Human Development in Sacred Landscapes: Between Ritual Tradition, Creativity and Emotionality 9783737002523, 9783847102526, 9783847002529

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Lutz Käppel / Vassiliki Pothou (eds.)

Human Development in Sacred Landscapes Between Ritual Tradition, Creativity and Emotionality

With numerous figures

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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.d-nb.de. ISBN 978-3-8471-0252-6 ISBN 978-3-8470-0252-9 (e-book) © Copyright 2015 by V&R unipress GmbH, 37079 Goettingen, Germany www.v-r.de All rights reserved, including those of translation into foreign languages. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilm and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Printed in Germany. Cover image: Interior of an attic white-ground kylix with a drawing of Apollo, 480–470 BCE. Apollo pours libations from a phiale, while a crow or a raven (korone) watches from a perch. Work of an unknown athenian vase-painter (Pistoxenos Painter or the Berlin Painter), found in a grave probably of a priest at Delphi. Dimensions: height 0,079 m, diameter 0,178 m. Delphi Museum, Inventory number: 8140. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture. Printing and binding: CPI buchbuecher.de GmbH, Birkach

This volume is dedicated to Oliver Rackham (1939 – 2015), a pioneering scholar on the ancient forest ecology of Mediterranean landscapes, whose personality and wisdom made a major contribution to the conference. We are grateful that we had the good fortune to enjoy Oliver’s company in Delphi. Καλό ταξίδι

Inhalt

Acknowledgements

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Lutz Käppel and Vassiliki Pothou Prologos – Prefatory Note . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Bettina Schulz Paulsson Memory in Stone: Ritual Landscapes and Concepts of Monumentality in Prehistoric Societies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Oliver Rackham Greek Landscapes: Profane and Sacred

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

35

Lukas Thommen Sacred Groves: Nature between Religion, Philosophy and Politics . . . . .

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Susan Guettel Cole Under the Open Sky: Imagining the Dionysian Landscape . . . . . . . . .

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Efrosyni Boutsikas Landscape and the Cosmos in the Apolline Rites of Delphi, Delos and Dreros . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Jeremy McInerney From Delos to Delphi: How Apollo comes Home . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103 Sarah Hitch Barren Landscapes and Sacrificial Offerings in the Homeric Hymn to Apollo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121

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Mercedes Aguirre Castro Landscape and Females in the Odyssey: Calypso, Circe and Nausicaa . . . 135 Richard Buxton An Ogre in Three Landscapes: Cyclops in Homer, Euripides and Theokritos . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147 Lutz Käppel Landscape and the Magic of Music in Pindar’s Twelfth Pythian Ode James Roy The Distribution of Cult in the Landscape of Eleia

. . . 155

. . . . . . . . . . . . . 173

Vassiliki Pothou Newborn Babies and Newborn Islands: Insularity and Politics

. . . . . . 189

Hamish Forbes A Greek Landscape with God and his Saints: A Case Study from the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries AD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 199 Michael Teichmann The Role of Archaeological Museums in Greece for Contemporary Societies – Approaches and Perspectives . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 217 List of Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 233 Index locorum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 237 Index rerum et nominum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 241 Index verborum graecorum potiorum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 251

Acknowledgements

Only through the kindness and generosity of the Graduate School “Human Development in Landscapes” at the Kiel University was it possible to realize this conference, which was not difficult to conceptualise, but rather challenging to organise. During critical times of German-Greek relationships (2010 – 2011), we had to swim against a strong tide and we dared to prepare a project that reflected opposition to European austerity. In a difficult time for the classical humanities and especially classical philology and archaeology, the Graduate School “Human Development in Landscapes” supported our conference more than expected. Apollo protected us. We would particularly like to express our gratitude and appreciation to Johannes Müller and Mara Weinelt for their kind support and solidarity. Without the generous grant by the Graduate School, it would not have been possible to accomplish this project and publish this volume. The association Alumni Kiel e. V. sponsored the conference in May 2011 in Delphi. In addition, the association very faithfully supported the publication of this volume. The association Alumni Kiel e. V. supports with its contributions permanently the research and teaching at Kiel University. Conferences, workshops, series of lectures and publications are promoted with grants by the Alumni-Kiel e. V. Its members keep each other mutually informed of scientific actuality. We would very much like to thank Barbara Colic and the association for their solidarity during unfavorable times for the classical humanities. This volume is also published in honor of Reverend George A. Karahalios, Ph.D., University of Heidelberg, Germany and Th.D., University of Athens, Greece, Provost, Vice President and teacher of Philosophy for 25 years at Hellenic College / Holy Cross, Brookline, Massachusetts, United States for his scholarly accomplishments and devoted service in the Greek Orthodox Church and the promotion of Greek Letters worldwide. Our appreciation is extended to colleagues who participated at the conference in Delphi with papers that are not published in this volume: Antonia Davidovic (Kiel), Matthew Harrington (Boston) and Helmut Kroll (Kiel). We would like to express our gratitude to Lydia Marouli (Athens) for the presentation of the

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Acknowledgements

Ancient Hydraulis, a modern reconstruction of a recovered fragmentary hydraulis from the 1st century B.C. at the site of ancient Dion. Furthermore, we salute the vice mayor of Delphi in 2011, Eleni Bakolouka, for her warm welcome and her support in situ. We are also grateful to Rhina Colunge (Human Development in Landscapes, Kiel University) and Gabriela Wulff-Döbber (Institute of Classical Studies, Ancient Greek Literature, Kiel University) for their administrative assistance. Very special thanks are due to Eileen Kücükkaraca (Kiel), Julian Leander Willmann (Göttingen), Manfred Gailus (Berlin) and Emmanuel Pothos (Boston) for their review of the text and their fruitful suggestions, revisions and advice. Last but not least, we thank Mary Kokkotou for the apollonian laurel branches, a gift from her garden, as a source of inspiration for the conference participants.

Lutz Käppel and Vassiliki Pothou

Prologos – Prefatory Note

This volume presents essays on topics of the sacredness of landscapes, which were presented in the context of the conference Human Development in Sacred Landscapes. This conference took place in May 2011 at the European Cultural Centre of Delphi and it was organized and sponsored by the Graduate School Human Development in Landscapes of Kiel University. The central purpose of this international project was to investigate various topics concerning landscapes and sanctified areas which are devoted to ancient gods. They are conceptualized as sites of a particular religious dimension. Some contributions deal with the historical reality of sites, on the one hand, and the specific mythos which is connected with them, on the other hand. Other chapters focus on problems of identification, interpretation and the evolution of sanctified areas.

I

The subject

The topic “sacred landscape” is generally used as a term for the definition of a multidimensional phenomenon. In the literature, the topic “sacred landscape” signifies the opposite of the secular landscape. But what it exactly entails remains quite difficult to explain precisely. As the theologian and religious scientist Rudolf Otto (1869 – 1937) from Marburg remarked many decades ago, “we have got used to apply the adjective ‘sacred’ in a sense which is a transferred one but not its original one”1 (“The fact is we have come to use the words holy, sacred (heilig) in an entirely derivative sense, quite different from that which they originally bore” (translated by John W. Harvey, London, 1923). The aim of the conference was to prove that the sacred landscape is not a terminological fossil, neither an ideogram nor a vague collective term, but it refers to the current worldview of people who were influenced by the culture and ethos in the context of media-strategies. 1 Rudolf Otto, Das Heilige: Über das Irrationale in der Idee des Göttlichen und sein Verhältnis zum Rationalen, Breslau, 192310, 5.

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Thus, the sacred landscape is not only a matter of religious monuments, buildings, temples, sanctuaries, churches and ritual acts, which in antiquity trace back to the magic and which should mediate the attainment of divine salvation. It is not only a matter of the simple explanation of terms like “pure” and “impure”, magic and mythos, but should rather be denoted as a space of expression and of mysterium tremendum, where “solemnity and attunement of rites and cults are taking place”2. In addition to elucidations on the general topic, the conference in Delphi provided the opportunity to spatially indicate the historical origins and the conceptual development of the notion of “sacred landscape” and the changing moral expression of piety. This opportunity promoted the conclusion that contact with diverse communication systems in the course of time exercised influence on the practice of ritualisation. In this regard, the holy landscape seems to be strictly stereotyped, but at the same moment also flexible and compatible with different communities and their religious needs, because even ritualisation has self-developmental possibilities. For a better understanding of different dimensions of the “sacred landscape”, an interdisciplinary orientation of the conference appeared to be indispensable. The topic of the “holy landscape” finds attention not only among classical philologists, ancient historians and archaeologists, but, for example, also among archaeoastronomers and ethnologists. In this constellation, the issue of the “sacred landscape” is not only limited to the period of classical antiquity, but is also expanded to prehistoric and modern societies as well. Through internationalisation with participants from the U.S.A, Australia, England, Germany, Suisse, Spain, and Greece, the conference was able to involve new research areas from multidisciplinary sources. By means of close cooperation with such an international group of experts from classical philology, ancient history, archaeology and archaeoastronomy, we hope to have great appeal to as large an audience as possible.

