n. 48). Aristarchus, for his part, clearly did not like it.

 vacui’ (EGM II.293) and ‘the usual game…of filling the gap’ (EGM II.444). This is not to say, however, that Aristarchus is primarily concerned with mythographers. 49 This paragraph summarises my argument in Nünlist 2011, with bibl., which I maintain pace Bouchard 2016: 85–99. 50 Ἀρίσταρχος ἀξιοῖ ‘τὰ φραζόμενα ὑπὸ τοῦ ποιητοῦ μυθικώτερον ἐκδέχεσθαι κατὰ τὴν ποιητικὴν ἐξουσίαν, μηδὲν ἔξω τῶν φραζομένων ὑπὸ τοῦ ποιητοῦ περιεργαζομένους’ (schol. D Il. 5.385). ‘Aristarchus demands “that accept the things said by the poet in a more mythical way in accordance with his poetic licence, without busying themselves about anything outside of the things said by the poet”’. 51 Schol. A Il. 8.195a Ariston., 13.359a Ariston., with Nünlist 2011, 113–117.

Questions of Mythology as Seen through the Eyes of a Hellenistic Critic  

Occasionally, he even goes so far as to suspect the authenticity of this or that line because he believes that its purpose is to fill a gap in Homer’s mythology. Arguably the best-known example is the beauty contest of the three goddesses with the subsequent judgement by Paris. According to Aristarchus, Homer is unaware of the judgement, and the sole reference to it, Iliad 24.29–30, is an interpolation.52 If this view of Paris’ judgement strikes us as rash, we should perhaps recall that Aristarchus is in good company. The latest editor of the Iliad, Martin West, is of the same opinion.53 It is true that Aristarchus can be a man of firm beliefs, but one must not overlook the numerous instances that display a healthy sense of proportion, for example, by withholding judgement. Regarding mythology in particular, a case in point is a note on Clytemnestra, more specifically the question whether or not it was Orestes who killed her (sc. according to the Homeric epics). To Aristarchus’ mind, this question cannot be decided because the matter is not clear (ἄδηλον).54 As the second part of the note may indicate, he is perhaps inclined to believe that, after all, the Homeric epics do not presuppose that Orestes killed his mother. This view is based on an interesting analogy from the comparable case of Alcmaeon killing his mother Eriphyle, an element of the story which has left no trace in the Homeric epics. In this particular instance, it is at least conceivable that moral considerations come into play, since matricide counts among the worst crimes. Moral concerns almost certainly are at stake when Aristarchus emphatically denies that the Homeric relationship of Achilles and Patroclus has any erotic undertones.55

 52 Schol. A Il. 24.25–30 Ariston., cf. 4.32a Ariston. (+ test.); Lehrs 1882, 185; Bachmann 1902, 15. The mythological argument against the authenticity is only one among several others. 53 See West’s app. crit., with ref. to other ancient doubts about the authenticity: [Plut.] Vit. Hom. 1.6; schol. Eur. Tro. 975. 54 ὁ δὲ Ἀρίσταρχός φησιν ὅτι διὰ τούτων παρυποφαίνεται ὅτι συναπώλετο Αἰγίσθῳ Κλυταιμνήστρα. τὸ δὲ εἰ καὶ ὑπὸ Ὀρέστου, ἄδηλον εἶναι· οὐδὲ γὰρ τὰ περὶ τὴν Ἐριφύλην φησὶν εἰδέναι αὐτόν (schol. Od. 3.309a, ed. Pontani). ‘Aristarchus says that these passages implicitly show that Clytemnestra died together with Aegisthus; whether by the hand of Orestes is not clear. For he says that does not know the events around Eriphyle [i.e., that Alcmaeon killed her] either’. Cf. Lehrs 1882, 181; Bachmann 1902, 16. No such doubts are expressed in schol. Od. 1.299a (Homer does not know Orestes’ matricide), which may therefore not represent Aristarchus’ view or curtail it. For Alcmaeon see also schol. Od. 15.248. 55 Schol. A Il. 16.97–100a Ariston., sim. b; cf. Lehrs 1882, 185, who points out that the implicit target are the νεώτεροι, e.g., Aeschylus (frr. 134a–6 Radt). Cf. the argument that Ganymedes was not abducted by Zeus for love, but by the other gods because his beauty made him a perfect waiter (schol. A Il. 20.234a Ariston.).

  René Nünlist So far this paper has drawn the picture of a positivist reader of Homeric myths who is keen to maintain the difference between what is in Homer and what is not. It is therefore anything but unexpected that he might have a bone to pick with some mythographers (cf. n. 48). And at least one fragment is extant that preserves the traces of such a dispute. The argument is triggered by one of Achilles’ captains, Menesthius by name, more specifically, by his genealogy, which raises a couple of questions.56 The relevant passage from Iliad 16 describes the preparations of the Myrmidons, whom Patroclus is about to lead into battle. The first ‘battalion was led by Menesthios…, son of Spercheios…born of the daughter of Peleus, Polydore the lovely, to unremitting Spercheios, when a woman lay with an immortal’.57 If Polydora is the daughter of Peleus, does this make her Achilles’ sister? For the mythographer Pherecydes of Athens the answer is yes. Aristarchus is less sure about this, and it is important to take note of the specific wording. ‘ because Pherecydes says Polydora is Achilles’ sister. It is, however, impossible to corroborate (διαβεβαιώσασθαι) this according to Homer. It is therefore more plausible that, just as with other characters, this is a case of homonymy [i.e., this is another Peleus], because would have given an indication of the kinship with Achilles’.58 In his recent commentary on this fragment, Bob Fowler writes that ‘the argument is plainly unsound’, and he may well be right.59 It is nevertheless worth observing Aristarchus’ method. As is his custom, he scrutinises the Homeric text for a particular question and correctly observes that the Homeric epics do not contain positive evidence that Polydora is in fact Achilles’ sister. Nor do they indicate that Menesthius is his nephew.60 The

 56 As is well known, ‘names and genealogies…are a main component of Greek mythography’ (Henrichs 1987, 248), not least because the poetic sources often provide evidence that is contradictory or incomplete (e.g. EGM II passim). An accurate family tree can also help to establish the correct chronological sequence of events (best example: schol. A Il. 6.199 Ariston., with Erbse’s note). For Aristarchus’ concern about correct chronology and possible anachronisms in general, see Schmidt 1976. 57 τῆς μὲν ἰῆς στιχὸς ἦρχε Μενέσθιος…υἱὸς Σπερχειοῖο…ὃν τέκε Πηλῆος θυγάτηρ, καλὴ Πολυδώρη, | Σπερχειῷ ἀκάμαντι, γυνὴ θεῷ εὐνηθεῖσα (Il. 16.173–176, trans. Lattimore). 58 ὅτι Φερεκύδης (FGrHist 3 F 61a = EGM F 61a) τὴν Πολυδώραν φησὶν ἀδελφὴν Ἀχιλλέως. οὐκ ἔστι δὲ καθ᾿ Ὅμηρον διαβεβαιώσασθαι. πιθανότερον οὖν ὁμωνυμίαν εἶναι, ὥσπερ καὶ ἐπ᾿ ἄλλων, ἐπεὶ προσέθηκεν ἂν τεκμήριον τῆς πρὸς Ἀχιλλέα συγγενείας (schol. A Il. 16.175b Ariston.). Cf. Lehrs 1882, 174. For the concluding argument cf. schol. A Il. 12.394a Ariston.: if this Thestor were the same as Calchas’ father (Il. 1.69), Homer would have made it clear. 59 EGM II.444. 60 The family ties of the river god Spercheius, whom Achilles addresses in Iliad 23.144, is a different matter because a certain Borus counts as Menesthius’ human father (Il. 16.177–178).

Questions of Mythology as Seen through the Eyes of a Hellenistic Critic  

fact that the Homeric text does not spell out the specifics of the kinship encourages Aristarchus to posit another Peleus. This solution may not be to everybody’s liking and is perhaps contradicting Ockham’s razor (though Hellanicus of Lesbos might have agreed with Aristarchus). At any rate, Aristarchus is right to point out that Pherecydes’ view is, after all, an inference. In making this inference, Pherecydes yields to the widespread temptation to tidy up the larger picture of Homeric mythology. In the case of Polydora, he spells out a relationship that is left implicit or, according to Aristarchus, not there at all. This case thus provides another good example of Aristarchus’ reluctance to fill the gaps in the Homeric account. It has already been mentioned that Aristarchus is no pedant. There is enough evidence to demonstrate that he does not stubbornly stick to his guns and push his principles through no matter what. Instead he regularly operates with a good sense of proportion. To give a first example that falls into the realm of mythology, his note on Priam’s reasons for treating Aeneas with some suspicion is built on an inference not so very different from the one by Pherecydes on Polydora. While the Homeric epics insinuate a certain tension between Priam and Aeneas, its exact nature is never openly spelled out, which inevitably led critics to suggest answers. Aristarchus takes the fact that (in Poseidon’s words) Aeneas is guiltless and suffers for no reason ‘for the sake of the distress of others’ (ἕνεκ᾿ ἀλλοτρίων ἀχέων, Il. 20.298) as an indication that Aeneas is not fighting his own war, which in turn is seen as the reason for Priam’s suspicion.61 This explanation is, obviously, an inference. On a strictly positivist reading, cause and nature of the tension must remain open. A second type of example goes in a different direction. As seen above, Aristarchus regularly points out and thus implicitly accepts that multiple versions of a story exist. There is, however, a limit to this freedom. For instance, Andromache’s instruction that Hector protect those parts of the wall that have come under attack by the Greeks (Il. 6.433–439) is suspect, because it is a ψεῦδος, which is not a lie, but an inaccuracy; it contradicts the ‘facts’ of the story.62 Likewise, in an argument over the correct reading in a Pindaric ode, one is ruled out because this  61 ὅτι Αἰνείας οὐ συνεπεγράφη τῷ τῶν Πριαμιδῶν πολέμῳ· διὸ καὶ ὁ Πρίαμος ὑπώπτευεν αὐτόν, οὐχ ὡς ἔνιοί φασιν, ὅτι ἐπετίθετο τῇ βασιλείᾳ (schol. A Il. 20.298 Ariston.). ‘ because Aeneas was not enlisted in the war of the Priamids. This is why Priam was suspicious of him, not, as some say, because he was after the kingship.’ Cf. Lehrs 1882, 175. 62 …καὶ ψεῦδος περιέχουσιν· οὐ γὰρ παρέδωκεν εὐεπίδρομον τὸ τεῖχος κατὰ τοῦτο τὸ μέρος, οὐδ᾿ οὕτως ἐστὶ πλησίον ἡ μάχη τοῦ τείχους (schol. A Il. 6.433–9 Ariston.). ‘[The lines are suspect:] ... and they contain an inaccuracy. For has not described the wall as assailable in this area, nor is the battle so close to the wall.’ For ψεῦδος as ‘error of (narrative) fact’ see schol. A Il. 2.164a1, 2.741, 4.407a, etc. (all attributed to Aristonicus).

  René Nünlist is not how the story goes.63 Apparently, some mythological variants are to be rejected as false.64 Unfortunately, the extant evidence does not allow us to determine in which cases Aristarchus felt the need to overrule his general principles. The impression is that he judged each case on its merits. At any rate, it is clear that he was generally open to allowing for exceptions. The crucial factor here is the concept of the ἅπαξ λεγόμενον (‘attested once’), which for Aristarchus is by no means a matter merely of vocabulary, as it normally is in modern scholarship. He expressly subscribes to the notion that the Homeric epics contain numerous ἅπαξ λεγόμενα of all kinds (schol. A Il. 3.54a Ariston.). Hence his general acceptance of exceptions. Read against this backdrop, it is less surprising that he occasionally departs from his principle ‘to elucidate Homer from Homer’.65 Within the domain of mythology, arguably the most prominent example concerns the physical appearance of the so-called Molione. Aristarchus’ view that they ought to be pictured as Siamese twins is expressly based on Hesiod, who is called on as a witness in this matter.66 Examples like these should not induce us to criticise Aristarchus for methodological inconsistency. If a problem can be solved ἐξ Ὁμήρου, he is more than happy to do so. If not, why stop there instead of resorting to evidence that is at least second best? The same note on the Molione shows Aristarchus overrule his methodological principles in another respect. The elaborate reconstruction of how the single Nestor, in spite of his objections, ended up competing with the two Molione in a

 63 ὁ μὲν Ἀρίσταρχος ἀξιοῖ γράφειν ‘ἥμενον’, ἀκολούθως τῇ ἐν τοῖς Κυπρίοις (fr. 15 Bernabé) λεγομένῃ ἱστορίᾳ· ὁ γὰρ τὰ Κύπρια συγγράψας φησὶ τὸν Κάστορα ἐν τῇ δρυῒ κρυφθέντα ὀφθῆναι ὑπὸ Λυγκέως (schol. Pi. N. 10.114a). ‘Aristarchus postulates ἥμενον [sc. instead of ἥμενος] be written, following the story as it is told in the Cypria. For the author of the Cypria says that Castor is hiding in the tree and discovered by Lynceus’ (whereas with the nominative ἥμενος Lynceus himself would be ‘sitting’ in the tree). In other scholiastic corpora, esp. on tragedy, departure from the traditional myth is regularly called παρ(ὰ τὴν) ἱστορίαν: see Nünlist 2009, 178 with bibl. 64 Interestingly, Aristarchus uses the Cypria in order to defend a particular reading in Pindar. 65 The argument is developed at greater length in Nünlist 2015. 66 Ἀρίσταρχος δὲ διδύμους ἀκούει οὐχ οὕτως ὡς ἡμεῖς ἐν τῇ συνηθείᾳ νοοῦμεν, οἷοι ἦσαν καὶ οἱ Διόσκουροι, ἀλλὰ τοὺς διφυεῖς, δύο ἔχοντες σώματα, Ἡσιόδῳ (fr. 18 M–W) μάρτυρι χρώμενος, καὶ τοὺς συμπεφυκότας ἀλλήλοις (schol. A Il. 23.638–42 Ariston.). ‘Aristarchus understands didumoi not in the way we do in ordinary speech [i.e., as “twins”], just as the Dioscuri were , but as “twofold”, having two bodies, taking Hesiod as his witness, and being grown together [i.e., Siamese twins].’ Emerson 1881, 3 rightly pointed out that such notes contradict Aristarchus’ well-known principle; see also Roemer 1924, 131.

Questions of Mythology as Seen through the Eyes of a Hellenistic Critic  

chariot race easily qualifies as an example of ‘filling the gap’ because it has little support in the Homeric text.67 The notion that students of mythology should take into account representations in visual art is a modern commonplace. And it is nice that Aristarchus’ interest in this matter can be documented too. The evidence is slim and therefore all the more precious. Ancient artists were wont to represent Odysseus with a felt cap on his head. According to Aristarchus, they thus turned a standard feature of Homeric weaponry into an attribute that was typical of Odysseus as an individual.68 The note about Andromache carrying water (n. 43) comes to mind. In the present case, however, Aristarchus is addressing the relationship between literature and visual arts. The note contains at least a hint of what can be found in much more detail in a modern handbook such as the Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae (LIMC).69 The present paper has so far showed Aristarchus dealing, in essence, with the differences between Homer and his successors.70 It is therefore high time to fulfil the promise to present evidence that he did in fact look in the opposite temporal direction too. The starting-point is a seemingly trivial note which argues that etymologically transparent names such as Harmonides (in the family of a shipbuilder) demonstrate that Homer is an ὀνοματοθετικός (lit. ‘a giver of  67 οὕτως γὰρ [i.e. understanding δίδυμοι as Siamese twins] καὶ τὸ λεγόμενον ἐπ᾿ αὐτῶν σαφηνίζεσθαι ἄριστα· ἀναστάντος γὰρ δὴ τοῦ Νέστορος ἐπὶ τὸν ἀγῶνα καὶ αὐτοὺς ἀναστῆναι· εἶτα τὸν μὲν Νέστορα λέγειν ὡς οὐ δίκαιοι εἶεν ἀγωνίζεσθαι παρηλλαγμένοι τὴν φύσιν ὄντες· ὁ δὲ δῆμος συναγωνίζοιτο αὐτοῖς καὶ λέγοι ὡς εἶεν εἷς ἀμφότεροι καὶ διὰ τοῦτο ὀφείλοιεν ἑνὸς ἐπιβαίνειν ἅρματος ἅτε δὴ συμπεφυκότες, καὶ κρατοῖέν γε οἱ πολλοί· καὶ τοῦτο εἶναι τὸ ‘πλήθει πρόσθε βαλόντες’ (Il. 23.639) (schol. A Il. 23.638–42 Ariston.). ‘In so doing, , what is said about them [sc. the Molione] can best be explained. For when Nestor got up for the race, they got up too. Then Nestor said it was unfair for them to compete, given their extraordinary anatomy. The crowd, however, was on their side and said that the two were one and therefore bound to mount a single chariot, since they had grown together; and the masses prevailed. And this is “prevailing thanks to the masses”.’ 68 ὅτι τὸ κοινὸν καὶ συμβεβηκὸς ταῖς περικεφαλαίαις εἰπόντος τοῦ ποιητοῦ, ζωγράφοι καὶ πλάσται πιλίον ἐπέθεσαν τῷ Ὀδυσσεῖ (schol. A Il. 10.265a Ariston.). ‘ because, while Homer speaks of the felt cap as a common and contingent feature of helmets , painters and sculptors attributed it to Odysseus . Cf. Lehrs 1882, 184. 69 Aristarchus’ interest in visual art can also be illustrated with his note on how statues of Athena looked in Homeric times (schol. A Il. 6.92a Ariston.), which, however, has no bearing on mythological questions. Moreover, the note is triggered by a semantic question and does not prove interest in visual art for its own sake. 70 Bachmann 1902, 14 rightly observes that among the notes on mythological questions they represent the majority.

  René Nünlist names’, schol. A Il. 5.60a Ariston.). The implication obviously is that he invented the respective characters,71 which in turn means that other characters are not his invention. Instead they form part of the tradition that precedes him. The point about the tradition is expressly made on a few occasions. An interesting example comes from his commentary on Iliad 11. In the Homeric passage, the Trojan Socus rudely addresses Odysseus, calling him ‘insatiable of guile’ (δόλων ἆτε, Il. 11.430). To Aristarchus’ mind, this departure from the generally positive characterisation that Odysseus receives in the Iliad is to be explained as Homer’s nod in the direction of the tradition, where Odysseus’ reputation is more problematic.72 This is a remarkable explanation. Aristarchus could have made use of another type of explanation that is dear to him. It would have been easy to argue that a warrior who has just seen his brother die is unlikely to praise the killer. This type of solution, later dubbed λύσις ἐκ τοῦ προσώπου (lit. ‘solution from the character [speaking]’), is regularly put to use in Aristarchus’ commentaries.73 In the present case, however, he decides to bring in the tradition, thereby also suggesting that Homer improved Odysseus’ overall reputation. In addition, it is also possible to document his interest in a related question that is by no means foreign to modern Homerists either: how much prior knowledge did the audience bring to a performance of the Homeric epics? Aristarchus addresses this question, for example, when he explains the two names of the Trojan river god, Xanthus and Scamander. Since Homer makes no effort to explain at an early stage that Xanthus and Scamander actually refer to one and the same, he must be addressing an audience that is already in the know (πρὸς εἰδότας).74 A very similar point is made in a related note which argues that the two names must have been handed down by the tradition (παραδεδομένα) and not invented by Homer himself (οὐκ αὐτὸς πλάσσων).75 The flip side of such notes are the ones that explain why a particular story element must be mentioned, lest

 71 Bachmann 1902, 18. 72 ὅτι ἐμφαίνει τὸν Ὀδυσσέα ἐξ ἱστορίας παρειληφὼς δόλιον καὶ ἐπὶ τούτῳ διαβεβλημένον (schol. A Il. 11.430b Ariston.). ‘ because lets it transpire that he has taken Odysseus from myth as guileful and discredited for it.’ Cf. Roemer 1892, 672; 1924, 134. 73 On the topic see Nünlist 2009, ch. 4, with bibl. 74 ὅτι μὴ προσυστήσας, εἰ ὁ Σκάμανδρος Ξάνθος καλεῖται, ὡς πρὸς εἰδότας κέχρηται τῷ ὀνόματι (schol. A Il. 14.434a Ariston.). ‘ because , not having established in advance that Scamander is called Xanthus, makes use of the name as if to an audience that knows it .’ Cf. Roemer 1924, 135. 75 Schol. A Il. 20.40b1 Ariston. Cf. Bachmann 1902, 13; Roemer 1924, 135. For the tradition see also schol. AT Il. 20.147a Ariston.

Questions of Mythology as Seen through the Eyes of a Hellenistic Critic  

the audience be puzzled (in this particular case, why Zeus owed Thetis a favour76). If the audience needs to be told such things, this means that they are not part of the tradition and thus, by implication, Homer’s invention. Taken together, the relevant notes prove that it is perfectly possible for Aristarchus to argue with a view to the pre-Homeric tradition. Yet, in the case of Astyanax being hurled down from the wall (n. 42) and Andromache carrying water (n. 43), this tradition is not called into play. Why this is not the case is hard to say and a matter of speculation. Equally difficult is the question what Aristarchus’ evidence for the pre-Homeric tradition actually was. A reader of his commentary cannot help noticing, however, that the references to the tradition remain comparatively vague and unspecific, especially when compared to the notes on the νεώτεροι. It seems therefore unlikely that Aristarchus had more to go by than modern scholars, namely the text of the Homeric epics, which itself points to the tradition it is built on. In other words, his evidence for the pre-Homeric tradition is likely to have been inferential. The point has already been made above that the convoluted textual transmission of scholia generally advises against making arguments from silence. This said, it is nevertheless worth mentioning that the extant fragments of Aristarchus’ commentaries do not point to an inclination to ‘trim the uncontrolled growth’ of (Homeric) myths. Just as there is no allegorical explanation in the style of Heraclitus, there is little, if any, rationalisation.77 As a general rule, Aristarchus is prepared to leave Homer’s myths untouched. His interpretations and textual decisions can of course affect them; but there is no indication that he had fundamental qualms about the ‘veracity’ of Homer’s myths.78 In his commen-

 76 ὅτι εἰ μὴ προϊστόρησεν τὰ περὶ τῶν δεσμῶν, ἐφ᾿ ὧν ἡ Θέτις ἐβοήθησεν αὐτῷ, ἐζητοῦμεν ἄν, τί αὐτὸν ὤνησεν (schol. A Il. 1.504a Ariston.). ‘ because if had not mentioned in advance the story about the shackles [i.e., when the gods attempted to bind Zeus], on which occasion Thetis came to his rescue, we would be wondering in what way she helped him.’ 77 When Aristarchus emphasises, for example, that, in the Homeric epics, Ajax is not invulnerable (schol. A Il. 14.406a Ariston., schol. A Il. 23.822 Ariston.), the ‘rationalisation’ is that of Homer because, unlike other early Greek epic poems, Homer’s avoid wonder weapons and the like (Griffin 1977). 78 For instance, Aristarchus does not doubt that Athena personally assists Diomedes in Iliad 5; he merely considers it ‘ludicrous’ (γελοῖος) that the axle groans under her weight when she steps onto his chariot (schol. A Il. 5.838–839 Ariston.).

  René Nünlist taries Aristarchus regularly discusses the specifically poetic character of the Homeric epics and other poems.79 In all likelihood he took to heart Aristotle’s insight that poetry has its own rules (Poet. 1460b13–15). Given his strong interest in chronological questions, notably the potential risk of anachronistic distortions, Aristarchus repeatedly alerts the users of his commentaries to the fact that the Homeric epics represent a bygone world. He thus highlights, for instance, the simplicity of Homeric life.80 An important lesson to be drawn from his notes is that readers must not equate Homer’s world with their own. The epics must be read against the backdrop of their date of origin, which is, in essence, a historicist way of reading. Recognition of a sizeable temporal gap between ‘then’ and ‘now’ helps (Hellenistic) readers to swallow things that otherwise they might find incredible and therefore not plausible. Put more generally, the gap helps to understand ‘odd’ features (morphologically, semantically, conceptually, etc.). But there is no indication that for Aristarchus the temporal gap is so wide that it cannot be bridged by careful analysis of the evidence.81 Two interrelated factors, at least, speak against forcing Aristarchus’ views on questions of mythology into the strait jacket of a unifying and neat conclusion. First, he is, as seen, prepared generally to allow for exceptions. Second, the above argument largely rests on individual notes that need not always be representative of his general outlook. The fewer notes there are on a given topic, the higher the risk of misjudging or over-interpreting their relevance for the larger picture. This said, this chapter should nevertheless have given an idea of the principles that guide Aristarchus when he deals with questions of mythology:82 (1) he differentiates between various versions of a given mythological story, most often by separating the Homeric from the post-Homeric variant of the story. In so doing, he need not a priori give preference to Homer’s version over that of the successors. (2) He is a positivist reader in the best sense of the word in that he demands that readers accept the version that they find in a given text (e.g. Homer) and refrain from filling gaps or the like by making recourse to other sources of the same story.  79 Topics include poetic diction (register, imagery, epithets, synonym doubling, etc.), plot structure, poetic licence, etc. 80 Schmidt (1976, 159–164). A likely purpose of such notes is to assuage the concerns of the Hellenistic jeunesse dorée, who were expected to read Homer as a Fürstenspiegel of sorts and perhaps not thrilled by the prospect of, say, herding their own cattle (schol. Od. 13.221 = p. 121 Carnuth). 81 Contrast, e.g., the view of Diodorus that the legends of old are inconsistent and obscure (see Fowler and Marincola, in this volume). 82 Needless to say, these principles in general also apply to his work on topics other than mythology.

Questions of Mythology as Seen through the Eyes of a Hellenistic Critic  

In other words, he generally advocates a reading that is textimmanent. (3) His arguments must regularly be read in light of the fact that he is writing a running commentary on a specific text, which also means that the notes often display a noticeably didactic purpose. Put differently, his primary focus is on elucidating the text under consideration, not on, say, the mythological variants as such, let alone the mythographical picture at large. (4) When dealing with questions of mythology he—at least occasionally—looks at representations in visual art too. (5) Likewise, he also takes into account the pre-Homeric tradition.

John Marincola

Diodorus the Mythographer? After Thucydides, the Greek and Roman historians by and large avoided dealing with the earliest times of their history, times which were often considered the realm of μῦθοι or fabulae.1 The most prominent exception is Diodorus of Sicily, who not only dealt with mythical times within the compass of his Historical Library, but even went so far as to offer a theoretical defence for including this period, where he tries both to interpret the efforts of previous historians in negative terms and to assert in positive terms the advantages of such narratives to the reader. Diodorus’ vigorous defence of the inclusion of myth suggests that it might be fruitful to investigate the ways in which he narrates these actions by comparison with more ‘straightforward’ mythographers,2 especially since he himself states, before narrating Heracles’ deeds, that his account will be based on ‘the most ancient poets and μυθολόγοι’ (4.8.5). This study, then, building on recent treatments of both Diodorus and mythography,3 examines more closely Diodorus’ approach in one particular account, that of the labours of Heracles, and compares it to the account in another Library, that of pseudo-Apollodorus, in an effort to

 1 On myth in history see Wardman 1960; Marincola 1997, 117–127; Saïd 2007; Muntz 2018, 366– 374. All translations are my own, sometimes taken from Marincola 2017. 2 Though see below at p. 83 on the varieties of mythographic discourse. 3 Scholarship on both mythography and Diodorus has undergone a renaissance in recent years, taking up old problems with new approaches. On the first, our knowledge of the early mythographers has been transformed by Fowler’s EGM, and a number of his important articles: Fowler 2006, 2009, and 2011; see also his contribution to this volume, above, Ch. 2. Useful surveys and/or studies of the genre as a whole and its methodology can be found in Trzaskoma/Smith 2013 and Trzascoma 2017, both with further reff.; and the editions of Rusten 1982a, Lightfoot 1999, Stern 1996, and Pàmias i Massana and Zucker 2013 have treated individual mythographers and often located their work within the larger tradition. For Diodorus, the works of Rubincam (e.g., 1987, 1989, and 1998) and Sacks 1990 have long urged a different approach towards Diodorus, and this has now been taken up (in various ways) by Green 2006, Muntz 2017, the series of commentaries on individual books being published by Vita e Pensiero, and the essays in Hau/Meeus/Sheridan 2018. Ambaglio 1995 tries to steer a middle course between the older and newer Diodorus, while Stylianou 1998 remains representative of the older views. (For discussion of whether or not the two approaches can be reconciled see Rubincam 2018.) For specific treatments of myth in Diodorus, see Ambaglio 1995, 39–57; Saïd 2014, a study to which I am particularly indebted; Muntz 2018; Ring 2018. My deep debt to all of these scholars will, I hope, be recognisable in this contribution. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110672824-005

  John Marincola see what this might tell us of the historian’s relationship with at least one mythographer, and the ways in which Diodorus navigates a path between historiographical and mythographical discourse.4

 Recent scholarship has greatly advanced our understanding of Diodorus’ historical principles, his approach to the material he used, and the themes which he considered at the heart of his history: where earlier generations saw Diodorus as the ‘scissors-and-paste’ historian par excellence, newer scholarship has tried to seek out what is particularly Diodoran in Diodorus’ work. Diodorus claims to be writing a work of universal scope, one which embraces κοιναὶ πράξεις, the ‘deeds in common’ of Greeks and barbarians, and within his work he surveys all of human history from the creation of the world to his own day.5 In doing so, Diodorus commits himself to treating the very earliest times, not only of Greece but also of the barbarian world, and this inevitably leads him to the ‘mythic’ material that made up such eras, at least on the Greek side.6 Yet far from excusing his procedure or apologising for the inclusion of such stories, Diodorus offers a theoretical defence of the inclusion of myth in a history, arguing that it is not only necessary for his purposes but also advantageous to the reader. Diodorus had already in his opening preface noted that some of his predecessors ‘passed over the ancient

 4 Saïd 2014 has already offered a fruitful comparison between Apollodorus and Diodorus, and my contribution here tries to build on her excellent work. Naturally, the text that we have of Apollodorus is almost certainly later than Diodorus’, but I am not proposing that Apollodorus influenced Diodorus (or vice-versa), only that the style of discourse (which is not likely to be unique to Apollodorus) offers a useful comparison with Diodorus’ method in his account of Heracles’ labours. 5 His universalising approach can be paralleled from other authors of the late first century BCE/early first century CE, such as Cornelius Nepos (in his Chronica), Strabo (in his geography), Pompeius Trogus, Timagenes, and Nicolaus of Damascus (all of whom wrote some form of universal history). On universalising trends, see further Clarke 1999; on the unique nature of Diodorus’ universal history see Sulimani 2011, 21–55. 6 His procedure thus differs from that of Ephorus who deliberately avoided earliest times: FGrHist 70 T 8. It must be pointed out, of course, that not all of Books 1–6 contain ‘mythical’ material: see Muntz 2018, 374–384 for Diodorus’ different narrative modes in the early books; cf. 382–384 for his argument that the difference between mythical times and historical times for Diodorus is dependent on the availability of written records (which would, of course, have gone farther back among some barbarians than among the Greeks).

Diodorus the Mythographer?  

mythic accounts because of the difficulty of the material’,7 and in the preface to Book 4 he provides a fuller explanation for his decision (4.1.1–2, 4):8 I am not unaware that those who have compiled ancient mythical accounts are in many ways at a disadvantage in their writing. The antiquity of the events makes them difficult to discover and this often leaves writers at a loss; nor does the attempt to establish dates lend itself to any kind of accurate proof, and this makes readers look down on such a history. In addition, the variety and the multitude of those heroes, demi-gods, and the rest whose lineage we are trying to establish makes the narration of them difficult to comprehend. The most problematic and strangest thing of all is that those writers who have compiled the most ancient deeds and mythical accounts do not agree with one another. That is why those historians of the first rank have kept away from ancient mythical material because of its difficulty, and have attempted instead to compose accounts of more recent events. … But we hold the opposite opinion to these men, and we have undergone a great deal of effort in our composition of this, and have taken every care over ancient accounts. For the greatest and most numerous deeds have been accomplished by heroes, demi-gods and many other good men, and on account of the benefits they brought to all alike, later generations have honoured them with sacrifices, some receiving those that are equal to the divine, other those appropriate to heroes. And history has sung of all of them for all time with the appropriate praises.

Although Diodorus talks of the ‘difficulty’ of finding out what happened (ἡ μὲν γὰρ τῶν ἀναγραφομένων ἀρχαιότης δυσεύρετος οὖσα…οἱ πρωτεύοντες τῇ δόξῃ τῆς μὲν ἀρχαίας μυθολογίας ἀπέστησαν διὰ τὴν δυσχέρειαν), his main approach rests on three other components which explain the reasons for the neglect of this material: (1) the absence of accurate dating;9 (2) the difficulty of narrating such a great variety of events; and (3) the lack of agreement amongst earlier writers. Although Diodorus is aware of the qualitatively different nature of the material (see 4.8.3 below),10 he also nonetheless wants to argue that writers before him had refused to give the material the effort it deserved. In the preface to Book 1 he had suggested that mythical accounts would be subject to the same sort of treatment as any other source (1.4.5):  7 1.3.2: οἱ μὲν τὰς παλαιὰς μυθολογίας διὰ τὴν δυσχέρειαν τῆς πραγματείας ἀπεδοκίμασαν; on ‘difficulty’ see further, below. 8 The Greek text of this passage can be found in Fowler, above, ch. 2. On this preface see Kunz 1935, 51–53, 82–84; Veyne 1983, 58–59 = 1988, 46–48; Mariotta/Magnelli 2012, 3–10, and Fowler in this volume, above, ch. 2. 9 Ring 2018, 400 points out that for mythical events Diodorus avoids exact dating of the sort found in the Lindian Chronicle and the Parian Marble. 10 Greta Hawes points out to me that Diodorus does not speak of the exaggerative or ‘tragic’ nature of early material in the way that, for example, Agatharchides (Mar. Rubr. 1.7–8) or Plutarch (Thes. 1.2–3) does. Cf., however, 4.53.7, quoted below, n. 34.