II

Human Development in Landscapes

For an understanding of human development, one has to comprehend the interactions between humans and the physical environment (respectively landscape) and perceptions of it. Innovative research on the development of human groups in landscapes refers to such topics as the interaction between individuals and the creation of social spaces and landscapes shaped by humans in a changing environment. Knowledge about material culture, reflecting the interactions be2 Op. cit, 13.

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tween man and spaces as is testified in historical-philological sources of the past and of the present, is of crucial importance. One of our aims in this project is a reconstruction on how landscapes were used in antiquity for the interpretation of ideological structures of societies. In the context of graduate education and through its excellence project (Excellence Initiative), Kiel University promotes interdisciplinary research projects which combine aspects of natural sciences and the humanities. The increased networking between disciplines, the rising demands on scientific equipment and an intensified international anchorage of scientists required a multidisciplinary conference, which coped with changing communication standards and thus enabled innovative research approaches. We hope that the contributions of our conference will give new impetus to the research of ancient landscapes.

III

Why in Delphi?

Some of the contributions in this volume are associated with the sacred landscape of Delphi. Therefore, we purposefully selected this meeting place, hoping to draw inspiration from the aura of the surroundings. In their religious utterances and in their language, the Greeks felt their common band. Their sense of community was more clearly expressed through the Amphictyonic Leagues, the religious-political associations of neighboring tribes, and in the worship of common sanctuaries. The most important Amphictyony was the Delphic Amphictyony. Discoveries of idols witness that a sanctuary in Delphi already existed in the second millennium B.C. The oracle of Delphi influenced its visitors with the Delphic aphorism medèn agan (“μηδέν ἄγαν”), literally “nothing in excess”. No other oracle of the ancient Greek world has been so controversially discussed in modern research as a result of the unclear body of source material, the outstanding importance of the oracle, the supernatural effect of the oracle and the picturesque location of Delphi. Each modern visitor is deeply impressed by the mountain scenery of the southern slopes of Parnassus. Since 800 B.C., the adoration of Apollo is archaeologically demonstrable in Delphi by bronze statuettes of youths, of a kouros, as a personification of Apollo. In principle, each divinity could give oracles. But Apollo was the oracular divinity par excellence. He exerted his influence not only in Delphi and in Didyma of Asia Minor, but also in many other places as an oracular god. In the Roman imperial period, the oracle of Delphi experienced a new revival under Nero (54 – 68), Trajan (98 – 117) and Hadrian (117 – 138). The author Plutarch from Chaeronea officiated as a high priest from 105 to 126 A.D. Under the reign of Julian the Apostate (360 – 363 A.D.), who propagated an abandonment of Christianity and a nostalgic return to paganism, the oracle sanctuaries provi-

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sionally profited once more. Even Constantine the Great and his successors set up their statues in Delphi. The discontinuation of the oracle occurred with Emperor Theodosius who, in the name of Christianity, terminated the oracle of Delphi after its 1000 years of existence in 391 A.D. Since then, Pythia, the prophetic priestess, no longer sits on her tripod to give answers to her consulting customers. Hence, it is obvious that the “European Cultural Centre of Delphi” offered a priori the ideal background for the scientific debate on sacred landscapes through the centuries. The tradition and culture of the oracle of Delphi provided an ideal setting for the topics of sacred landscapes in antiquity and offered extremely inspiring scenery as well. Furthermore, the infrastructure of the “European Cultural Centre of Delphi” offered the perfect framework for this conference with prestigious international scientists from Basel, Bristol, Buffalo, New York, Cambridge, Canterbury, Kiel, Madrid, Nottingham, Oxford and Pennsylvania.

IV

The Volume

The classification of contributions followed a thematic axis in an attempt to focus on Delphi. The volume begins with contributions which more generally address ritual landscapes in Europe (Schulz-Paulsson) and in Greece (Rackham, Thommen). It subsequently presents the contributions that directly analyze ancient Greek Gods, such as Dionysos (Cole) and especially Apollo. The contributions about Apollo and his cult at the sanctuary of Delphi constitute the central section of the volume and they are the most numerous (Boutsikas, McInerney, Hitch). However, all essays presented here contain apollonian connections. Distinctly separate from Delphi and Apollo, the next group focuses on some aspects of sacred landscapes in connection with authors, such as Homer, Euripides and Theokritos (Aguirre, Buxton) and Pindar (Käppel). The subsequent contributions concern local cults of specific regions, such as Eleia (Roy), islands of the Aegean Sea (Pothou) and Methana (Forbes). Chronologically, the final contribution has a contemporaneous axis, which refers to some case studies of archaeological museums in Greece today, including the museum at Delphi (Teichmann). In the initial contribution, Bettina Schulz-Paulsson discusses the megalithic ritual landscapes of France, the Iberian Peninsula and Mediterranean regions, which provide special rock monuments. The approximately 35,000 remaining megaliths represent a small part of the originally constructed monuments in Europe. Some case studies concern the ritual spaces of Corsica, Sardinia, the Pyrenees and Andalucía. In association with the megaliths on the archipelagos of

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Malta and the Orkney Islands in Scotland, the borders between ritual and social landscapes are blurred. The author poses the question about the significance of megalithic monuments in non-literate societies as symbols and lieu de mémoire. As places created by prehistoric societies to perform their rituals, they play an important role in the representation of collective memories of a group as “memory in stone”. According to Oliver Rackham, the concept of sacred landscape is elusive. Sacredness at the landscape scale – some landscapes being sacred but other landscapes not sacred – does not easily create an archaeological or ecological record. He reflects on the definition and features of a sanctified area with boundaries and customs, especially in classical Greece and modern Japan. Some of them contained significant towns, such as Athens, Olympia and Delphi; others, like Nemea and Dodona, were rural. There were landscapes of ritual and others in which gods, such as Dionysos, were landowners. Sacred landscapes are not static but can change naturally, economically and aesthetically. A well-known modern example is Mount Athos. Its sacred character (as well as the high rainfall) used drastically to distinguish the landscape of the Holy Mountain from the rest of Greece, but that distinction has now weakened through changes on the secular side of the boundary. The concept of sacred groves is discussed in Lukas Thommen’s contribution. He explores the sacred character of the groves and the question of their accessibility, which – through their public use – became the expression of the Greek polis. The Homeric groves and gardens seem to be directly connected with royal property as privileged places. Since the sixth century, aristocrats used the groves as public places of athletic education in the frame of polis institutions. The dialogues of Phaedrus and Critias embody the platonic admiration for the beauty of untouched groves as an expression of the imperfect ephemerality. During the Hellenistic era, the luxurious image of the cities was connected with the image of divine nature. Xenophon, as a representative of the ruling class, did not respect the principle of the publicity of the grove. Lukas Thommen concludes that the grove lost its public character in later times and became a symbol of aristocratic property. Susan Cole focuses on the mythical aspect of Dionysos as a great traveler, whose power extended over the world. This Greek divinity appears to differ from other divinities. He was not always considered as an immortal and his tomb at Delphi demonstrates his mortal character. The traditional Dionysian landscapes could be mountains, wooded lands, caves, and springs, but only in the theater was Dionysos completely at home. His influence was temporary and his permanent monuments were the theaters, whereas his veneration was associated with the caves, as a representation of the abyss on the route from the underworld. However, some of the Dionysian celebrations took place in urban centers or in

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the open air in connection with the idea of purity. Cole concludes that the association of Dionysos with caves was very popular from the archaic period until the late imperial period. The time for the consultation of the Delphic oracle was associated with the heliacal rising of the constellation of Delphinus, an association which works in most cases. This problem is confronted by Efrosyni Boutsikas through her investigation of the timing of ancient rituals outside Delphi, the association between the sanctuary of Apollo in Delos, in Dreros, and the timing of the major cult sites, and, finally, the timing of major festivals in Delos and Athens against the timing of the major phases of Delphinus. She focuses on the three most popular epithets of Apollo in Greece (Pythios, Delphinios and Delian), the custom of Pythaistai in Attica and Boeotia and the festivals of Delia and Daphnephoria in relation to Apollo’s cosmological features. She concludes that specific astronomical links with ancient Greek religious practice can be demonstrated in some cases. In his contribution, Jeremy McInerney studies Leto’s wanderings and Apollo’s journey through the metageography of the Aegean Sea as a platform of Aiolian, Dorian and Ionian places with Apollonian connections. He argues that Apollo’s journey from Delos – the centre of the Aegean sphere – to Delphi through Pieria, Boiotia, Euboia and Mycalessos has many surprises. In addition, the narration of this journey demonstrates the relations between rival divinities and their sanctuaries. He focuses on the importance of the Geometric temple of Apollo Daphnephoros and his Eretrian cult as evidence for the legend of the laurel. The sacred landscape of Delphi becomes a “memoryscape” as a central place connecting all passages of Apollo. He concludes that the element of centrality of Delphi and Delos probably reflects some political relations to the Amphiktyonic states. A god’s engagement with his sacrifices as a kind of substitution for natural abundance and food supply in the context of a barren landscape is the subject of Sarah Hitsch’s chapter. She deals with the description of Apollo’s birth on Delos, Apollo’s singing with the gods before the foundation of Delphi and the establishment of Cretan priests, as is described in the Homeric Hymn to Apollo. The hecatombs on the barren island of Delos will nourish the hungry inhabitants of the island as a link between mortals and immortals. There is no association between Apollo and his sacrifices, but rather an association between Delos and the sacrifices. Similarly, the initiation of Cretan priests in Delphi is associated with the threat of starvation and the abundance of local sacrifices, where Apollo acts as a generator of mortal life through sacrificial offerings. Mercedes Aguirre dedicates her contribution to the investigation of three female figures of the Odyssee in relation to the concept of the sacred landscape. Calypso’s paradisial garden in Ogygia has a divine character due to the sacrality