  John Marincola πεποιήμεθα δὲ τὴν ἀρχὴν τῆς ἱστορίας ἀπὸ τῶν μυθολογουμένων παρ᾿ Ἕλλησί τε καὶ βαρβάροις, ἐξετάσαντες τὰ παρ᾿ ἑκάστοις ἱστορούμενα κατὰ τοὺς ἀρχαίους χρόνους, ἐφ᾿ ὅσον ἡμῖν δύναμις. We have decided to begin our history from those mythical matters amongst Greeks and nonGreeks, examining, to the extent of our ability, what has been recorded by each people about ancient times.

The seemingly interchangeable terms μυθολογούμενα and ἱστορούμενα,11 and the use of the language of examination (ἐξετάσαντες) suggest a ‘historical’ approach to this early material that is not much different from that which would be exercised on more recent historical events.12 Having defended the inclusion of myth in the opening preface to Book 4, Diodorus perhaps surprisingly adds another justification just a few pages later, one that arises in the context of narrating Heracles’ deeds in particular (4.8.1):13 οὐκ ἀγνοῶ δ᾿ ὅτι πολλὰ δύσχρηστα συμβαίνει τοῖς ἱστοροῦσι τὰς παλαιὰς μυθολογίας, καὶ μάλιστα τὰς περὶ Ἡρακλέους. τῷ μὲν γὰρ μεγέθει τῶν κατεργασθέντων14 ὁμολογουμένως οὗτος παραδέδοται πάντας τοὺς ἐξ αἰῶνος ὑπερᾶραι τῇ μνήμῃ παραδοθέντας· δυσέφικτον οὖν ἐστι τὸ κατὰ τὴν ἀξίαν ἕκαστον τῶν πραχθέντων ἀπαγγεῖλαι καὶ τὸν λόγον ἐξισῶσαι τοῖς τηλικούτοις ἔργοις, οἷς διὰ τὸ μέγεθος ἔπαθλον ἦν ἡ ἀθανασία. I am not unaware that many difficulties arise for those who investigate the mythical accounts of old, and especially those which concern Heracles. For in the greatness of his accomplishments, this man, it is agreed, has come down to us as exceeding all who have come down to us in memory from the beginning of time. So then it is difficult to narrate each of his deeds as each deserves and to make the account equal to such great deeds, deeds for which, because of their greatness, the prize was immortality.

Diodorus is concerned here with the nature of the narrative, first that its content— i.e., the individual deeds—be worthy, and second that its language approach the greatness of the theme. Both motifs originate in panegyric, where one tries to  11 For the term ἱστορέω see Fowler, above, ch. 2, n. 22, where he points out that the term has a certain elasticity, ranging from ‘record’ or ‘tradition’ to actual ‘inquiry’. I would add only that in the context of a historiographical preface the sense of historical record should be present on some level. 12 The only hint of the different quality of the material is the term μυθολογούμενα, on which see below, §2. 13 On the relationship between the preface of Book 1 and this one, see Ring 2018, 392–395. For Heracles in Diodorus’ history see Sulimani 2011, 307–333 and passim. 14 It may well be that by μέγεθος here, Diodorus is thinking also of the quantity, not just the quality, of the material handed down about Heracles: Herodorus’ work on Heracles went at least to a 17th book: EGM F 3 = Hellanicus F 2. (I owe this point to Greta Hawes.)

Diodorus the Mythographer?  

speak words that are worthy of the doer and equal to the deeds done.15 There is, however, an even greater challenge for historians, namely that ‘the myths are disbelieved by many because of their antiquity and the marvellous nature of what has been recorded’,16 and this leaves writers with but two choices (4.8.2): … ἀναγκαῖον ἢ παραλιπόντας τὰ μέγιστα τῶν πραχθέντων καθαιρεῖν τι τῆς τοῦ θεοῦ δόξης ἢ πάντα διεξιόντας τὴν ἱστορίαν ποιεῖν ἀπιστουμένην. … they must necessarily either diminish some of the god’s renown by leaving out the greatest of his accomplishments, or make their history disbelieved by narrating all of them.

The one is a disservice to the god, the other to the reader, and this suggests that the historian must travel a middle path, which neither omits the greatest of the deeds nor includes all of them. Diodorus then explains how such a situation has arisen (4.8.3): ἔνιοι γὰρ τῶν ἀναγινωσκόντων οὐ δικαίᾳ χρώμενοι κρίσει τἀκριβὲς ἐπιζητοῦσιν ἐν ταῖς ἀρχαίαις μυθολογίαις ἐπ᾿ ἴσης τοῖς πραττομένοις ἐν τοῖς καθ᾿ ἡμᾶς χρόνοις, καὶ τὰ δισταζόμενα τῶν ἔργων διὰ τὸ μέγεθος ἐκ τοῦ καθ᾿ αὑτοὺς βίου τεκμαιρόμενοι, τὴν Ἡρακλέους δύναμιν ἐκ τῆς ἀσθενείας τῶν νῦν ἀνθρώπων θεωροῦσιν, ὥστε διὰ τὴν ὑπερβολὴν τοῦ μεγέθους τῶν ἔργων ἀπιστεῖσθαι τὴν γραφήν. For some readers, employing an unfair standard, seek an accuracy in these mythical accounts of old which is equal to that of events in our own times, and assessing from their own life deeds which are doubted because of their greatness, they view the power of Heracles from the weakness of men of today; and so they distrust the account because of the superiority of the deeds.

In arguing for a separate standard for deeds of old, Diodorus deliberately turns his back on the tradition of trying to interpret myth by present-day realities. It is not, of course, that Diodorus does not recognise rationalisation as a tool for historiographical deduction;17 it is rather that in the case of Heracles (and, by extension, some of the other gods and heroes), to employ rationalism is to engage in the diminution of such great actions, and this would be impious (4.8.4–5): καθόλου μὲν γὰρ ἐν ταῖς μυθολογουμέναις ἱστορίαις οὐκ ἐκ παντὸς τρόπου πικρῶς τὴν ἀλήθειαν ἐξεταστέον. καὶ γὰρ ἐν τοῖς θεάτροις, πεπεισμένοι μήτε Κενταύρους διφυεῖς ἐξ  15 See further, below, at n. 19. 16 4.8.2: διὰ δὲ τὴν παλαιότητα καὶ τὸ παράδοξον τῶν ἱστορουμένων παρὰ πολλοῖς ἀπιστουμένων τῶν μύθων, κτλ. 17 On Diodorus’ abilities in rationalisation see Saïd 2014, 79–82, but she also notes (76–77) that there is no consistent employment of rationalisation in Diodorus.

  John Marincola ἑτερογενῶν σωμάτων ὑπάρξαι μήτε Γηρυόνην τρισώματον, ὅμως προσδεχόμεθα τὰς τοιαύτας μυθολογίας, καὶ ταῖς ἐπισημασίαις συναύξομεν τὴν τοῦ θεοῦ τιμήν. καὶ γὰρ ἄτοπον Ἡρακλέα μὲν ἔτι κατ᾿ ἀνθρώπους ὄντα τοῖς ἰδίοις πόνοις ἐξημερῶσαι τὴν οἰκουμένην, τοὺς δ᾿ ἀνθρώπους ἐπιλαθομένους τῆς κοινῆς εὐεργεσίας συκοφαντεῖν τὸν ἐπὶ τοῖς καλλίστοις ἔργοις ἔπαινον, καὶ τοὺς μὲν προγόνους διὰ τὴν ὑπερβολὴν τῆς ἀρετῆς ὁμολογουμένην αὐτῷ συγχωρῆσαι τὴν ἀθανασίαν, ἡμᾶς δὲ πρὸς τὸν θεὸν μηδὲ τὴν πατροπαράδοτον εὐσέβειαν διαφυλάττειν. For in general one should not examine the truth in mythical histories bitterly from every side. In the theatre, for example, although we trust that Centaurs formed from two different types of bodies do not exist nor does a three-bodied Geryones, we nevertheless accept such mythical accounts, and by our approval we increase the honour of the god. For it would be strange if Heracles had civilised the inhabited world by his own labours while he was still among men, but that mankind should then, forgetting his general benefaction, captiously criticise the praise attendant on those noblest deeds; and further that our ancestors on account of the pre-eminence of his virtue should have agreed to grant him immortality, but that we would not preserve the piety towards the god that has been handed down from our fathers.

Looked at in one way, this passage seems to be an abrogation of the historian’s obligation to engage in critical research, and suggests a more passive acceptance of what tradition has handed down.18 But Diodorus has chosen to present what he is doing in a different register, one which has as its chief aim enhancing the glory of its subject, a conception that can be traced as far back as Herodotus and itself goes back to the earlier traditions of praise poetry.19 Diodorus’ use of the words πικρῶς and συκοφαντεῖν in the passage are telling: the former is regularly employed to refer to the attitude of those who are jealous of the success of others and seek constantly to diminish their accomplishments, while the latter, used originally of a type of prosecutor in Athens, takes on the larger sense of ‘finding  18 The comparison with the theatre might also be seen to be compromising, at least if one thinks of Polybius’ excoriation of Phylarchus for confusing tragedy and history. Yet it may not be accidental that Diodorus compares his undertaking with what people see in the theatre, since the theatre is the place par excellence for seeing shocking and exaggerative material: see, e.g., Polybius’ remarks that writers of tragedy ‘shock their audience by recounting marvels’ (δεῖ…ἐκπλήττειν τὸν συγγραφέα τερατευόμενον…τοὺς ἐντυγχάνοντας, 2.56.10) and that tragedy’s aim is ‘to shock and charm the audience’ (ἐκπλῆξαι καὶ ψυχαγωγῆσαι…τοὺς ἀκούοντας, 2.56.11); or Dionysius’ observation that early mythical material offered ‘certain theatrical reversals of fortune which seem to people today to contain much foolishness’ (θεατρικαί τινες περιπέτειαι πολὺ τὸ ἠλίθιον τοῖς νῦν δοκοῦσαι, Thuc. 4.3). 19 For panegyric in historiography see Woodman 1988, Index, s.v. ‘praise’; on Herodotus and praise poetry, Nagy 1990, 215–225; cf. Saïd 2014, 72, who calls attention to Diodorus’ use of καθύμνησεν (4.1.4) and his earlier reference to the ‘divine voice’ (1.2.3) of history, both poetic tropes.

Diodorus the Mythographer?  

fault’ or ‘engaging in minor criticisms’, and it is again exactly what those do who are jealous of others and do not wish them to receive their due measure of praise.20 For Diodorus, the appropriate register is wonder, awe, and appreciation. We see, then, that in the preface to his narrative of Heracles’ labours, Diodorus has shifted the focus away from the intrinsically problematic nature of the material and emphasised instead that the historian must labour well if he is to create a narrative that is both accurate and appropriate to the goal of praise that is at the heart of his history. Diodorus’ prefaces stand in stark contrast to the strong and unyielding rationalism of someone such as Palaephatus, who in his On Unbelievable Tales argues that while some reality underlies all stories, that reality must be in accord with what we know of the world today; and he encourages his readers not to accept traditional tales but rather to examine their accuracy stringently.21 The approach could hardly be more different from that of Diodorus.22 Interestingly enough, Palaephatus backs up his approach with the extraordinary claim that he visited many lands, inquired of many people in order to get at this truth, and was eyewitness of the places he treats, writing his accounts not from hearsay but from autopsy—precisely the claims made by historians beginning with Thucydides and used as well by Diodorus in his opening preface.23 The historian and the mythographer seem almost to have reversed roles, since it is the mythographer who offers a thoroughly rationalising approach based on the belief that past and present must be similar, while the historian encourages belief in traditional accounts, and seems to abjure critical inquiry, arguing by contrast that the present is not a reliable guide to the past. Yet as Suzanne Saïd has pointed out, Diodorus’ handling of myth is complex, sometimes  20 The words πικρία and πικρῶς are consistently used of the critical histories of Theopompus and Timaeus: see, e.g., FGrHist 115 TT 19, 28b; 566 TT 12, 19. For συκοφαντεῖν in the sense of ‘to quibble’ or ‘to criticise in a captious way’: see Arist. Poet. 1456a5, Dion. Hal. Dem. 55.1, etc. 21 Recent important studies of Palaephatus include Stern 1996 and 1999; Hawes 2014a, 37–91 and 2014b; and Nünlist’s new edition at BNJ2 44; for the preface see Santoni 1998/9. 22 Diodorus and Palaephatus share certain rationalisations, but the relationship between the two authors is not clear: see Stern 1996, 14–15. 23 Palaeph. Peri Apist. praef. (p. 2 Festa): ἐπελθὼν δὲ καὶ πλείστας χώρας ἐπυνθανόμην τῶν πρεσβυτέρων ὡς ἀκούοιεν περὶ ἑκάστου αὐτῶν, συγγράφω δὲ ἃ ἐπυθόμην παρ’ αὐτῶν. καὶ τὰ χωρία αὐτὸς εἶδον ὡς ἔστιν ἕκαστον ἔχον, καὶ γέγραφα ταῦτα οὐχ οἷα ἦν λεγόμενα, ἀλλ’ αὐτὸς ἐπελθὼν καὶ ἱστορήσας ~ Diod. Sic. 1.4.1: διόπερ ἡμεῖς ὁρῶντες ταύτην τὴν ὑπόθεσιν χρησιμωτάτην μὲν οὖσαν, πολλοῦ δὲ πόνου καὶ χρόνου προσδεομένην, τριάκοντα μὲν ἔτη περὶ αὐτὴν ἐπραγματεύθημεν, μετὰ δὲ πολλῆς κακοπαθείας καὶ κινδύνων ἐπήλθομεν πολλὴν τῆς τε Ἀσίας καὶ τῆς Εὐρώπης, ἵνα τῶν ἀναγκαιοτάτων καὶ πλείστων μερῶν αὐτόπται γενηθῶμεν· See Santoni 1998/9 and Hawes 2014a, 44–46 for this preface and its intersection with historiography; for historians’ claims of travel and autopsy see Marincola 1997, 63–86 with further reff. there.

  John Marincola eschewing rationalisation while at other times historicising and rationalising myths without comment.24

 Diodorus’ historiographically unique approach towards mythical deeds is mirrored in his narrative manner in the early books, which so far as we can tell, is distinctive in terms not only of the rest of Diodorus’ narrative but also of the other Greek and Roman historians. He composes long portions in indirect discourse (presumably because he wishes the reader to be aware of the more problematic nature of mythic accounts) and employs the usual language of indirect discourse, λέγεται or φασί, but he also uses the verb μυθολογέω throughout these early books, a verb which is virtually absent from his work thereafter; likewise, other μυθο-compounds are found in these first six books and then exceedingly rarely thereafter.25 Μυθο-terms seem to come especially to the fore in the treatments in the early books of the gods and (eventually) the heroes. Such a self-conscious manner of narration indicates Diodorus’ efforts to make the reader aware of the source and nature of these early events. A good example of extended indirect discourse can be found in Diodorus’ narration of the Libyan Amazons26 in Book 3. Diodorus begins with the assertion that there were many races of warlike and manly women in Libya (γέγονε…πλείω γένη, 3.52.4), including the race of Gorgons about whom ‘we have received the tradition’ (παρειλήφαμεν) that they were distinguished in valour. Having stated so much in his own person, so to say, Diodorus then commences with the story proper, which he introduces with φασί (53.1), after which he continually maintains oratio obliqua, although he varies the terms which govern this discourse, using μυθολογοῦσι (53.4), λέγεται (54.1), φασί (54.1, 54.2, 54.5, 54.7), λέγεται (55.3), and φασί (55.4).27 Within this discourse the term μυθολογοῦσι does not

 24 Saïd 2014, 68. 25 On Diodorus’ narrative manner in the early books of his history see Hau 2018, Muntz 2018, and Ring 2018. For μυθικός: 15.78.2; μυθολογέω: 11.89.1, 16.26.6, 17.7.4, 17.83.1, 20.41.5, 20.92.4; μῦθος: 19.53.2. On Diodorus’ use of the verb μυθολογέω, see Muntz 2018 who notes at 382 that for narratives based on written material Diodorus does not employ the term. 26 There are also Scythian Amazons: 2.45–46. 27 The use of anonymous narrators is a standard technique in narrative (see, e.g., de Jong/ Nünlist/Bowie 2004, Index, s.v. ‘Narratorial Devices, Anonymous Spokesmen’); what I would emphasise here is the extended nature of such a technique in a historical text.

Diodorus the Mythographer?  

seem to differ in essentials from the other terms, by which I mean there seems to be no reason, at least in terms of the material, why the term μυθολογοῦσι is employed. Indeed, towards the end of this narrative, Diodorus remarks that ‘some historians say’ (ἔνιοι…τῶν ἱστορικῶν λέγουσι), but this is followed just a few lines later by μυθολογοῦσι (55.8, 55.11). Given that, as noted above, μυθο-terms predominate in the first six books, the use of the verb must be in these accounts mainly to remind Diodorus’ readers that they are in a different world from that which they will encounter in the later books. It is uncertain whether Diodorus has been influenced in these early books by a mythographical style of discourse. Indeed, it is probably illegitimate to speak of a single mythographical style, since even the few works that we have offer different approaches, as is evident, for example, by a comparison between, say, Apollodorus’ Library with its largely effaced narrator, and Palaephatus’ On Unbelievable Tales with its exceedingly prominent narrator. In general, much of the mythographical information that is conveyed to us is recorded in a straightforward, matter-of-fact style, with few (if any) rhetorical flourishes, and a concentration on the information being conveyed rather than on the writer conveying it (Palaephatus an obvious exception, of course). The type of self-display that is so well known from the historians, especially evident in their passages of polemic,28 seems to be largely absent from most mythographical works.29 It is, of course, a style that Diodorus can employ when he wishes, but it may be noteworthy that he does not choose to employ it with many of his mythical accounts, including the one on the labours of Heracles. Here, if anywhere, one might have thought that Diodorus could consistently rationalise—perhaps on the order of Thucydides in the Archaeology (1.2–19) or Herodotus in his account of Helen and the Trojan War (2.120)—and indicate to the reader his superior mastery of the material. Or he might have done what Dionysius of Halicarnassus does when, in the early chapters of his Roman Antiquities, he has occasion to treat Heracles’ wanderings in the west: Dionysius’ approach is to give two independent narratives, which he explicitly characterises as ὁ μυθικώτερος λόγος and ὁ ἀληθέστερος λόγος (Ant. Rom. 1.39–42). As one would expect, the former contains the more traditional approach in which fantastic events and marvels occur, while the latter contains rationalised versions of the former, with unusual or marvellous matters lessened, removed, or explained away. Moreover, in characterising one account as ὁ ἀληθέστερος λόγος Dionysius indicates much more strongly than Diodorus ever  28 On historiographical polemic, Marincola 1997, 218–225. 29 But cf. Trzaskoma 2013a who shows how Apollodorus displays his authority in the arrangement and manipulation of traditional materials.

  John Marincola does, that he is distrustful of the more mythical account.30 Yet Diodorus for the most part tells the story of Heracles’ labours ‘straight’, without much oratio obliqua or rationalisation. Although he cites named sources more than thirty times in Book 4,31 the only person cited in the story of the labours is Timaeus (twice, at 4.21.7 and 4.22.6). He does not, as he does elsewhere (and as Dionysius did), put two versions side-by-side,32 nor does he even employ variant versions very often.33 He has made every effort, it seems, to have Heracles’ labours read as a straightforward and unproblematic account.

 Of course, there are passages where Diodorus has ‘rationalised’ traditional accounts. If we compare his account with Apollodorus’, there are some noteworthy

 30 On Dionysius’ historical method in general see Gabba 1991, chs. 3–5; Fox 1993, and the essays in Martin 1993. For the historian’s need to show familiarity with the tradition, see Marincola 1997, 95–117; Bosworth 2003. For Diodorus’ variant versions in the account of Heracles’ labours see below, n. 33. 31 Ring 2018, 399. 32 Diod. Sic. 4.70.4 (the hippocentaurs), with Saïd 2014, 80. 33 In the account of the labours of Heracles, Diodorus employs variant versions in only three places: (1) in the capture of the Cerynitian deer (4.13.1), Diodorus gives three possibilities for how Heracles succeeded (nets, tracking, exhaustion: note that all are thoroughly human); (2) in the account of the Pillars of Heracles, Diodorus says that the hero erected these to make the strait narrower and shallow, lest sea-monsters enter from Ocean, although some say the land masses were originally joined and Heracles split them apart (here Diodorus adds the traditional disclaimer, ὡς ἂν ἕκαστος ἑαυτὸν πείθει, 4.18.5); and (3) for the apples of the Hesperides Diodorus gives three possibilities: actual golden apples guarded by a dragon; golden sheep (a play on μῆλον), so called because of their beauty; and sheep who had a peculiar golden colour and were guarded by a strong shepherd Dracon (here too the same disclaimer is offered, ὡς ἂν ἕκαστος ἑαυτὸν πείθει, 4.26.3). For Diodorus choosing a variant, see below, Hawes, ch. 7, n. 37. By contrast, Apollodorus has variant versions in five places in his account: (1) the serpents sent against the young Heracles came either from Hera or, as Pherecydes says, from Amphitryon; (2) after Heracles completes his first labour, the capture of the Nemean lion, Apollodorus records that some add that Eurystheus henceforth had a hiding place underground, and gave his orders to Heracles through Pelops the Eleian; (3) the father of Augeas is variously given (ὡς μέν τινες εἶπον) as Helios, Poseidon, or Phorbas; (4) the apples of the Hesperides were not in Libya (as some said: εἶπον) but in the land of the Hyperboreans; (5) Atlas procured the apples for Heracles, although some say that Heracles himself picked them. For variants in Apollodorus see Fowler 2017.

Diodorus the Mythographer?  

differences.34 For example, Apollodorus’ account of Heracles and Cerberus is full of detail, beginning with the location of the cave that leads to the underworld at Taenarum. He has Heracles draw his sword against the Gorgon, and try to raise up Theseus and Peirithous, though he is unsuccessful with the latter. His Heracles provides blood for the souls by slaughtering one of the cows of Hades, and is challenged to wrestle by Menoites, a competition in which Heracles breaks the challenger’s ribs, and would have gone further but for the intervention of Persephone. Apollodorus has Pluto tell Heracles that he must capture Cerberus without any of the weapons he was carrying, so Heracles grasps the beast and chokes him, even though the hero all the while is being stung by the snake of the monster’s tail. Having done so, he returns with Cerberus, this time via Troezen, shows him to Eurystheus, and then escorts him back to Hades (2.123–126). In Diodorus, by contrast, the capture is dealt with in half a dozen lines: Heracles descends to the underworld after first having been initiated into the Eleusinian mysteries by Musaeus, the son of Orpheus; he is welcomed like a brother by Persephone and brings both Theseus and Perithous back ‘by the favour of Persephone’ (4.26.1). The dog Cerberus he leads back in chains (there is no sense of a struggle: rather he has received him [παραλαβών] from Persephone) and exhibits him ‘to men’ (ἀνθρώποις, ibid.). The greater part of the narrative of this labour is taken up with the story not of Heracles but of Orpheus (triggered by the mention of Musaeus who initiated Heracles into the mysteries) who, among other things, brought his wife back from the dead after he had charmed Persephone with his song; and Orpheus himself was imitating Dionysus who, the myths say (μυθολογοῦσι, 4.25.4), brought back his mother Semele from Hades. The Orpheus account is about three times as long as the account of Heracles. Rather than focus on the mechanics of how Cerberus was taken, Diodorus prefers to emphasise the  34 One particular rationalisation is highlighted by Diodorus not at the point where he narrates Heracles’ labours, but later, when he has concluded Heracles’ participation in the Argonautic expedition (which Diodorus places between the eighth and ninth labours: 4.15.4); there he notes that after his success with Jason, Heracles was ‘admired for his bravery and generalship, and gathered a very powerful army and travelled over the whole world, benefitting mankind; and it was because of his benefactions that he received an immortality to which all agreed. But the poets, because of their customary love of the marvellous, give a mythical account that alone and without weapons he accomplished his famous labours’ (4.53.7: ταχὺ δ᾿ ἐπ᾿ ἀνδρείᾳ καὶ στρατηγίᾳ θαυμασθέντα στρατόπεδόν τε κράτιστον συστήσασθαι καὶ πᾶσαν ἐπελθεῖν τὴν οἰκουμένην εὐεργετοῦντα τὸ γένος τῶν ἀνθρώπων· ἀνθ᾿ ὧν τυχεῖν αὐτὸν συμφωνουμένης ἀθανασίας. τοὺς δὲ ποιητὰς διὰ τὴν συνήθη τερατολογίαν μυθολογῆσαι μόνον τὸν Ἡρακλέα καὶ γυμνὸν ὅπλων τελέσαι τοὺς τεθρυλημένους ἄθλους—oddly enough, this entire passage is offered in indirect discourse!). Even this, it must be noted, is modest rationalisation since it leaves the first eight labours as the sole achievement of Heracles himself.

  John Marincola worthiness of Heracles in this encounter, and the links he has with earlier εὐεργέται who receive extraordinary honours. Similarly, in the labour of the Stymphalian birds, Apollodorus portrays Heracles as able to destroy them after he has received bronze castanets from Athena: he then rattles them, and as the birds fly away he shoots them (2.93). In Diodorus’ account, Heracles employs τέχνη and ἐπίνοια to make a bronze rattle himself with which he drives the birds away (4.13.2). In Apollodorus’ account of the cattle of Geryones, Geryones himself is the son of Chrysaor and Callirhoe, the daughter of Oceanus. He has a three-fold body and his cattle are guarded by a two-headed dog, Orthos. Geryones’ cattle are on an island called Erytheia (which Apollodorus notes is Gadeira in his day) and Heracles arrives there via a golden cup (given to him by Helios, after Heracles had shot one of his arrows against the god) and returns with the cattle in the same cup (2.106–109). Such details are, again not surprisingly, absent in Diodorus’ account where Heracles visits Gadeira and sets up the pillars there (4.18.2; cf. 4.18.4–5). But Diodorus places the cattle themselves not there but on the parts of Iberia which slope towards Ocean (4.17.1); nor is there any mention of the dog. In Diodorus, Heracles finds not the three-bodied Geryones,35 but his three sons, each with an army, each of whom he challenges to single combat, and each of whom he defeats (4.18.2). The most severe pruning occurs perhaps in the labour of the Golden Apples of the Hesperides. In Apollodorus they are guarded by a hundred-headed immortal serpent, and Heracles has to travel to the Hyperboreans and has to ask Atlas himself for assistance (he had been told to go to Atlas by Prometheus). Atlas suggests that Heracles hold the sky up while Atlas goes to get the apples, and when he returns with them, tells Heracles that he no longer wishes to bear the heavens, but Heracles tricks him into taking up the sky again, after which he takes the apples, and departs (2.119–120).36 Diodorus, by contrast, has nothing of this, although he mentions as one of the variant versions that the apples were guarded by a dragon; but in any case, Heracles in Diodorus’ version here kills the guardian of the apples (whoever it was), and brings them to Eurystheus (4.26.1–4).

 35 Diodorus had said clearly in the preface that we do not believe that three-bodied men exist (4.8.4–5, quoted above, §1). 36 Apollodorus too has a variant version on this story, namely whether the apples were in Libya ‘as some have said’ (2.113) or on Mt Atlas, but he endorses the latter and writes his account based on it. See also next n.

Diodorus the Mythographer?  

 It has to be emphasised again that there is nothing in any of this that is surprising, since one would expect a historian to demythologise his account in accordance with how his predecessors acted in this realm, and Diodorus practises such rationalisation elsewhere. What is significant is that this is far from the whole story. We have been forewarned by Diodorus that his approach to myth will be different from that of earlier historians, and indeed Diodorus in his account of Heracles is far from applying with any regularity the kind of rationalisation that would deny the miraculous. A few examples will suffice. Like Apollodorus, Diodorus has Zeus lengthen the night when he impregnates Alcmene (Apollod. 2.61; Diod. Sic. 4.9.2). Diodorus’ description of the Lernaean hydra is, if anything, more ‘mythical’ than Apollodorus’: in Apollodorus, the hydra has nine heads of which the middle one is immortal, and when one of the heads is destroyed new ones grow back (2.78– 80), while in Diodorus the Hydra has a hundred necks and when one is cut off, two reappear (4.11.5–6). In Diodorus Heracles brings the cattle across to Sicily, and he himself swims across the straits holding onto the horn of one of the bulls (4.22.6). Diodorus does not say how the rest of the cattle got across, though the suggestion must surely be that they too swam across (otherwise, what would the purpose be of only Heracles swimming across while the others were carried over in some sort of conveyance?).37 Apollodorus, by contrast, has one of the bulls break away at Rhegium, plunge into the sea, and swim over to Sicily, coming eventually to the plain of Eryx (2.110). Heracles in this account leaves the cattle with Hephaestus and makes his way to Sicily—we are not told how but it is clear that the cattle do not accompany him, nor is there any mention of Heracles swimming across, much less holding on to a bull’s horn.38 Nor does Diodorus always avail himself of more human or rational possibilities: Apollodorus offers the variant version that the serpents sent against the infant Heracles came not from Hera but from Amphitryon who wanted to see which of Alcmene’s sons was his (2.62); yet Diodorus offers only the account that the serpents were sent by Hera, making

 37 The Greek reads τὰς…βοῦς ἐπεραίωσεν εἰς τὴν Σικελίαν, which Oldfather in the Loeb translates as ‘he had the cattle taken over into Sicily’, but the active-voice verb suggests that Heracles himself transported them across. Similarly, in Diodorus’ account of the Cretan bull, Heracles returns with it to the Peloponnese ‘having sailed so great a sea upon its back’ (τὸ τηλικοῦτον πέλαγος ἐπ᾿ αὐτῷ ναυστοληθείς, 4.13.4). 38 Apollod. 2.111 states simply: παραθέμενος οὖν τὰς βοὰς Ἡρακλῆς Ἡφαίστῳ ἐπὶ τὴν αὐτοῦ ζήτησιν ἠπείγετο· εὑρὼν δὲ ἐν ταῖς τοῦ Ἔρυκος ἀγέλαις, κτλ. For the textual problem earlier in this passage, which does not affect my argument above, see Scarpi 1996, 516.

  John Marincola no mention of the ‘human’ explanation and Amphitryon (4.10.1). This is no doubt because Diodorus, here as elsewhere, uses the mythical to make a point germane to his history or his view of human action. The serpent story is important for Diodorus because it is after this that Heracles receives his name, having before been called Alkaios and the name marks him out from all others: ‘for everyone else, it is parents who name their children; for Heracles alone it was valour that gave him his name’.39 Similarly, in his account of the lengthened night of Heracles’ conception, Diodorus explains why Zeus did this: in order, Diodorus says, to indicate the special prowess of Heracles, and he adds, moreover, that Zeus’ appearance in the guise of Amphitryon was done because Zeus was unwilling to use violence against Alcmene (which also redounds to Heracles’ credit, of course) and he knew he could not persuade her because of her chastity, and in this he behaved towards Alcmene differently from the rest of the women he seduced.40 Both authors have Heracles freeing Prometheus after killing the eagle which afflicted his liver, but Diodorus has Heracles motivated to do so because he saw this punishment was the result of Prometheus’ beneficence towards mankind, ‘and by persuading Zeus to let go of his anger, Heracles saved this benefactor of all’.41 When Diodorus tells the story of Heracles’ exposure by Alcmene because of her fear of Zeus (a story not found in Apollodorus, where it might have been more expected), he has the infant discovered by Athena and Hera in what ‘is now called the Fields of Heracles’. Athena urges Hera to suckle the infant but his great strength inflicts pain on the goddess, who casts him off. Athena takes the child and returns it to its mother with orders to bring it up. For Diodorus ‘anyone would marvel at the unexpected nature of this reversal, for the mother who ought to have loved the child tried to destroy it, while the one who had a stepmother’s hatred of it through ignorance saved one who was her natural enemy’ (4.9.7). We can understand in all these examples why Diodorus was reluctant to eliminate myth from his history, since the accounts that had come down to him could serve so well the purposes for history that he envisioned.

 39 4.10.1: τούτῳ δὲ μόνῳ ἡ ἀρετὴ τὴν προσηγορίαν ἔθετο. In Apollodorus Heracles (previously known as Alkeides) is first called such by the Pythia when he goes to consult Delphi (2.73). 40 4.9.3: καθόλου δὲ τὴν ὁμιλίαν ταύτην οὐκ ἐρωτικῆς ἐπιθυμίας ἕνεκα ποιήσασθαι, καθάπερ ἐπὶ τῶν ἄλλων γυναικῶν, ἀλλὰ τὸ πλέον τῆς παιδοποιίας χάριν. 41 4.15.2: τὸν δὲ Δία πείσας λῆξαι τῆς ὀργῆς ἔσωσε τὸν κοινὸν εὐεργέτην.

Diodorus the Mythographer?  