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of the goddess who inhabits it. However, her cave is only the place where she lives, which is not a cult place of veneration. The enchanted forest of Circe in Aiaia has a divine character also due to the sacrality of the goddess. Both landscapes are suitable for erotic inspiration in a physical way. The human marine landscape of Nausicaa in Scheria associates the Phaeacians with the divine. Aguirre concludes that the sacrality of these three female landscapes is the result of the divine features of their inhabitants. There, the hero Odysseus is in the sphere of the divine in an unusually intimate way of communication between humans and god. Richard Buxton studies the mythological narratives of three Cyclopean landscapes in the frame of a state of environmental passivity. He argues that the concept of spatial sacredness is a more complex phenomenon than is generally estimated. The first Cyclopean landscape concerns the encounter between Odysseus and the Cyclopes in the Odyssey, Book IX, which is not necessarily a sacred landscape. At Buxton’s second cyclopean landscape, the presence or absence of gods in the cave of Polyphemos on Mount Etna in Sicily is registered only occasionally. The third case of Cyclopean landscapes in the Idyll of Theokritos functions as the background of actions in which divinities are believed to be active. He concludes that all three narratives from different generic contexts do not reflect the sacred landscape, but the varying interrelationship between the sacred and the landscape. Lutz Käppel’s chapter takes up the aspect of magic music in Pindar’s 12th Pythian Ode, where the distribution of landscapes, for example the home city of the victor Midas, represents mythical associations. The whole poem has a complicated construction, which is associated with Athena and the Perseus-Myth as a paradigm for Midas’ victory. Athena’s music transforms the mythical combat into a piece of art. Käppel focuses, on the one hand, on the subject of instrumental aulos-music as an invention of Athena and, on the other hand, on “Nomos Polykephalos”, which was performed as an ancient nome at Delphi in honor of Apollo. He suggests that the material of the instrument connects the victor, the poet and the notion of χάρις, a key-concept in Pindar’s interpretation. Finally, Käppel argues a circular interdependence between gods, human success by the χάρις of the epinicion. The distribution of large cult centres across the Elean territory is the subject addressed by James Roy. He focuses on the Elean administration of the great cult centre of Olympia and on the case of the polis Elis. He considers the archaeological and literary evidence for several cult centres in the communities north and south of the Alpheios. According to Roy, the distribution of cult centres between Elis and the other communities of Eleia was divergent. Triphylian citystates had numerous cult centres, where the very noticeable location of sanctuaries could be interpreted as an expression of triphylian identity. The dis-

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tribution of cult centres in Elis is more complicated to explain. He concludes that major sanctuaries were probably rare within the Elean territory, because Elis and Olympia seem to dominate the communal religious life within this region. The emergence of an island contains in some cases a political message, as a reaction of nature against the political authority through the birth of a virginal landscape. This aspect is discussed in Vassiliki Pothou’s contribution. She explores the concept of floating islands as a reflection of the lost paradise and the idolization of an emerged landscape as a key condition of self-determination. In some cases, the topic of movable insularity is associated with the birth of unwanted children, as a place of refuge for unwelcome innovation. She argues that the emergence of an island can represent, in other cases, the principle of equal redistribution, the subject of the connectivity between an island and the continent or the outburst of a rebellion as a location of the supernatural. According to her conclusion, the symbolic value of newly emerged islands is the desire for independence. The following contribution deals with a Christian sacred landscape. Hamish Forbes explores the religious conceptualisation of the landscape on the small peninsula of Methana in the eastern Peloponnese throughout the 19th and 20th centuries in association with ordinary life. As a source of sacred power, most churches of Methanites were uncoupled from time. He argues that the sacred landscape of village churches is associated with the kinship landscape and the network of relatives. The location of churches depends on the relationship between the supernatural and varying specificities of the landscape. The location of churches and cemeteries on Methana is a very sophisticated phenomenon. Forbes explores the presence of isolated, extra-mural churches which influenced religious and everyday landscapes. In the final contribution of this volume, Michael Teichmann discusses the role of ancient culture for contemporary society by analyzing its presentation in archaeological museums. He discusses the problem of communication with the wider public in the context of European continental archaeology and the museological landscapes of Greece. He argues that in some cases the descriptions are so specific that only an educated visitor can understand them. Some aspects of exhibitions in Vienna, Thessaloniki and in subway stations in Athens are also considered. As to the museum of Delphi, he concludes that the exhibition concept and the presentation of objects are still maintained in an outdated way. He also discusses the topic of objects, which are detached from their original locations, and on the duties of modern archaeology to encourage critical reflections by society and to amuse people. A short remark concerning the transliteration of Greek words: Authors have been allowed to retain their own transliterations.

Bettina Schulz Paulsson

Memory in Stone: Ritual Landscapes and Concepts of Monumentality in Prehistoric Societies Graduate School “Human Development in Landscapes” Institute of Prehistoric and Protohistoric Archaeology Kiel University, Germany E-mail: [email protected]

Summary: Neolithic and Copper Age societies in Europe created large-scaled megalithic landscapes over centuries, most of them located within coastal regions. The approximately 35,000 remaining megaliths (from ancient Greek mέγας (mégas) “big” und λίϑος (líthos) “stone”), which include megalithic tombs, temples, standing stones, stone circles and stone alignments, represent just a small part of the originally constructed monuments in Europe. But what significance and function did these megaliths have for prehistoric, non-literate societies? What concepts of monumentality did they symbolize? On the one hand, these societies modeled their social space with stone monuments into ritual landscapes and, on the other hand, the megaliths were places for the reproduction of collective identity and memory in stone.

Sacred natural landscapes versus rituals covering social space Rocks, forms, landscapes The earliest megaliths in Europe were constructed in North and Northwest France, on the Iberian Peninsula and in Mediterranean regions from the middle of the 5th millennium BC onwards. These early megalithic regions are connected to intrusive, ingenious rocks such as granite. On the one hand, these landscapes provided available building material and, on the other hand, the geological regions were characterized by special rock formations. Thus, several of these locations, especially in the Mediterranean regions, are associated to rocks that bear a certain resemblance to humans, animals or altars and the link between the megaliths and the naturally formed sacred space is given. Among the many locations, some selected megalithic sites with significant rock formations demonstrate this relation. In Southwest Corsica on the Plain of Cauria, two alignments (rows of standing stones) and a megalithic grave are situated which were erected in the vicinity of

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several natural anthropomorphically formed rocks. The Middle Neolithic alignment of Renaghju stands beside one of these specially formed granite boulders (Fig. 1). Similar landscapes are observed in the Pyrenees, such as in the French Campoussy, where megalithic graves on a mountain plateau are surrounded by several anthropomorphically formed stones such as the Roc Cornut. The earliest known megalithic graves on Sardinia are found at the Li Muri necropolis near Arzachena in the northeast area of the island. In the small necropolis, a natural, altar-formed stone is incorporated and an anthropomorphic rock formation is situated immediately beside the graves. One of the most significant examples of megalithic construction and special rock formations is the Dolmen de Menga in Antequera in Southern Spain, which is directly oriented to the mountain of Peña de las Enamoradas or the Montaña del Indio. From this angle its shape can be better described. The mountain resembles a lying human figure (Fig. 2). Excavations on the northern slope of the mountain revealed several ritual areas which were contemporaneously in use with the megaliths.1 Natural ritual landscapes have been occupied in this manner, whereby animated rocks were involved in a newly-created megalithic landscape. Evidence of other prehistoric societies and their ritual space in connection to special, naturally formed rocks can be observed, for example, in connection with the Saami culture.2

Ritual and social space on the archipelagos of Malta and Orkney The Maltese archipelago in the Mediterranean and the Scottish Orkney Islands are the most southern, respectively the most northern megalithic regions in Europe. These two regions serve as examples for the occupation and the creation of ritual space in prehistoric societies. Both regions reflect the emergence and development of megaliths on islands under similar environmental conditions. For both regions, there is evidence of an open landscape during the Neolithic with stone as the only available building material nearby.3 From ~3400 BC onwards on the Maltese archipelago (80 km south of Sicily), the first aboveground monuments are represented by megalithic ritual structures or meeting places, in the research literature denoted as temples, whereas grave architecture lies underground in the form of subterranean hypogea or rock-cut tombs. Due to the good 1 Garcia Sanjuan (2009), 27. 2 Bradley (2000), 4 – 17. 3 Hunt (1997); Fennech (2001, 2007); Schulz Paulsson (2009); Schembri (1997); Schembri et al (2009).

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Fig. 1: The alignment of Renaghju in Southwest Corsica with anthropomorphically formed natural rocks.

Fig. 2: The anthropomorphic mountain Peña de las Enamoradas: view from the dolmens de Antequera.

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preservation of these sites and their spacial distribution – at 23 spots there are 36 clearly separate, clustered units – it is possible to gain an idea about ritual spaces and the macro-social development of the Neolithic societies on these islands (Fig. 3, 4). Indicators for the function of the megaliths can be observed in the architectonic features, the locations of the megaliths in the landscape and the orientations of the constructions. The architectural concept of the singular units is quite similar: they each consist of a forecourt, an entrance area, side stones, a corridor, an inner court and several apsidae or d-formed chambers. The quite ample forecourts are mostly paved; the entrances are built with two sides and a cover stone. From the entrances, each structure has a corridor leading to an open paved inner court with between three and six apsidae grouped around it. There are only few special forms in existence.4 The megalithic structures are not graves. Burials have not been recorded in any of them and there is no evidence of dislocated skeletal material. Nevertheless, from most of the buildings there is evidence for altar-like features – best observed in Tarxien by Valletta. Inside the altar, obsidian blades were deposited beside sheep and goat bones.5 Some of the temples have large pits and gullies in the bedrock to catch liquid on the floor, in others there are remains of fireplaces and plastered hearths. In Tarxien there are perforations in the stones affixed on the outer wall of the building as possible fixtures to fasten sacrificial animals.6 Door constructions, such as those in G˙gantija and Tarxien, suggest that the inner courts and rooms were at least partly closed and the rituals, which were performed there, were just meant for a small part of the society, while the large, paved front courts were accessible to the whole community. A use of the megalithic buildings as permanent residential places of the prehistoric societies can so far be excluded due to the limited size of most of the temples, the existence of alternative residential structures,7 and unsure hydrological situations.8 Therefore, these buildings can be understood as central communal places, perhaps multifunctional and partly inhabited, but with an emphasis on rituals. If we consider the spacial pattern of the temple units together with the graves and the settlements it is possible to define possible local societies on the Maltese Archipelago with a temple for each group. Colin Renfrew postulated six segments and spacial clusters: Gozo with G˙gantija, North West Malta with Skorba/Ta′ ¯H ¯¯ag˙rat, North East Malta with Bug˙ibba and Tal Quadi, South Malta with Mnajdra 4 5 6 7 8

Trump (2002), 73. Zammit 1(1930), 14 – 15. Bonnano (1999), 101. Trump (1966, 2002, 207); Malone et al. (1988); Malone et al. (2009), 7. Schembri (1996), 121 – 124; Fennech (2007), 23 – 25; Schulz Paulsson (2009, 2012).

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and ¯H ¯¯ag˙ar Qim, South East Malta with the structures at the coast, and East Malta with Tarxien and Kordin.9 Today it is possible to determine two more groups on Gozo: Gh ¯ ajsielem and Marz˙ena. On Malta, a number of structures are also discernible, such as the area around the Sankt-Pauls-Bay with a settlement, the rock-cut tombs from Xemxija and a quite destroyed temple, Kunciz˙z˙joni on the west coast and maybe the area around today’s airport with the two structures of Hal Resqun and Derdieba, even if Derdieba is a structure with a rectangular ground plan and perhaps represents a building with a different function.10 But the sophisticated and highly complex structures from Tarxien/Kordin, Mnajdra/ ¯H ¯¯ag˙ar Qim and G˙gantija are not comparable with the more simple structures at the sea, such as Tal Quadi, Bug˙ibba, Xrobb l-Gh ¯ agin, Tas Silg˙ and Borg in-Nadur. Another approach to determine the function of these megalithic buildings more precisely is to contemplate the orientation of the temples, their associated settlements in the landscape and their enlargements.11 The majority of megalithic temples were built on the coasts, exceptions are structures like G˙gantija on Gozo and Skorba on Malta, which were built on the interior of the islands and are situated on hillsides. At both places, evidence for settlements is available, even from pre-megalithic times, and the choice of the locations in these cases points more to continuity in the reuse of earlier settlement sites. During the early temple phase (G˙gantija-horizon ~3400 – 3020 BC), the temples are comparable in size and composition, but both G˙gantija temples and both temples from Kordin III were already outstanding and had a more central significance. This tendency is intensified in the later temple phase (Tarxien horizon ~3020 – 2380 BC) with successive enlargements at Tarxien/Kordin and Mnajdra/H ¯¯¯ag˙ar Qim. Many of these more elaborate temples have an orientation facing inland to the society, whereas most of the more simple stations on the coast are oriented towards the sea. The latter megalithic constructions had, in addition to their ritual use, a possible second or maybe even a primary function as watch towers and sea stations to control maritime activity, including trade, and to represent the Maltese Neolithic societies to the outside world. In the most northern megalithic region on the Scottish Orkney Islands, one must consider, upon closer examination, a similar concept for the creation of ritual space. Megaliths emerged on these islands from around 3500 BC onwards with the grave structures of the Orkney-Cromarty-type such as Isbister and Unstan. These graves are associated with Unstan ware and settlements like the Knap of Howar. With the occurrence of Grooved Ware around 3300 BC, the

9 Renfrew (1973), 161 – 182. 10 Schulz Paulsson (2009), 119 – 120. 11 Ibid., 116 – 117, (2012).

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associated graves of the Quanterness-Quoyness-types and new settlement forms, like Barnhouse, Rinyo Pool, Skara Brae 1 and Ness of Brodgar, can be observed.12 During this second phase or even later, the construction of two colossal stone circles and a centralization tendency on the Mainland Orkney around the Loch of Steness is associated with the Stones of Steness and the Ring of Brodgar (Fig. 5, 6). The two stone circles were erected within a visible distance. The Ring of Brodgar is the largest stone circle in Europe today, measuring nearly 100 m in diameter. The construction of these places represents an immense common effort of the prehistoric communities on the Orkney Islands. Colin Renfrew calculated the labour effort for the Stones of Steness to range between 40000 and 80000 working hours.13 We cannot yet verify the closer function of these stone circles. Such circles are especially common in Scotland and England, but also in Brittany or on Corsica, whereas the function of the same architectonic principle of standing stones arranged in a circle might vary considerably in the different regions. Nevertheless, in a wider sense, we can understand them as central meeting places where the prehistoric societies met to perform their rituals. On a superficial level, this might suggest that in comparison to Malta, on Orkney another concept for the organization of ritual space is to be considered with the erection of central stone circles on the islands for several megalithic societies in a later phase. But we have to take into consideration that the graves were representing the communal places for the local groups on these islands in earlier stages. These places were subsequently superseded by a central ritual space and more open monuments for a larger number of people whom they could accommodate.

On the significance of monuments After observing the occupation of sacred and ritual spaces from prehistoric societies, the question must be posed on the importance of these monuments in non-literate societies in comparison to ancient cultures in literate societies with scripture. The emergence of megaliths in Europe shows a complex endeavor and it is only possible to illuminate certain aspects here. Beside their primary function as graves, meeting places, astronomical centers and territorial markers, these monuments played an important role for the existence of a culture of memory – and so for the ritual culture of non-literate societies. The research of oral and time history influencing communicative memory and the memory of societies beyond the floating gap demonstrated in interviews that it is not possible, without the 12 Renfrew (2000), 13; Ashmore (2000); Richards (2005); Noble (2006), 173 – 180, 199 – 202. 13 Renfrew (2000), 9.

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Fig. 3: Megalithic temples, contemporaneous graves, settlements and possible local groups on the Maltese Archipelago. Satellite photo source: NASA.

help of written sources, to exceed a time horizon of remembrance beyond 80 to 100 years.14 Our memory is based on rituals and symbols; we have a semantic and an episodic memory. The semantic memory is a didactic memory based on 14 Erll (2005), 50 – 55; Niethhammer (1995).

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Fig. 4: Sites on Malta mentioned in the text.

Fig. 5: Mnajdra South, Southeast Malta.

Bettina Schulz Paulsson

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Fig. 6: Stone circles, megalithic graves and settlements on the Orkney Islands. Satellite photo source: NASA.

propositional representations; the episodic memory is an experience-based memory connected closely to iconic representations.15 Therefore, without the help of rituals and symbols it is not possible for a society to transcend a time horizon of remembrance of more than three generations. Without scripture or some kind of scripture, memories and knowledge, which create the identity and tradition of a group, have no other storage space than in 15 Whitehouse (2000); Atran (2002), 150.