 It is in the story of the cattle of Geryones that we can most clearly see what history and myth can become in Diodorus. This narrative is clearly not rationalised myth; Diodorus does not wish to explain away the marvellous but on the contrary to celebrate it, for in this way the excellence and greatness of the hero can be recognised and glorified. At the same time his account is clearly not straightforward mythography either. It is, rather, some unique Diodoran amalgam. To begin with, the difference in length between Apollodorus’ and Diodorus’ accounts is striking: two Teubner pages for Apollodorus as opposed to eighteen for Diodorus. It seems that in the account of the cattle of Geryones, Diodorus saw an opportunity to locate—both geographically and narratologically—Heracles’ well-known wanderings in the west, something which may have had less interest for the more Greececentred account of Apollodorus.42 In two areas especially, Diodorus shows his unique viewpoint. In the first, not surprisingly, he uses this labour, as he does some of the others, to emphasise the benefactions that Heracles brought to all the peoples he encountered. We would expect no less from Diodorus, who has made this one of the foundations of his history. And indeed, Heracles’ benefactions while on this particular labour are many, not least because Diodorus has him travel throughout a great swath of the western Mediterranean both in Africa and in Europe. Heracles begins his journey in Crete, where, Diodorus tells us, he rid the island of its wild beasts both as a service to the Cretans and also to honour the island in which Zeus is said to have been born and reared (4.17.3). He does something similar in Libya where he subdues the wild animals in Libya itself and its environs, and makes the land arable and fertile (4.17.4). Heracles is everywhere a friend to the virtuous and a foe to the vicious. In Libya he slays Antaeus (4.17.4) and in Egypt Busiris (4.18.1), both of whom were hostile to strangers and in the habit of murdering them. In Libya he also punished with death men who defied the laws and ruled arrogantly (4.17.5); in Celtica he puts an end to the lawlessness and murder of strangers (4.19.1); and he subdues the barbarians in the Alps who butchered and plundered those who travelled through this area, and for good measure he also slew their leaders (4.19.4). In the Phlegraean fields near Cumae he battles the Giants and, with the gods’ assistance, destroys them (4.21.5–6). By contrast, where he finds virtue, he is generous in reward. In Iberia, shortly after he took the cattle, he found a king (Diodorus

 42 For Apollodorus’ lack of interest in Rome, see Fletcher 2008.

  John Marincola does not give his name) who excelled in virtue, and Heracles gave him some of the cattle—which the king promptly dedicated to Heracles (4.18.3)! Diodorus tells us in addition that Heracles gave the kingdom of the Iberians to the best of the natives (4.19.1). In the course of this particular labour Heracles founds two cities: in Libya, in a well-watered place, he founds Hecatomplyon (4.18.1) and in Celtica he founds Alesia, named for his wanderings, and he populates it as well with men from the surrounding areas (4.19.1–2). He also engages in massive construction projects, including, of course, the Pillars of Heracles, which he creates, Diodorus tells us, to prevent great sea-monsters from entering the inner sea (4.18.5).43 When he travels from Celtica to Italy, he makes the path through the Alps, which was rough and nearly impassable, into a road of such quality that it can travelled by baggage trains and armies (4.19.3). At the sea near Cumae Heracles constructs Lake Avernus (4.22.1), and at Agyrium in Sicily, in gratitude to the citizens, he constructs a lake of four stades in circumference (4.24.3). But more than anything else, what Diodorus never loses sight of in his narrative of Heracles’ quest for the cattle of Geryones, and what provides a kind of anchor to the mythographic account of Heracles, is the connection between past and present, between Heracles’ achievements all those centuries ago and the monuments to those actions that still exist today and attest to Heracles’ great deeds.44 This aspect of Diodorus’ perspective is the one that most shows how the ‘mythical’ era for him cannot be wholly divorced from the ‘historical’ era. Heracles’ euergetism still brings benefits to the world, and his benefactions are the evidence of his presence ‘back then’. In a narrative of eighteen Teubner pages, there are eighteen references linking past and present, with terms such as ‘later times’ or ‘our own times’ or ‘our own era’, or the like.45 For example, Heracles’ benefactions are often characterised as having an effect far into the future, sometimes even to the present day. Heracles’ ridding Crete of its wild beasts explains why ‘in later times’ (ἐν τοῖς ὕστερον χρόνοις, 4.17.3) no wild animal is to be found there. From the time when Heracles in the land between Rhegine and Locris prayed to Artemis because he was disturbed by crickets  43 Diodorus uses the opportunity here to mention both Heracles’ earlier benefaction to the people of Tempe, where he created a channel to drain the marshes, creating the plains that run along the Peneius river (4.18.6–7) and his punishment of the Orchomenians (for their enslavement of Thebes) by damming the stream which flows near it and making the whole country into a lake (4.18.7). For ‘storied landscapes’ see the essays in Hawes 2017b. 44 For Diodorus connecting past and present see Saïd 2014, 69. 45 By contrast, in Apollodorus’ account of Heracles’ labours there is one reference to the present day: 2.106 (Eirethyia, the location of Geryones’ cattle, now known as Gadeira).

Diodorus the Mythographer?  

when he was trying to sleep, no cricket has been seen in later time (κατὰ τὸν ὕστερον χρόνον, 4.22.5). His subjugation of the barbarians in the Alpine passes made the journey safe for those who came after (τοῖς μεταγενεστέροις, 4.19.4). In his notices of the foundations of the cities Hecatompylon and Alesia, Diodorus notes what happens to them in later times: the former was prosperous ‘until our own times’ (μέχρι τῶν καθ’ ἡμᾶς καιρῶν, 4.18.1) when the Carthaginians with worthy forces and good generals took it; the latter was the mother-city of all Celtica and was free and never sacked ‘up to our own times’ (μέχρι τοῦ καθ’ ἡμᾶς χρόνου, 4.19.2) until Caesar took it by storm and made the Celts subject to the Romans. After Heracles has defeated Eryx in Sicily, he hands over his land to the natives, telling them to cultivate it until one of his descendants comes back and demands it; many generations later (πολλαῖς…ὕστερον γενεαῖς, 4.23.3) Dorieus the Lacedaemonian came to Sicily and founded the city of Heracleia which grew rapidly and so alarmed the Carthaginians that they came with a great army and destroyed it.46 In these cases, Diodorus creates continuity between the ‘mythical’ and ‘historical’ past, linking the name of the hero with peoples and figures known from more recent or even contemporary history. Not surprisingly, given the fact that he had argued that the inclusion of heroic figures in his history recognised the honour due them, Diodorus is particularly interested in noting the establishment of cultic activity that continues to the present day. The unnamed king of the Iberians who honoured Heracles and dedicated those cattle of Chrysaor’s which Heracles had given him made it a practice to dedicate each year the fairest bull to Heracles, and the line of cattle has been preserved and continues to be sacred to Heracles ‘up to our own times’ (μέχρι τῶν καθ’ ἡμᾶς καιρῶν, 4.18.3). Heracles foretold to those dwelling on the Palatine that after he became immortal, those who dedicated a tenth of their possessions to him would live a blessed life, just as in fact came to pass in later times (κατὰ τοὺς ὑστέρους χρόνους) and has persisted to our own day (μέχρι τῶν καθ’ ἡμᾶς χρόνων, 4.21.3), where many do just that, including Lucullus, perhaps the wealthiest Roman of his day (ὁ τῶν καθ’ αὑτὸν Ῥωμαίων…πλουσιώτατος); and the Romans built a notable temple to Heracles where they continue to perform (νομίζουσι συντελεῖν) the sacrifices arising from these tithes (4.21.4). Coming to the site which is now Syracuse (τὴν νῦν οὖσαν τῶν Συρακοσίων πόλιν, 4.23.4) Heracles learned the myth of Kore and made grand dedications to the goddesses, including the fairest bull which he cast into the spring Cyane, commanding the natives to sac-

 46 This story Diodorus promises to tell at its appropriate chronological place (ἐν τοῖς οἰκείοις χρόνοις, 4.23.3) but the narrative of that portion of the history does not survive.

  John Marincola rifice each year to Kore and conduct a panegyris to Cyane. At Agyrium he dedicated to the hero Geryones a sacred precinct which is honoured to this day (μέχρι τοῦ νῦν, 4.24.3) by the natives, and to Iolaüs, his nephew and companion, he dedicated a sacred precinct, ordaining annual honours and sacrifices which continue to be offered to this day (μέχρι τοῦ νῦν, 4.24.4).47 When Heracles comes to the Tiber at the site where Rome now (νῦν) stands, he is welcomed and honoured by Cacius and Pinarius, men whose memorials still stand to this day (μέχρι τῶνδε τῶν καιρῶν, 4.21.2). Nor is that all: the Pinarii still exist at Rome as a current noble gens (τῶν…νῦν εὐγενῶν ἀνδρῶν, ibid.), and the ‘steps of Cacius’ leading down from the Palatine lie near to where Cacius’ house at that time stood (τῆς τότε γενομένης οῖκίας, ibid.). Long-term changes in landscape also attract Diodorus’ attention. In ancient times (τὸ…παλαιόν) there was an oracle on the shore of Lake Avernus which was destroyed in later days (τοῖς ὕστερον χρόνοις); the Lake had an opening to the sea, but Heracles filled this up, and constructed the road that is now there (τὴν…ὁδὸν, τὴν νῦν οὖσαν, 4.22.2) which runs along the sea and is called the ‘Way of Heracles’. In some cases, this is noticed even when Heracles’ agency is not at issue: the Phlegraean plain long ago (τὸ παλαιόν) had a volcano (no name is given for it) as active as Aetna in Diodorus’ day; the volcano is now (νῦν) called Vesuvius and gives many indications of the fires that were present in archaic times (ἔχων πολλὰ σημεῖα τοῦ κεκαῦσθαι κατὰ τοῦς ἀρχαίους χρόνους, 4.21.5).

 In conclusion, then, we note that Diodorus’ account cannot be described as rationalised myth, even if it displays rationalisation in parts. Diodorus’ chief concern is not to explain what ‘really’ happened (as Palaephatus thought he was doing), nor does he wish to detract in any way from the extraordinary nature of Heracles’ deeds. On the contrary, he wishes his audience to marvel at and be impressed by what Heracles had done, since Heracles forms the quintessential paradigm of the εὐεργέτης who by his benefactions improves the ‘common life’ (κοινὸς βίος) of mankind and wins for himself immortality. This is a theme that runs through Diodorus’ work from start to finish,48 and the fact that he can trace  47 Note also 4.23.5: in the interior of Sicily Heracles defeats the Sicani who came against him in battle and among the slain were some distinguished generals who receive heroic honours even to this day (μέχρι τοῦ νῦν). 48 Sacks 1990, 61–82.

Diodorus the Mythographer?  

a thread from the earliest benefactors in the mythical age to his own contemporaries makes his history that much more useful as a teaching tool. Diodorus’ history aligns itself with the tradition that sought to use history to glorify its subjects, a notion that sometimes seems odd to moderns, but has a history in antiquity that can be traced from Herodotus to Ammianus.49 It is an idealising historiography, one that Matthew Fox has examined in Dionysius’ Roman Antiquities: the historian ‘shapes his account around a preconception’ and wishes to put on display noble and great deeds, which will in turn offer benefit to his readers.50 Having decided that Heracles should be treated in this way, Diodorus found in mythography a mode of discourse in which the events could be told in a straightforward way, a way that does nothing to detract from the deeds themselves.51 He punctuates this with more ‘historical’ observations, which seek to place Heracles in a landscape familiar to contemporaries, where the continued ‘presence’ of the hero’s actions gives them a concreteness that can in turn buttress the accounts themselves. In this way it is possible to see Diodorus, at least in some parts of his earliest books, as composing a work of mythography—variant mythography, perhaps, but still recognisable as mythography.52

 49 See Woodman 1988, 40–44, 136–140. 50 Fox 1993; quotation from p. 31. Fox also notes that there is a much greater proportion of idealising historiography to survive from the ancient world than the kind of history with which moderns feel more at home. 51 I emphasise again that this is only one possible mode of discourse known from mythography. For Apollodorus’ narrative manner as avoiding engagement with the nature of the material, see Fowler, above, Ch. 2, n. 14. 52 I am very grateful to Greta Hawes and René Nünlist for offering extremely helpful criticisms of this chapter. They should not be assumed, however, to agree with my approach and conclusions.

Jessica Wissmann

Does Mythography Care About Good or Bad? A question like this requires some specification. Why ask it with regard to mythography in particular? Why should mythography not care about Good or Bad, or why should it? Is it not an undue speculation about the authors’ intentions? Does it not mean looking for more information than most mythographical texts are willing to provide? But there is good reason to ask whether mythography was at all interested in the moral aspect of the myths. On the one hand, myths were traditionally seen, not exclusively, but to a high degree, as conveyors of moral messages. The mythographer Palaephatus himself states that myths have been created for educational purposes: ‘It is the poets who have made up such myths, so that people who hear them will not commit outrageous acts against divinity.’1 On the other hand, mythography is regarded as a genre that, as Fowler states, ‘simply ignored the problem’ of the moral value of the myths.2 This is reflected in a tendency to eliminate some features of narrative that are usually seen as contributing to the mental image of a character (which is the basis of his or her moral evaluation) and the emotional impact of the stories told (which influence the morals of the readers). Of course mythography is no more a clear-cut genre than others. Various authors pursue various purposes, resulting in various modifications of narrative mode and content—someone particularly interested in genealogy pays less attention to the intricacies of ‘story-telling’ than someone whose focus is on love-stories. But some typical features, first and foremost its compendiousness, can be customised only up to a point, and this means that a character cannot be furnished with a great number of detailed features. I shall try to show that in spite of a summarising style it was possible to employ various techniques of characterisation, even if perhaps in a slightly adapted form. With one exception, I omit the description of outer features (such as physical appearances) but focus on the description of personality traits, which are more relevant to the question whether mythography is at all interested in the moral evaluation of its characters. I shall then turn to an approach that takes its cue from cognitive psychology3 and apply some of the suggestions made there about the formation of concepts of character  1 τοὺς δὲ μύθους τούτους συνέθεσαν οἱ ποιηταὶ ἵνα οἱ ἀκροώμενοι μὴ ὑβρίζοιεν εἰς τὸ θεῖον (6, 8–10); transl. Stern 1996, 38. 2 EGM II.708. 3 Schneider 2001. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110672824-006

  Jessica Wissmann to passages from mythographical texts. The key-word being ‘categorisation’, I shall try to show that mythography is not at all indifferent towards moral values but presupposes cooperation on the reader’s part. In narrative texts, characterisation (which includes a character’s physical appearance, biography, and personality traits) can be achieved by various means.4 It can be (a) explicit, being given either by the narrator (= ‘narratorial’) or a character in the narrative (= ‘actorial’, either the character him/herself or another character), or (b) implicit, where the narratee has to draw his or her own conclusions about a character’s personality traits. These cues can again either be provided by the narrator (e.g., by letting one character appear in contrast to another) or by a character (e.g., through his/her behaviour). In other words: what the narratees create in their minds about a character is effected by means of various narrative modes. As Fowler has shown in his article ‘How to Tell a Myth’, since mythography aims at the production of summaries, some narrative modes that occur in other genres are largely absent from mythography.5 Comparing poetic accounts of Jason meeting Pelias with mythographical ones, Fowler finds in mythography less moralising than in poetic accounts, fewer descriptions (he here compares fables), less focalisation, less direct speech and thus less mimesis. Essentially, this means a considerable restriction of precisely those narrative modes that normally contribute to the presentation of a characters: moralising and descriptions as explicit narratorial modes, focalisation and direct speech as explicit or implicit actorial modes. A story like the following may serve to illustrate these restrictions (Apollod. 1.4.2): ἀπέκτεινε δὲ Ἀπόλλων καὶ τὸν Ὀλύμπου παῖδα Μαρσύαν. οὗτος γὰρ εὑρὼν αὐλούς, οὓς ἔρριψεν Ἀθηνᾶ διὰ τὸ τὴν ὄψιν αὐτῆς ποιεῖν ἄμορφον, ἦλθεν εἰς ἔριν περὶ μουσικῆς Ἀπόλλωνι. συνθεμένων δὲ αὐτῶν ἵνα ὁ νικήσας ὃ βούλεται διαθῇ τὸν ἡττημένον, τῆς κρίσεως γινομένης τὴν κιθάραν στρέψας ἠγωνίζετο ὁ Ἀπόλλων, καὶ ταὐτὸ ποιεῖν ἐκέλευε τὸν Μαρσύαν· τοῦ δὲ ἀδυνατοῦντος εὑρεθεὶς κρείσσων ὁ Ἀπόλλων, κρεμάσας τὸν Μαρσύαν ἔκ τινος ὑπερτενοῦς πίτυος, ἐκτεμὼν τὸ δέρμα οὕτως διέφθειρεν. Apollo also slew Marsyas, the son of Olympus. For Marsyas, having found the pipes which Athena had thrown away because they disfigured her face, engaged in a musical contest with Apollo. They agreed that the victor should work his will on the vanquished, and when the trial took place Apollo turned his lyre upside down in the competition and bade Marsyas

 4 See, e.g., Pfister 1988, 184–196; de Jong 2001, xii; Margolin 2015, 77. 5 Fowler 2006, 40–43.

Does Mythography Care About Good or Bad?  

do the same. But Marsyas could not. So Apollo was judged the victor and despatched Marsyas by hanging him on a tall pine tree and stripping off his skin.6

How should the reader assess the characters of Apollo and Marsyas? Is Apollo’s cruelty justified? Has Marsyas acted blasphemously in agreeing to the contest? Who is good, who is bad in this myth? The narrator is silent on these matters, and none of the characters gives his opinion about the other. Is Apollodorus simply not interested in the moral aspect of the story? Or does he assume that the reader will figure it out? Before I return to this story, I shall discuss the techniques of characterisation based on a variety of texts from the classical and Hellenistic era: fragments as collected in Fowler’s EGM, Palaephatus, Conon, and Parthenius. Since the differentiation between explicit and implicit narratorial and actorial characterisations is helpful in elaborating the techniques as applied in mythographical texts, I shall adhere to it for the time being, even though further aspects will come in later. Explicit narratorial characterisations are not a very common feature of mythography. Descriptions of physical traits are sometimes given, as e.g. in Pherecydes, EGM F 92, the blindness of Tiresias. It is clearly mentioned here not as an accessory to the story, which characterisations mostly are;7 rather, the myth has blindness as its theme and relates how it came about. A similar phenomenon occurs in Parthenius’ story of Periander (XVII) with regard to personality traits, which are described at the beginning: Periander initially was ‘reasonable and mild of disposition, but…later became more bloodthirsty for the following reason’.8 The actual ‘love-story’ serves as an explanation how this came about: his mother fell in love with him and by means of a scheme managed to have sex with him regularly without him knowing who the woman was with whom he had sex. When he discovered that it was his mother, he checked his first impulse to kill her but ‘ever after…was stricken in mind and soul, plunging into savagery and murdering many of the citizens’.9 This story is a special case, however: it is a  6 I use Apollodorus here in order to illustrate my point as clearly as possible. With the focus on classical and Hellenistic mythography, however, I will omit him for the remainder of this paper. Translations of Apollodorus are those of Frazer (LCL). 7 In Parthenius, descriptions of a character’s beauty are given at the beginning of the story, as in VI.1, VII.1, XXIX.1; they characterise the objects of another character’s love. Similarly in Conon’s Narratives a character’s beauty is mentioned when he or she is introduced (7.3; 8.3; 10.1; 24.2–3; 33.18); also Palaephatus, e.g. 31 (p. 47:3). 8 Λέγεται δὲ καὶ Περίανδρον τὸν Κορίνθιον τὴν μὲν ἀρχὴν ἐπιεικῆ τε καὶ πρᾶον εἶναι· ὕστερον δὲ φοινικώτερον γενέσθαι δι’ αἰτίαν τήνδε. Transl. Lightfoot 1999, 340. 9 …κἀκ τούτου παραπλὴξ ἦν νοῦ τε καὶ φρενῶν κατέσκηψέ τε εἰς ὠμότητα καὶ πολλοὺς ἀπέσφαξε τῶν πολιτῶν. Transl. Lightfoot 1999, 42.

  Jessica Wissmann ‘Wandernovelle’ which has been told of Diocles of Corinth, and is in the tradition of explaining the cruelty of tyrants.10 This may account for the interest in characterisation; the theme of the story could be given as ‘character-development’. If the strong tendency of mythography is ‘to tell its story as economically as possible, reducing it to the bare essentials’,11 then Parthenius definitely regarded the personality of Periander as one of these essentials. However, even here, Parthenius does not use terms of especial moral evaluation—when the mother’s desire is described as ‘passion’ (πάθος) or ‘malady’ (νόσος) he uses two terms by which he quite regularly denotes love-sickness.12 There is something negative about them, but perhaps this is less a moral evaluation than something that is as displeasing as a disease, which happens without anybody’s fault.13 In Conon’s Narratives, there is an almost over-explicit narratorial characterisation that is an essential part of the story. In his version of the story of Herakles and Syleus, the latter has a brother who is the opposite of him. The brother’s name being Dikaios, ‘he was just, and as he was named, so he also was. But Syleus, who was arrogant (ὑβριστής), was killed by Herakles.’14 Dikaios is not part of most other versions, including Euripides’ satyrplay Syleus (TrGF IV 65). The reason for introducing him here may lie in an educative-protreptic background of the story: he also occurs as brother of the arrogant (ὑβριστής) Syleus in a letter to Philip II of Macedonia attributed to the Platonic philosopher Speusippus.15 Another instance of explicit narratorial characterisation occurs in the first of Palaephatus’ stories, in which he relates that the Centaurs (‘in truth’ young men who successfully killed wild bulls) became on account of ‘pride in their wealth and their achievement…insolent: they engaged in many wicked deeds’, especially against Ixion, who had rewarded them for killing the bulls.16 As the last two examples show, one-word characterisations or evaluations are, in principle, possible; also a summarising expression such as ‘they engaged in many wicked deeds’ goes well with the compendiousness of mythography.

 10 Cf. Lightfoot 1999, 482–485. 11 Fowler 2006, 40. 12 Lightfoot 1999, 280. She sees an instance of focalisation in the use of the metaphor, which would turn it into an actorial characterisation. There is, at any rate, something negative about these terms. 13 On the medical aspect of the παθήματα, see Lightfoot 1999, 367–368. 14 Καὶ ἦν ὁ μὲν δίκαιος, καὶ ὡς ὠνομάζετο, οὕτως καὶ ἦν· Συλέα δὲ ὑβριστὴν ὄντα Ἡρακλῆς ἀναιρεῖ (17, 2–3). Transl. Brown 2002, 137. 15 Brown 2002, 137. 16 …γαυριῶντες ἐπὶ τῇ πράξει καὶ τῷ πλούτῳ, ὑβρισταὶ ὑπῆρχον καὶ πολλὰ κακὰ εἰργάζοντο. Transl. Stern 1996, 30.

Does Mythography Care About Good or Bad?  

Nonetheless mythography is reluctant to be explicitly evaluative—which, as Fowler observes, distinguishes it from another genre of ‘short stories’, the fables. Whereas these, as a rule, explain at the end of the story what the lesson to be drawn from it is, mythographers—if there is a lesson to be drawn at all—leave it to the reader.17 Actorial explicit characterisation, divided into outside-commentary (the speaker comments on another character) and self-commentary (the speaker comments upon him/herself),18 requires that a character speaks or focalises. But in mythography action outweighs speaking. There is no direct speech in Parthenius, there are two instances in EGM, and but one in Conon; direct speeches in Palaephatus are of the type ‘people say’ (φασίν etc.) and contribute nothing to characterisation. The one instance of direct speech in Conon’s stories is, again, an unusual case of ‘myth’: it is no coincidence that it carries the title ‘Fable’ (Αἶνος, no. 42). It is the story of Gelon, who has aspirations toward tyranny, and the poet Stesichorus, who tells the crowd a warning fable about a horse that got its revenge on a hind at the cost of its freedom. As is typical of fables, the poet concludes his speech with the lesson to be drawn from it. Even though this lesson is the primary objective of the fable, it characterises Gelon as someone who, to Stesichorus’ mind, would enslave his people. But clearly, this myth is a special case and the ample use of direct speech a notable exception.19 The occurrences of indirect speeches in mythographical texts have somewhat more to offer with regard to explicit actorial characterisation. Quite often, the ‘indirect speech’ is no more than the designation of a speech act followed by the corresponding construction, such as ‘commanding’, ‘persuading’, ‘asking’ and the like. Speech acts that involve one character’s judgement of another are, e.g. ‘reproaching’ or ‘cursing’: in Parthenius, who makes ample use of indirect speech,20 Lyrcus reproaches Staphylus for having deceived him (I.5), or Oinone reproaches Alexander (Paris) for what he has done (i.e., to marry Helen; IV.4), and so forth. These are miniature characterisations, giving a tiny piece of information about one character’s negative view of another. Sometimes the reason is explicitly given (as the deception in the case of Lyrcus), sometimes the reproach

 17 A narrator’s reluctance to use evaluative terms is not without parallel: Homer is known for employing such terms, with few exceptions, only as ‘character language’ (de Jong 2001, xii). But in doing so, he is the exception rather than the rule. 18 I here use the terminology given by Pfister 1988, 184–190. 19 The fable occurs in other texts, too, sometimes with different attributions: Brown 2002, 289. 20 For indirect speech in Parthenius, see Lightfoot 1999, 280–281.

  Jessica Wissmann refers to the other character’s actions that have just been related (as in the story about Oinone); it is left to the reader to make this evident connection. Whereas in these cases the moral aspect is not explicitly brought up, other instances of indirect speech contain ethical vocabulary, e.g. when in Conon Melanthus shouts to Xanthus that ‘he was not playing fair’,21 or when in Palaephatus Athamas, king of Phthia has an ‘administrator in charge of his property and his realm, a man whom he considered most trustworthy and deserving, whose name was Ram.’22 This characterisation is essential to the story because Ram indeed proves himself trustworthy, informing Phrixus of a plot against him and helping him get away. The characterisation is somewhat more explicit when Herippe says to the unnamed Gaul who has abducted her that she detests her husband Xanthus (VIII.7), or when Cleoboea calls Antheus, who does not requite her love, ‘merciless and arrogant’ (XIV.2). But both these characterisations are clearly subjective and morally contaminated, as presently becomes clear from the course of the story: Herippe betrays her husband, Cleoboea kills Antheus. The opinions they give about another character are more revealing of their own personality traits than about the character of whom they speak. These are clear cases of overlapping characterisation-techniques, as Pfister describes them: ‘The way one particular figure comments explicitly on another also contains elements of implicit selfcharacterisation’.23 Information the author gives us about the thoughts one character has about another just by himself, without uttering them, constitute a similar grey area. On the one hand, they are explicit characterisations of another character; on the other, they give insight into the personality and motivations of the character who has these thoughts. Thus in Parthenius, Harpalyce, who has been abducted by her father when just married in order to live with him as his wife, ‘considered that she had suffered outrageous injustice from her father’.24 Such a statement of course can induce the reader to take a negative view of the father; at the same time, since the sentence continues to the effect that she cut up her brother and served him to her father at a public feast, it also serves as information about her  21 …μὴ δίκαια ποιεῖν (39.13). 22 ἦν δὲ αὐτῷ ἀνὴρ ἐπίτροπος τῶν χρημάτων καὶ τῆς ἀρχῆς, ὃν μάλιστα πιστὸν ἡγεῖτο καὶ πλείστου ἄξιον, ὄνομα δὲ ἦν αὐτῷ Κριός (30, 43:1–3; transl. Stern 1996, 60). 23 Pfister 1988, 186. A similar mechanism is described by Schneider 2001, 615 with regard to a reader’s empathy towards a character: ‘If a character passes a judgment on another character, it will have its effect only if the reader does not respond with dislike or suspicion to the character uttering the comment’. 24 …δεινὰ καὶ ἔκνομα πρὸς τοῦ πατρὸς ἀξιοῦσα πεπονθέναι (XIII.3).

Does Mythography Care About Good or Bad?  

motivation to commit such an abominable crime. It is, therefore, difficult to find an actorial characterisation of another character that does not reflect on the one who speaks (or whose view is given). Even more moralistic, almost to the point of a brief discussion of moral views, is a passage from Conon’s story of Semiramis (no. 9), a story that, like Parthenius’ myth of Periander, is about an incestuous relationship of mother and son. Here, however, it is Semiramis who has intercourse with her son unwittingly, ‘and then, when she realised what had happened, kept him openly as her husband, and from then on that which was formerly disgusting, namely to have intercourse with one’s mother, seemed good and proper to the Medes and the Persians.’25 Here, the other character is not just one individual but the public opinion passing a judgement on Semiramis. The explanation for the attention given to the moralistic aspect of Semiramis’ conduct may lie in an aetiological interest for an (alleged) habit of the Persians. But all in all, neither narratorial nor actorial characterisations are a very prominent feature of mythographical texts. It is time, therefore, to look for instances of implicit characterisation. Before this question is discussed, a possible objection should be considered: is it not somewhat anachronistic to apply modern characterisation techniques to ancient writings and presuppose awareness of them on the author’s or reader’s part? This objection perhaps less suggests itself in the case of explicit characterisations, since even without modern terminology they are unambiguous instances of the author’s conscious decision to give them or not, either in his own voice or in that of a character. Implicit characterisations are more ambiguous because the intention of the author is less clear and it is left to the reader to decide whether to draw a conclusion about the character of, e.g. Athena in the Marsyas episode, from the reason given why she throws away the pipes: we may conclude from it that she is vain, but we cannot say for sure that the author wants us to infer it.26 One could, therefore, assume that implicit characterisation was not necessarily recognised as a consciously employed technique. But as Nünlist has shown, ancient scholars, while apparently not discussing the technique of im-

 25 Λέγει δ’ ὡς ἡ Σεμίραμις αὕτη τῷ υἱῷ λάθρᾳ καὶ ἀγνοοῦσα μιγεῖσα, εἶτα γνοῦσα, ἄνδρα ἐν τῷ φανερῷ ἔσχε, καὶ ἐξ ἐκείνου, πρότερον βδελυκτὸν ὄν, Μήδοις καὶ Πέρσαις καλὸν καὶ νόμιμον ἔδοξε μητράσι μίγνυσθαι. Transl. Brown 2002, 97. 26 More on the reader’s interpretation of ‘cues’ will be said below. Regarding the ancients’ awareness of characterisation techniques, of course Aristotle’s famous discussion of character (Poet. ch. 15) is lurking in the background; see, e.g. Halliwell 1986, 138–167.

  Jessica Wissmann plicit characterisation as such, in their interpretations nonetheless ‘reflect awareness of the phenomenon’.27 This is true not only at the level of ‘professional’ critics:28 readers with a somewhat higher degree of education may have been familiar with implicit characterisation through their own rhetorical studies, as a passage from Aphthonius’ Progymnasmata shows. In describing the rhetorical standard exercise of ethopoeia, he states (p. 34 R.): καὶ ἠθοποιία μὲν ἡ γνώριμον ἔχουσα πρόσωπον, πλαττομένη δὲ μόνον τὸ ἦθος· … οἷον τίνας ἂν εἴποι λόγους Ἡρακλῆς Εὐρυσθέως ἐπιτάσσοντος· ἐνταῦθα ὁ μὲν Ἡρακλῆς ἔγνωσται, τὸ δὲ τοῦ λέγοντος ἦθος πλαττόμεθα. Ethopoeia has a known person as a speaker and only invents the characterisation…for example, what words would Heracles say when Eurystheus gave his commands. Here Heracles is known, but we invent the character in which he speaks.29

Here, as an exercise, speech is moulded in such a way as to reflect character (in a specific situation); conversely, a reader could be expected to draw conclusions from a character’s speech about this character. Such a speech can be about anything (his example is Niobe lamenting the death of her children), i.e., they are not necessarily self-characterising, which, as we have seen, would put them into the category of explicit actorial characterisations. Conclusions about a character’s personality traits are most easily drawn when we get into a character’s motivations. There are several ways of giving this information: the most immediate way is directly from the horse’s mouth. But with direct speeches being rare in mythography anyway, those in which a character explains his or her motives are even rarer. As it happens, the only two instances of direct speech in EGM are precisely such statements. They are somewhat awkward because, as Fowler points out, they are not even introduced as speeches but come ‘without warning’; yet they serve to explain a character’s motivation ‘just as economically by reporting the speaker’s word directly as by reporting them indirectly’, almost without being a speech at all, and without being mimetic nor contributing to an analysis, as speeches do in other genres.30 In other words, al-

 27 Nünlist 2009, 246, with examples. 28 It is obvious that the more educated a reader, the greater is his awareness of techniques, which may also lead to a different kind of reading a text; see Schneider 2001, 626. 29 Transl. Kennedy 2003, 115. For Homeric scholia describing characters based on their speeches, see Nünlist 2009, 248 n. 38. 30 Fowler 2006, 41–42. The two passages in question are Hecataeus, EGM F 30 and Metrodorus, EGM F 2.

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though they are actorial and give an idea of the motivation of the character’s actions, these speeches are too short to contribute anything to characterisation. And since they are not even introduced by the narrator but ‘are treated as if they are raw data’,31 the reader is not given any cues about the character’s personality or morals. The description of motives can help understand a character’s actions, but brings about an implicit characterisation. Descriptions of emotional states are another way of giving insight into motivations. Temporary dispositions very often accompany actions in mythography, frequently as circumstantial participles or genitive absolutes:32 characters do something while or because they are afraid or angry, sad or terrified, they hate or are in love,33 are ashamed or jealous, as in the following example (Hesiod fr. 260 M–W), a conglomerate of the versions of Endymion’s story given by, among others, Acusilaus (EGM F 36), Pherecydes (EGM F 121), and Epimenides (EGM F 12). This is the final part: ἐν δὲ ταῖς Μεγάλαις Ἠοίαις λέγεται τὸν Ἐνδυμίωνα ἀνενεχθῆναι ὑπὸ τοῦ Διὸς εἰς οὐρανόν, ἐρασθέντα δὲ Ἥρας εἰδώλῳ παραλογισθῆναι {τὸν ἔρωτα} νεφέλης καὶ ἐκβληθέντα κατελθεῖν εἰς Ἅιδου. Ἐπιμενίδης δὲ αὐτὸν παρὰ θεοῖς διατρίβοντα ἐρασθῆναί φησι τῆς Ἥρας, διόπερ Διὸς χαλεπήναντος αἰτήσασθαι διὰ παντὸς καθεύδειν. In the Megalai Ehoiai the story is told that Endymion was brought up to heaven by Zeus, but that because he had become enamoured of Hera he was deceived by means of a phantomcloud and was thrown out and went down to Hades. Epimenides, on the other hand, says that during his stay with the gods he became enamoured of Hera, and when on account of that Zeus had become angry, he asked to be asleep forever.