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Fig. 7: Stones of Stenness and Ring of Brodgar on the Mainland Orkney.

the minds of members of society. The significant information has to be retained in the memories of community members and it has to be periodically retrieved or expressed. For remembrance processes, it is helpful to recite information in rhythm or poetical form, as in a ritual production by acting or singing. Jan Assmann postulates that time in non-literate societies is divided into everyday lifetime and feasting time. Places had to be created to adapt and possibly store the collective and the cultural memory for the community. In non-literate societies it is only possible through participation to take part in the cultural memory…For this purpose, gatherings must be created: the feasts. Feasts and rites in their regular repetition transfer knowledge which is important for a society to shape and reproduce its identity.16

The Navaho Indians are an impressive example for the implementation of the semantic memory with their blessing and healing rituals and how rituals help members to recall and trade the collective memory retained in myths and knowledge.17 These rites are performed by singers and are known as chant-ways such as The Blessing Way and The Night Chant. The Navahos’ rituals were extremely complex and therefore very difficult for novices to learn and to memorize flawlessly. Some of the most elaborate chants and dances took a full nine 16 Assmann (2000), 55. 17 Kluckhorn and Leighton (1962), 102, 119, 203, 212 – 213, 225.

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days to perform. During these nine days throughout the night, different acts were performed in an orderly and regular manner and the participants just took short rests. The rituals had to be learned properly and then precisely performed in front of the community to achieve the desired effect.18 Just one incorrect passage endangered the healing or the blessing. If the supernaturals judged that a chant way was performed correctly, they would reciprocate by curing a patient. Compared to rituals with rhythm and sequential moving, which serve our semantic memory, important and drastic episodes in life, for example initiation rites, require nearly no narrative embedding in order to be anchored in the longterm memory. They are encoded as so-called flashbulb memories.19 The psychologists Brown and Kulik20 pioneered the flashbulb memory concept. They assumed that such memories are triggered by a biologically evolved “Now Print” mechanism, adapted for remembering surprising, highly consequential events, since they are represented, for example, by initiation rites which are often connected to physical pain and are sensorially invasive. The (often wasteful) production of these types of rituals is likewise a communal undertaking and attending them creates the social identity of a group. The megaliths were the places that prehistoric societies created to perform these rituals. Symbols are the basis for the episodic memory. Megaliths are symbols, symbols from non-literate societies for collectives, like a community or a family, for individuals or even for actions. The interaction between symbols and memory ranges from the famous button in the handkerchief to the national monument. Lieu de mémoire and a system of memory places are represented, in addition to rituals feasts and traditions, by monuments which enable an individual, who is living in a society, to make the same interpretations of a symbol as the other members of this system and thus to be a part of the collective and the collective memory21, or better said, the collected memories of a group. For Aby Warburg, the founder of iconography, memory is a cultural institution, visible in signs, symbols, pictures, texts and rites.22 This is how we can understand the significance of these monuments. On the one hand, they can be interpreted as places to reproduce the collected memories and the identity of a group through rituals and, on the other hand, as memory in stone. In ancient and antique cultures, the principle of monumentality had another significance. With writing, a take off for the deepness of time and an extension of

18 19 20 21 22

Iverson (1990), 32; Dutton (1976), 28 ff. Whitehouse (1995, 2000); Atran (2002), 161. Brown and Kulik (1977). Halbwachs (1941, 1950); Assmann (2000), 20. Warburg (2000).

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the cultural memory occurred.23 It was possible to reach far beyond the horizon of communicative memory and monuments no longer held the same significance for memory culture. In antique cultures, monumentality was used more as a manifestation to demonstrate greatness and power. Rituals were used in the same way, for example, in Ancient Greece. Official rituals reflected the ruling balance of power.24 The monument’s builders placed emphasis on the public memoria, and through this they could exist in the memory of posterity. Thus, the architectural heritage of ancient cultures, for instance urban monumental architecture with triumph arcs, pillars, temples and grave monuments, thus represent cultural memory and collective legacy.

Fig. 8: Persistence in the occupation of a natural ritual space: Delphi and the Apollo temple. There are indications for prehistoric activities on the site.

Conclusion For pre-historic societies, we could determine two different concepts for the occupation or the creation of ritual space. 1. Natural features in the sense of a natural sacred landscape are a requirement for the choice of location and, 2. the ritual space covers the social space in a far reaching manner. There are examples

23 Assmann (2000), 37 – 45. 24 Chaniotis (2005a, 2005b).

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of these concepts, especially for the megalith builders in the Mediterranean region on Corsica, Sardinia, in the Pyrenees and Andalucia. They created megalithic landscapes in natural ritual landscapes with animated stones. With the two megalithic island regions in the Central Mediterranean and in Scotland, the Maltese Archipelago and the Orkney Islands, we could demonstrate the emergence and development of megaliths and megalithic societies during the second half of the 4th millennium BC and the occupation of ritual and social landscapes. But are these regions sacred landscapes? To sum up, in both examples no clear borders are detectable between ritual and social space. The ritual space encompasses and is in the center of the social space. In both regions, there is evidence for the centralization of the ritual space in later periods and these central tendencies are likewise an indication for the use of ritual space to reorganize the societies and the social space. But what significance did megaliths have for European pre-historic societies which created large-scaled megalithic landscapes with thousands of monuments? Compared to cultures with scripture, megaliths and monuments had an important significance for the sphere of rituals and for the memory culture of non-literate societies. On the one hand, they serve as places to reproduce the collected memories and identity of a group through rituals and, on the other hand, they function as memory in stone. Acknowledgments: I would like to thank Prof. Dr. Lutz Käppel and Dr. Βασιλική Πόθου for the invitation to Delphi!

Bibliography Assmann, Jan (2000): Religion und kulturelles Gedächtnis, München, 2000. Ashmore, Patrick (2000): “Dating the Neolithic in Orkney”, in: Ritchie, Anne (ed.): Neolithic Orkney in its European context, Cambridge, 2000, 299 – 307. Atran, Scott (2002): In Gods we trust. The evolutionary Landscape of Religion, Oxford, 2002. Bonnano, Anthony (1999): “The rise and fall of megalitism in Malta”, in: Beinhauer, Karl W. (ed.), Studien zur Megalithik. Forschungsstand und ethnoarchäologische Perspektiven, Beitr. Ur- u. Frühgesch. Mitteleuropas, 21,Weissbach 1999, 99 – 112. Bradley, Richard (2000): An Archaeology of Natural Places, London, 2000. Brown, Roger& Kullik, James (1977): “Flashbulb memories”, Cognition 5, 73 – 99. Chaniotis, Angelos (2005a): “Griechische Rituale der Statusänderung und ihre Dynamik”, In: Steinicke, Marion, Weinfurter, Stefan (eds.): Investitur- und Krönungsrituale: Herrschaftseinsetzungen im kulturellen Vergleich, Böhlau, Köln/Weimar/Wien, 2005, 1 – 19. Chaniotis, Angelos (2005b): “Akzeptanz von Herrschaft durch ritualisierte Dankbarkeit und Erinnerung”, in: Ambos, Claus, Hotz, Stephan, Schwedler, Gerald & Ste-

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fanWeinfurter Stefan (eds.): Die Welt der Rituale. Von der Antike bis heute, Darmstadt, 2005, 188 – 204. Dutton, Bertha P. (1976): Navahos and Apaches: the Athabascan peoples, Englewood Cliffs, (NJ) 1976. Erll, Astrid (2005): Kollektives Gedächtnis und Erinnerungskulturen. Stuttgart/Weimar, 2005. Fenech, Kathrin (2001): Environmental Change and Human Activity at Tas-Silg (Malta) from the Bronze Age to the Punic Period,Valletta: unpubl. Undergrade diss. 2001. Fenech, Kathrin (2007): Human-Induced Changes in the Environment and Landscape of the Maltese Island from the Neolithic to the 15th Century AD, British Archaeological Reports S 1682, Oxford, 2007. Foderò Serio, Giorgia., Hoskin, Michael, Ventura, Frank (1992): “The orientations of the temples of Malta”, Journal of the History of Astronomy 23, 107 – 119. GarcÍa Sanjuán, Leonardo (2009): “Introduccion a los Sitios y Paisajes Megaliticos de Andalucia” In: GarcÍa Sanjuán, Leonardo &Ruiz Gonzales, Bartolomé (eds.): La grandes piedras de las Prehistoria. Sitios y paisajes megalíticos de Andalucia, Antequera, 2009, 12 – 32. Halbwachs, Maurice (1941): La topographie legendaire des évangiles en Terre Sainte, Paris, 1941. Halbwachs, Maurice (1950): La mémoire collective, Paris, 1950. Hunt, Chris O. (1997): “Quaternary deposits in the Maltese Islands: a microcosm of environmental change in Mediterranean lands”, Geojournal 41, 2, 101 – 109. Iverson, Peter (1990): The Navajos, Arizona 1990. Kluckhorn, Clyde & Leighton, Dorothea (1962): The Navaho. Garden City, New York, 1962. Malone, Carolin, Stoddart, Simon & David Trump (1988): “A house for the temple builders: recent investigations on Gozo, Malta”, Antiquity 62, 297 – 301. Malone, Carolin, Stoddart, Simon, Bonanno, Antony, Gouder, Tancred, Grima, Reuben & David Trump (2009): “Introduction: the intellectual and historical context”, in: Malone, Carolin; Stoddart, Simon; Bonnano, Antony & Trump, David (eds.) 2009. Mortuary ritual in prehistoric Malta. The Brochtorff Circle excavations (1987 – 1994), Oxford, 2009, 1 – 16. Niethhammer, Lutz (1995): “Diesseits des ‘Floating gap’. Das kollektive Gedächtnis und die Konstruktion von Identität im wissenschaftlichen Diskurs”, in: Platt, Mihran & Dabag, Kristin (eds.): Generation und Gedächtnis. Erinnerungen und kollektive Identitäten Opladen, 1995, 25 – 50. Noble, Gordon (2006): Neolithic Scotland. Timber, stone, earth and fire, Edingburgh, 2006. Renfrew, Colin (1973): Before Civilisation. The radiocarbon revolution and prehistoric Europe, London, 1973. Renfrew, Colin (1979): Investigations in Orkney, London, 1979. Renfrew, Colin (2000): “The Old House speaks: Society and Life in Stone Age Orkney”, in: Ritchie, Anne (ed.): Neolithic Orkney in its European context, Cambridge 2000, 1 – 20. Richards, Colin (ed.) (2005): Dwelling among the monuments. The Neolithic village of Barnhouse, Maeshowe passage grave and surrounding monuments at Stenness, Orkney, Oxford, 2005. Schembri, Patrick J (1997): “The Maltese Islands: climate, vegetation and landscape”, GeoJournal 41, 2, 115 – 127.

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Schembri, Patrick J; Hunt, Chris; Pedley, Martyn; Malone, Carolin & Simon Stoddart (2009): “The environment of the Maltese Islands”, in: Malone, Carolin; Stoddart, Simon; Bonnano, Antony& Trump, David (eds.) 2009. Mortuary ritual in prehistoric Malta. The Brochtorff Circle excavations (1987 – 1994), Oxford, 2009, 1 – 16. Schulz Paulsson, Bettina (2009): “Monumentalbauten auf Malta: eine vermutlich autarke mediterrane Entwicklung im strukturellen Vergleich”, in: Claßen, Erich, Doppler Thomas& Britta Ramminger (2009) Monumente im Raum. Beiträge der Sitzung der Arbeitsgemeinschaft Neolithikum während der Jahrestagung des Nordwestdeutschen Verbandes für Altertumsforschung e. V. in Schleswig, 9. – 10. Okt, 56: Varia neolithica VI, Langenweißbach, 2009. Schulz Paulsson, Bettina (2014): “Islands in the sun: the emergence and development of megaliths within the insular societies of Corsica, Sardinia and Malta” In: Schulz Paulsson, Bettina, Gaydarska, Bisserka (eds.) Neolithic Monuments: Functions, Mentalité and the social Construction of the Landscape, British Archaeological Reports, 2625, Oxford, 2014, 39 – 61. Trump, David (1966): Skorba, Oxford, 1966. Trump, David (2002): Malta, prehistory and temples, Valletta, 2002. Warburg, Ari (2000): Der Bilderatlas Mnemosyne, (ed.) by Martin Warnke under the collaboration of Claudia Brink, Berlin, 2000. Whitehouse, Harvey (1995): Inside the cult: Religious innovation and transmission in Papua New Guinea, Oxford, 1995. Whitehouse, Harvey (2000): Arguments and icons, Oxford, 2000. Zammit, Themistocles (1930): Prehistoric Malta, the Tarxien temples, Oxford, 1930.

Oliver Rackham

Greek Landscapes: Profane and Sacred Corpus Christi College, Cambridge

‘Landscape’ in English is a dangerous word, which does not translate well into other languages. I shall go back to the Oxford English Dictionary and use the word in its normal English sense: A tract of land with its distinguishing characteristics and features. It is not to be confused with its cousin words, Dutch landschap and German Landschaft. Nor is it to be confused with land-use: a field can grow barley one year, potatoes the next, and be pasture the third year, without altering the landscape. Landscape is a tract of land, not a site, nor a point feature such as a building or a tree, nor a linear feature such as a canal. An ordinary garden is too small to count as landscape; a province is too big. In vague terms, landscape can vary from something like 0.1 sq.km up to 100 sq.km. I treat landscape as an objective reality, amenable to scientific and archaeological inquiry; something that exists independently of what people think or say about it. The landscape of the planet Mars is an active field of study. I do not disagree with the study of people’s attitudes to landscape, but it would be better if that study were preceded by knowledge of what it was that people were attitudinizing about. A cultural landscape is a landscape that results from the interactions of three factors: the environment (climate, geology, etc.); plants and animals; and human activities (including neglect and unintentional as well as deliberate actions). These interactions typically continue for thousands of years and include the effects of a sequence of different human cultures. In what follows I am greatly indebted to Dr Jennifer Moody, with whom I have studied the landscapes of Greece for 30 years.

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What makes a sacred landscape? The ancient Hebrews had a concept of a sacred landscape in their vision of Mount Sinai of long ago. Whether or not it was actually realized, there is the idea of a sanctified area with boundaries and customs setting it apart from the profane world: And thou shalt set bounds unto the people round about, saying, Take heed to yourselves, [that ye go not] up into the mount, or touch the border of it: whosoever toucheth the mount shall be put to death: there shall not an hand touch it, but he shall surely be stoned, or shot through: whether it be beast or man, it shall not live. Exodus 19:12 f

What is often thought of as a typical sacred landscape is Salisbury Plain, England, with its great concentration of Neolithic and Bronze Age monuments, many of which are interpreted as ritual structures; it is easy to assume that they had some kind of relation to one another. But between those monuments, as Dr Moody points out, the land was presumably grazed or even cultivated, otherwise it would have turned into forest and the monuments would have become invisible. Who knows whether it was thought of at the time as a sacred territory different from the rest of England? To move to a period for which there is written evidence: Norfolk, England, has one of the biggest concentrations of medieval churches in the world – some 800 (including ruins) or about one to 6.6 square km. A future archaeologist, knowing only that, might infer that Norfolk was a sacred county. This would be wrong: the large amount of documentation gives no trace of evidence that this was so. Each church had its sacred churchyard, and sometimes there might be two or even three churches in the same churchyard, but the churchyards did not join up. Norfolk had an exceptional density of sacred sites, but was no more a sacred landscape than anywhere else. Crete has an even higher density of (much smaller) churches than Norfolk, founded over a period of more than a thousand years and for a variety of reasons, some in or around settlements and others scattered over the countryside. Lucia Nixon (2006) interprets these as imparting some kind of sacredness to the landscapes around or between them: to the areas from which they can be seen, to springs, patches of farmland, and other useful features, to the parishes on whose boundaries some of them are located, and especially to settlements. Modern Jerusalem is the holiest city on earth; but there are plenty of Muslim, Christian, and Jewish shopkeepers carrying on ordinary secular trades like anywhere else. Even Jerusalem does not stop being worldly just because it is sacred.

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Landscapes of Ancient Greece What did the landscapes of Ancient Greece look like? Or, as I prefer to put it, how did Ancient Greece differ from Greece 100 years ago, before the main impact of mechanization? Greece, like the rest of the world, consists of cultural landscapes resulting from the interactions of people, domestic animals and plants, wildlife, and the environment. This includes land cultivated with crops, and the roughlands where people have been grazing animals, cutting wood, and burning. (By ‘burning’ I mean altering the natural frequency of fire in flammable vegetation). Greece in Homer’s time already consisted of cultural landscapes, created and adapted by Neolithic and Bronze and Iron Age cultures. Classical Greece was not very different from nineteenth-century Greece. The major changes from pre-Neolithic Greece had already happened. I have written about this elsewhere (Rackham 1990, 1996) and here summarize the main differences. 1. Changes in relative levels of land and sea. Greece is a tectonically active country and earth movements still go on. 2. Alluviation: another consequence of movement of the earth’s crustal plates. Most of Greece is being rapidly pushed up, and erosion roughly keeps up with the uplift. Material is washed off the mountains and deposited in plains, basins, and river deltas where it creates much of the cultivable land. Part of the alluviation comes from badlands, landscapes of gullies in poorly coherent rocks. Badlands are abundant in the north Peloponnese and the Píndos Mountains, but almost absent from Crete (though they occur on the islet of Gávdhos). Alluviation is discontinuous (Fig.1). Every few centuries the environment intervenes: a new load of material comes down and buries the previous cultural landscape. This is not the effect of a thousand years of ordinary rainfall, but of the greatest single rain in a thousand years – enough rainfall to overwhelm the natural stabilizers of landscape such as vegetation. 3. Loss of fens and marshes: most of these were destroyed in modern times, partly to extend the cultivated area, partly in the belief that draining marshes would get rid of malaria. The above three processes – land-and-sea-level changes, alluviation, and destruction of wetlands – famously combined to render the site of the Battle of Thermopylæ unrecognizable in the present landscape (Kraft et al.1987). 4. Terracing and cultivation of hillsides. Terraces certainly existed from the Bronze Age onward, but their extent in Antiquity is still unknown within wide limits. Ancient olives and other trees growing on terrace walls demonstrate that there were some terraces in Roman times (Fig.2). The Ítanos Archaeo-

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logical Survey, in north-east Crete, is producing new evidence about ancient terraces (Fig.3). 5. Changes in roughlands. Tree-land in Greece exists in three forms: forest of continuous trees; savanna of scattered trees among other vegetation; maquis of trees such as prickly oak (Quercus coccifera) reduced to the status of shrubs. One can easily turn into the other as individual trees respond to changes in grazing, burning, and woodcutting. In the twentieth century forest has advanced more often than it has retreated (Fig.4); how many advances and retreats there have been in previous centuries is unknown. Forest and savanna often show signs of former woodcutting in the form of coppice stools (multistemmed trees in forest) and pollards (trees, usually in savanna, cut at 3–4 m above ground to protect their regrowth from browsing animals).