Love is the motivation for Endymion to act in a specific way, and Zeus’ anger triggers a reaction. However, it is difficult to ascertain that this way of telling the story, in which dispositions are named in order to provide a cue about a character’s actions, is representative of early mythographical writings. First, much of early mythography seems to have been concerned with genealogy or chronology, thus with cataloguing rather than with telling stories; second, and more importantly, whenever a story is told, it is by no means clear that the narrative we

 31 Fowler 2006, 42. 32 For participles as a typical feature of narrative hypotheses of ancient plays, see van RossumSteenbeek 1998, 9. 33 I shall not list individually the constantly recurring instances in Parthenius in which characters are in love.

  Jessica Wissmann have is precisely that of the earlier mythographer himself—it may just as well have been a retelling, with omissions or embellishments, by the later source.34 But mythographical texts of later dates display the features outlined above more clearly. The tale of Procne, e.g., from Conon’s Narratives, contains quite a few instances of ‘background information’ about the characters’ dispositions: words such as ἐπεμάνη (Tereus fell madly in love), ἀκούσῃ (‘against her will’, denoting Tereus’ rape of Philomela), δεδιώς (‘out of fear’, Tereus is afraid of the scandal), ἀμυνομένῃ (‘taking vengeance’, of Procne), τῆς ὀργῆς (even as birds they all did not desist of their anger) denote a great range of affects that bring about the various actions.35 How can temporary emotional states contribute to characterisation? As explicitly stated as these dispositions may seem on the surface—a woman in love or a daughter being afraid that her father might find out about her pregnancy—they do not really induce the reader to judge the character as a likeable or disagreeable, as a good or a bad person. Quite often the dispositions are indeed snapshots. Sometimes, however, it is the context or the combination with other information that leads to assumptions about a character’s personality traits. A good example from Conon’s story about Procne is the word ἀκούσῃ: it indicates Philomela’s innocence and Tereus’ crime, for the predicate alone, ἐμίγη (Tereus ‘had intercourse with’) is neutral. This mechanism is also noted in a Homeric scholion on Il. 1.348, where it is said that Briseis is leaving Achilles ‘against her will’ (ἀέκουσα). The scholion remarks: ‘By means of a single word, he [sc. Homer] has shown us the entire character of the person [sc. Briseis].’36 The scholion’s main interest is the brevity through which Homer manages to characterise Briseis; but it is of interest that the very expression ‘against her will’ is taken as a means of characterisation. Not just affects or emotional states can provide cues for the reader about a character’s motivation; this happens somewhat more often by means of deliberations, intentions or schemes, which again are often given in the form of circumstantial participles, as, e.g., in what is presumably a hypothesis to Sophocles’

 34 For such, and other, caveats in dealing with the sources for early mythographers, see Cameron 2004, 114–116. 35 Although Conon’s Narratives have come down to us in the abridged version made by Photius, a comparison with a papyrus containing remains of Tale 47 (P.Oxy. 364) gives reason to believe that ‘the contents of the original tales were not compressed to the point of distortion’ (Brown 2002, 10). 36 …διὰ μιᾶς λέξεως ὁλόκληρον ἡμῖν ἦθος προσώπου δεδήλωκεν: schol. bT Il. 1.348 ex.; see Nünlist 2009, 249 with n. 39.

Does Mythography Care About Good or Bad?  

tragedy Tereus.37 In this version, Tereus, ‘after he had not kept his pledge, deflowered , and being wary lest she tell her sister, cut the girl’s tongue off.’38 Here, the participles add to the crimes Tereus commits, the first giving information from an ‘objective’ point of view, the second almost like a ‘shifter’ changing the focalisation and giving insight into Tereus’ considerations, especially in combination with the final clause. ‘Being wary’ as such is not a bad thing to do, but in combination with the cutting off of the tongue, the reader will form an image of not just a crime, but a particularly insidious one. Such brief insights into a character’s motivations can also work to the opposite effect and render a heinous deed at least momentarily understandable, since it can be seen from the character’s perspective, as in another story of transformation into a nightingale (Pherecydes, EGM F 124), where ‘Aedon, the mother, kills Itylos one night, thinking he was the son of Amphion, because she was envious of the aforesaid’s wife because the latter had six children, she herself only two.’ Since we get her view here, which is that she mistook him for someone else, we clearly find her not guilty of murdering her own son—which would be a particularly abominable crime. But of course the fact remains that she is a murderess, and the explanation of her emotional state (envy) now underlines the heinousness of her crime. It comes not as a surprise, then, that ‘Zeus sends Poina (Punishment) against her’.39 The passage shows an interesting combination of two types of background information—emotional state and a character’s point of view—and on top of these a response by another character (Zeus) which is a clear indication of how Aedon’s actions are to be evaluated morally. As this passage shows, compendiousness as such is not an obstacle to, in this case, implicit characterisation and moral evaluation. This has also become clear from the examples discussed on the previous pages: explicit or implicit characterisation does fit in. The fact remains, however, that this is often not done, and that the majority of the accounts of myth have  37 P.Oxy. 3013 = TrGF IV.435–436. I treat the narrative hypotheseis as mythographical texts, since they often are collections of myths from a specific point of view; for ancient works on the myths of the tragedians and their mythographical traits, see Cameron 2004, 58–59. For an attribution to Dicaearchus’ Hypotheseis of the Myths of Euripides and Sophocles, see Haslam 1975. 38 ὁ δὲ τὰ πισ[τὰ οὐ φ]υλάξας διεπαρθένευ[σεν, εὐλ]αβούμενοις δὲ μὴ τῇ ἀ[δελφῇ μηνύσῃ] ἐγλωσσοτόμη[σε τὴν παῖδα.] 39 …Ἴτυλον δὲ ἡ μήτηρ Ἀηδὼν ἀποκτείνει διὰ νυκτός, δοκοῦσα εἶναι τὸν Ἀμφίονος παῖδα, ζηλοῦσα τὴν τοῦ προειρημένου γυναῖκα ὅτι ταύτῃ μὲν ἦσαν ἓξ παῖδες, αὐτῇ δὲ δύο. ἐφορμᾷ δὲ ταύτῃ ὁ Ζεὺς Ποίνην… As a report given by a scholion on Od. 19.518, the same caveat applies as outlined above, n. 34.

  Jessica Wissmann something ‘neutral’ about them or give assessments of characters only sporadically. Still, I would like to argue that such a lack of cues is not necessarily an indication of mythography’s indifference towards the moral aspect of myths. It is rather a matter of what the author could presuppose on the reader’s part. It is also a matter of how individualised a character we are looking for. Of the possible techniques of implicit characterisation I have so far not touched on is the one narrative mode that is most characteristic of mythographical texts: the simple description of actions. A ‘neutral’ description of actions, without any additional information about motives or emotional states (which, as stated above, are not perforce instructive of a character’s personality traits) leaves plenty of wiggle-room to the reader: it is up to him or her to regard them as cues or take them at face-value only. But interpretation of actions can be assumed as a common procedure for ancient readers, as Halliwell has shown on the basis of observations on Isocrates’ Evagoras. Halliwell argues that in Greek culture character-construction is based on a combination of ‘actions’ and ‘mind’.40 But in order to assess a character from the outside, actions are the indicators: ‘…the virtues of Evagoras were the result of a certain cast of mind; but all the evidence cited to support this belief is derived from active policy and way of life. Character is exhibited in action, and action allows Isocrates to deduce and establish the nature of character’.41 Actions are thus, as a convention, taken as evidence of a person’s mind. Such a process requires a relatively fixed set of standards, which Greek society, like any society or group, had. In order to explore the mechanisms that are at work in evaluating a character from his actions, it is helpful to look for an instant beyond Greek society in particular. In a very illuminating article, Ralf Schneider investigates ‘the dynamics of mental-model construction’ based on modern cognitive theories and distinguishes two types of information-processing from textual sources that ‘feed into the construction of mental character models’: a ‘topdown processing, in which the reader’s pre-stored knowledge structures are directly activated to incorporate new items of information, and bottom-up processing, in which bits of textual information are kept in working memory separately and integrated into an overall representation at a later point in time’; both

 40 Halliwell 1990, 44–53. The combination appears in Isocrates as πράξεις and διάνοια or as ἔργα and γνώμη (Or. 9.73–74). 41 Halliwell 1990, 51. Isocrates, who is certainly not an idiosyncratic innovator but can be seen as representative of traditional views, is not the only evidence Halliwell cites; he also refers to Theognis and Aristotle.

Does Mythography Care About Good or Bad?  

‘continually interact in the reading process’.42 Schneider connects this processing with findings from the area of cognitive psychology according to which knowledge is stored not in scattered bits and pieces but ‘in meaningful structures that arise from the individual’s contact with the world’; with these structures being either categories (based on the similarity of items) or schemas/frames (according to the contiguity of the information encountered), those pertaining to social and literary knowledge ‘are of special relevance to character understanding’.43 While in real life such categorisations and schematisations, creating a feeling of stability when dealing with other people, ‘allow us to understand situations and to attribute disposition to others’, they can also create stereotypes, often to negative effect.44 With regard to fiction, a reader’s initial response is to find familiar structures in the text, based on his or her own values or genre-expectations; in this way, a character-model is established. But it is ‘continually updated to incorporate the latest information’; mental character models are ‘dynamic in that they adapt to new input of information’.45 The dynamics take place in the interaction of ‘topdown processing’ and ‘bottom-up processing’, with top-down processing leading to ‘categorisation’, bottom-up processing to ‘personalisation’. The reader’s preference is to apply top-down categorisation, but he or she then has to take into account the information given in the text. The bottom-up processing can either support the initial categorisation or function as a corrective when the information does not match the category: if some features are brought up in the text that require important aspects of the model, individuation takes places; if the new information runs contrary to the initially chosen category, a decategorisation takes place. In these instances, the reader’s tendency to read top-down takes precedence; bottom-up processing requires some willingness or effort on the reader’s part either not to categorise at all or to give up a category in favour of looking for more differentiated features of a character.46 These processes are, of course, much more complex than summarised here— Schneider illustrates many points with examples taken from British novels of the 19th century, which naturally display not only a wider range of techniques than mythographical texts from antiquity but also far more information and more details. In terms of categorisation or personalisation, this means that the reader of

 42 Schneider 2001, 611. 43 Schneider 2001, 611. 44 Schneider 2001, 612. 45 Schneider 2001, 617. 46 Schneider 2001, 617–627.

  Jessica Wissmann mythographical texts often has none or only very few correctives for the categories he or she initially formed. With myths very often being structured in ‘functions’,47 the reader of myths will certainly have had genre-expectations, which coincide with types or stockcharacters. They are not as clear-cut as they are in fairy-tales, where we find ‘the wicked stepmother’ or ‘the brave little tailor’; in such categories, the characterisation is already given. But what mythography has in common with fairy-tales is that the characters’ personality traits are not described in detail but are displayed through corresponding actions in sequences of images and motives.48 In fairy tales, characters are not ambivalent or multi-dimensional; there is a strong tendency towards stereotypes.49 Whereas I would not exclude ambivalence as a feature of characters in mythography (see below), there are some obvious stereotypes, such as the seduced girl or the god punishing a (blasphemous) contestant.50 Now although we can easily assume that even if it is stated matter-of-factly that, e.g., ‘Medea, when caught in the act of plotting against Theseus, fled from Athens, too’ (Paus. 2.3.8 = Hellanicus, EGM F 132), the average reader would not regard her plotting as a good deed, but rather as wicked; limits are established by our knowledge of common-sense morality. And it is equally questionable whether the ancient reader would think much about the immorality of Medea’s plotting or just pass over it as a typical and plausible reason for being sent into exile. Even if a set of moral standards can be assumed, this does not exclude the possibility of subjective judgement. Since we do not have interpretations of, or comments on, mythographical texts, an example from the Homeric scholia may serve to illustrate the point. Commenting on a passage from the Iliad in which Menelaus is reluctant to kill Adrestus, who is begging for his life, the scholion takes this as a means to show us that Menelaus was ‘moderate and not irascible’.51 The scholion could just as well have taken Agamemnon’s view of his brother’s reluctance and interpreted it as a sign of ‘softness’.52

 47 Such as Burkert’s well-known example of ‘the girl’s tragedy’: 1979, 7. 48 Ranke 1979, 1242 (on fairy-tales). 49 Ranke 1979, 1243–1245. 50 Cf. the discussion of ‘literary categorisation’ in Schneider 2001, 620. 51 Schol. T Il. 6.62b1 ex.; Nünlist 2009, 246. 52 As Nünlist 2009, 252–253 points out, in the Homeric scholia the behaviour of characters are sometimes explained in generalisations with the character in question taken as ‘representative of a particular type’, sometimes with a great attention to individual traits.

Does Mythography Care About Good or Bad?  

Sometimes the reader is given subtle hints into which category to fit a character. An example of this is the story of Phayllus in Parthenius (XXV). The tyrant of that name fell in love with the wife of the Oetaean champion (προστάτης) Ariston, and promised her that he would get her anything she wanted. Her greatest wish turned out to be the necklace supposed to be that of Eriphyle, which had been deposited in the temple of Athena Pronoia, and which she thought befitting to obtain. When Phayllus plundered temples in Delphi, he also took the necklace, sent it to her, and she wore it, for which she became widely-known. Then, however, ‘she suffered a very similar calamity to that of Eriphyle’, because her son went mad and set fire to the house, which killed her and destroyed most of their possessions. ‘Tyrant’ and ‘champion’—the Greek word for the latter having a decidedly democratic connotation—are the first categories that occur in this story, which has a historical background in the Third Sacred War and is told with significant variations by Plutarch and Diodorus.53 The categories are political but also characterising. Τύραννος is not necessarily a negative term—Lightfoot even takes it to mean here simply ‘military leader’,54—but it is significant that Parthenius speaks not of two στρατηγοί but uses words which make clear that they are opposed to each other (no war is mentioned!). The categorisation that is central to this story is, however, that of the nameless woman: there is no description of her, she does not perform any actions that could characterise her or judge her morally. It is, as such, neither virtuous nor wicked to be the object of someone’s love or to long for a particular necklace. But with the different designations as ‘tyrant’ and ‘champion’ indicating adversity, these per se neutral actions smack of betrayal. This is confirmed by the association of the woman with Eriphyle: the reader immediately places her into the same category as the notorious traitress, even though she has not explicitly performed an act of betrayal. Similarly, towards the end of the story it is not explicitly stated that the madness of the son and the subsequent death of the woman was her punishment, but again she is compared to Eriphyle, who was punished for her betrayal. In this story, categorisations almost supplement actions. Categorisation works best in cases in which the characters, such as the nameless woman, are like a blank canvas on which the personality traits can be brushed in broad strokes. It is more difficult in the case of well-known characters, especially if they have more than one facet. One such character is Odysseus,

 53 Lightfoot 1999, 513–514; 515 (on the προστάτης, for which also see LSJ s.v.). 54 Lightfoot 1999, 515.

  Jessica Wissmann whose cleverness can be admired or detested. This becomes clear, e.g., in Parthenius’ stories II (Polymela) and III (Euippe). In the story of Polymela, Odysseus stays with Aeolus, who greatly admires him for his wisdom and accommodates him generously. Odysseus has an affair with Aeolus’ daughter, but then departs and leaves behind the girl, who is beside herself with grief. Aeolus curses Odysseus and then checks his first impulse to punish his daughter, giving her instead as wife to her brother, who is in love with her. The story contains two actorial characterisations, a change from praise to curse, with which the reader may agree or not. At the beginning of the story of Euippe, however, the narrator makes clear that Odysseus once again did something wicked: ‘Aeolus was not the only one Odysseus wronged’ (οὐ μόνον δὲ Ὀδυσσεὺς περὶ Αἴολον ἐξήμαρτεν, III.1). This is, in a manner of speaking, a custom-made, ad hoc categorisation: Odysseus is here to be seen as scoundrel. If the reader had any doubts whether to take Odysseus’ well-known cleverness for good or bad, he has now received clear instructions.55 The same technique can be found in the story of Marsyas cited at the beginning of the paper: it is introduced by the words ‘Apollo also slew…’. The Marsyas story is preceded by other accounts of characters who died at the hands of Apollo, and while Python as a snake can be seen as a hindrance but perhaps not as morally inferior, it is clear that Tityus is rightly punished for his transgression. If Marsyas is next, he automatically belongs to the same category of evil-doers. Another way of dealing with ambivalent characters are omissions and changes to the story. Medea may serve as an example here. She fits the categories of sorceress, traitress, wronged wife, child murderer. Her most notorious deed probably is the killing of her own children, which is well-known from Euripides’ tragedy. There, it is an act of revenge on the unfaithful Jason, which is portrayed with a high degree of ambivalence. In Eumelus’ version, however, Medea is shown ‘in the best light’:56 she buries her newborn babies in the temple of Hera in the belief that they thus become immortal, that is, with the best intentions (Eumelus EGM F 3). Implicit characterisation, by giving insight into her motivation, is decisive here and overrules any of the categories typically applied to her. The intention behind this is clear when one considers that with his Corinthiaca Eumelus wrote a ‘strongly patriotic’ poem.57  55 It may also ease the way to a very unusual explicit narratorial characterisation of Odysseus as lacking self-control and unreasonable (III.3), which is quite the opposite of the traditional view of Odysseus. 56 EGM II.231, where Fowler also points out that in this version Medea apparently was not forced to flee from Iolkos because she had killed Pelias. 57 EGM II.657. Fowler also compares the version given by the grammarian Parmeniscus (fr. 13 Breithaupt, quoted as part of Creophylus, EGM F 3), in which the Corinthians were unwilling to

Does Mythography Care About Good or Bad?  

While Eumelus’ version illustrates that an action can be explained and thus evaluated in different ways, the version given by Creophylus demonstrates that when specific actions are varied this procedure can shed a different light on the characters’ morality. In his version, Medea’s killing of her children is not part of the story: she kills Creon with poison and flees from Corinth for fear of his relatives, leaving her children behind at the altar of Hera Acraea. It is then Creon’s relatives who kill the children and even spread the rumour that this has been done by Medea (Creophylus, EGM F 3). Without context, it is difficult to assess what induced Creophylus to present Medea as innocent (at least of killing her children) or as a victim, but it is clear that categorisations based on previous conceptions of Medea are disturbed by the new, contradictory information: ‘bottomup reading’ leads to ‘de-categorisation’. Even more readiness on the reader’s part to engage with ‘bottom-up reading’ is the account of Diodorus, who devotes a large part of his Bibliotheke historike to mythical accounts; an approach he justifies at length at the beginning of Book 4.58 His Medea is a rather positive character: right at the beginning, the sorceress is individuated, for Medea is said to have learned from her mother and her sister to use drugs, but to have used them for altogether different (i.e. good) purposes. She is a sorceress, but a good one. Moreover, she tried to prevent human sacrifices, was therefore persecuted by her father and received help from the Argonauts, who praised her for her kindness and piety (4.46.1). Diodorus’ description of the events in Corinth (4.54–55) is even more stunning: Jason is said to have admired her not only for her beauty but also for her modesty and the other virtues. This seems hard to reconcile with the traditional view of Medea as a woman prone to irrational behaviour. Diodorus does not suppress Medea’s killing her children (in his version, she kills two, whereas the third and youngest escapes), but he provides a motivation: she had ‘come to such a state of rage and jealousy, yes, even of savageness’ that, since Jason had escaped her attempted murder, she decided to murder the children.59 This sounds almost like an excuse, and it is indeed taken so by other characters: the public opinion was that Jason deserved  be ruled by a sorceress and killed her fourteen children even though they had sought refuge at the altar of Hera Akraia. In terms of categorisation, the sorceress is definitely individuated towards an innocent sorceress. Another change to a myth for moral reasons (albeit not with regard to character) is discussed at EGM II.78: apparently Pherecydes (EGM F 35) located a cult of Asclepius in Delphi (otherwise unattested) in order to enforce a certain morality concerning life and death. 58 For Diodorus, see above, Ch. 2 and Ch. 4. 59 ἐπὶ τοσοῦτο γὰρ προλθεῖν αὐτὴν ὀργῆς ἅμα καὶ ζηλοτυπίας, ἔτι δ’ ὠμότητος… (4.54.7; transl. Oldfather, LCL).

  Jessica Wissmann losing his children and wife (4.55.1). Something similar is told with regard to the murder of Creon: when Creon’s son brought an action against her, she was acquitted (4.55.6). Much incorporation of knowledge by bottom-up processing is demanded from the reader here. But these rather obvious changes are topped by the omission of that part of her story in which she flees aboard the Argo and is pursued by her father: there is no pursuit. Aeetes is killed in a battle on land (4.48.4). As the narrative continues quite plausibly, a reader who is not familiar with the myth of the Argonauts would not have noticed that a part is missing in which Medea cuts up her brother and scatters the pieces over the sea in order to keep her father from further pursuit of them. But a reader who was familiar with it is again required to change his construction of Medea’s character. He has received fair warning, however, when during a digression on the history of the Golden Fleece and, later on, on the Labours of Heracles (4.47.3–5; 53.7), the narrator makes clear his distrust in poetic accounts of myths with their inclination towards embellishments and marvels, and leaves it to the reader to judge for himor herself. Diodorus uses the whole array of characterisation-techniques, and he clearly does so with the moral aspect of the story in mind.60 This approach is certainly not representative of mythographers in the narrower sense. Does this mean that the reverse conclusion is accurate: the smaller the array of techniques, the greater the indifference toward characterisation? It probably is no coincidence that a writer such as Parthenius, whose stories are about one of the most forceful emotions, apparently used a wider range of techniques of characterisation and more frequently than, e.g., Pherecydes. Parthenius’ stories involve a decidedly emotional interaction; this, by itself, entails more attention to the personalities of the various characters. As seen, in other texts, too, personal traits or the moral aspect of a particular behaviour are of interest, sometimes even the theme of a story. But more often, characterisations come in as accessory, leaving it to the reader to take them as cues for his or her own reflections. If forced to give a clear answer to the question that gave this paper its title, the answer is ‘yes’—but to various degrees. Like a number of other literary genres, mythography does not as such have a moralistic purpose; the myths do not serve as overt models for behaviour. But it would be wrong to assume a complete indifference to the moral aspects of their characters.

 60 On Diodorus’ concern with morality even if that means contradictory accounts, see EGM II.388.

Ken Dowden

Vergil the Mythographer sed Vergilius, amans, inventa occasione, recondita quaeque summatim et antiquam contingere fabulam… but Vergil loves, when he can find the opportunity, to touch fleetingly on individual recherché items and on ancient myth... Servius Danielis on Aeneid 3.286

 Introduction The study of mythography is a recent development of the study of mythology. It concerns above all how writers engage in, and with, systems of mythology, how they renew them and extend them, whilst all the time maintaining and displaying a consciousness of alternative tellings. Though some qualities were in all ages prized by ancient mythographers, different eras call into existence different modes of mythography. So, in this contribution I consider Vergil as one of these mythographers and in particular as a mythographer characteristic of the 1st century BC, reflecting the manners, or mannerisms, of his contemporary mythographic experts. I shall be especially concerned with Aeneas in Sicily, looking at the third and fifth books of the Aeneid, and how that material interlaces with other traditions known to us, notably in ‘Lycophron’s’ Alexandra and its commentators. The picture that emerges of Vergil is of a writer who is not only immensely learned, but also quite devious in how he makes us aware of that learning. This study also forms part of a larger project in which I have been engaged. Work on Brill’s New Jacoby (whose online ‘Second Edition’ is now well under way), renewing and making accessible to the English-speaking reader Jacoby’s Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, has led me into the study of a range of mythographical authors such as ‘Abas’, ‘Dositheos’, and ‘Demetrios of Ilion’ who have been thought never to have existed. Jacoby’s view, going back to Hercher1 and still constituting the mainstream today, was that authors such as these had been wholly invented, by other, unscrupulous authors (the so-called Schwindelautoren) as bogus references, as fake documentation of their learning. The Schwindelautoren in question are Ptolemy Chennos, and the Pseudo-Plutarch  1 Hercher 1855/6. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110672824-007

  Ken Dowden who wrote both the de fluviis and the Parallela minora. And the subjects on which the bogus authors are alleged to have written often constitute a wayward and idiosyncratic mythography. However, the Schwindelautoren do also cite demonstrably real authorities and, where authorities are otherwise unknown, one should bear in mind how much classical literature is lost. Thus, even allowing that some authors may have been invented, we cannot know which ones and there is a consequent danger of deleting a whole period of historical and mythographic activity. There are other ways of explaining our evidence, assuming that it is in some way unreliable, notably slapdash referencing with some element of misremembering.2 If, then, the cited authorities are in some way real, we can turn to dating them. As the Schwindelautoren probably wrote around the end of the 1st century AD,3 that gives us a terminus ante quem for their authorities. And in fact these authors, if real, will have existed in the 1st century BC (possibly slightly earlier too),4 and in the 1st century AD. It would become impossible to confine mythographic gamesmanship to the Schwindelautoren but would indicate a whole climate of mythography that was in some way distinctive. Varro (116–27 BC) looks to be somewhere on this map, and Vergil (70–19 BC), who in a sense is one of Varro’s disciples, might be expected to display some characteristics of the mythography of this age. Such mythography would be characterised by a parade of learning, combined with the sort of ingenuity that we find elsewhere in the declaimers.

 Vergil as mythographer So, we need to review Vergil and his Aeneid from a particular point of view—not that of his supreme aesthetic craft, nor that of his relation to a new régime and its image of itself. What matters here is his crafting of a mythology, his mythography. For he not only enters into the intertext that is mythology by rehearsing part of it: he actively and knowingly constructs his own version out of multiple narra-

 2 So it is possible that the references are made carelessly and irresponsibly rather than invented. On this view, authors’ names are not always accurately remembered (was it Dositheos or Dorotheos?) and the precise location, forgotten and unnoted, is made up (it is in...Italika, Book...Three). 3 See my remarks on BNJ2 56 F 1b (K. Dowden). 4 The terminus post quem needs more research, to which I will turn in the next few years.

Vergil the Mythographer  

tives and therefore fulfils the important characteristics of a mythographer: he displays his wide knowledge of the mythography of others, and his own originality in constructing a ‘better’ or ‘truer’ account, whilst not losing sight of other versions. The position of Alan Cameron is good to start from—he envisaged a Vergil confronted by an immense bibliography, but knowing what he was looking for: Like any modern scholar, he surely began by consulting a comprehensive recent work such as Ps.-Apollodorus that (like most mythographers) quoted its sources. He would then follow up the most promising references.5

This may be to project ourselves as academic researchers onto Vergil but I hesitate to subscribe entirely to this vision for a different reason:6 references like those of (Ps.-) Apollodorus would have been wholly insufficient for the mythography he created—Vergil was much more advanced than that. We must acknowledge his expertise and think in terms of years of research. Learned poetry, at the least since the time of Callimachus and his Pinakes (in effect, the catalogue of the Alexandrian library), when this tendency was formalised, was indeed a matter of research. And amongst the material researched, mythology held a prime position, as the alternative history in which poets were documentary experts. Thus the poet becomes no mere reciter of commonly known myths, but a mythographer amongst mythographers, an academic historian of the legendary period. And those that are more overtly mythographic adopt a research model even more comparable to that of the historian or encyclopedist. Thus, in the words of Horsfall: Much of the pervasive erudition of the Aeneid, then, will have been recognisable to informed contemporary readers as reflecting the most modern research on Aeneas’ travels…sometimes Virgil leaves his readers to recognise the allusion unaided, at other times the debt is signalled almost flamboyantly.7

Research is laborious. Demetrius of Skepsis, in the mid-2nd century BC, maybe a little later, devoted no less than 30 books to the Catalogue of Trojans (Il. 2.816– 877).8 Vergil’s contemporary Diodorus professed to have spent 30 years’ labour (πόνος) on researching and starting his history (1.4), which he notably calls a Library. In the following century, Pliny the Elder lists a plenitude of authors, Roman and ‘foreign’ (Greek), as his sources (HN 1) and is depicted by the Younger  5 Cameron 2004, 255. 6 And of course Cameron does not mean to say that Apollodorus actually antedates Vergil. 7 Horsfall 1986, 10. 8 φιλόλογος ἄκρως according to Diogenes Laertius 5.5.11.

  Ken Dowden Pliny as wasting no moment when more research could be conducted (Ep. 3.5): watchwords are vigilantia (‘wakefulness’), lucubrare (‘working by lamplight’) and so on.9 And Apollodorus (perhaps in the later 1st century AD), in the poem which I think he himself prefixed to his ‘Library’ (again), considered the huge range of primary texts you needed to know for mythography and stresses how he has saved the reader the bother of all this research.10 At much the same time Ptolemy Chennos, in his basically mythographic Kaine Historia (‘Novel History’), seems in his preface (to judge by Photius’ account of his work) to have claimed he had made easily available the results of a great deal of labour (πόνος again).11 Labour is the virtue of the researching scholar, like another author, Didymos Chalkenteros (‘Brazen-Guts’), a contemporary of Vergil’s—and Vergil himself describes his last Eclogue as a labor (Ecl. 10.1), a term which should not be taken trivially. What this ‘labour’ produces is ‘polymathy’, the claim of Ptolemy Chennos and of all encyclopedists, for instance Vergil’s older contemporary Varro, whose particular model of learning was a beacon to the age and whom Julius Caesar had selected, it is said (Suet. Iul. 44.2), to establish a state library in Rome. Once a writer is perceived as laborious, commentaries (and, deriving from them, scholia) are called into existence to support a reading that is alert to that labour. We need to understand Apollonius’ Argonautika through the prism of the scholia, and to think of Homer as the first-century BC text beloved of commentators (and the Sperlonga sculptors). Vergil did not encounter the real Homer but a Homer mediated by such commentary. The extreme case is a poem that clearly had a strong influence on Vergil (and in turn seems to have been modified to reflect Vergil), namely Lycophron’s Alexandra. That poem, its scholia, and its mentality are a large clue to our mythographic Vergil. So, the Callimachean and Hellenistic conception of the role of library-driven scholarship in poetry and myth led in the succeeding centuries to a particular emphasis on laborious, research-based polymathy as fundamental both to paideia (‘education, culture’) and to the act of writing. To risk a sweeping statement, this was the sort of conception that underpinned the creation of classical Latin literature at all and its creation of an identity that could hold its head up to the Greek. The relationship between the two is fundamental: there was a need to call into existence a Latin cultural world matching that supplied by centuries of Greek tradition and scholarship. It plainly underlies Plutarch’s  9 Dowden 2003. 10 Dowden 2019. 11 Dowden 2019.

Vergil the Mythographer  

Parallel Lives and their extraordinary synkriseis (‘comparisons’ of Greek notable figures with Roman). And no less does this parallel thinking underly the Parallela minora (supposedly of some Schwindelautor) that are found in Plutarch’s corpus, where notable Greek historical or mythological events are given their alleged Roman, or Italian, equivalents. These latter are drawn from a whole industry, we are to believe, of works called Italika (there are practically no Italika’s otherwise). The following is a table of these references: Tab. 1: A table of Italika’s cited by [Plutarch] in the Parallela minora (from BNJ 54 (K. Dowden)) Author

FGrHist/BNJ

Book cited

Aristeides (of Miletos)

 cf. 

-, -, -, -, -, , , , , , , ,  (!),  (!)

‘Aristeides of Miletos and Alexander Polyhistor’

above; 



Aristokles



, 

Pythokles





Aristoboulos





Alexarchos





Derkyllos





Menyllos





Dorotheos





Dositheos

, 

, ,  (and ?, cf. on F)

Theophilos





Theotimos





Kleitonymos



-

Chrysippos





Agesilaos





In a way, it does not matter overly if these particular references are bogus, because if fictional they still call into (fictional) existence the sort of scholarly world that would have to have existed if western, Italian, mythology were to be accredited by Greek tradition. In fact, scholarship may have spent too much time trying to confine some fairly doubtful ideas to two authors (Ps.-Plutarch and Ptolemy Chennos), when they may actually be our evidence of an epideictic style of mythic ingenuity that prevailed simultaneously with the golden age of declamation,

  Ken Dowden which itself is no less ingenious and no less lost (except for the record of it left by the Elder Seneca). So, Vergil becomes a figure typical of a polymathic age, probably researching mythology in mythographer-poets, prose mythographers and local ‘historians’, in order to create a mythography to populate his own Aeneid. Some things are immediately evident about his mythographic structure. Book 2 is a case of Troika, enacting a Troiae halosis, thus comparable with Nero’s later poem (or Eumolpos’ in Petronius),12 though perhaps as mythography it has more in common with another 1st century AD author, namely Diktys of Crete.13 The Ephemeris of Diktys, masquerading as history, has in recent times mostly been read as novel, in which respect it is rather a sorry composition. But as epideictic mythography it makes more sense, ostentatiously embodying the results of the latest research and critical thought about the Trojan War. Vergil’s epic can, it is true, unlike Diktys, allow gods to act, but the need for a psychologically understandable Aeneas in an intelligibly realistic falling city is not so very different from Diktys’ need for realism in behaviour, events, and their causes. Following the Troika, we reach posthomerica in Aeneid 3, Sikelika in 5, and Italika, no less, in 7–12. Thus, with the exception of some key books, which have more distinctive environments, the mythographic landscape of the Aeneid is not at a great distance from that of the Parallela minora.

 Polyglossy Without variants there is no mythography, only mythology. In mythography as it develops, and particularly in this heavily researched post-Hellenistic period, we should expect to hear a sort of ‘polyglossy’: there should by now be a plurality of voices, epideictically competing to tell the truest version, whether on better authority or because a better, more impressive or more realistic, mythology results.14 Vergil makes choices from this polyglossy and, constructing his own truth, adds

 12 Petron. Sat. 89. 13 Probably 70s AD: see the ‘Biographical Essay’ at BNJ2 49 (K. Dowden). 14 Diodorus’ account of Herakles’ Labours (cf. Marincola, above, ch. 4) at first sight suppresses variants but it regains its title to mythography through the role of the active reader in discerning that Diodorus’ account embeds notable variants, a similar aesthetic to that of Diktys of Crete’s version of the Trojan War and its aftermath (cf. BNJ2 49 (K. Dowden)) or indeed of Pindar as selfconscious moderniser for the audience of sophoi (see Andrew Ford, above, ch.1). Even demythologisation qualifies as a form of mythography (cf. Fowler’s entire chapter 2, above).

Vergil the Mythographer  

to it, in a way representative of his mythographic age. In pursuit of this polyglossy, I shall look mainly at Sikelika, though occasionally glimpsing Italika.

. The creative mythography of colonies Colonies East and West at their outset face a cultural crisis. The traditional Greek Mythology (by capitals I denote the approved intertext)15 accredits its people by detailing significant events at their location. A colony is by definition at a new location and it is not enough to create a free-floating new set of stories to match it: the mythology must link to existing traditions belonging to other, traditional, places. It is therefore almost an analytic truth that colonial mythology requires travel on the part of traditional heroes. So, for instance, along the Black Sea coastline, the voyage of Argo serves this purpose (and Apollonius registers the results). In the West it is different. There is a tendency to deal in heroes returning from the Trojan War who have drifted off course.16 For this purpose, the imaginary geography of the return of Odysseus can be localised in Italy and Sicily; it is not naive speculation that sites his voyage there, but genuine local traditions embedded in Greek Mythology.17 Already Thucydides (6.2) presents the Kyklopes and Laistrygones as reported to have lived in Sicily. This is worth comparison with Dictys Latinus (6.5): here Odysseus, having left (Thracian) Ismarus with plenty of gains, comes to the Lotophagi and then, running out of luck, arrives in Sicily, where he loses many comrades to the brothers Cyclops and Laestrygon. Setting aside the Euhemerism of Dictys, the geography demonstrates the standard in his time. And the implications for Vergil in the previous century are most interesting: his encounter with the last of Odysseus’ men who faced the Cyclops (Od. 9.106) is on Sicily, and Aeneas has just emerged from an encounter on the African coast with his own version of a Lotus-Eater (Od. 9.84), namely Dido, who presented the danger of forgetting one’s true destination. Calypso (Od. 5) and Circe (Od. 10) are also merged into Dido, and the visit to the Underworld (Od. 11) follows in its correct geographical place, namely Italy, and at the correct point in the sequence (after leaving Sicily).

 15 Dowden 1992, 7–9. 16 ‘Für Italien sind weniger die Herakles- und Argonautensage von Bedeutung geworden…als die an den Fall Ilions anknüpfenden Heimfahrten’ (Mommsen 1888, 467). 17 Cf. Malkin 1998, ch. 6, ‘Odysseus and Italy: A Peripheral Vision of Ethnicity’.

  Ken Dowden According to Dionysius (Ant. Rom. 1.72), Aeneas had become a wandering founder (with Odysseus) as early, it would seem,18 as Hellanicus (BNJ 4 F 84 (F. Pownall)) and Damastes (BNJ 5 F 3 (V. Costa); in the 5th century): they have Aeneas naming Rome after Rōmē, a Trojan woman who incites the ship-burning of this story. Dionysius also reports more dubious authorities, closer to Vergil’s time and to that of Ptolemy Chennos or Ps.-Plutarch. At their head stands Kephalon of Gergis, the antique authority dreamt up by Hegesianax of Alexandreia in the Troad (early 2nd century BC) for his prehistory, his Troika:19 now it is Aeneas’ son Rōmos that founds Rome and there is a time-delay—it is founded in ‘the second generation after the Trojan War’. This account is validated by a couple of suspect names too: first, the elegaic poet Agathyllos the Arcadian, of whom Dionysius preserves elsewhere a few lines, but whose -yllos name recalls Derkyllos and Menyllos, alleged authors of Italika (see table above); and second, an obscure author Demagoras of Samos.20 Aeneas of course is a Trojan and is one of a number of Trojans who are made to escape their fallen city and eventually found new places in the West. This has a particular ethnic significance, to which we will return when dealing with the Elymoi of NW Sicily.

. The tomb of Anchises The events surrounding Aeneas’ arrival in Italy seem particularly unstable, something we should probably attribute to late and multiple inventions of a Greekstyle mythology. A case in point is the tomb of Anchises. Tombs. People who die in myth are liable to receive a tomb or a placename in history/culture—and the mythographer may take the trouble to link the two: 1. Aeneas’ nurse CAIETA (7.1–4) gets what seems to be a tomb (it is for her ossa, ‘bones’) and certainly has a cape named after her (her sedem, ‘seat/resting place’), as is confirmed by Dionysius (Ant. Rom. 1.53.3), who may represent Varro, which perhaps Vergil does too. Others thought her the nurse not of Aeneas, but of Ascanius or of Creusa according to Servius (on Aen. 7.1). Strabo (5.3.6) says Caieta is the Lakonian word for a ‘hollow’, i.e. gulf. And yet others, specified as philologi (‘textual scholars’) by Servius, derive the name from καίειν (‘burn’): this,  18 But see Horsfall 1979, 382 for doubt on what exactly should be attributed to these two authors. 19 BNJ 45 T 7 with commentary (V. Costa). 20 FHG F 2 (IV. 378); the name is, as Müller remarks, easily confused with Timagoras, for whom see Jacoby on FGrHist 381, and also BNJ 381 (A. Ganter).

Vergil the Mythographer  

then, would be where the Trojan women burnt the ships. Polyglossy indeed and the last one suggesting the action of inventive mythographers, the grammatikoi (‘literary experts’) or philologoi of the Greek tradition. 2. The steersman PALINURUS is envisaged as lying washed up on a shore at the end of Book 5, rather awaiting an epigram, and indeed receiving one (5.870–871), but a harbour is actually named after him (Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 1.53.2), and Vergil finally grants not only eponymy but a tumulus (burial mound), if a future one, at 6.378–381. These latter are, however, very informed verses: nam tua finitimi, longe lateque per urbes prodigiis acti caelestibus, ossa piabunt et statuent tumulum et tumulo sollemnia mittent aeternumque locus Palinuri nomen habebit. For your neighbours, far and wide through the cities, driven by omens from heaven, shall placate your bones; and they shall set up a burial mound and practise ceremonies at the mound; and the place shall forever have the name of Palinurus.

This, according to Servius (on 6.378) refers to a historical event, when an oracle told the plague-ridden Lucanians to placate Palinurus—hence a cenotaph and grove near Velia. In any case the name is plainly Greek; and the site was subject to repeated storms and disasters to shipping.21 Vergil has apprised himself of the detail of mythology and ritual of Greek settlers in this region—and expects his readers to recognise it. The location of the tomb of ANCHISES depends, of course, on where he dies, and there were several variants: 1. Italy. Aeneas, according to Cato (FRHist 5 F 6),22 arrives in Italy with his father, a story from which Vergil has diverged substantially: Aeneas came to Italy with his father and as a result of invading the territory fought against Latinus and Turnus, in which battle Latinus died. After this, Turnus took refuge with Mezentius and, depending on his assistance, renewed the wars, in which Aeneas and Turnus equally were removed (rapti). The wars after this moved on to Ascanius and Mezentius, but they fought in single combat, and with the killing of Mezentius Ascanius started being

 21 Koch 1949, 149. One would expect the story to have been in Livy somewhere, perhaps Books 12–14, where the Lucanians are an issue. However, there is no trace in the Periochae—and Julius Obsequens’ Prodigia from Livy start too late (Book 55). 22 Cf. also Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 1.64.5. Cato’s mythography of Aeneas was discussed in detail by Cauer 1886, 114–127, who gave a very full picture of the tradition in which Vergil stands.

  Ken Dowden called Iulus from the initial down of his beard, which came into existence for him at the time of his victory.

This would imply an Italian tomb for Anchises. 2. Thrace. Theon, the Augustan commentator, writing on Lycophron, states that he was buried at Aineia in Thrace,23 presumably the location indicated in Aeneid 3.18 by ‘Aeneadae’ and used for the Polydorus episode (though Vergil confuses it with Ainos). 3. Arkadia. According to Pausanias (8.12.5) Aeneas buried Anchises in Arkadia, beneath Mt Anchisia. Turning to VERGIL, we find Anchises dying at Trapani (3.707), whose shore is therefore inlaetabilis (‘unjoyful’); and this allows Aeneas’ narration, and the third book, to finish with a wonderful paean of grief. Viewed another way, Anchises dies in time to be present in the Underworld in Book 6 or to set Aeneas free to endure the agonies of moral and political choice in Book 4. His funeral, however, would be in the elided account of Aeneas’ first visit to Sicily, in Book ‘3¼’, as it were. Then in Book 5, long after the event, he paints in the suggestion of a place of burial at line 31, adds the statement there was a burial at 48, and finally discloses the actual tumulus at 664, not to mention the games celebrated in his honour. The tumulus seems to be in the neighbourhood of the temple of Venus Erycina (5.759–761), though its grove (761) seems to indicate a position on the plain down below—‘but of the tomb of Anchises there are no vestiges’, as an early 19th century traveller observed.24 This is a poetic tomb, whose location is a matter of hints and whose foothold in history is evanescent.

. Acestes and Sicilian cities Further Vergilian choices in mythographic polyglossy arise in the case of Acestes/Aigestes and Italo-Sicilian foundation-lore. In Greek mythography Anchises may have other sons beside Aeneas.25 One of some interest is ELYMOS. Without naming him, Lycophron (965–967) says how a bastard son of Anchises came from Troy to Sicily; it is the scholia (on 965) who

 23 Steph. Byz. s.v. ‘Aineia’. Theon was commenting on 1236, which however does not allude to the death of Anchises. And cf. the account of Konon 26 (gulf of Thermos near the Hellespont). 24 Starke 1828, 373. This comment is not found in earlier editions. 25 One I do not understand is Lyros who (pointlessly) dies childless (Apollod. 3.12.2). Perhaps it should indeed, as Heyne once thought, be corrected to Lyrnos so that he might be the eponym for Lyrnessos: see Ganszyniec 1927, 2501.

Vergil the Mythographer  

tell us that this is Elymos, the eponym of the Elymoi, a pre-Greek people in Sicily. Vergil weaves this somewhat recherché knowledge into the text: at 5.73 Helymus, without so much as an introduction, is just there to play his part in the religious ceremonies prior to the games for Anchises.26 But he does not exist in isolation: he is always in the penumbra of ACESTES, both at 5.73 and at 5.300–301. This Acestes has the following properties: 1. he is an old man (5.73, 5.301); 2. he is of Trojan ancestry (Troianoque a sanguine 1.550; Dardanius, 5.30, 5.711), because a Trojan mother bore him to the Sicilian River ‘Crinisus’ (5.38; divina stirpe, 5.711), a deviant form of the correct Crimisus which Vergil has chosen to deploy with poetica licentia according to Servius (on 1.550); 3. he is king of this NW area of Sicily, including Eryx (1.570). He has entertained Aeneas’ party in Sicily prior to their arrival at Carthage (1.195– 196), a moment that must also have happened, such is Vergilian economy, in Book ‘3¼’. Like Helymus, he receives no introduction on his first appearance, at 1.195, other than quickly to associate him with Sicily (litore Trinacrio). The reader is meant to recognise the basics of this mythographic material, of Sikelika. Vergil, for his part, even apparently claims complete knowledge of what survives (multi praeterea quos fama obscura recondit, 5.302, ‘and many besides, whom fame conceals in darkness’). His research has been total. We are able to capture some of the Greek views that Vergil must have collated: – Lycophron, in what should be understood as a Sicilian supplementation of his text,27 deals with Aigestes (Vergil’s Acestes), the eponym of (S)egesta, and with Elymos, at 962–977; Aigestes is named (968), Elymos, as we have seen, not. Aigestes has somehow brought Elymos from Troy to the far West of Sicily (965–967), when Troy is sacked (970)—and the native dress of the Segestans is aetiologised as mourning Troy’s fall (975–977). The implicit narrative seems to be that Aigestes and Elymos fled Troy and immediately founded a new country, with its three cities (964). This is a version known to Servius Danielis (on 5.73).

 26 Mynors 1969, 435 even took this Helymus to be one of Aeneas’ party, a different Helymus from that mentioned later as a ‘Trinacrian youth’ at 5.300. 27 See West 1984.

  Ken Dowden –

–

Alternatives given by Servius and Servius Danielis are that Elymus was a Trojan leader who founded the three cities (i.e. without Acestes); and that, according to Fabius (Pictor),28 he was a king actually born in Sicily, the brother of Eryx. Strabo (13.1.53), writing after Vergil, reports another account: Aeneas lands at ‘Aigesta’, bringing with him ‘Elymos the Trojan’; Aeneas takes Eryx and Lilybaion and names rivers around Aigesta ‘Skamandros’ and ‘Simoeis’.29 We shall see that Strabo resonates with Vergil.

Pausing at this point, it is evident that Vergil is faced with a chronological problem in steering Aeneas through this geography: Acestes has got ahead of Aeneas and started founding cities, rather like Helenus or Antenor.30 Vergil may seem to provide a delay to cover this through the false start in Crete (in Book 3) and the dalliance in Carthage, with the result (5.626) that they are now in their seventh year after the fall of Troy (though this is Vergilian for ‘a long time’,31 cf. 1.755 where Dido makes it seven years even by then).32 But he still enforces their new nationality, Sicilian, on Acestes and Elymus and even admits that Acestes was born in Sicily to a local river, which is only with extreme difficulty (see below) compatible with his origin from Troy at the same time as Aeneas. Indeed the cities (1.549) are already founded when the Aeneadae arrive in Carthage and so it is not the dalliance in Carthage that gives chronological cover for their foundation. As for Strabo’s Trojan rivers near Aigesta, Vergil has toyed with them twice. First at Helenus’ Buthrotum in Epirus, he creates a ‘false’ Simois (3.302) and a ‘dried-up’ Xanthus (i.e. Scamander, 350). But secondly, as Heyne once pointed out,33 Strabo’s account is echoed in the exhortation to ship-burning of Beroe, speaking to the disillusioned Trojan women: could they not live in the territory of ‘fraternal Eryx’ (on Fabius’ account, we remember, the brother of Elymos). They could lay down walls, complete with ‘Hector’s rivers, Xanthus and Simois’ (5.634). Strabo’s account looks as though it lives in a parallel universe, somehow present in the imagination of Beroe. But the prophet Nautes (on whom more below) now proposes that this dream be converted into reality and that a new city  28 BNJ 809 F 28 (F. Jenkins). 29 Elymnos, mss. This passage is also BNJ 840 F 37b (G. Bucher). 30 Origo Gentis Romanae 1.5 (ante Aeneam priorem Antenorem in Italiam esse pervectum), referring to Aeneid 1.246–247. 31 Horsfall 2006, xxxii and (on Aeneid 3.645) 437. 32 Servius worries about this on 5.626, concluding that the contradiction is insoluble and Vergil would have corrected it, had he lived. 33 Heyne 1832, 842.

Vergil the Mythographer  

should house all but the stout warriors that proceed to Italy. It shall be called Acesta, if Acestes doesn’t mind (5.718). And by 5.755, Aeneas has his plough out and is demarcating the city boundary, ‘which Cato says was the custom in his Origines’ (Serv. on 5.755)—the text whose actual story (Cato F 9) Vergil has set aside, as we saw above. The temple to Venus Erycina is founded at 759 and a sacred grove and priest are added to Anchises’ tomb (760–761), evidently a souvenir of that of the divus Iulius, as we also hear in Aeneas’ reference to the divini ossa parentis (‘the bones of his divine father’, 5.47—Anchises was not divine, either). With all this founding by Aeneas, the cities which one would assume founded by Acestes or Elymus at 1.549 have dissolved. Vergil is finding ways of incorporating a different mythology in his mythography, if at some cost. Indeed, there is an astonishing suggestion in the text of Vergil, noted by Heyne,34 that Acestes and his people are living a pre-urban life and have been assimilated to the Aborigines that Aeneas meets in Sallust:35 Urbem Romam, sicuti ego accepi, condidere atque habuere initio Troiani, qui Aenea duce profugi sedibus incertis vagabantur, cumque his Aborigines, genus hominum agreste, sine legibus, sine imperio, liberum atque solutum. The City of Rome, as I have discovered in my reading, was founded and held at the beginning by Trojans who had been roaming, exiles under the leadership of Aeneas, with no fixed abode, and together with them by Aborigines, a wild race of men, without laws or authority, free and unrestrained.

Acestes is horridus (‘unkempt’) at 5.37 and dressed in a bear-skin, and in this light we can see why his comites (Helymus and Panopes) are adsueti silvis (‘accustomed to the woods’). The Trojan women, too, want a city built: Acestes, it seems, cannot provide them with a city or cities to live in because he is primitive. So it is Aeneas who is their culture-hero, bringing urban life to Acestes as Romans so often would for native populations in the western provinces. We should also mention the virtuosic account of Dionysius (Ant. Rom. 1.53), written after Vergil, but maybe more informed than Strabo by Vergil’s presumptive major source Varro. As he starts, the account is much the same as Vergil’s: storm, arrival at Trapani, Aigistos (sic) living by the river Crimisos (no poetic licence here). Aigistos, notes Dionysius (52.1), had left Troy before the Aeneadae. But it now turns out that he was born in Sicily (52.3). So how can he have come

 34 Heyne 1832, 843. 35 Sall. Cat. 6, also cited by Origo Gentis Romanae 3.7.

  Ken Dowden from Troy? Apparently he went voluntarily from Sicily to Troy to help Priam, but left again ‘when the city was being captured’ (ἁλισκομένης τῆς πόλεως, 52.3)—by then with Elymos, using three ships that Achilles had conveniently abandoned. Aeneas now beneficently establishes cities for them, namely Aigesta and ‘Elyma’ (usually interpreted as Entella). The focus of Vergil’s mythography on the West of Sicily is noteworthy. Location is of primary importance in the interpretation of mythology36 and this mythology of Vergil’s is situated in the territory of the Elymoi. It cannot have been invented by him: in principle, it is not his manner wholly to fabricate a mythology; and in any case, we have other evidence which highlights western Sicily and is independent of him, given that it does not always agree with him. We can imagine that Vergil has gained much from reading Varro, but that only pushes us one step further back. It seems irresistible that the Elymoi themselves had chosen acceptance into Greek culture without total assimilation. They subscribed to the paideia of Greek mythology, but they insisted on being Trojan, not Greek. Mommsen crucially recognised ‘die wichtige Identificirung [sic] der Troer mit den sicilischen und italischen Autochthonen’, which he takes back to Stesichoros, though of course, as we have known since Karl Otfried Müller,37 the mythology was not just a matter of poetic invention.38 Thus my remarks about colonisation and the extension of Greek mythology to the West by making heroes wander must now reach one further circle outwards: native cultures respond to this extension of the mythology and of the Greek Kulturkreis by adopting its mythological discourse but at the same time asserting a distanced, Trojan, identity. Rome is in effect just one of these cases. These cases formed the mythological bedrock for Vergil. Vergil doubtless levered upwards the role of Aeneas and his party in his mythography; but Aeneas was already there in some mythologies, and traditions were typically polyglossic about the relative roles of Aigestes, Elymos, Aeneas and doubtless others. Particularly fascinating is the creation of a mini-Trojan landscape of rivers at Egesta that Vergil cannot replicate here—because he needed it at Buthrotum.

 36 Dowden/Livingstone 2011, 5–6; Müller 1825, ch. 4. 37 Müller 1825, ch. 4. 38 Mommsen 1888, 468. Cf. Malkin 1998, 138, 172. See also BNJ 468 F 14 (K. Dowden), concerning the use of Minos mythology by Eteokretans and Sicilians (in this case, Theron of Akragas) rather than Stesichoros.

Vergil the Mythographer  

. Philoktetes, Trojan Women and ship-burning Acestes, then, was the son of the R Crimisus. This river is notable for a battle of 339 BC between Carthaginians and Syracusans and therefore resonates a little more than modern readers of Vergil may suspect. Its mythology, however, remains somewhat parochial—though not without interest. Between Sybaris and Croton, in S Italy, lies not only the town of Petelia, founded by PHILOKTETES, but also Old Krimissa (Strabo 6.1.3). So far this may seem a coincidence of the name Krimis-os/-a (perhaps it meant something in a substrate language). But then Strabo (cf. also 6.2.5) reports that Apollodorus had said in his work On (the Catalogue of) Ships that Philoktetes, in addition to settling the promontory of Krimissa, had also founded the town of Chone ‘above’ it and that he sent some of the Chones with Aigestes the Trojan to ‘wall’ Aigesta in the region of Eryx. Parallel to this account, Lycophron 911–913 deals with Crotoniat Krimisa and Philoktetes. And of course Vergil knows that Philoktetes founded Petelia (3.402). So the locations of the two Krimis- names are mythographically linked. There is more than this. Philoktetes had been brought to Italy, like Aeneas to Sicily, through the device of a storm.39 He has with him three daughters of Laomedon (therefore sisters of Priam) who, together with the other captive women fear slavery in Greece, wish to stay in Italy, and therefore burn Philoktetes’ ships; this obliges him to stay and gives the local River Neaithos its name (‘Ship-burning’, if you interpret it as Greek).40 Local places then get named after particular Trojans (Strabo 6.1.12). An odd feature is that the women who burn the ships (including one, incidentally, called Aithylla, ‘Burn-ula’) are then named the Nauprēstides (Ναυπρήστιδες, ‘Firers of the Ships’). This is the only time this word occurs in Greek and to me at least it has a ritual ring about it: why should the women get a technical name if it were not for descendants who play some role, surely as a named cult group? Whatever the case, the term seems to entrench the myth in the Petelia or Krotoniat region: this is genuine local myth, not poetic décor. The motif of ship burning is found six more times in the Nostoi according to Carl Robert, all but once in Italy, including at Rome (as we have seen).41 Horsfall has viewed it as ‘a counter freely movable on the board of mythological geography and aetiological invention’,42 but it is more determined than that: it has its

 39 See schol. Lycoph. 911; Robert 1926, 1500. 40 Apollod. Ep. 6.15c = schol. Lycoph. 921, cf. Strabo 6.1.12. 41 Robert 1926, 1501–1505, esp. 1504. 42 Horsfall 1989, 16 with n. 57 for further bibliography.

  Ken Dowden authentic contexts and there does seem to be a genuine mythic link between Petelia and the Segestans. Lycophron drops the River Nauaithos (‘Ship-burning’, variant of Neaithos) into his text (921); Vergil knew that text and may have had sufficient explanatory scholia or hypomnemata (monographs, commentaries). He most probably knew Theon, the Lycophron expert (see above), after all. Meanwhile, the Sicilian material, in whatever form in terms of development and inconsistency, evidently reached him, quite possibly through Varro but maybe also through other writers of Sikelika. A total account of these overlaps is not quite within our grasp. Perhaps there is a genuine identity of the populations of the Petelia region and the Eryx region; perhaps that explains the shared placename Krimis- (just as others have linked the Elymi with the Ligurians)43 and perhaps Philoktetes’ support for Aigestes reflects a genuine community of interest, or indeed more local colonisation. Vergil seems to have completed the mythographical connection by moving the burning ships as well. This will do for a working hypothesis.

 The contrariness of Vergil In reviewing all this material it matters to keep the manner of the mythographer Vergil in mind. As a matter of the history of scholarship, most identification of this material and most discussion of it has been generated by the Vergil industry. Only the Vergilian polymath Nicholas Horsfall has clearly understood that this is a matter of mythography too. Take for instance his comment, by now over 30 years ago, on some of these detailed issues: Clearly the burial [of Anchises], like the burning [of the ships], could be shifted at will; again, it looks as though, by the time the story of Aeneas’ wanderings began to be related in circumstantial detail (that is, the c. 3 BC), no canonical version existed (or had survived).44

What Horsfall is depicting is the relative fluidity of the traditions of Italika and Sikelika that are incorporated in the Aeneid, which in itself is true enough and must derive from the relatively late, colonial, dates at which these legends gained their localisation. But of course if there had been a ‘canonical version’, it is not

 43 Hülsen 1905, 2467; cf. Sergent 1995, 77, 83. 44 Horsfall 1986, 16.

Vergil the Mythographer  

true that Vergil would therefore have followed it. Furthermore, independently of Vergil, each of the instances of the burial and burning has its own motivation and raison d’être; they are not simply put wherever an author feels like at the time.45 Thus, when Vergil enters this terrain, he knows the existing settings and chooses his own, knowing that his is a variant mythography designed to create a different narrative truth. Clearly one driver is narrative economy, reduction of the volume of places that Aeneas must visit,46 but Vergil seems not to move an event without some allusion at one point or another to where it ought to have happened or might otherwise have happened. And he does seem actively to rejoice in the dissonance that comes from reference to accounts incompatible with his narrative— rather like his metrical conflict of stress and ictus. The time has passed when these references should be attributed to the incomplete, unrevised, state of the text, or to books composed early and others supposed late. They are too persistent for that. He would no more have striven to iron out these inconsistencies than he would have striven to reduce the number of times he uses ingens. This can be made clear from specific examples: 1. The bones of Anchises. The particular problema that causes Horsfall to make the remark we have cited is an astonishing one.47 At Aeneid 4.427, Dido in self-justification states: ‘…nec patris Anchisae cineres manisve revelli…’ (‘…nor did I pull up the ashes or shade of his father Anchises!...’). This alludes, as Servius says, to a particular story: quod dicitur ex oraculo fecisse Diomedes, et secum eius ossa portasse, quae postea reddidit Aeneae, cum multa adversa perferret: hinc est Salvete recepti nequiquam cineres. sciendum

 45 This perspective maybe unconsciouly results from thinking in terms of finding the real burial place of Anchises: cf. Roscher 1884–1937, I.339: ‘Über den Ort, an dem Anchises gestorben sein soll, schwanken die Angaben ausserordentlich’. 46 This is very much the line of Lloyd 1957. 47 See also Heinze 1999, 103–104 on this myth and on Vergil’s use of Diomedes altogether: ‘The only omission that we might find surprising is the meeting with Diomedes, which, according to a respectable legend, took place in Calabria. Of course, Virgil could not use the story that Diomedes took Anchises’ bones from the tomb and returned them to Aeneas; but there was another tradition, according to which Diomedes came up to Aeneas while he was sacrificing, to return the Palladion of Troy, possession of which had brought him misfortune. In order not to interrupt the sacrifice, Aeneas turned away with his head covered, and so Nautes received the sacred object instead, which explains why the cult remained in the hands of his descendants, the Nautii. Virgil retained the αἴτιον for covering the head during a sacrifice, and he also knows of Nautes as a favourite of Pallas (5.704); but he motivates the covering of the head as being due to fear of seeing an enemy while sacrificing, and omits Diomedes completely’. Cf. next note.

  Ken Dowden sane Varronem dicere, Diomedem eruta Anchisae ossa filio reddidisse, Catonem autem adfirmare, quod Anchises ad Italiam venit. tanta est inter ipsos varietas et historiarum confusio. This is what Diomedes is said to have done in accordance with an oracle—and to have carried around with him his bones, which he later restored to Aeneas when he (Diomedes) was suffering much misfortune: that is why he [Vergil] writes (5.80) ‘Hail, ye ashes received in vain!’ One must realise that Varro said Diomedes restored the excavated bones of Anchises to his son, and moreover that Cato asserts that Anchises came to Italy. Such is the extent of the variety and blending of stories amongst them.

Evidently, in order to be dug up by Diomedes, Anchises’ bones must have been buried before he reached Sicily. Therefore the statement of Dido constitutes a reference to a version which is necessarily different from that adopted by Vergil in Books 3, 5 and 6. Indeed at 5.80, it does seem harder to relate the ‘ashes received/rescued in vain’ to Aeneas’ rescue of Anchises from Troy (cf. 6.111) than (as Servius does here) to the Diomedes story that lurks jarringly in the intertext. 2. The ship-burning in Sicily. One may suspect too that the Sicilian ship-burning is indebted to the actions in myth of Philoktetes at Petelia, as told by Strabo (6.1.12 above) and as alluded to by Vergil at Aeneid 3.402, but not adopted. It is especially clever that only some ships are burnt and therefore only select warriors can now go on, leaving free the prospect of intermarriage, rather like that of the later Romans with the mythic Sabine women, in this case manufacturing a Roman claim on Sicily and its heritage. 3. The Nautes who appears at 5.703–718 is not randomly named. It appears that his prophetic skills are owed to Pallas Athene (unum Tritonia Pallas | quem docuit, 704–705). Why? Because he is the eponym of the gens Nautia who had in their charge the rites of Minerva. And what he had done to gain that privilege is to have received the Palladion from Diomedes because Aeneas was otherwise engaged in an act of worship, when they were in Calabria. The story was in Varro.48 Thus Vergil performs a display of his knowledge of the rites of the Nautii, without

 48 quod et Vergilius ex parte tangit, et Varro plenissime dicit: credens sibi non esse aptum, propter sua pericula, quibus numquam cariturum responsis cognoverat nisi Troianis Palladium reddidisset, transeunti per Calabriam Aeneae offerre conatus est. sed cum se ille velato capite sacrificans convertisset, Nautes quidam accepit simulacrum: unde Minervae sacra non Iulia gens habuit, sed Nautiorum. (Serv. and Serv. Dan. on Aen. 2.166). Dionysius is also aware of parts of this story, evidently from Varro, at Ant. Rom. 12.16.22. The story must also have been in Cassius Hemina: see Cauer 1886, 110, 145.

Vergil the Mythographer  

explicitly mentioning them, and hints at a story which contradicts his own selection.49 This incident is also implicit in Aeneid 3.405–407, where Aeneas is advised by Helenus that he must keep his head covered ‘lest, amidst the sacred fires in honour of the gods, | some enemy form should encroach and upset the omens…’ (‘ne qua inter sanctos ignis in honore deorum | hostilis facies occurrat et omina turbet…’). The hostilis facies (‘enemy form’) must be Diomedes in this same story.50 4. There is a special perversity in founding a city, and naming it after your followers, and then abandoning it lock, stock and barrel. This seems to be what happens at Ainos/Aineia (3.18, 69–71). 5. I have commented elsewhere on how the dead Polydoros is transfixed by a ferrea seges (3.45–46), which clearly points to his death by firing squad at Troy as apparently in the Greek Diktys (BNJ2 49 F 9a and my commentary). But that is not the version Vergil chooses to tell. 6. How beautiful is the star that rises over Ida at 2.801, a beacon of hope ushering in the light after the final night of Troy! But this star, of course the star of Venus, bows toward a version of his wanderings in which Aeneas follows yonder star.51 This version was told by Varro:52 Varro enim ait hanc stellam Luciferi, quae Veneris dicitur, ab Aenea, donec ad Laurentem agrum veniret, semper visam, et postquam pervenit, videri desiisse: unde et pervenisse se agnovit. For Varro states that this star of Lucifer, which is said to be of Venus, was constantly seen by Aeneas until he reached the Laurentian territory, and after he arrived, it ceased to be seen, which is how he recognised that he had arrived.

This is a virtuoso piece of pseudo-innocent mood-setting, apparently symbolising something like new hope after the darkness of night. But in fact it alludes to an alternative version, rejected so as to inject greater uncertainty into the mission of Aeneas and to make it a greater struggle to build the Roman race. There is also a weird echo of this story to be heard at 2.619–620: ‘eripe, nate, fugam finemque impone labori. nusquam abero et tutum patrio te limine sistam…’

 49 Unless he has picked up the story at Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 6.69.1, where Nautes was the priest of Athena Polias at Troy, but the Palladion would seem a lot to carry alongside penatibus et magnis dis (3.12). 50 Cf. Horsfall 2006 ad loc. 51 Horsfall 1986, esp. 9 n. 5. 52 Serv. Dan. on Aen. 2.801.

  Ken Dowden ‘seize the opportunity for flight, my child, and bring an end to your struggle; I shall never be apart from you and I shall set you safe on your paternal threshold...’

What do these lines mean? Locally, they might seem to refer to the need for Aeneas to get out of all this hopeless fighting, an unequal struggle, guaranteed of the support of Venus and certain that he will get to his family home, where he can collect Anchises and Creusa. Nusquam abero (‘I shall never be apart from you’), however, seems a bit extensive for so localised a meaning. Venus will never leave Aeneas’ side: perhaps she will be disguised as a huntress, or negotiating with Juno, or hearing the words of Jupiter. But there is a much more literal longterm meaning that these lines point to: Aeneas must flee from Troy, bring his mission to fulfilment, be constantly supported by Venus, and be set safely on the paternal threshold of Italy—because, as Horsfall saw,53 Dardanus supposedly came from Italy. Servius Danielis (on 2.801) interprets nusquam abero as a reference to the yonder-star theory and I think it very likely, given Vergil’s virtuosically contradictory approach to mythography. 7. Then there is the cista of gods that Aeneas carries with him at 3.11–12: ‘feror exsul in altum cum sociis natoque penatibus et magnis dis…’ ‘I am swept, an exile, over the deep with my allies, my child, the Penates and the Great Gods…’

In what sense are these gods ‘great’? are they great in comparison to the Penates, or are they the Great Gods? It is hard to resist the straightforward reading of Great Gods, the di magni that are the gods of Samothrace, namely the Kabeiroi. These are the same gods to whom Aeneas dedicated the shield of Abas when, in a different story reported by Servius Danielis, he stopped on Samothrace.54 Vergil’s Aeneas is encumbered by this shield somewhat longer and only dedicates it at Actium (3.286). But even the dedication at Samothrace is a variant. This shield seems to belong rather on the wall of the Argive Heraion as the aition of a ritual where the winner gained a shield55—unless the shield ritual had multiple locations due to the spread of the tribe of which he was eponym, the Abantes. What are we to say about these instances?