Fig. 1. Deluge of 24 September 1986 at Pakhyá Ammos (Παχειά Άμμος), east Crete: this was not quite big enough to be a landscape-changing event.

Dr Moody reminds me not to assume that because landscapes in Ancient Greece were broadly similar to nineteenth-century Greece they were unchanging in the intervening millennia. Greece has had many demographic, economic, and cultural changes in the interval, but also (and especially) changes of climate. As the twentieth century has demonstrated, Mediterranean wild vegetation is fluid and resilient. Abandoned cultivated land often turns into pasture and develops into maquis. Abandoned grazing can turn maquis and savanna into forest – at least for a time, until drought or fire limit the growth of trees (Fig.5).

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Fig. 2. Olive tree thought to be c.2000 years old, on older terrace wall. Loutró, SW Crete, July 2006.

Fig. 3. Ancient terraces in the area of the Itanos Survey, extreme NE corner of Crete. May 2007.

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Fig. 4. All the tree species of Crete increased in the 20th century. Here cypress (Cupressus sempervirens), which originally was confined to cliffs at the top, has expanded on to former farmland. Note remains of cultivation terraces and the pointed-topped young cypresses. Zoúrva, Kydhonía, July 1992.

Fig. 5. Recent forests are often of pine, most fire-promoting of trees. Soúyia, Crete, July 1988.

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Fig. 6. Mount Athos, with Simonópetra monastery. May 2003.

Some sacred landscapes Christianity in its doctrines knows nothing of a distinction between sacred and profane territories. In practice it has sacred landscapes such as the Casentino in the Appenine mountains (Italy), venerated for centuries through its associations with St Romuald, founder of the Camaldoline Order of monks, and St Francis, who initiated a tradition of respect for ‘natural’ landscapes and the animals and plants that inhabited them (Pungetti et al. 2012). Modern Greece has one of the world’s best examples of a sacred landscape. Mount Athos belongs to the Virgin Mary (Rackham 2002a, 2004). For over 1000 years it has been inhabited only by monks; before then, as far as is known, it was a sparsely populated but otherwise ordinary secular landscape. (Or rather a collection of landscapes: Athos is a peninsula, 40 km by 8, rising to a peak of 2000 m (Fig.6); it is too large and complex to be a single landscape.)1 Athos is one of the wettest parts of Greece. Its only marginally Mediterranean climate, with high rainfall and a short dry season, encourages continuous forest. Much of the forest consists of evergreen trees, evergreen woody climbers, and

1 I am grateful to Dr Philip Oswald for introducing me to the Holy Mountain.

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Fig. 7. Frontier of the Holy Mountain. Where is the boundary between sacred (right) and secular? A century ago it was obvious. June 2002.

evergreen shrubs; it reminds the traveller of the vegetation of Miocene times, 5 million years ago, when the Mediterranean had a wet tropical climate. The sacred character of Mount Athos makes a difference to the landscape. Travellers used to remark on the difference between Athos and the rest of Greece: the forests were confined to the sacred territory and stopped at the boundary wall. This was explained in terms of the lack of browsing animals. For a thousand years, in theory, no female of any species larger than a cat has set foot on the Holy Mountain, and in consequence it has been spared the multitudes of sheep and goats that have ‘devastated’ the rest of Greece. Since 1950 the difference has grown much less, owing to diminished agriculture and pasturage and increasing forest on the secular side of the boundary (Fig.7). Athos itself has changed. The monks probably always kept fewer animals than secular communities, but they did cultivate land, they had bulls to draw the plough, and they kept thousands of mules – presumably he-mules. At some earlier period the monks seem to have caused their mountain forests to be more strongly dominated by chestnut. Chestnut wood is now one of their main sources of income. The non-chestnut part of the forests today bears strong evidence of a history of both woodcutting and pasturage (Fig.8). A sign of diminished pasturage are the ancient pollarded oaks, originally scattered savanna trees, now embedded in the forest that has grown up around them.

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Fig. 8. Ancient oaks, formerly free-standing savanna trees, now embedded in forest, a symptom of reduced pasturage. Kerasiá, Mount Athos, May 2001.

Fig. 9. The great Buddhist temple Kuramayama outside Kyoto, whose landscape occupies a whole mountain with imposing forests of huge evergreen trees, some of which are the homes of Shinto gods. October 1998.

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Sacred landscapes are thus not necessarily static remnants of wildwood. They are subject to natural changes, to changes of economics and of fashion. These changes may be different from those outside the wall, but they follow a similar pattern, often of long periods of stability punctuated by short periods of rapid change. Japan has many well-defined sacred landscapes. For 1500 years there have been two established religions, Buddhism and Shinto. Shinto theology venerates a multitude of minor gods, more like Ancient Rome than Classical Greece. There are thousands of Shinto shrines, many of them being just a miniature building and a few trees, but some are big enough to count as landscapes. The whole island of Miyajima, 30 sq.km, is in effect a great shrine, inhabited by sacred deer and sacred monkeys; indeed the island itself is a god. Buddhism, despite its very different theology, has temples which in appearance are very like shrines and are of a similar range of sizes (Fig.9). (Any big shrine will contain a small Buddhist temple, and vice versa.) Big temples and big shrines are areas of forest, but they are not unaltered fragments of primæval wildwood. Many have got naturally more shady through increase of trees, partly natural and partly through the nineteenth-century fashion for planting trees such as sugi (the conifer Cryptomeria japonica) (Fig.10). Like Athos, they have a different trajectory from secular landscapes, but it is a trajectory and not necessarily static. Besides being sacred sites and landscapes in themselves, Japanese temples and shrines can also be corporate owners of land. I was once shown a forest belonging to the great shrine of Togakushi. Its structure, with a scatter of great pollard trees now embedded among younger trees (Fig.11), indicates that it was once a savanna, grassland with scattered trees, probably grazing land.2

Sacred landscapes of Ancient Greece The ancients had sacred sites, often surrounded by gardens. Some sacred groves were natural woods – or were they modified by sacred usages, like those of Japan? Others could be artificial plantations, like the cypresses (an exotic tree on the Greek mainland) of Nemea. But did sacred sites extend to a landscape scale? Did Classical or Hellenistic Greeks recognize some landscapes as sacred in the sense that other landscapes were not sacred? (They were familiar with perambulations, documents (sometimes set in stone) defining the boundaries of tracts of land 2 I am indebted to many Japanese colleagues, notably Professors Jun-ichi Ogura, Katsue Fukamachi, and Hirokazu Oku.

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Fig. 10. A Shinto sacred grove in Japan. It has got denser in the last century: the big old spreading evergreen shii and tabu trees have been infilled by close-set younger trees. Jugaijinja, Arakawa, October 2004.

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Fig. 11. Pollard oak (Quercus mongolica) embedded in recent wood. Togakushi Shrine, Japan, November 1998.

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Fig. 12. Ancient plane-tree at Arákhova (Karyes), Mount Párnon, where Pausanias had a shrine of Artemis and the Nymphs. July 1985.