 53 Horsfall 2008 ad loc. 54 Serv. Dan. on Aen. 3.286, 287; Lloyd 1957, 384. 55 Toepffer 1893, 18–19.

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…here as often a shifting picture in Virgil reflects a detail in the story not firmly and unvaryingly transmitted. The poet, that is, declines to choose between variants and his text is left to reflect the uncertain picture given by his sources.56

I think it is worse than this. Horsfall is undoubtedly right to discount ‘the drawing of complex conclusions for the development of the poem’, because this is designer inconsistency. But it is not self-contradiction in the main narrative. It is a set of pointers to the wider mythography that Vergil knows, generally sets aside, but occasionally brings back to life, an intrusion from an alternate universe of which he likes, from time to time, to make us aware.

 Conclusion Vergil may count non-trivially as a mythographer. He has in fact done copious research into traditions that vary widely, and he has made choices and adjustments to deliver the most effective, and visibly learned, account within a large frame. That frame is constituted by the wanderings of Aeneas, which serve, as once Argo had in Apollonius’ hands, to draw together variant traditions. These traditions, though fundamentally Greek and necessarily so for cultural accreditation, nonetheless, in native hands, had exploited an identity that was ‘other’, its alterity marked as such by its Trojan actors. Though narrative considerations do apply in the Aeneid and though it is indeed characterised by a certain economy with consequential adjustments, Vergil does not find the many alternatives awkward or undesirable. Just as a prose mythographer thrives on variants, collects and displays these different versions, and attributes them, so Vergil does not hesitate to allude to different versions whose provenance he expects his learned reader, if with a struggle, to recall. He actively seeks out such occasions, above all because they advertise his polymathy and they expose the polyglossy of myth which this poet-mythographer traverses and wants you to know he traverses. We are indebted to Servius for knowing stories that we do not and for preserving from time to time the gist of Varro. We must however suspect that the work of Vergil is cleverer and wickeder than it appears to us. Vergil knew what it was to be Lycophron. His mythographic work avoids invention and where he appears to have invented, it will be found that he has had access to a tradition we had not realised or that he has shifted the location or occasion of a myth to suit his purposes. We  56 Horsfall 1986, 8–9.

  Ken Dowden can be sure, however, that he did not just look for a single version to follow but rather for one with opportunities for originality and for challenge to the paideia of his readers. Thus some of the books that modern audiences tend to find less interesting are precisely those that contain such puzzles. Here I have looked especially at Books 3 and 5. Looked at the right way, they are fascinatingly erudite.

Greta Hawes

The Mythographical Topography of Pausanias’ Periegesis  Introduction: mythographical topography Behind the mythographic genre lies a mythographic impulse—the impulse to isolate the cultural category of myth, to organise it and to narrate it as an end in itself.1 Pausanias cannot be called a mythographer stricto sensu. His Periegesis— however imperfectly we understand its exact generic affiliations and functions2— belongs to the broad category of geographical writing.3 It is a treatment of the sights and traditions of Greece organised via a series of ideal itineraries taking in the southern and central mainland. It does not take the content of myth as its central theme nor the logic of genealogy, story type, or hermeneutic approach as its organising structure. Nonetheless, in two very real ways, Pausanias might be said to be implicated in the mythographic impulse. Firstly, the text has been used, and continues to be used, as a reference work for myth; whatever its original function, it is valued as a de facto mythography which transmits in particular obscure, localised accounts and unusual variants. It can play this role because it contains mythic material narrated using the ‘stripped down…just the facts’ register developed by prose mythographers.4 Secondly, the 10 books include a vast amount of mythic content, organised within the limitations of its structure. Even

 1 For the ‘mythographic impulse’, see Trzaskoma 2013b, xv–xvi; Hawes 2014a, 135. 2 For discussion of the periegetic genre and Pausanias’ place within it, see Bowie 2001, 25–27; Hutton 2005, esp. 242–263; Akujärvi 2012. 3 For myth(ography) in geographical texts, see Patterson 2013; Smith 2016; Patterson 2017; Smith 2017. 4 For the features of this style, see Fowler 2006. The quotation is from p. 43. Of course, as we shall see, Pausanias’ style, with its frequent authorial intrusions, is modelled on Herodotus’ rather than the more impersonal approach pioneered by Pherecydes and typical of later mythography. For Pausanias’ adoption of an Herodotean style, see Hawes 2016, with bibliography. Nonetheless, those features which Fowler points to as markers of mythography’s encyclopaedic functions are all present to some degree: viz., the use of indirect discourse as a distancing feature, the straightforward narrative architecture based on the linear recounting of genealogies, the general absence of mimetic effects, and, especially, an economical approach to narration which ‘gives us little more than we need, [but at the same time] gives us as much as we need in order to understand the story’ (p. 41). https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110672824-008

  Greta Hawes if myth is not the primary organising structure of the work, it is a prominent corpus within the work. This chapter considers the ways in which Pausanias satisfies the desire that motivates all mythographers to ‘bring order to the chaos’,5 and his particular solutions to shaping the expansive, conflicting, multi-dimensional stuff of myth into a single, linear account. Pausanias’ solutions are not just a response to the constraints imposed necessarily by his periegetic approach; they underpin the particular vision of myth which emerges from this text. Mythography is not merely the activity of ‘writing down the myths’ as the title of a recent volume would have it.6 It is also the process of ‘writing up myth’—that is, finding a structure in which to package it—and this activity is innately bound up in the expression of myth as a kind of cultural capital. Recognising that the concept of myth projected by each mythography cannot be extricated from textual realities, Charles Delattre and I are developing the idea of ‘mythographic topography’ as an analytic framework.7 Through this we seek to highlight the particular rhetorical strategies and organisational structures used by individual mythographers to bring order to myth, and the way these shape the reader’s experience of its contents. We chose the word ‘topography’ on account of its dual significance in English: the word means both the representation in graphic form of a topos, and, by recent slippage, the terrain itself without reference to the secondary activity of its mapping.8 In using it, we seek to remind ourselves that a similar slippage must be understood to be present in the term ‘mythography’, for in communicating muthoi in textual form, mythographers also project a vision of muthos itself. Of course, as with any depiction of a landscape, the individual mythographer’s vision of myth is partial and biased; it cannot replicate the full range and complexity of the phenomenon, since this could never be captured within the contextual contingencies of a single written framework. Thinking of mythography in terms of its topography means recognising that this genre is, at the same time, intimately bound up in and yet far from coextensive with the ancient mythic tradition.

 5 Fowler 2017, 158. 6 Nagy 2013. 7 We first presented this approach at a conference in Lausanne in 2016. It builds on Charles’ previous work on the spatial dynamics of Imperial mythography: Delattre 2017. I apply it to Pausanias in more detail in Hawes forthcoming. 8 For discussion of this double meaning, see Miller 1995, 3–4.

The Mythographical Topography of Pausanias’ Periegesis  

More than this, the word ‘topography’ bears within it a fortuitous tripartite resonance. Topos has three broad meanings: place, textual passage, and rhetorical commonplace. In our preliminary study, we analysed the Metamorphoses of Antoninus Liberalis in terms of its arrangement of textual passages, then in terms of how it organises the spaces of myth, and finally with a view to understanding its manipulation of rhetorical and narrative tropes. This analytical framework is sufficiently comprehensive, and yet sufficiently flexible, to allow the comparative analysis of any mythographic text in such a way as to do justice to the commonalities of the genre while revealing the inherent distinctiveness of each extant mythographer’s approach. In this chapter, I extend this methodology beyond the bounds of mythography stricto sensu to analyse the organisation and presentation of myth within the Periegesis. Most notably—and most interestingly—this text collapses the first two categories of topos into each other: each passage of text represents a place with an independent ontological status; the mythical topography of the text is quite literally a representation in graphic form of the Greek mainland. In this chapter I argue that the unique conlocation of mythographic topography with periegetical structure produces a tropological sensibility intimately concerned with the question of where myths ‘belong’, and the ramifications of struggles for mythic authority at the level of stylised ‘local’ discourse. Thus, the forging of places into textual passages creates the conditions from which that third topos—the trope of chauvinistic localism—emerges. As a preliminary note, I should signal that throughout this chapter I use Apollodorus’ Bibliotheca as a foil. This text is not, of course, typical of the extant mythographic genre.9 Nonetheless, it serves my purposes well, being roughly contemporary with the Periegesis and similarly expansive in scale. It shows a different solution to the problem of organising and narrating a large amount of mythical material, and one which also takes advantage of the linear structures afforded by genealogies and the normative categories of regional affiliation.10

 9 See Cameron 2004, x–xi. 10 For a practical illustration of where Pausanias’ topographical approach requires him to deal with conflicting traditions about ‘Argos’ which Apollodorus can gloss over, see Hawes 2017a.

  Greta Hawes

 The organisation of textual passages: Mythic intersections Greek myth is not a linear series of stories. It is a mass of intersecting networks. The very idea of narrating it in its fullness as a continuous account becomes, then, a problem of organisation. Pherecydes used genealogies as the primary structuring principle for his ‘universal’ mythography, and Apollodorus borrowed from his example.11 But of course not all mythic figures ‘belong’ entirely to a single genealogical stemma. Thus, Robert Fowler: If the genealogical structure limits choice in one respect, it demands it in other [sic]. Many characters have connections with other characters in different lines, and the composers of large-scale genealogical works had to make important choices about where the primary locus of each character would be. In secondary loci, the character could be briefly mentioned in the knowledge that the reader could find the details elsewhere. In this way the narrative remained focused and uninterrupted. The genealogies served as an index, because one could make informed guesses about which lineage was apt to contain the primary locus.12

The work of mythographic writing was, then, also a pragmatic process of decision making: each mythical datum became a passage of text, and thought had to be given to where in the linear and singular system of the text each best ‘belonged’ so as to create a text which balanced the need for an efficient narrative against the integrity of a logical and navigable reference structure. As a practical illustration of this in Apollodorus’ Bibliotheca, I take the example of that mobile hero, Daidalos. The first reference to him—very much a secondary locus—comes in Book 2, as part of the cycle of Heracles’ life, which is itself inserted into the Inachean lineage. Here is the passage (2.132–133): Landing on the island of Doliche, [Heracles] saw the body of Icaros washed up on the shore, buried it, and named the island Icaria instead of Doliche. In return for this Daidalos made a statue in Pisa in the likeness of Heracles. One night Heracles, not recognising what it was and thinking it was alive, threw a stone at it and hit it.13

 11 For the organisation of Pherecydes’ work, including issues of intersecting genealogies, see EGM II.710–715. The influence of Pherecydes on the Bibliotheca is well-established. For an example of Apollodorus adopting Pherecydes’ narrative approach (using the example of Perseus), see Kenens 2012, 148–154. 12 Fowler 2006, 43. 13 All translations of the Bibliotheca taken from Smith/Trzaskoma 2007.

The Mythographical Topography of Pausanias’ Periegesis  

Here we get only those narrative aspects directly relevant to the story of Heracles. To make sense of this passage a reader needs to already possess certain crucial information: to wit, that Ikaros was the son of Daidalos; indeed, the entire basic outline of their escape from Crete is assumed knowledge. A fuller account of Daidalos’ life appears in Book 3, interspersed through episodes in the cycles of Minos and Theseus, which form the primary points of interest. So, narrating the Agenorid lineage, Apollodorus reaches the point where Minos’ wife Pasiphae conceives the Minotaur using a contrivance designed by Daidalos ‘who was an architect exiled from Athens for murder’ (3.9). Apollodorus goes on to describe not merely this contrivance, but also the labyrinth that Daidalos designed and in which the Minotaur was imprisoned (3.11). Before moving on to narrate the offspring of other children of Minos he promises ‘I will give the account of the Minotaur, Androgeos, Phaidra, and Ariadne later in the section on Theseus’ (3.12).14 It is there that Daidalos’ life is more extensively narrated, in the context of the early dynastic history of Athens. The two passages outlining the story of Daidalos bookend the life of Theseus, and provide the narrative hinge which connects the myths of Athens to those of Crete. When Apollodorus’ account of the Athenian kings reaches the episode of Minos’ demand of tribute in the form of Athenian youths, mention of the labyrinth to which they were destined serves as a point of entry (3.214): Daidalos, the son of Eupalamos (who was the son of Metion) and Alcippe, built the labyrinth. He was the finest architect and the first sculptor of statues. He had gone into exile from Athens for throwing his sister Perdix’s son, Talos, who was his student, off the Acropolis, because he was afraid of being surpassed by him in talent — Talos found the jawbone of a snake and sawed through a thin piece of wood with it. But Talos’ body was discovered, and after Daidalos stood trial in the Areiopagos and was condemned, he went to Minos’ court in exile. And there, when Pasiphae fell in love with Poseidon’s bull, he helped her by building a wooden cow, and he built the labyrinth, into which every year the Athenians sent seven young men and the same number of young women as food for the Minotaur.

This passage leads into an account of Theseus’ journey from Troezen to Athens which leads in turn to the story of his expedition to Crete. This cycle (at least in

 14 Although such cross-references give only minimal guidance, they must have been quite adequate for an ancient readership. Thus Smith/Trzaskoma 2007, xxxiv–xxxv: ‘We suspect that the cultural knowledge most people in antiquity would have brought to reading the work…would have mitigated the confusion caused by jumping around and perhaps helped them locate the major figures in the appropriate genealogy more quickly than we could without the benefit of an index such as the one in this [modern edition of the translated text]’.

  Greta Hawes its epitomised form) finishes with an account of the final major episodes from Daidalos’ life: his escape from Crete using wings, the death of Ikaros in the attempt, and his exile on Sicily and final encounter with Minos there (Epit. 1.12–15). The major discussions of Daidalos’ mythic data appear where we would expect them: in relation to the dynastic succession of the early Athenian kings (Daidalos is a great-grandson of Erechtheus). By this point, Apollodorus’ broad genealogical structure has become more geographical in focus, following the early history of particular regions in turn.15 Tracing the appearances of Daidalos reveals one precise implication of this geographical appropriateness. Within the Cecropid lineage, Apollodorus recounts in full the parts of Daidalos’ story which occurred in Athens—the killing of Talos and his trial on the Areiopagos—and just references briefly his famous inventions. Conversely, we get lengthier descriptions of these inventions earlier in Book 3 in the context of Minoan Crete—to which island they ‘belong’—but only a passing reference to the reason for Daidalos’ exile there. The broadly genealogical framework of the Bibliotheca contains within it a pragmatic flexibility. For a figure such as Daidalos, whose lineage was a rather muted aspect of his mythology and whose life was geographically fragmented between Athens, Crete, and Sicily, we see that other factors take precedence; he ‘belongs’ in several places, and intersects several story cycles. Indeed, the whole story of the killing of the Minotaur and the fates of Minos and his family do not occur where we might expect them, in the ‘Cretan’ section of Book 2; as Apollodorus signals to the reader, these are delayed until after he has reached the right place in the Athenian narrative. Here we are dealing with the intersection of two larger narrative cycles. In this instance, Apollodorus recognises that the story of Theseus’ expedition to Crete and its aftermath belongs in two separate places in his work, and he announces the absence of this material in the place where he might have narrated it by directing the reader to where he had indeed placed it. By any measure, it is less easy to predict where Pausanias might place a particular mythical datum. The overarching structure of the Periegesis is geographical: each of its ten books is dedicated to a region of the central and southern Greek mainland (with Elis requiring two books; Phocis and Ozolian Locri sharing a single one; and ‘the Argolid’ of Book 2 being a rather loose conglomeration of territories, as we shall see below). Within these books, each autonomous area (which might be as large as a region, or as small as a single polis) is typically introduced via a chronological account of its history, and then described via an  15 For discussion of the various organising principles of the Bibliotheca, see Smith/Trzaskoma 2007, xxxii–xxxv.

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itinerary which takes in its notable sights.16 There are, then, two obvious places in which Pausanias incorporates mythic knowledge into his work: in the genealogical accounts which form the history of a region, and in relation to specific landmarks in the itinerary. But in practice, what appears where is seldom as straightforward as this schema suggests. Pausanias’ account of Mycenae (2.15.4–16.7) shows this structure in miniature. It readily illustrates the patchy eclecticism of his approach to incorporating mythic data. Pausanias begins by attributing the founding of the city to Perseus. The story of his self-exile from Argos—given in some detail—requires that he first give in his Mycenaean topos a chronological account of the early history of Argos which takes the form of a genealogical, then dynastic, catalogue extending from Phoroneus to Perseus. After discussing rival aetiologies for the name Mycenae, he jumps to the story of the Argive destruction of the city in the classical period. Only in the itinerary does he mention the most prominent ‘Mycenaeans’, Agamemnon and his family. The itinerary is taken up largely with the great number of tombs and storehouses of the Trojan War generation scattered around the site. We get no stories of Agamemnon, Clytemnestra et al., however. These are assumed knowledge; what Pausanias adds is the traces of them on the landscape. Martin West’s aphorism, ‘[g]enealogies put things in their place’,17 recognises the textual utility of lineages in providing a ready linear framework for tidy, joined-up narratives. But it has another significance, too: the geographical affinities of heroic dynasties mean that genealogies forge connections between the horizontal plane of space and the vertical one of time. Pausanias’ arrangement of mythic data illustrates the complexity of such intersections, and the multiplicity of associations inherent in both storytelling, and landscapes. His interweaving of the early history of Argos into that of Mycenae is neither logical nor efficient from a purely mythographical perspective; what it reflects is the political reality of Mycenae, long since reduced to a satellite of Argos. No myth, and no place, exists in a vacuum. Pausanias’ mythographic topography reflects very real dynamics of power, and of competing claims and local loyalties, and this makes for a messier account. Place is the central organising principle of Pausanias’ mythographic topography. Yet its ability to bring order to the text can be overstated. William Hutton’s formulation, ‘[t]he sights lead Pausanias to stories’18 is a useful heuristic, but not  16 Book 1, on Attica, is anomalous in this regard, not having this clear distinction between chronological introductions and itineraries. 17 West 1985, 8. 18 Hutton 2005, 12.

  Greta Hawes an iron-clad rule. Pausanias’ approach is more eclectic than the simple schema of ideal itineraries might imply, and in any case the structure itself allows plenty of scope for ‘digressions’. So, Pausanias appends a long discussion of various versions of the death of Orpheus and various claimants to his tomb (all too far north to appear in his itineraries) to his discussion of a statue depicting the musician captivating wild animals in the sanctuary of the Muses on Helikon (9.30.12). Likewise, the grave of Epaminondas in Boiotia prompts him to offer a catalogue of adunata oracle stories: the connection being Epaminondas having been killed in a grove named Ocean after studiously avoiding the sea after being warned of the danger of ‘Ocean’ (8.11.10–12). Here Pausanias’ structure does not serve as an index, as Apollodorus’ had. Rather, appropriate theoremata serve as hooks on which to hang related observations. When we search for traces of Daidalos in the Periegesis, we find one notable similarity with the Bibliotheca: Daidalos is often mentioned (typically as an artist, the inventor of an artistic technique, or an influential teacher)19 in such a way as to require the reader to already know his importance; the details of his story, by contrast, are given in just two passages. Let us first look at these in isolation: Daidalos was of the royal Athenian family, the Metionidai, and he became well-known to all on account of his inventive skill, his travels, and his misfortunes. He killed his sister’s son and, in accordance with custom, went into exile with Minos on Crete. Once there, he made statues for Minos and his daughters, as Homer reports in the Iliad. But he was charged with some crime by Minos and imprisoned along with his son. He escaped from Crete and went to Kokalos at Inykos in Sicily. His presence there sparked a war between the Sicilians and the Cretans because Minos demanded his return, and Kokalos refused to allow it. The daughters of Kokalos were so impressed by his skill that they plotted Minos’ death (7.4.5–6).20 When he was escaping from Crete in small boats which he had made for himself and his son Ikaros, he rigged up sails for the boat, which had not yet been invented, so that he might use the tailwind to out-pace the rowers of Minos’ navy. Daidalos reached safety, but they say that the other boat capsized, with Ikaros, an inexperienced sailor, at the helm. The current carried his drowned body to the then-unnamed island which lay off Samos. Heracles happened upon it, recognised it, and buried it beneath a mound still to this day dedicated to him on a small headland which juts out into the Aegean. From this hero Ikaros both the island and the sea surrounding it take their name. (9.11.4–5)

As with the examples from Apollodorus, we find that these two passages, taken together, not only offer a complete account of Daidalos’ life, but have minimal  19 See e.g. 1.26.4; 1.27.1; 2.4.5; 2.15.1; 3.17.6; 5.25.13; 8.35.2; 8.46.2; 8.53.8; 9.11.4; 9.39.8. Pausanias offers a catalogue of the authentic works of Daidalos still in existence at 9.40.3–4. 20 All translations of Pausanias are my own.

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repetition of details.21 The account of Daidalos’ escape from Crete given in the second passage expands on a brief allusion in the first.22 Since the Periegesis does not cover Crete or Sicily, we might expect Pausanias to place the story of Daidalos in his account of Attica (Book 1). In fact, the passages quoted appear in the Books on Boiotia and Achaia. Were we primarily interested in Daidalos, we would struggle to locate Pausanias’ most substantial discussion of him without the aid of an index or a word search tool. The second passage appears in relation to the Heracleion at Thebes. There Pausanias reports a xoanon which Daidalos dedicated after his safe arrival from Crete. The story of his escape is, as often in the Periegesis, directly related to a particular relic. But the first passage hangs on a more tenuous hook. It appears in the ‘Ionian excursus’, a brief periegesis of the islands at the beginning of Book 7. At the Heraion of Samos Pausanias reports the existence of a work by Smilis, an Aeginetan contemporary of Daidalos, and this is the connection which he exploits to insert his account of the life of Daidalos. He ends the passage by clumsily returning to the topic, noting that, while Daidalos’ fame is apparent throughout Sicily and parts of Italy, Smilis probably left no evidence of traveling beyond Samos and Elis (7.4.7). The arbitrary placement of this passage would seem to confirm the impression of the text as offering an eclectic and often surprising compendium of different kinds of knowledge. Although much progress has been made in understanding the underlying organisation and narratological structures of the Periegesis,23 we must not act as if its every passage is neatly explicable. It is a description of a multi-dimensional world, and that in itself will resist easy linear categorisation. Moreover, the ‘Greek world’ is more than merely a physical entity; in reality, Argos is relevant at Mycenae and Orpheus infuses Helikon. What’s more, Pausanias’ mythic corpus exceeds the reach of his itineraries—the world of Greek myth extends beyond the frame of the text and this requires finding opportune moments at which to mention places beyond—the tombs of Orpheus in the north, for example, or Daidalos’ adventures in Crete and Sicily, or the naming of Ikaria for his son. We cannot, in the end, talk about Pausanias’ arrangement of Greek myth in textual form without slipping into a discussion of the realia of Greek geo-politics.

 21 For another example of a myth told in piecemeal fashion, the story of Theseus’ abduction of Helen, see Cohen 2001, 105–106. 22 For Pausanias’ generally rationalistic treatment of Daidalos, see Hawes 2014a, 209–212. 23 The best discussion of the narrative design of the Periegesis appears in Hutton 2005; Akujärvi 2005 offers a comprehensive narratological analysis.

  Greta Hawes

 The organisation of place: Conflicting traditions and the question of belonging We have seen that the world of ta Hellenika cannot be fit neatly within a geographically-proscribed sense of Hellas. We turn now to considering how Pausanias divides up the spaces of the central and southern Greek mainland to fit his textual plan, and the ways such geographical categorisations interact with their associated myths. Pausanias’ selection of the parts of the mainland which comprise his work is not arbitrary.24 Nonetheless, it is just that, a selection: Pausanias chooses which territories to include, which to exclude; he also chooses where to draw boundaries. In this section I consider how Pausanias deals with phenomena that test the idea that a place, or a story, belongs squarely to one region or another. Pausanias’ division of his work into ten books requires a concomitant sense that the mainland can indeed be sub-divided into coherent geographical entities. In some instances, these geographical decisions cannot be uncoupled from the influence of mythological networks. The first border that Pausanias must place is that corresponding to the division between Books 1 (Attica) and 2 (the Argolid). He groups Megara and its territory with Attica, arguing that the Megarid was not originally Doric, but rather belonged to Athens in the time of the kings, from the reign of Pandion until that of Codros, and that the tomb of Pandion in that territory is proof of this (1.39.4). The next territory westward, Corinth, is placed in Book 2, which is itself a rather loose collation of poleis whose unity depends on the authority of the traditional geography of the Homeric kingdoms of Diomedes and Agamemnon (Il. 2.559–580). Because Corinth fell under the rule of the heroic kings of Mycenae, Pausanias can declare—somewhat tendentiously—that it is ‘part of the Argolid’ (μοῖρα…τῆς Ἀργείας, 2.1.1).25 In this instance, then, we might say that Pausanias divides material between Books 1 and 2 on account of geographical affiliations which represent, at heart, mythological allegiances. Pausanias’ narration of the division between Books 3 (Laconia) and 4 (Messenia) likewise foregrounds the allegiances of myth, but in this case the effect is rather to undercut categorical certainty. The western Mani had long been subject to dispute. While Messenia controlled the ideologically-significant Ager Dentheliatis and the border sanctuary of Artemis Limnatis following the judgement of Tiberius, Augustus had added to Laconia several coastal settlements including  24 See Hutton 2005, 55–68. 25 For Pausanias’ unusual geographical delineation of the Argolid, see Hutton 2005, 69–72.

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Thuria, Pherai, Kardamyle and Gerenia. The textual division between Books 3 and 4 of the Periegesis aligns with geo-political border of the river Chorios which separates the free Laconian poleis of the western Mani, from those of Messenia. But Pausanias’ narrative itinerary suggests that a more fundamental cultural divide lies further to the south.26 In the final chapters of Book 3 he offers accounts of the free Laconian settlements with a discernible Messenian tinge. He reports the Messenian tradition which derives the name of Leuktra from the Messenian hero Leukippos (3.26.4). He notes that Kardamyle was one of those cities promised to Achilles by Agamemnon, reminding us of its ties to the Messenian gulf and thus its Messenian lineage (3.26.7). Pausanias identifies another of these Homeric cities, Enope, with Gerenia; he describes this place as belonging to the free Laconians, but populated with Messenians, and indeed, its mythology, featuring Nestor and Machaon (both strongly associated with Messenian Pylos, as we shall see), reflects this (3.26.8–10).27 If the existence of Messenian myth in Book 3 has the effect of expanding Messenian cultural patrimony beyond its ‘proper’ topographical border, so the appearance of Laconian material in Book 4 underpins a further commentary on the relationship between these two regions. Messenia and Laconia had of course a long shared history. But Pausanias does not share the story of the ‘Messenian wars’ between Books 3 and 4. Rather, he locates it all in Book 4, and prefigures this placement with cross-references in Book 3.28 Book 4 is in fact so dominated by his account of the subjugation and liberation of Messenia that it has a peculiar lopsided structure: of its 36 chapters, only the final 6 deal with theoremata.29 Messenia emerges from the Periegesis as more notable for its stories than for its built  26 See esp. Gengler 2005, 325–326. Note how Pausanias describes this border at the beginning of Book 4: Μεσσηνίοις δὲ πρὸς τὴν σφετέραν τὴν ἀπονεμηθεῖσαν ὑπὸ τοῦ βασιλέως ἐς τὸ Λακωνικὸν ὅροι κατὰ τὴν Γερηνίαν εἰσὶν ἐφ’ ἡμῶν ὀνομαζομένη Χοίριος νάπη (4.1.1). As a point of comparison, Messenia’s boundary with Elis is described simply as being defined by the river Neda (4.36.7). 27 The opposite situation is not spelled out on the other side of the border: although epigraphical evidence from the second century has the people of Thuria and Pherai (then incorporated into Messenian territory) identifying as Lakedaimonian colonists, Pausanias is quite opaque on the matter (4.30.2, 4.31.1–2). See Cartledge/Spawforth 1992, 139, 144–145. 28 See e.g. 3.1.1, 3.3.1, 3.3.4, 3.7.5, 3.11.8, 3.15.10. 29 This imbalance has often been noted and explained in various ways. Musti 1996, 17 makes it symptomatic of Pausanias’ ‘compensatory’ approach which requires a more expansive approach to Messenian logoi given the region’s relative lack of theoremata; Alcock 2001, 143–146 sees Pausanias’ topographical reticence as part and parcel of his reticence regarding the land of Messenia through the late archic and classical periods; Ogden 2004, 1–2 argues that it reflects Pausanias’ disinterest in Messenia’s post-classical architecture and his interest in the theme of Greek liberty;

  Greta Hawes environment. Moreover, its stories still narrate with an obsessive regularity the past aggression and antagonism of its powerful neighbour to the east. Pausanias’ portrait of Messenia, then, is both a product of which stories he tells, and where he tells each story.30 More than this, there emerges from his account a pro-Messenian ideology in how he tells them. Pausanias reports—quite uniquely—that the Messenians questioned the true allegiances of the Dioskouroi, those paradigmatically Spartan heroes. This claim is foreshadowed at the beginning of Book 3, when Pausanias notes that the Lakedaimonians and Messenians disagree over where their father Tyndareus was exiled at the time of their births: the former say they were born when he was in Pellana, the later at ‘Thalamai in Messenia’ (3.1.4). Towards the end of Book 3, as he describes the tiny island of Pephnos, off Thalamai, Pausanias notes the miraculous statues of the Dioskouroi which stand on it, impervious to the wild seas, and mentions again the tradition which makes this their birthplace (3.26.2–3): The people of Thalamai say that the Dioskouroi were born here. … The Messenians say that this land was theirs originally, and so they think that the Dioskouroi belong somewhat more to them than to the Lakedaimonians [ὥστε καὶ τοὺς Διοσκούρους μᾶλλόν τι αὑτοῖς καὶ οὐ Λακεδαιμονίοις προσήκειν νομίζουσιν].31

Pluralism—the existence of alternative, mutually-contradictory versions of the same narrative—is a common characteristic of the Greek mythic tradition. Pausanias’ distinctive language shows what is at stake in upholding the version which makes Thalamai the birthplace of the Dioskouroi, and not Pellana.32 If they were born there, the Messenians can claim them as Messenian heroes; but the argument is a peculiarly circular one, for implicit in this is a claim about territorial control: if the Dioskouroi belong to the Messenians, then so does the territory of the Mani stretching as far as Thalamai.33 Issues of mythological orthodoxy are not

 Luraghi 2008, 99–100 sees it as a result of Pausanias’ recognition that the story of the Messenian wars was not easily accessible elsewhere. 30 I discuss Messenian mythmaking in Pausanias is greater detail in Hawes 2018 and Hawes, forthcoming. 31 The claim is repeated at 4.31.9. 32 There was in fact a third claim: Apollod. 3.124 and Strabo 10.2.24 have Tyndareus in exile in Aitolia. The absence of this tradition in Pausanias underlines the emphatic Messenian-Lakedaemonian dichotomy which pervades Books 3 and 4. 33 Unlike the well-attested disputes over the Ager Dentheliatis, Messenian claims to territory further south are difficult trace with certainty. Strabo reports a dispute over Leuktra in the time of Philip (8.4.6) but Pausanias is the only ancient author to describe a Messenian claim south of the Little Pamisos, although Stephanus of Byzantium does call Thalamai a Messenian city (citing

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merely a scholarly game; divergences of traditions are, on the ground, conflicts over ownership and control. Pausanias’ observation that heroes ‘belong’ to a community raises another dynamic of the ownership of mythic relics and their concomitant stories operant throughout the Periegesis. That Greek myth is tolerant of plurality is well acknowledged. How this plurality played out in antiquity, however, varied from context to context. For Pausanias, plurality and dispute within the mythic tradition are the expected products of local pride and contestation. This is a text which builds up a portrait of ta hellenika by describing each place in turn. Local perspectives are integral to such a hodological framework and in Pausanias, as elsewhere in ancient historiography, epichoric sources will naturally speak to their best advantage, offering those versions and variants of myth which show their community in the best light and in possession of the best mythic relics. Chauvinism is thus the engine that drives mythic storytelling, and the limiting factor in any attempt to create a unified account of it. It is to this topos that we now turn.

 The emergence of tropes: local chauvinism as the engine of mythic invention To claim that a myth ‘belongs’ to a particular region or community is not precisely an ontological statement. It is a reflection of the power of that community to maintain and publicise at a supra-regional level its connections to a tradition of panhellenic significance. The trope of local chauvinism appears throughout the Periegesis in various guises. Again, a comparison of Pausanias’ approach with that of Apollodorus will be instructive. Apollodorus inserts the story of the Thessalian healer-god Asklepios into the Laconian-Messenian genealogy of Book 3. He notes that Leukippos’ third daughter, Arsinoe, was the mother of Asklepios; then quickly notes that ‘some refute’ (τινὲς…οὐκ…λέγουσιν) this. He goes on to give in detail the more familiar tradition which made the Thessalian Koronis his mother and tells the story of his birth from her dead body, his upbringing with Chiron, and the many cures he effected (3.118–20). Pausanias likewise gives alternative traditions for Asklepios’ lineage, but he offers this material in a quite different way. The relevant passage appears in Book 2, in relation to the Asklepieion at Epidauros (2.26.2–7). He mentions  Theopompos of Chios (FGrHist 115 F 172); by contrast, he describes Pephnos as Laconian (Steph. Byz. s.v.).

  Greta Hawes briefly the Eleians’ claim that his father was Pelops, and the Argive view, which makes him child of Argos, before giving three others in greater detail: the Epidaurean account of his being the son of Apollo and the Thessalian Koronis born in their territory and then exposed on a nearby hillside (still called ‘Nipple’); and another story that has him saved after his mother, again Koronis, is killed in punishment for having sex with Ischys while pregnant with Apollo’s child (this is broadly similar to Apollodorus’ second account). A third alternative, which makes him the son of the Messenian Arsinoe, Pausanias rejects in robust terms: he describes it as the ‘least true’ (ἥκιστα ἐμοὶ δοκεῖν ἀληθής ἐστιν) of the versions available and offers as evidence a response from the Delphic oracle which, when asked about Asklepios’ parentage, described him as son of Koronis (2.26.7). Thus, Pausanias concludes, ‘Hesiod—or perhaps some later interpolator of his text— contrived this story to please the Messenians’ (Ἡσίοδον ἢ τῶν τινα ἐμπεποιηκότων ἐς τὰ Ἡσιόδου τὰ ἔπη συνθέντα ἐς τὴν Μεσσηνίων χάριν).34 Apollodorus in general deals with competing variants in a quite anodyne manner. His ‘some say…but others say…’ formulation points out numerous divergences over names, attributions of parentage, and narratives. (Less frequently, he will name the sources for these different opinions.) The relative infrequency with which he notes variants in the tradition—and the triviality of most of those that he does note—allows him to project an ideal of the Greek mythic storyworld as a neatly-mapped jigsaw.35 In the case of Asklepios, the two traditions in fact offer a useful structural opportunity: the alternate Messenian version offers a convenient way of inserting a story associated with an otherwise obscure Thessalian lineage into the genealogical structure of the Bibliotheca since the more prominent Messenian-Laconian lineage offers a hook for the entire nexus. Because conventional mythographic texts tend not to feature strong authorial voices, we often overlook the creative process of textual organisation that they manifest. From the very beginning, mythographic prose dispensed with the traditional authority of the Muse-inspired author. Imperial mythographic texts in particular display few markers of ‘personality’, and this is compounded by the frequent near-anonymity of their authors: often we have just a name; sometimes we cannot even be sure of that. We must recognise that these texts, with their

 34 The attribution of this variant genealogy to Hesiod (= fr. 50 M-W) is confirmed in part by schol. Pind. Pyth. 3.14 (= Hesiod fr. 51 M-W). On Asklepios’ variant genealogies in general, see Gantz 1993, 71–72; EGM II.76. 35 For the paucity of variants in Apollodorus, and the implications of presenting myth in such an ‘uncluttered’ way, see Fowler 2017. For Greek myth as constituting a ‘story world’, see especially Johnston 2018, 121–146.

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‘virtuoso authorial performance of mastering in the spheres of research, synthesis and exposition’ belong to a particular literary context, one in which ‘[i]t is not that the author recedes…more that the role of the author is reconceived: new virtues are located in the arts of editing and the organisation of pre-existing units of knowledge’.36 Apollodorus’ presentation of dispute as a catalogic necessity required by an expansive literary tradition, and his underplaying of its ramifications, typifies the ‘distanced’ rhetoric of mythography. He very seldom offers explicit judgements on the relative accuracy of different versions.37 But we should not confuse his seemingly disinterested approach to narrative with a truly unbiased account (whatever that might be). Apollodorus’ machinations are not easy to spot; they lie not in his rhetoric, but in his narrative choices.38 Photius reports an epigram, superscripted into his manuscript of the Bibliotheca, which describes it as encompassing ‘everything that the world contains’ (πάνθ’ ὅσα κόσμος ἔχει). Yet, as K.F.B. Fletcher notes, what we get in fact is a ‘conceptual map which reflects not geography but perceived closeness of relation’.39 Most notoriously, Apollodorus leaves out Roman myth. He avoids those aspects of Greek myth which intersected with the traditions of the Italian peninsula.40 And although Apollodorus’ conceptual map is ‘centred’ on Greece ‘from which all of these [centrifugal, centripetal, and circular] movements originate’,41 the Greek world is not all treated equally for although genealogies build up a network of Hellenic myth, these genealogies are neither stable, nor neutral in their implications. As Stephen Trzaskoma has shown, Apollodorus presents—one might say, manipulates—the

 36 König/Whitmarsh 2007, 28. 37 I have only found two instances in which Apollodorus comments on which variant should be accepted as ‘correct’, and in neither does he provide evidence for his view. He states that the apples of the Hesperides were in the land of the Hyperboreans and not in Libya as some say (ταῦτα δὲ ἦν, οὐχ ὥς τινες εἶπον ἐν Λιβύῃ, ἀλλ᾿ ἐπὶ τοῦ Ἄτλαντος ἐν Ὑπερβορέοις, 2.113) and that Zeus appointed the Olympians to decide the quarrel between Athena and Poseidon, not Kekrops and Kranaos, or Erysichthon (οὐχ ὡς εἶπόν τινες, Κέκροπα καὶ Κραναόν, οὐδὲ Ἐρυσίχθονα, θεοὺς δὲ τοὺς δώδεκα, 3.179). 38 For Apollodorus’ subtle shaping of material, see Trzaskoma 2013a, 84. 39 Fletcher 2008, 66. 40 On this aspect of the Bibliotheca, see esp. Bowie 1970, 23–24; and Fletcher 2008, who concludes ‘Apollodorus…is not explicitly anti-Roman, but rather decides to ignore the Romans without drawing attention to doing so, as if they do not even deserve such mention’ (84). 41 Fletcher 2008, 67.

  Greta Hawes line descending from Kynortas such that he achieves ‘the absolute marginalization of the myths of pre-Heraclid Messenia’.42 The Messenian heroes, in this instance, are made subsidiary nodes of the dominant Laconian nexus. Pausanias’ more robust discussion of the various traditions of Asklepios’ birth, by contrast, display a more overt authorial voice which stridently favours or dismisses particular traditions. His rhetoric has ramifications which are intricately linked to the textual presentation of myth. The passage which sets out the various versions of the birth of Asklepios serves to contextualise the Asklepieion at Epidauros; by arguing for Asklepios’ close association with the region, Pausanias underlines the primacy of the sanctuary there. He follows his rejection of the tradition of Asklepios’ Messenian origins with a catalogue of evidence which derives the worship of Asklepios in other parts of the Greek world to the rites established at Epidauros (2.26.8–10). By rejecting the idea that the god might have been born to a Messenian mother, Pausanias implicitly undercuts the claim that the Asklepieion at Messenian Ithome deserves a similar status. Most important here is the explanation that Pausanias gives for the existence of conflicting accounts. Alternatives are not merely correct or incorrect; they exist and proliferate because myths circulate as cultural capital. Each Greek community will quite naturally press claims of ownership of those mythic traditions that they have any plausible connection with. And so, it is not merely that Hesiod is mistaken in giving Asklepios Arsinoe as a mother; in fact, he has been swayed by Messenian interests. This is not a philological problem in the Hesiod tradition, but an ideological one. For Pausanias, the chauvinistic promotion of local interests is an easily observable and comprehensible phenomenon. Every community does it, although some communities are more overt in their machinations. At Argos, Pausanias time and again points out that the Argives are identifying tombs of heroes in fact known to be buried elsewhere. So, Pausanias ‘do[es] not agree’ (οὐχ ὁμολογῶ) with their claim to have tombs of Deianeira and Helenos and indeed, he claims, even the Argive exegetai recognise that the accounts that they give are not entirely accurate (2.23.5–6). The Argive ‘tomb of Tantalos’ strikes closer to home: Pausanias knows that this cannot be the burial place of the famous hero by that name, since he is buried on Mt Sipylos, Pausanias’ own homeland (2.22.3). Local chauvinism—the natural desire to be known to possess the

 42 Trzaskoma 2013a, 88. Trzaskoma implicitly contrasts Apollodorus’ version with Pausanias’; to this we should add the general expansion of Messenian genealogy in the Periegesis, particularly in relation to the highlighting of heroes mentioned in Homer, and the incorporation of Asklepios’ sons, mentioned briefly below and discussed more fully in Hawes 2018.

The Mythographical Topography of Pausanias’ Periegesis  

best relics with the best stories—draws even the architect of this work into its web.43 The dynamics of local investment animate the Periegesis such that teasing out the truth of different versions and opinions becomes—paradoxically—both more crucial and less crucial. It becomes more crucial since, as we have seen, locating myths in relation to realia offers a framework for the assessment of competing accounts. More than this, the disputing of the claims of others creates an aura of authentically eclectic loquaciousness. But it becomes less crucial since even formally ‘inaccurate’ versions shape the significance of local landscapes. Thus, for all Pausanias’ accusations that it has been fraudulently inserted into the panhellenic tradition, on the ground in Messenia he cannot ignore or deny the idea that Asklepios’ birth to a Messenian mother has a particular kind of legitimacy. In fact, in the context of Book 4, his discussion of Messenia, Pausanias not only does not repeat his scepticism regarding the Messenian origins of Asklepios, but actively supports a different thread of the same argument. Messenia’s claim to Asklepios also had a geographical dimension. Two sons of Asklepios, Machaon and Podaleirios, appear amongst the Thessalian contingent in the Homeric Catalogue of Ships, leading men from ‘Trikka, craggy Ithome, and Oichalia, city of Eurytos’ (Il. 2.729–30). These place names, in spite of the apparent precision, and in spite of just such a constellation in Thessaly, did not lack rival claimants. Ithome, the mountain above Messene, provided an obvious Messenian link. Pausanias (alone of our sources) says the Messenians identified a ruined village in their territory as Trikka, but he does not give its location (4.3.2). He also records the Messenian view their Karnasion was once called Oichalia (4.2.2).44 Pausanias looks favourably on the identification of a Messenian Oichalia, deeming it more likely than other suggested sites (μᾶλλον εἰκότα ἐκείνων, 4.2.3). He later provides support for his claim: in the Iliad (11.597–598), Nestor aids the wounded Machaon in a ‘neighbourly’ fashion, and the Messenians possessed the remains of Machaon at Gerenia (4.3.2), his body having been brought ‘home’ by Nestor (3.26.9–10).45 We need not, of course, wonder at how Pausanias might square his rejection of Asklepios’ Messenian parentage with his acceptance  43 I discuss this dynamic in more detail in Hawes forthcoming. 44 Other passages from Homer could be used to strengthen the connection between Oichalia, Eurytos, and Messenia: Odysseus meets a son of Eurytos at the house of Ortilochos ἐν Μεσσήνῃ (Od. 21.15), and Thamyris, en route from Oichalia (again associated with Eurytos) is killed at Dorion in the district of Pylos (Il. 2.594–596). Pausanias mentions both of these passages: 4.1.4, 4.33.7. 45 Quite uniquely, he ties Machaon into Messenian genealogy, making his wife a daughter of Diokles, son of the Ortilochos mentioned in the preceding footnote (4.30.3).

  Greta Hawes that his sons were Messenian; the Periegesis is a series of localised perspectives, and each of these claims makes sense in—and of—its immediate context.

 Conclusion: Intersecting topoi Pausanias’ self-presentation as an investigative storyteller in the Herodotean mould who gathers and sorts through epichoric data is not merely superficial rhetorical strategy; it is part and parcel of the work of putting the sights and stories of the mainland into textual form. Pausanias’ vision of Greece is a patchworked one. One would not expect an account of the Greek mainland to offer up an account of ta hellenika which is homogeneous, or which papers over idiosyncrasies and contradictions, since local dispute is central to the kind of account that he is making. Pausanias’ utility as a de facto mythographer comes from his eye for the unusual, but also from his topographical completeness: without the Periegesis we would have only a patchy narrative of the Messenian Wars, and almost no information about myth-telling within Messenia and the mythical significance ascribed to its topographical landmarks. The three kinds of topoi that I have traced in this chapter turn out to be, in essence, facets of this localism agenda in different guises: the arrangement of textual passages functions according to the hodological plan of the text; its invocation of places seeks to describe these from the perspective of the on-site observer and categorise them according to their mythological allegiances; and the mythic trope which emerges most persistently from Pausanias’ account revels in this idea of local chauvinism, an unending cacophony of contestation which can in some instances be supported or disputed with evidence, but which ultimately exists beyond the need for such external confirmation of legitimacy.46

 46 This chapter is part of the project ‘The spatial dynamics of myth in Pausanias’ Periegesis’, funded by the Australian Research Council (DE170101251).

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About the Contributors KEN DOWDEN is is Professor Emeritus of Classics at the University of Birmingham. His wellknown works on mythology include Death and the Maiden (1989), Uses of Greek Mythology (1992), and, with Niall Livingstone, the Companion to Greek Mythology (2011). For Brill’s New Jacoby he has edited, translated and commented on many fragmentary Greek ‘historians’ (including Aristeas of Prokonnesos, Diktys of Crete, and Dio Chrysostom). His interest in the novels has led to discussions especially of Apuleius and Heliodoros, typically on their religio-philosophical aspects and on their creation of myth in a more Barthesian sense. ANDREW FORD is Ewing Professor of Greek Language and Literature and Professor of Classics at Princeton University. His work explores the history of criticism and the early reception of Greek literature from Homer (Homer: the Poetry of the Past) through Aristotle (The Origins of Criticism). His current interest is in the interaction between poets and the critical tradition in the classical age. ROBERT FOWLER is the Henry Overton Wills Emeritus Professor of Greek at the University of Bristol. He has published widely on early Greek poetry and prose, and his books include The Nature of Early Greek Lyric (1987), the Cambridge Companion to Homer (2004), and Early Greek Mythography (2 vols, 2000–2013). He is currently working on a book on Pindar and the sublime. GRETA HAWES is Senior Lecturer in Classics and Ancient History at the Australian National University. She is author of Rationalizing myth in antiquity (2014) and editor of Myths on the map: the storied landscapes of ancient Greece (2018). Her next book, Pausanias in the world of Greek myth will appear in 2020 or 2021. For the years 2017-2020 her research is supported by a DECRA award from the Australian Research Council. JOHN MARINCOLA is Leon Golden Professor of Classics at Florida State University. He has written extensively on the Greek and Roman historians; his latest book is On Writing History from Herodotus to Herodian (2017), a collection of the main historiographical discussions from classical antiquity translated with introduction and notes. RENÉ NÜNLIST is Professor of Classics at the University of Cologne and a co-founder of the Basel commentary on the Iliad (2000–). He is the author of Poetologische Bildersprache in der frühgriechischen Dichtung (1998; repr. 2011), The Ancient Critic at Work: Terms and Concepts of Literary Criticism in Greek Scholia (2009; paper, 2011) and several articles on Aristarchus and other ancient critics. ALLEN J. ROMANO is Associate Teaching Professor in the Program in Interdisciplinary Humanities at Florida State University where he directs the digital humanities graduate program. His work is primarily in Ancient Greek Literature and the application of digital methods to the study of ancient poetry and drama.

  About the Contributors JESSICA WISSMANN teaches at the University of Osnabrück. She holds a Ph.D. in classics from Hamburg University; the monograph Motivation und Schmähung: Feigheit in der Ilias und in der griechischen Tragödie was published in 1997. Her research interests are the reception of Homer in classical antiquity and ancient education.

Index Locorum Acusilaus (EGM) F 30 F 36

11 57 n. 21, 103

Aeschylus (TrGF) fr. 181a fr. 134a–6

48 65 n. 55

Agatharchides On the Red Sea 1.7–8

77 n. 10

Anonymous (CAF) 503

10 n. 18

Anonymous (TrGF) trag. adesp. F *40b

62 n. 43

Anonymous On Crete (BNJ 468) F 14

126 n. 38

Anonymous On Rome and Italy (BNJ 840) F 37b 124 n. 29 Antagoras of Rhodes Hymn to Eros (Powell) F1 23 n. 53 Antipater of Acanthus (BNJ2 56) F 1b 114 n. 3 Antiphanes (PCG) F 111

45

https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110672824-011

Aphthonius Progymnasmata p. 34 R. [Apollodorus] Bibliotheca 1.4.2 2.61 2.62 2.73 2.78–80 2.93 2.106 2.106–109 2.110 2.111 2.113 2.119–120 2.123–126 2.132–133 3.9 3.11 3.12 3.12.2 3.118–120 3.124 3.179 3.214 Epitome 1.12–15 6.15c

102

96–97 87 87 88 n. 39 87 86 90 n. 45 86 87 87 n. 38 86 n. 36, 149 n. 37 86 85 138 139 139 139 122 n. 25 147 146 n. 32 149 n. 37 139 140 127 n. 40

Aratus Phaenomena 15

25

Aristophanes Peace 457

60 n. 36

Aristotle De generatione animalium 756b6 42

  Index Locorum Historia animalium 579b5 580a17 Metaphysica 1000a18 Poetica 1456a5 1460a17–22 1460a19–20 1460b13–15 Ch. 9 Ch. 15 Fragments (Rose3) fr. 485 frr. 473–474 fr. 477 fr. 482 fr. 488 fr. 490 fr. 491 fr. 504 frr. 506–507 fr. 512 frr. 518–519 fr. 523 fr. 546 fr. 550 fr. 560–561 fr. 598 frr. 637–644

42 42 42 81 n. 20 18 24 72 51 n. 58 101 n. 26 43 43 n. 37 43 n. 37 43 n. 37 43 n. 37 43 43 n. 37 43 43 n. 37 43 43 n. 37 43 n. 37 43 n. 37 43 n. 37 43 n. 37 43 n. 37 46 n. 48

Asclepiades of Tragilos (BNJ 12) T3 45 n. 42 Athenaeus Deipnosophistae 15.692f–693c

22 n. 50

Athenion (PCG) fr. 1

47

Callimachus Hymn 1 (To Zeus) 1 2

22 22

1–9 5 5–10 10–54 45 46–54 54 55–89 60–65 60–67 61 63 65 79 86 90–96 94–96

21, 22 23, 26 n. 63 21 n. 45 21 23 23 21 23–24 21 24 24 24 21 24–25 21, 25 25

Cato (FRHist 5) F6 F9

121 125

Censorinus De Die Natali 21

52 n. 63

Chamaeleon (Martano) fr. 17 fr. 23

46 n. 48 46 n. 48

Cicero Epistulae ad Atticum 1.14.3 53 n. 1 Conon Diegeseis 7.3 8.3 9 10.1 17.2–3 24.2–3 26 33.18 39.13

97 n. 7 97 n. 7 101 97 n. 7 98 n. 14 97 n. 7 122 n. 23 97 n. 7 100 n. 21

Index Locorum  

42 47 (P.Oxy. 364)

99 104 n. 35

Creophylus (EGM) F3

110 n. 57, 111

Critias Sisyphus (TrGF) F 19 Cypria (Bernabé) fr. 1 fr. 15

59 n. 28 68 n. 63

Damastes (BNJ 5) F3

120

50

Demagoras of Samos (FHG) F 2 (IV.378) 120 n. 20 Demosthenes Epitaphios (60) 9

38

Dicaearchus (Mirhady) Life of Greece frr. 53–77 47 fr. 56A 49 fr. 56–57 49 fr. 59 48 fr. 65 48 fr. 65–68 48 n. 52 fr. 70 48 fr. 71 48 Summaries of the Plots of Euripides and Sophocles frr. 112–115 44 Dictys Latinus 6.5

119

Diktys of Crete (BNJ2 49) F 9a

131

Diodorus Siculus Bibliotheca 1.2.3 1.3.2 1.4 1.4.1 1.4.5 2.45–46 3.52.4 3.53.1 3.53.4 3.54.1 3.54.2 3.54.5 3.54.7 3.55.3 3.55.4 3.55.8 3.55.11 3.62.2 3.63.1 4.1.1–4 4.1.3 4.1.4 4.8 4.8.1 4.8.2 4.8.2–4 4.8.3 4.8.4–5 4.8.5 4.9.2 4.9.3 4.9.7 4.10.1 4.11.5–6 4.13.1 4.13.2 4.13.4 4.15.2 4.15.4 4.17.1 4.17.3 4.17.4 4.17.5 4.18.1

80 n. 19 76–77 n. 7 115 81 n. 23 77–78 82 n. 26 82 82 82 82 82 82 82 82 82 83 83 35 n. 19 35 n. 19 34–35, 77 30 35–36, 80 n. 19 36 78 36 n. 22, 79, 79 n. 16 36–37 77, 79 79–80, 86 n. 35 36, 75 87 88 n. 40 88 88, 88 n. 39 87 84 n. 33 86 87 n. 37 88 n. 41 85 n. 34 86 89, 90 89 89 89, 90, 91

  Index Locorum 4.18.2 4.18.3 4.18.4–5 4.18.5 4.18.6–7 4.18.7 4.19.1 4.19.1–2 4.19.2 4.19.3 4.19.4 4.21.2 4.21.3 4.21.4 4.21.5 4.21.5–6 4.21.7 4.22.1 4.22.2 4.22.5 4.22.6 4.23.3 4.23.4 4.23.5 4.24.3 4.24.4 4.25.4 4.26.1 4.26.1–4 4.26.2–3 4.26.2–27.2 4.26.3 4.44.5–6 4.46.1 4.47.3–5 4.48.4 4.53.7 4.54–55 4.54.7 4.55.1 4.55.6 4.70.1 4.70.4 4.71.1 4.76.2–3 5.7.7 11.89.1

86 90, 91 86 84 n. 33, 90 90 n. 43 90 n. 43 89, 90 90 91 90 89, 91 92 91 91 92 89 84 90 92 91 84, 87 91, 91 n. 46 91 92 n. 47 90, 92 92 85 85 86 35 n. 19 51 n. 61 84 n. 33 35 n. 19 111 112 112 85 n. 34, 112 111 111 n. 59 112 112 51 n. 61 84 n. 32 51 n. 61 51 n. 61 51 n. 61 82 n. 25

15.78.2 16.26.6 17.7.4 17.83.1 19.53.2 19.53.4 20.41.5 20.92.4

82 n. 25 82 n. 25 82 n. 25 82 n. 25 82 n. 25 51 n. 61 82 n. 25 82 n. 25

Diogenes Laertius Vitae philosophorum 5.5.11 115 n. 8 5.87 45 Dionysius of Halicarnassus Antiquitates Romanae 1.8.1 20 1.39–42 83 1.52.1 125 1.52.3 125, 126 1.53 125 1.53.2 121 1.53.3 120 1.64.5 121 n. 22 1.72 120 1.84.1 34 2.20 34 2.61.1 34 4.2 34 6.69.1 131 n. 49 12.16.22 130 n. 48 De Demosthene 55.1 81 n. 20 De Thucydide 4.3 80 n. 18 5 34 Duris of Samos (BNJ 76) F1

51 n. 58

Ephorus (BNJ 70) T8 FF 2–5 F 11 F 13

30 46 30 30

Index Locorum  

F 14 F 31b F 32 F 34 F 60 F 119 F 120 F 122a F 122b F 123 F 127 F 147

30 30–31 30 30 30 30 30 31 n. 9 31 n. 9 30 30 30

Epimenides (EGM) F 12

103

Eratosthenes (BNJ 241) F 1c

52 n. 63

Eudemus (Wehrli) Fr. 150

44

Eumelus (EGM) F3

110

Euripides TrGF Syleus

98

Fabius Pictor (BNJ 809) F 28

124 n. 28

Hecataeus of Miletus (EGM) F1 8, 24 F 27a 11 F 30 102 n. 30 Hegesianax of Alexandreia (BNJ 45) T7 120 n. 19

Hellanicus of Lesbos (EGM/BNJ 4) F2 78 n. 14 F 132 108 F 84 120 Heraclides of Pontus (Schütrumpf) On Justice frr. 22–25 On Piety frr. 26–27 On the Soul frr. 46–58 fr. 49 On the Underworld frr. 79–80 History of Music fr. 109 On Oracles frr. 117–126 On Foundations of Sanctuaries fr. 142 fr. 143 On Discoveries frr. 144–145 Heraclitus (DK) B 40

46 46 46 n. 47 46 n. 47 46 n. 47 46 n. 46 46

46 46 46

20 n. 43

Hermippus of Smyrna (Wehrli) frr. 95–102 44 Herodorus (EGM) F3

78 n. 14

Herodotus 1.5.3 2.3.2 2.21–23 2.23 2.112–117 2.112–120

30 29 30 30 6 30

  Index Locorum 2.120 3.122.2 Hesiod Theogony 27 96 881ff. 886–889 924–926 927–928 Works and Days 116–119 649 Fragmenta (Merkelbach-West) fr. 18 fr. 50 fr. 51 fr. 260

83 30

24 21 24 61 n. 38 61 n. 38 61 49 20

68 n. 66 148 n. 34 148 n. 34 103

Hieronymus of Rhodes On Myths (White) fr. 42 46 n. 48 fr. 44a 44 fr. 44b 44 fr. 46 44 Hippias (FGrHist 6) T3

7

Homer Iliad 1.5 1.59 1.59–60 1.69 2.698 2.816–877 2.594–596 2.559–580 2.729–730 2.768–769 5.266ff. 5.304 5.407

59 n. 28 59 n. 27 58, 58 n. 23 66 n. 58 60 n. 32 115 151 n. 44 144 151 63 18 n. 39 37 24

5.892 6.433–439 6.454–458 7.76 11.430 11.597–598 12.383 14.338 15.18–30 15.187ff 16.173–176 16.177–178 20.234ff. 20.298 23.144 23.639 23.679 24.29–30 24.732–735 Odyssey 8.312 8.408 9.84 9.106 18.118–121 20.199 21.15

59 67 62 8 70 151 37 61 61 n. 41 23 n. 56 66 n. 57 66 n. 60 18 n. 39 67 66 n. 60 69 n. 67 56 65 62 61, 61 n. 39 25 119 119 25 25 151

Homeric Hymns 1 (To Dionysus) 1–7 23 2 (To Demeter) 44ff 18 n. 39 3 (To Apollo) 3.19–24 23 3.207–215 23 5 (To Aphrodite) 203ff. 19 n. 40 208 19 n. 40 15 (To Heracles the Lionheart) 9 25 n. 60 20 (To Hephaestus) 8 25 n. 60 23 (To Zeus) 1 22 25 (To the Muses and Apollo) 1 22

Index Locorum  

Palaephatus Περὶ ἀπίστων praef. 1 3 6 17 18 21 26 30 31

81 n. 23 51 n. 61, 98 n. 16 51 n. 61 95 51 n. 61 51 n. 61 51 n. 61 5 n. 2, 51 n. 61 100 n. 22 97 n. 7

7 n. 10

Fragments (BNJ 44) F8

47

10 n. 18

Parmeniscus (Breithaupt) fr. 13

110 n. 57

Parthenius Erotica Pathemata I.5 II III III.1 III.3 IV.4 VI.1 VII.1 VIII.7 XIII.3 XIV.2 XVII XXV XXIX.1

99 110 110 110 110 n. 55 99 97 n. 7 97 n. 7 100 100 n. 24 100 97 109 97 n. 7

Pausanias Periegesis 1.26.4 1.27.1 1.39.4 2.1.1 2.3.8 2.4.5 2.15.1 2.15.4–16.7

142 n. 19 152 n. 19 144 144 108 142 n. 19 142 n. 19 141

Horace Ars Poetica 450

53 n. 1

Ibycus S151.23–29 PMGF = 282a PMG

10

Isocrates 9 (Evagoras) 73–74 12 (Panathenaicus) 1 15 (Antidosis) 45 Libanius Orations 31.43

106 n. 40 7 n. 10

Lycophron Alexandra 911–913 921 962–977 964 965–967 968 970 975–977

127 128 123 123 122, 123 123 123 123

Metrodorus (EGM) F2

102 n. 30

Origo Gentis Romanae 1.5 124 n. 30 3.7 125 n. 35 Ovid Metamorphoses 13.284

63

Oxyrhynchus Papyrus 364 104 n. 35 3013 = TrGF IV.435–436105 n. 37, 105 n. 38

  Index Locorum 2.26.2–7 2.26.7 2.27.8–10 2.23.5–6 2.22.3 3.1.1 3.1.4 3.3.1 3.3.4 3.7.5 3.11.8 3.15.10 3.17.6 3.26.2–3 3.26.4 3.26.7 3.26.8–10 3.26.9–10 4.1.1 4.1.4 4.2.2 4.2.3 4.3.2 4.30.2 4.30.3 4.31.1–2 4.31.9 4.33.7 4.36.7 5.25.13 7.4.5–6 7.4.7 8.11.10–12 8.12.5 8.35.2 8.46.2 8.53.8 9.11.4 9.39.8 9.11.4–5 9.30.12 9.40.3–4

147 148 150 150 150 145 n. 28 146 145 n. 28 145 n. 28 145 n. 28 145 n. 28 145 n. 28 142 n. 19 146 145 145 145 151 145 n. 26 151 n. 44 151 151 151 145 n. 27 151 n. 45 145 n. 27 146 n. 31 151 n. 44 145 n. 26 142 n. 19 142 143 142 122 142 n. 19 142 n. 19 142 n. 19 142 n. 19 142 n. 19 142 142 142 n. 19

Petronius Satyricon 89

118

Pherecydes (EGM) F 35 F 61a F 92 F 121 F 124

111 n. 57 66 n. 58 97 103 105

Philochorus (BNJ 328) On the Myths of Sophocles T1 45 Letter in Response to Asclepiades F 91 45 n. 42 Pindar Nemeans 7.17–30 Olympians 1.8–20 1.8 1.8–9 1.9 1.12–14 1.14 1.15–16 1.16 1.17 1.23–53 1.24 1.26 1.27 1.27–29 1.28 1.28b 1.29 1.29–32 1.30 1.33–34 1.36 1.37 1.41 1.43–45 1.45 1.45–46 1.46ff. 1.47

18 14 15 14 15 15 15 15 15 15 16 17 17 n. 34 17 17 17 17 17 17 18 19 19 17 n. 35 19 n. 40 18 19 18 n. 39 18 18

Index Locorum  

1.52–53 1.60ff. 1.104–105 7.54ff. 9 Pythians 3.110–115 Plato Gorgias 523a Hippias maior 284c8 285b7 285c 285c3 285d6–e2 285e10 295d4 298a4 Laws 663e Phaedrus 229c 229c4–5 229c6–d2 229c9 229d 229d1–2 229d2–230a1 229d3 229d4 229e2 229e3 229e6 230a 230e2 Politicus 299b Symposium 178b Timaeus 20d 21d 26c 29d 40d–e

20 19 15 n. 32 23 n. 56 15 17 n. 36

23 n. 56 12 12 7 12 7 12 16 16 10 n. 18 19 n. 40 9 10 12 31 11 12 12 13 13 13 13 42 n. 32 11 10 26 41 41 41 41 36

Pliny the Younger Epistulae 3.5

116

Plutarch Camillus 22.3 Theseus 1.2–3 16

77 n. 10 43

[Plut.] Vit. Hom. 1.6

65 n. 53

Polybius 2.16.13–14 2.17.6 2.56.10 2.56.11 3.38.3 3.47.8 3.91.7 4.40.2 4.43.6 9.2 12.24 15.36.1–2 16.12 18.54.8–12 31.9.3 34.2.4–9 34.4.1 34.10.6 34.11.20

32 n. 12 32 n. 12 80 n. 18 80 n. 18 32 n. 12 32 n. 12 32 n. 12 32 n. 12 32 32 n. 12 32 n. 12 32 n. 12 32 n. 12 32 n. 12 32 n. 12 32 32 n. 12 32 n. 12 32 n. 12

Porphyry De abstinentia 4.2.1–3

49

Sallust Bellum Catilinae 6

125

46 n. 47

Scholia Apollonius of Rhodes schol. Ap. Rh. 4.57–58 57 n. 21

  Index Locorum Euripides schol. Eur. Andr. 17 schol. Eur. Andr. 107 schol. Eur. Andr. 224 schol. Eur. Hec. 41 schol. Eur. Med. 167 schol. Eur. Or. 1497 schol. Eur. Rhes. 508 schol. Eur. Tr. 943 schol. Eur. Tr. 975

36 n. 22 36 n. 22 36 n. 22 45 n. 43 63 n. 47 36 n. 22 36 n. 22 36 n. 22 65 n. 53

Homer, Iliad schol. A Il. 1.5–6 Ariston. 59 n. 28 schol. A Il. 1.46–7 Ariston. 56 n. 13 schol. A Il. 1.59c Ariston. 58 n. 24 schol. A Il. 1.60 Ariston. 56 n. 13 schol. A Il. 1.62 Ariston. 56 n. 16 schol. A Il. 1.71a Ariston. 55 n. 8 schol. A Il. 1.100a Ariston. 56 n. 13 schol. A Il. 1.129a1 Ariston. 56 n. 13 schol. bT Il. 1.348 ex. 104 n. 35 schol. A Il. 1.216b Ariston. 56 n. 13 schol. A Il. 1.504a Ariston. 71 n. 76 schol. A Il. 1.591a Ariston. 61 n. 41 schol. A Il. 2.2b Ariston. 55 n. 6 schol. A Il. 2.106a Ariston. 63 n. 47 schol. A Il. 2.164a1 Ariston. 67 n. 62 schol. Il. 2.585 36 n. 22 schol. A. Il. 2.722 Ariston 55 n. 9 schol. A Il. 2.741 Ariston. 67 n. 62 schol. A Il. 3.54a Ariston. 68 schol. A Il. 4.32a Ariston. + test. 65 n. 52 schol. A Il. 4.407a Ariston. 67 n. 62 schol. A Il. 4.354a Ariston. 61 n. 40 schol. A Il. 4.439–40 Ariston. + test. 57 n. 17 schol. A Il. 5.60a Ariston. 69–70 schol. A Il. 5.257a Ariston. 59 n. 26 schol. D Il. 5.385 64, 64 n. 50 schol. A Il. 5.838–839 Ariston. 71 n. 78 schol. A Il. 5.857b Ariston. 59 n. 25 schol. A Il. 5.875a Ariston. 60 n. 37 schol. A Il. 5.892a Ariston. 59 n. 30 schol. A Il. 5.899 Ariston. + test. 60 n. 34 schol. T Il. 6.62b1 108 n. 51 schol. A Il. 6.92a Ariston. 69 n. 69 schol. A Il. 6.183a Ariston. 63 n. 47

schol. A Il. 6.199 Ariston. 66 n. 56 schol. A Il. 6.433–439 Ariston. 67 n. 62 schol. A Il. 6.457a Ariston. = 62 n. 43 schol. A Il. 7.392 Ariston. 55 n. 7, 63 n. 47 schol. A Il. 8.28 Ariston. 61 n. 38 schol. D Il. 8.31 61, 61 n. 38 schol. A Il. 8.195a Ariston. 64 n. 51 schol. A Il. 8.368 Ariston. 63 n. 47 schol. A Il. 9.145a Ariston. 63 n. 47 schol. A Il. 9.489a Ariston. 63 n. 47 schol. A Il. 10.265a Ariston. 69 n. 68 schol. A. Il. 11.46 Ariston. 55 n. 10 schol. A Il. 11.430b Ariston. 70 n. 72 schol. A Il. 12.394a Ariston. 66 n. 58 schol. A Il. 13.359a Ariston. 64 n. 51 schol. A Il. 14.338b Ariston. 57 n. 17, 61 n. 39 schol. A Il. 14.406a Ariston. 71 n. 77 schol. A Il. 14.434a Ariston. 70 n. 74 schol. A Il. 16.97–100a Ariston. 65 n. 55 schol. A Il. 16.175b Ariston. 66 n. 58 schol. A Il. 16.222b Ariston. + test. 63 n. 47 schol. A Il. 16.718a Ariston. 57 n. 17 schol. A Il. 17.211a Ariston. 60 n. 32 schol. A Il. 17.719 Ariston. 62–63 n. 44 schol. A Il. 18.117a Ariston. 63 n. 47 schol. A Il. 20.40b1 Ariston. 70 n. 75 schol. AT Il. 20.147a Ariston. 70 n. 75 schol. A Il. 20.234a Ariston. 65 n. 55 schol. A Il. 20.298 Ariston. 67 n. 61 schol. A Il. 23.638–642 Ariston. 68 n. 66, 69 n. 67 schol. A Il. 23.679a Ariston. 56 n. 12 schol. A Il. 23.822 Ariston. 71 n. 77 schol. A Il. 24.25–30 Ariston. 65 n. 52 schol. A Il. 24.604a Ariston. 56 n. 11 schol. A Il. 24.735a Ariston. 55 n. 6, 62 n. 42 Homer, Odyssey schol. Od. 1.299a schol. Od. 3.309a schol. Od. 4.1 schol. Od. 13.221

65 n. 54 65 n. 54 36 n. 22 72 n. 80

Index Locorum  

schol. Od. 15.248 schol. Od. 19.518

65 n. 54 105 n. 39

Lycophron schol. Lycoph. 911 schol. Lycoph. 921 schol. Lycoph. 965

127 n. 39 127 n. 40 122

Pindar schol. Pi. N. 10.114a schol. Pi. O. 6.23a schol. Pi. O. 14e1 schol. Pi. Pyth. 3.14

68 n. 63 58 n. 22 15 148 n. 34

Servius 1.550 2.166 7.1 4.427 5.626 6.738 5.755 7.1

123 130 n. 48 120 129 124 n. 32 121 125 120

Servius Danielis 2.166 2.801 3.286 3.287 3.286 5.73

130 n. 48 131, 132 132 n. 54 132 n. 54 113 123

Simonides (IEG2) frr. 10–18

38

Sophocles Ajax 179

60 n. 36

Stephanus of Byzantium s.v. Pephnos 147 n. 33 s.v. Aineia 122 n. 23 Strabo 1.2.15 1.2.35

32 31 n. 10

3.2.12 3.5.4 4.2.1 5.1.9 5.3.2 5.3.6 5.4.4 5.4.9 6.1.3 6.1.12 6.2.4 6.2.5 6.3.9 7 fr. 14a 8.3.9 8.4.6 8.6.16 8.6.22 9.1.4 9.1.22 9.2.34 9.3.9 9.3.11–12 9.3.12 10.2.19 10.2.24 10.3.3 10.3.6 10.3.23 10.5.2 11.5.3 11.5.4–5 11.6.3 13.1.32 13.1.53 13.1.69 13.2.4 15.1.57

31 n. 8 31 n. 8 31 n. 8 31 n. 8 31 n. 8 120 31 n. 8 31 n. 8 127 127, 127 n. 40, 130 31 n. 8 127 31 n. 8 31 n. 8 31 n. 8 146 n. 33 31 n. 8 31 n. 8 31 n. 8 31 n. 8 31 n. 8 31 n. 8 30–31 31 n. 9 31 n. 8 146 n. 32 31 n. 9 31 n. 8 31 n. 8 31 n. 8 33 33 n. 13 31 n. 8 31 n. 8 124 31 n. 8 31 n. 8 31 n. 8

Strato of Lampsacus (Sharples) frr. 84–86 46 Suetonius Divus Iulius 44.2

116

  Index Locorum Theocritus Idylls 16.54

24 n. 58

Theognis 18 769–772

10 n. 20 20

Theon Progymnasmata p. 78.17–21 Spengel = p. 38 Patillon 61 p. 96 Spengel 47 Theophrastus of Eresus (Fortenbaugh et al.) frr. 728–736 46 Theopompos of Chios (FGrHist/BNJ 115) T 19 T 28b F 172 F 381

81 n. 20 81 n. 20 147 n. 33 31 n. 10

Thucydides 1.2–19 1.9–12 1.10 1.21.1 1.22 1.22.4 6.1–5 6.2 6.2.1

83 30 37 29 37 29 6, 29 119 29

Timaeus of Tauromenium (FGrHist 566) T 12 81 n. 20 T 19 81 n. 20 Varro HRR fr. 3

52 n. 63

Vergil Aeneid 1.195–196 1.246–247

123 124 n. 30

1.549 1.550 1.570 1.755 2.619–620 2.801 3.11–12 3.12 3.18 3.45–46 3.69–71 3.286 3.302 3.350 3.402 3.405–407 3.645 3.707 4.427 5.30 5.31 5.37 5.38 5.47 5.48 5.73 5.80 5.300 5.300–301 5.301 5.302 5.626 5.634 5.664 5.703–718 5.704 5.704–705 5.711 5.718 5.755 5.759 5.759–761 5.760–761 5.761 5.870–871 6.111 6.378–381

124, 125 123 123 124 131–132 131 132 131 n. 49 122, 131 131 131 132 124 124 127, 130 131 124 n. 31 122 129 123 122 125 123 125 122 123 130 123 n. 26 123 123 123 124 124 122 130 129 n. 47 130 123 125 125 125 122 125 122 121 130 121

Index Locorum  

7.1–4 Eclogues 10.1 Xenophanes (IEG2) 1 1.13 1.14 1.22 1.24

120 116

19, 20 n. 43 19 20 20 20

Index of Names and Subjects N.B. References to footnotes are given only in those cases where the name or term does not occur in the main text on the specified page. Abantes 132 Abas 113, 132 Aborigines 125 Academus 48 Acesta 125 Acestes 122–125, 127 Achaia 143 Achilles 58, 62, 65, 66, 104, 145 Acropolis, of Athens 139 Actium 132 Acusilaus of Argos 5, 11, 26, 57 n. 21, 103 ἄδηλον 65 Adrestus 108 Aedon 105 Aeetes 112 Aeneadae 122, 124, 125 Aeneas 67, 113–133 passim Aeolus 32, 110 Aeschylus 45, 48, 65 n. 55 Aetna 92 Aetolia/Aetolians 43 n. 37, 146 n. 32 Africa 89 afterlife, myths of 41 Agamemnon 30, 55, 58, 108, 141, 144, 145 Agatharchides 77 n. 10 Agathyllos the Arcadian 120 Ager Dentheliatis 144 Agesilaos 117 Agyrium 90, 92 Aigesta 124, 127 Aigestes 123, 127, 128 Aigistos 125 Aineia 122, 131 Ainos 131 αἶνος 99 Aithylla 127 αἰτία 61 Ajax 62, 63, 71 n. 77 akribeia 37 Alcippe 139 Alcmaeon 65 https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110672824-012

Alcmene 87–88 Alesia 90, 91 Alexander Polyhistor 117 Alexandria 51 Alexandrian scholarship 53, 115 Alexarchos 117 Alkaios 88 allegory 31, 42, 64, 71 ἀλληγορικῶς 64 Alps 89–91 Amazons 33, 82 Ambraciots 43 n. 37 Ammianus Marcellinus 93 Amphinomus 25 Amphion 105 Amphitryon 84 n. 33, 87–88 Anagyrus 46 n. 48 Anchises 120–132 passim Androgeos 139 Andromache 62, 67, 69 Antaeus 89 Antagoras of Rhodes 21, 23 n. 53, 26 n. 63 Antenor 124 Antheus 100 Antiphanes 45 Antoninus Liberalis 1, 137 Aphthonius 102 apodeixeis 7 Apollo 31, 32, 46, 58, 60, 96–97, 110, 148 Apollodorus of Athens 127 Apollodorus, pseudo 1, 34 n. 14, 52, 75, 76 n. 4, 83–89 passim, 90 n. 45, 93 n. 51, 97, 115–116, 137–142 passim, 146 n. 32, 148, 149 Apollonius of Rhodes 47 n. 50, 57, 58, 116, 119, 133 Apsyrtos 63 n. 47 Aratus 25 Arcadia/Arkadia 22–23, 122 archaeologia 7 ‘Archaeology’, of Thucydides 29, 83

  Index of Names and Subjects Archilochus 15 n. 28 Arcisius 43 Areiopagos 139–140 Ares 59–60 Argives/Argos 11, 43 n. 37, 55, 141, 143, 148, 150 Argo 112, 119, 133 Argolid 140, 144 Argonauts 46 n. 48, 85 n. 34, 111, 112 Ariadne 139 Arion 31 n. 8 Aristarchus 53–73 passim Aristeides of Miletos 117 Aristoboulos 117 Aristokles 117 Ariston 109 Aristonicus 56 n. 13, 57 nn. 17, 19, 63 n. 47, 67 n. 62 Aristophanes 60 Aristotle 18, 24, 29, 42, 43, 49, 50, 72, 101 n. 26, 106 n. 41; Constitutions of 43–44, 51 Arsinoe 148, 150 Artemis 90 Artemis Limnatis 144 Ascanius 120, 121 Asclepiades of Tragilos 2, 45 Asclepius/Asklepios 111 n. 56, 147, 148, 150, 151 Asklepieion 147, 150 Astyanax 62, 71 Athamas 100 Athena 60–61, 69 n. 69, 71 n. 77, 86, 88, 101, 109, 130, 149 n. 37 Athena Polias 131 n. 49 Athenaeus 47 n. 50 Athenion 47 Athens 41, 56, 139, 144 Atlas 86 Atramys 48 Atreus 32, 63 n. 47 Attica 141 n. 16, 143, 144 Ἀττικοί (Attic poets) 60 audience 8, 18, 19, 25, 26, 27, 28, 38, 70– 71, 80 n. 18, 92, 118 n. 14, 134 Augeas 84 n. 33 Augustus 144

autochthony 41 n. 32 Avernus, Lake 90, 92 barbarians, history of 48 benefactions/benefactors 3, 85 n. 34, 88– 93 passim Beroe 124 Black Sea 119 Boeotia/Boiotia 142, 143 Boreas 6–12, 42 n. 32, 66 n. 60 Bottiaei 43 ‘bottom–up processing’ 107 Briseis 104 Busiris 89 Buthrotum 124, 126 Cacius 92 Caesar, Julius 91, 116 Caieta 120 Calabria 129 n. 47, 130 Calchas 55 Callimachus 3, 9, 20–26, 115, 116, Callirhoe 86 Callisthenes 35 n. 17 Calypso 119 Carthage/Carthaginians 91, 123, 124, 127 Cassius Hemina 130 n. 48 Castor of Rhodes 35 n. 18, 68 n. 63 Catalogue of ships 10–11, 127, 151 Cato the Elder 121, 125, 130 Celtica 89–91 Censorinus 47 n. 50 Centaurs 47, 98 Cephalus 43 Cerberus 63, 85 Cerynitian deer 84 n. 33 Chaemaleon 46 n. 48 characterisation, in mythography 95–112 chauvinism, local 147–152 Chiron 63 n. 47, 147 Chone 127 Chorios 145 chronography 48 chronology 29, 35, 66 n. 56, 103 Chrysaor 86, 91 Chryse 46 Chrysippos 117

Index of Names and Subjects  

Cicero 48 n. 50 Circe 119 Cleoboea 100 Clotho 17 Clytemnestra 65, 141 Codros 144 colony 119 Conon 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 104, 122 n. 23 Constitutions, of Aristotle 43–44, 51 Corcyreans 43 Corinth/Corinthians 110 n. 56, 111, 144 Cornelius Nepos 76 n. 5 Creon 111–112 Creophylus 110 n. 57, 111 Crete/Cretans 23, 43, 89, 90, 124, 139, 140, 142, 143 Creusa 120, 132 Crimisos 125 Crimisus 123, 127 Crinisus 123 Critias 50 Cronus 14, 24, 25, 41 n. 32, 49 Croton 127 Cumae 89, 90 Cyane 91–92 Cyclops 119 Cypria 59 n. 28, 68 nn. 63, 64 Cythnians 43 n. 37 Daidalos 138–143 Damastes 120 Danaus 32 Dardanus 132 de-categorisation 111 Delian games 22 Delians 43 Delphi 88 n. 39, 109, 111 n. 57 Delphic oracle 30, 31, 148 Demeter 18 n. 39, 43 Demetrios of Ilion 113 Demetrius of Skepsis 115 Demetrius Triclinius 44 n. 40 Demetrius, author of On Style 47 n. 50 Democritus 21, 50 n. 56 Demosthenes 38 demythologisation 30–37 passim, 42, 50, 87, 118 n. 14; see also rationalisation

Derkyllos 117, 120 Dexamenos 43 n. 37 διαβεβαιώσασθαι 66 Dicaearchus 2, 44–52 passim, 105 n. 37 Dictys Latinus 119 Dido 119, 124, 129 Didymos Chalcenteros 116 Dikaios 98 Diktys of Crete 118, 131 Diocles of Corinth 98 Diodorus of Sicily 3, 30, 32, 34, 36 nn. 21– 22, 51, 75–93, 109, 111, 115, 118 n. 14 Diogenes Laertius 45 Diokles 151 n. 44 Diomedes 71 n. 77, 129 n. 47, 130, 144 Dionysius of Halicarnassus 34, 83, 93, 120, 121, 125, 130 n. 48, 131 n. 49 Dionysius Scytobrachion 1 Dionysus 6, 46, 85 Dioscuri/Dioskouroi 68 n. 66, 146 direct speech 96, 99, 102; see also indirect speech Doliche 138 Dorian song 15 Dorieus 91 Dorion 151 n. 44 Dorotheos 114 n. 2, 117 Dositheos 113, 114 n. 2, 117 Draco 31 Drepane 43 Duris of Samos 51 n. 58 Egesta 126 Egypt 48, 89 Eirethyia 90 n. 45 Eleusinian mysteries 85 Elis/Eleians 140, 145 n. 26, 148 Elymi/Elymoi 120, 123, 126, 128 Elymos 122, 123, 124, 125 endoxa 43, 44, 46 n. 48 Endymion 103 Enope 145 Enualios 60 envy 18–19, 27, 80–81 Enyo 59, 60 Epaminondas 142 Ephorus 30, 31, 32, 34, 35 n. 17, 76 n. 6

  Index of Names and Subjects Epidauros/Epidaureans 43 n. 37, 147, 148, 150 Epimenides 103 Epirus 124 epitaphios logos 38 Eratosthenes 48 n. 50, 52 n. 63 Eratosthenes, author of Catasterisms 1 Erechtheus 140 Eriphyle 65, 109 Eros 26 Erysichthon 149 n. 37 Eryx 87, 91, 123–128 passim ethopoeia 102 Eudemus 44 Euhemerus 1, 20, 21, 51 euhemerism 31, 32, 37, 119 Euippe 110 Eumelus 110, 111 Eumolpos 118 Eupalamos 139 Euripides 6, 44, 45, 47 n. 50, 58, 98, 110 Euryalus 25 Eurystheus 84 n. 33, 85, 86, 102 Eurytos 151 Eusthatius 48 n. 50 Evagoras 106 Fabius Pictor 124 fables 99 fabula 75 fairy tales 108 false/falsehood 17–19, 29, 31 n. 8, 68; see also truth fan fiction 40 fiction 24, 29 n. 2, 31 n. 8, 41, 107 ‘first inventor’ motif 51 Flood 52 Gadeira 86, 90 n. 45 Ganymede 17, 18, 65 n. 55 gap, filling the 63, 69 γελοῖος 71 n. 78 Gelon 99 genealogy 138 geography 31 n. 8, 135 Gerenia 145, 151 Geryones 86, 89–90

Giants 89 Glaucus, of Rhegium (?) 45 Glaucus, sea-daemon 43 glory 17, 80, 93 Golden Age 47, 48, 49 Golden Apples of the Hesperides 86 Golden Fleece 112 Gorgias 10 Gorgons 82 grammatikoi 121 Great Gods 132 Hades 24, 85, 103 ἅπαξ λεγόμενον 68 Harmonides 69 Harpalyce 100 Hecataeus, of Abdera 21, 51 Hecataeus, of Miletus 5, 8, 11, 17, 24 Hecatompylon 90–91 Hector 8, 67, 124 Hecuba 45 Hegesianax of Alexandreia 120 Helen 6, 30, 63 n. 47, 83, 99, 143 n. 21 Helenus 124, 131 Helicon/Helikon 11, 142, 143 Helios 43 n. 37, 84 n. 33 Hellanicus of Lesbos 67, 78 n. 14, 108, 120 Hellas 144 Helymus 123 with n. 26, 125 Hephaestus 61, 87 Hera 59, 61, 84 n. 33, 88, 103, 110, 111 Heracleia (Sicily) 91 Heracleion (Thebes) 143 Heracles 3, 36, 37, 44, 48 n. 52, 50, 63 n. 47, 75–93, 98, 102, 112, 118 n. 14, 138, 139 Heraclidae 29, 30, 32, 150 Heraclides of Pontus 45–46 Heraclitus 45, 64 Heraion (Argos) 132 Heraion (Samos) 143 Herippe 100 Hermippus of Smyrna 44 Herodorus of Heraclea 48 n. 52, 78 n. 14 Herodotus 7, 13, 29 n. 24, 30, 32, 34, 42, 47, 49, 80, 83, 93, 135 n. 4, 152

Index of Names and Subjects  

Hesiod 10 n. 20, 20, 21, 26, 57 n. 16, 61, 68, 103, 148 Hesperides 84 n. 33, 149 n. 37 heurematography 46 n. 46 Hiero 13–14, 15, 17 Hieronymus of Rhodes 44, 46 n. 48 Hippias of Elis 7, 8, 10, 16 ἱστορία 36 n. 22 history 29, 33; different from myth 2, 7, 29–52, 75–82; division of, into three periods 52 Homer 11, 18, 21, 24, 31 n. 8, 37, 54–73 passim, 99 n. 17, 104, 116, 142, 144, 150 n. 42; poets after 55: see also νεώτεροι; principle of elucidating Homer from Homer 54–55 Homeric formulae 39 Homeric hymns 21–26 Hyperboreans 84 n. 33, 86, 149 n. 37 hyperseriality 40 hypothesis, of plays 44, 45 n. 43, 103 n. 32, 104, 105 n. 37 Iberia/Iberians 86–91 passim Ibycus 10, 11, 15, 20, 26 Icaros 138 Ida 131 ideology, and mythology 39 Idmon 46 n. 48 Ikaria 143 Ikaros 139, 140, 142 impiety 11, 12, 20 indirect speech, as means of characterisation 99–100; see also direct speech Iolaüs 92 Iolkos 110 n. 56 Iphigenia 63 irrational/irrationality 11 n. 23, 12, 13, 111; see also reason Ischys 148 Ismarus 119 Isocrates 106 ἱστορέω 78 n. 11 ἱστορούμενα 78 Italika 118–119, 120, 128 Italy 119, 143, 149 Ithacans 43 n. 37

Ithome 151 Itylos 105 Ixion 98 Jason 32, 85 n. 34, 96, 111 Jerome 47 n. 50 Julius Obsequens 121 n. 21 Juno 132 Jupiter 132 Kabeiroi 132 καιρός 61 Kardamyle 145 Kekrops 149 n. 37 Kephalon of Gergis 120 Kleitonymos 117 κλέος 16, 24 n. 58 Kokalos 142 Kore 91–92 Koronis 147, 148 Kranaos 149 n. 37 Krimisa (Croton) 127 Kyklopes 119 Kynortas 150 labor 116 labyrinth 139 Laconia 144, 147, 150 Laestrygon 119 Laistrygones 119 Lakedaimonians 146 Laomedon 127 Latinus 121 Laurentians 131 leisure 12–14 Lemnos 55 Lernaean hydra 87 Leucadians 43 n. 37 Leukippos 145 Leuktra 145, 146 n. 33 libations 22, 25 Libya 82, 84 n. 33, 89, 90, 149 n. 37 lies 24, 67; see also truth Ligurians 128 Lilybaion 124 Lindian Chronicle 77 n. 9 Livy 121 n. 21

  Index of Names and Subjects Locris 90 logios anēr 8 logos 11; distinct from muthos 42, 50 Lotophagi (Lotus-Eaters) 119 love-sickness 98 love-stories 97 Lucanians 121 Lucian 36 n. 22 Lucifer 131 lucubrare 116 Lucullus 91 Lycophron 113, 116, 122, 123, 127, 128, 133 Lynceus 68 n. 63 Lyrcus 99 Lyrnessos 122 n. 25 Lyrnos 122 n. 25 Lyros 122 n. 25 Machaon 145, 151 Mani 144, 145, 146 Marsyas 96–97, 101, 110 marvels: see thaumata Medea 108, 110, 111, 112 Medes 101 Megara/Megarians 43 n. 37, 144 Melanthus 100 Menelaus 108 Menesthius 66 Menoites 85 Menyllos 117, 120 Messene/Messenia/Messenians 144–152 Messenian Wars 145, 152 Messina 32 Metion 139 Metionidai 142 Metis 61 n. 38 Mezentius 121 Minerva 130 Minos 139, 140, 142 Minotaur 43, 139, 140 Molione 68, 69 n. 67 moralising, and mythography 95–112 Mt Anchisia 122 Mt Dicte 22 Mt Lycaeum 22 Mt Sipylos 150 mousikē 15

mousikos 23 Musaeus 85 Muses 11, 15, 20, 21, 27, 142 music, history of 46 n. 46 Mycenae 55, 141, 143 Myrmidons 66 Mysia 58, 62 μυθικός 64 μυθικώτερος 83 μυθῶδες 29, 46 n. 47 μυθωδέστερον 31 μυθογραφία 5 μυθογράφος 5 μῦθοι 11, 16, 17, 20, 29, 33, 41, 75, 136; see also myth μυθολογέω 82–83 μυθολόγημα 9–10 with n. 18 μυθολογούμενα 78 muthos 11; distinct from logos 42, 50 myth, different from history 31ff.; difficulty of, in Diodorus 35ff.; eschatological 46 mytheme 10 mythographic commentaries 1 mythographic discourse 1, 7–20, 26, 76– 93, 148 mythographic topography 136 Mythographus Homericus 1, 57 n. 16, 58 mythologisation 38 Nauaithos 128 Nauprēstides 127 Nautes 124, 129 n. 47, 130, 131 n. 49 Nautii 129 n. 47, 130 Neaithos 127, 128 Nemean lion 84 n. 33 νεώτεροι 55, 57, 59, 61, 62 Nereids 43 Nero 118 Nestor 68, 69 n. 67, 145, 151 Nicolaus of Damascus 76 n. 5 Nile 30 Niobe 56, 63, 102 νόσος 98 Nostoi 127 Nysa 46 n. 48

Index of Names and Subjects  

Ocean/Oceanus 86, 142 Odysseus 25, 32, 62, 63, 69, 70, 109, 110, 119, 120, 151 n. 44 Oedipus 56 Oichalia 151 Oinone 99 ὄλβος 25 Old Krimissa 127 Olympia 15, 17 Olympian games 14 Olympians 149 n. 37 Olympus (father of Marsyas) 96 Olympus 24 ὀνοματοθετικός 69 Opuntians 43 n. 37 oral tradition 17, 19, 24 Orchomenians 90 n. 43 Oreithyia 6–11, 42 n. 32 Orestes 65 Orpheus 85, 142, 143 Orthos 86 Ortilochos 151 n. 44 Ovid 63 Ozolian Locri 140 paideia 116, 126, 134 Paieon 60 Palaephatus 1, 47, 51, 81, 83, 92, 97, 99, 100 Palamedes 48 Palatine 91, 92 Palinurus 121, 129 n. 47, 130 Pallas 129 n. 47 Pamisos 146 n. 33 Panchaea 51 Pandion 144 Panhellenic festivals 22 Panopes 125 παρὰ τὴν ἱστορίαν 68 n. 63 paradoxography 36 n. 22 paralogismos 18, 23 paraprosdokian 22 parasocial relationships 40 Parian Marble 77 n. 9 Paris 99; judgement of 65 Parmenides 48, 110 n. 56

Parthenius 1, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 103 n. 32, 109, 110, 112 Pasiphae 139 πάθος 98 Patroclus 62, 65, 66 Pausanias 2, 3, 11, 122, 135–152 Pegasus 63 n. 47 Peirithous 85 Pelagonians 22 Peleus 63 n. 47, 66, 67, 96, 110 n. 56 Pellana 146 Peloponnesian War 30 Pelops 13, 16–17, 84 n. 33, 148 Peneius river 90 n. 43 Pephnos 146 Perdix 139 performance 7, 15 n. 31; choral 14 n. 26; solo 14 n. 26 Periander 97, 98, 101 periegesis 135 periegetic style 135 n. 2 Peripatetics/Peripatos 2, 29, 29–52 Persephone 18 n. 39, 85 Perseus 141 Persian Wars 5, 30, 38 Persians 101 Petelia 127, 128, 130 Petronius 118 Phaedrus 26 phaenomena 43 Phaidra 139 Pharmacea 12 Phayllus 109 Pherai 145 Pherecydes 7, 26, 66, 67, 84 n. 33, 97, 103, 105, 111 n. 56, 112, 135 n. 4, 138 Pherenicus/Pherenikos 14–15 Philip II 98, 146 n. 33 Philochorus 45 Philoctetes 55, 127, 128, 130 Philodemus 48 n. 50 Philoitios 25 philologoi 121 Philomela 104–105 φιλομυθοῦντες 31 philomythia 32 Phlegon the paradoxographer 48 n. 50

  Index of Names and Subjects Phlegraean Fields 89, 92 Phocis 140 Phorbas 84 n. 33 Phoroneus 141 Photius 104 n. 35, 149 Phrixus 100 Phthia 100 Phylarchus 80 n. 18 piety 19, 20, 27, 32, 36, 50 n. 57, 51, 111 πικρία/πικρῶς 80, 81 n. 20 Pillars of Heracles 84 n. 33, 90 Pinakes 115 Pinarii 92 Pinarius 92 Pindar 2, 3, 9, 11, 12, 13–20, 21, 23, 24, 54, 58, 118 n. 14 Pisa 14, 138 Plato 3, 7, 9–13, 14, 26, 36, 41, 42, 50 Pliny the Elder 115 Pliny the Younger 115–116 pluralism, in Greek mythographic tradition 146 plurimediality 40 Plutarch 43 47 n. 50, 77 n. 10, 109, 116 Pluto 85 Podaleirios 151 Poina 105 polemic 83 Polybius 32, 80 n. 18 Polycrates 20 Polydora 67 Polydore 66 Polydoros 122, 131 polyglossy 118, 121 polymathia 20 n. 43, 116 Polymela 110 Pompeius Trogus 76 n. 5 Porphyry 47 n. 50, 49, 52 Poseidon 17, 18, 19 n. 40, 43, 67, 84 n. 33, 139, 149 n. 37 posthomerika 118 πρᾶγμα (case) 61 praise 14–16, 21, 23, 77, 80, 81 Praxiphanes 51 n. 58 Priam 67, 126, 127 Priamel 23 n. 54 primary world, of storytellers 40

primitivism 50 n. 54 προαίρεσις 31 probable/probability 8, 11, 12, 13, 19, 23, 24 Procne 104 Prodicus of Ceos 21, 48 n. 52, 51 progressivism 50 n. 54 progymnasmata 61 Prometheus 50, 86, 88 προστάτης 109 n. 53 πρόσωπον (person) 61 Protagoras 50 Pseudo-Plutarch 113–114, 120 ψεῦδος 67 Ptolemy II 23 n. 52 Ptolemy Chennos 113, 116, 117, 120 Pylos 145, 151 n. 44 Pytheas of Massilia 31 n. 8 Pythokles 117 Python 31, 110 Ram 100 rationalisation/rationalism 6, 8, 11, 13, 15, 23, 24, 27, 29, 30, 32, 41–42, 47, 71, 79– 82, 84, 85 n. 34, 92 remythologisation 50 Rhegine 90 Rhegium 87 Rome/Romans 34, 91, 92, 120, 126, 127, 149 Rōmē 120 Rōmos 120 Sabine women 130 sacrifice 50 n. 57 Sallust 125 Samos 142 Samothrace 132 σαφῶς 59 Scamander 70, 124 Scheria 44 σχολή 12 scholia 36 n. 22, 47 n. 50, 53–73 passim; 102 n. 29, 104, 108 n. 52 Schwindelautoren 113, 117 secondary world, of stories 40 Segesta/Segestans 123, 128

Index of Names and Subjects  

Semele 85 Semiramis 101 Seneca the Elder 118 seriality 40 Servius 120, 121, 123, 124, 133 Servius Danielis 113, 123, 124, 132 Servius Tullius 34 Sextus Empiricus 44 n. 41 Sicani 92 n. 47 Sicily/Sicilians 6, 14, 29, 87, 90, 91, 113, 119, 122–126, 130, 140, 142, 143 Sikelika 118–119, 123, 128 Simoeis 124 Simois 124 Simonides 38 Sipylus 17 Smilis 143 Socrates 6, 9–13, 17, 31, 42 n. 32, 47 Socus 70 Solon 24 sophia/sophoi 6, 10 n. 19, 13, 14, 19 Sophists 50 σοφίζεσθαι 10, 16, 20 Sophocles 44, 45, 56, 60, 104 Sophos 19 spatium historicum 33, 90 spatium mythicum 32, 33, 37, 90 Spercheios 66 Sperlonga 116 Speusippus 98 Staphylus 99 Stephanus of Byzantium 48 n. 50, 146 n. 33 stereotypes, of characters 108 Stesichorus 99, 126 Strabo 30, 31, 32, 33, 76 n. 5, 120, 124, 125, 127, 130, 146 n. 32 Strato of Lampsacus 46 Stymphalian birds 86 συκοφαντεῖν 80 Sybaris 127 Syleus 98 symposium 15, 21, 22 n. 50, 26, 27 synkriseis 117 Syracuse/Syracusans 14, 15, 17, 91, 127

Taenarum 85 Talos 139, 140 Tantalus/Tantalos 17, 19, 150 Telephus 55 Tempe 90 n. 43 temporal gap 72 Tereus 104, 105 textimmanent 55, 59 n. 29, 73 Thalamai 146 Thamyris 151 n. 44 thaumata (marvels) 13, 17, 18, 24, 33, 80 n. 18, 83, 112 Thebe 48 Thebes 56, 90 n. 43, 143 Themis 31 Theognis 10 n. 20, 20, 26, 106 n. 41 Theon (Augustan-era grammarian) 57, 122, 128 Theon, Aelius 47 Theophilos 117 Theophrastus 46, 47, 50 n. 57, 51 Theopompus 31 n. 9, 35 n. 17, 147 n. 33 theorēmata 142, 145 Theotimos 117 Theseus 63 n. 47, 85, 139, 140, 143 n. 21 Thessaly 147, 151 Thestor 46 n. 48 Thetis 63 n. 47, 71 Third Sacred War 109 Thrace 119, 122 Thucydides 6, 29, 30, 32, 37, 75, 81, 83, 119 Thuria 145 Thyestes 63 n. 47 Tiber 92 Tiberius 144 Timaeus of Tauromenium 84 Timagenes 76 n. 5 Timagoras 120 n. 20 Tiresias 97 Tithonus 44 Tityos 31 Tityus 110 top-down processing 107 topography 136 topos/topoi 61, 136–137, 152 τόπος διδασκαλικός 58–61

  Index of Names and Subjects tragedies, plots of 44 tragic history 51 n. 58 Trapani 122, 125 Trikka 151 Troad 120 Troezen/Troezenians 43 n. 37, 85, 139 Troiae halosis 118 Troika 118, 120 Trojan War 6, 32, 83, 118, 119, 120 τρόπος 61 Tros 19 n. 40 Troy/Trojans 10, 11, 46 n. 48, 55, 58, 115, 122–126, 131 true/truth 7, 9, 17, 30, 31 n. 8, 33, 34, 36 n. 22, 38, 41, 50, 71, 81, 83–84, 118, 148; see also lie τύραννος 109 Turnus 121 Tyndareus 146 Typhon 42 n. 32 Underworld 119

variant versions 84, 118 Varro 47 n. 50, 52, 114, 116, 120, 125, 126, 128, 130, 131, 133 Velia 121 Venus 131, 132 Venus Erycina 122, 125 Vergil 3, 113–134 vigilantia 116 visual art, interest of Aristarchus in 69 Wandernovelle 98 Way of Heracles 92 χαῖρε 25–26 Xanthus 70, 100, 124 χαριζόμενοι 18 χάρις 12, 17, 18 Xenophanes 19–20, 24, 26 Zenobius the paroemiographer 47 n. 50 Zenodotus 56 Zeus 17, 19, 21, 22, 23, 25, 59, 60, 61, 65 n. 55, 71, 87, 88, 89, 103, 105, 149 n. 37