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(Rackham & Moody 1996).) Could one tell at the time by looking at them whether particular parts of Ancient Greece were sacred or not at the landscape scale? Greek gods could be landowners. Dionysos owned land in his Greek colony of Heraklea, among the badlands of south Italy, and rented it out to tenants, as recorded in the Tabula Heraclea. The terms of the lease required the tenants to build houses and barns and to plant vineyards and olive-trees. There was extensive woodland; the tenants were ‘not to sell nor cut nor burn the wood in the oakeries … except wood for domestic purposes in building and [as stakes] in vineyards … or for use in their houses …’ There seems to be nothing sacred about these terms: they are similar to the conditions that any mortal landlord might impose (Grove & Rackham 2001:172 f). Were there sacred landscapes in the strict sense, in terms of function rather than ownership? Ancient writers (or, rather, those ancient writers whose works survive) seldom show more than a passing interest in landscape; the sole exception is Hermas, the early Christian divine, with his vision of the varied landscapes of the different mountains of Arkadia.3 Pausanias, in the second century AD, is the main literary source, but he was not much interested in landscape. He was fascinated by sites and buildings and works of art, but not by their context: he describes the art and architecture of Delphi in great detail, but takes no notice of its extraordinary landscape. He does, however, let slip a mention of two sacred woods. One was a planewood called Pontinos at Lerna near Argos, between two rivers. Not much of it remains, possibly because there has been a change in the groundwater on which plane-trees depend.4 The other is a ‘place full of oaks’ in the north of Lakonia, which Pausanias says had a name, Skotitas. It was sacred to Zeus Skotitas who had a sanctuary there; there was also a shrine of Herakles. Nearby was Karyai, a place sacred to Artemis and the Nymphs.5 The oakwood is still there, although Pausanias’s words suggest that it was then an oak savanna. As far as I know is the oldest identifiable wood surviving in Europe, and the only surviving wood to have its own god. The place-name Karyai was transmuted into Arakhova, Slavonic for Karyai, Walnuts. There is still a shrine there, with a gigantic pollard plane-tree (Fig.12); Artemis and the Nymphs have been replaced by St George (Rackham 2002b). How would a sacred landscape be identified archaeologically? Big concentrations of sacred sites tended to be urban, like Athens. Delphi and Olympia were both urban, but set in areas with many outlying sites. Delos was a sacred island like Miyajima (but much smaller); but on Google Earth I find that even arid Delos 3 Shepherd of Hermas 78:4 – 10; for translation see Grove & Rackham (2001:167). 4 Pausanias II.xxxvi.8. 5 Pausanias III.x.6.

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has considerable remains of cultivation, and wonder whether such existed in ancient times. Nemea and Dodona – neither is in Pausanias – were big sacred sites without significant associated towns, although there must have been some means of housing and feeding thousands of pilgrims and feeding and housing whatever had conveyed the pilgrims. Is there any suggestion that their surroundings constituted a sacred landscape, a tract of land in which sacred characteristics and features can be recognized either from literary or archaeological evidence? The concept of sacred landscape is elusive. Even where there is written or oral evidence, it can mean several different things. Defining sacredness at the landscape scale is a task almost beyond the present scope of archaeology.

Bibliography Grove A. T & Rackham O. (2001): The Nature of Southern Europe: an ecological history, Yale University Press. Kraft J. C, Rapp G. Jr., Szemler G. J., Tziavos Chr., Kase Ed. W. (1987): “The pass at Thermopylae, Greece” Journal of Field Archaeology 14 (2), 181 – 198. Nixon L. (2006): Making a Landscape Sacred: outlying churches and icon stands in Sphakia, southwestern Crete, Oxbow, Oxford. Pungetti G., Hughes P., Rackham O. (2012): “Ecological and spiritual values of landscape: a reciprocal heritage and custody” in Sacred Species and Sites: advances in biocultural conservation ed. G. Pungetti, G. Oviedo, D. Hooke, Cambridge University Press, 65 – 82. Rackham O. (1990): “Ancient landscapes” in The Greek City from Homer to Alexander ed O. Murray & S. Price, Clarendon, Oxford 85 – 111. Rackham O. (1996): “Ecology and pseudo-ecology: the example of ancient Greece” in Human Landscapes in Classical Antiquity ed G. Shipley & J. Salmon, Routledge, London, 16 – 43. Rackham O. (2002a): “The Holy Mountain” [Athos] Plant Talk 27 19 – 23. Rackham O. (2002b): “Observations on the historical ecology of Laconia”, Continuity and Change in a Greek Rural Landscape: the Laconia survey ed W. Cavanagh and others, British School at Athens. Rackham O. (2004): “Our Lady’s garden: the historical ecology of the Holy Mountain” Annual Report of the Friends of Mount Athos (2004) 48 – 57. Rackham O. & Moody J. A. (1996): The making of the Cretan landscape, Manchester University Press.

Lukas Thommen

Sacred Groves: Nature between Religion, Philosophy and Politics University of Basel

Sacred groves are generally considered to be a fundamental characteristic of Graeco-Roman culture, since they expressed both the religious beliefs and the concepts of nature of the ancient world. These groves took a wide variety of forms, but generally they were marked-off segments of nature, usually a natural stand of trees, outside the settled areas. There were areas which were not permitted to be disturbed,1 since it was believed that divine forces ruled here. The divinity, nymph or hero to whom the sacred place was dedicated was honoured by a sacred image, usually an altar, sometimes with a statue or temple. Since the sacred grove was a principal publicly accessible, it differed from the Near Eastern royal garden, the paradeisos, which was the property of the king and used for the royal hunt. Thus, the sacred grove did not fall into the category of state owned land, nor was it the property of the cultic communities (thiasoi), but rather it was considered to belong to the divinity which was revealing itself there through nature.2 Nonetheless, through its public use, the grove became the expression par excellence of the Greek polis as a self-governing association of citizens. The most widespread term for the sacred grove is alsos, which does however not explicitly refer to its sacred nature. For while the “grove” embodies a multifaceted relationship with the divine, it is not associated with the “sacred”, as the absolute other, the transcendental. This is a later Christian interpretation which was only sought and terminologically established during the Romantic era. In antiquity, besides alsos, the term hylê was often used with specific reference to the stand of trees; temenos with reference to the demarcation, hieron with reference to the divine ownership; or kêpos with reference to the horticultural design.3 Darice E. Birge noted in her dissertation on “Sacred Groves in the Ancient Greek

1 For regulations, cf. Thuc. 3.70.4; Callim. Cer. 6.24 – 60; Jordan/Perlin (1984); Dillon (1997); for a collection of sacred rules, see generally Sokolowski (1969) (= LSCG). 2 For a detailed discussion, see Horster (2004); cf. also F. Graf, DNP 5 (1998), 82 s.v. Hain. 3 Birge (1982) 207 ff.

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World”, “that the appearance and function of kêpoi and alsê overlapped in some situations”4 and “that some authors use alsos and kêpos interchangeably”.5 Moreover, due to its location outside the city itself, the grove also represented the transition from uncontrolled nature to orderly civilization.6 Accordingly, the design and use of groves was dependent upon cultural and political constellations, so that they also underwent a functional development over the course of time: from the largely natural forests of the Archaic age, which were for the most part undisturbed, through the generally newly planted temple grounds of the Classical era, up to the gardens of the royal palaces of the Hellenistic period.7 There were thus in ancient Greece generally a number of different demands upon the sacred grove, so that the question of public access cannot be seen as absolute. The present paper therefore addresses the problem of the accessibility of sacred groves, and seeks to interpret them in the light of changing political systems and conceptions of nature. A key question here is the use of groves by the philosophers. All nature was in ancient times seen as the expression of divine forces, which could however be interpreted and handled differently. Nature (physis) as a space in its own right is in fact a discovery of the Greeks, who, in the context of the emergence of politically autonomous communities, defined it as that which differed from their own achievements, the sum of which constituted “culture” (nomos); at the same time they also developed a rational approach to nature, analysing its material composition.8 The use of sacred groves thus reflects not only the varying views of political relationships, but also differing forms of dealing with nature and its religious connotations. Even Homer already describes the great variety of consciously designed landscapes gardens and groves. In addition to the groves of Apollo (Od. 9.200, 20.277 – 8), Persephone (10.509), Poseidon (Il. 2.506) and the nymphs, where the citizens could draw water (Od. 17.204 ff.), we also find the alsos of Athena outside the city of the Phaeacians, which had poplars and a source, and was surrounded by meadows (Od. 6.291 ff.). At the same place was also the temenos of Alcinous, a blooming fruitful land (aloê) of the king of the Phaeacians. It is hard to determine whether the shrine was “on the temenos of the king”,9 or located in its “vicinity”.10 In any case, the alsos is still directly connected with the royal territory, even if it does not appear to have been under the direct control of the king. Odysseus was 4 5 6 7 8 9

Ibid. 213. Ibid. 207. Birge (1994) 10, 15 ff. Carroll-Spillecke (1989) 34, 53 – 4; Bonnechere/De Bruyn (1998) 75 ff. Thommen (2011) 9 ff. Deger (1970) 81 ff., note 415 (here 83), also regarding the controversial question of whether the royal temenos was private land or a “royal field” granted as a lien by the people. 10 H. W. Nordheider, LFE 22 (2008), 393.

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able to wait here in the guise of a supplicant until Nausicaa announced his arrival.11 Nonetheless, the royal lands were attached to a place of divine veneration, so the direct connection was established between earthly rule and heavenly nature. This is also shown in the private gardens of the powerful, where their personal oversight and care were exercised. Further on, Homer (Od. 7.112 ff.) describes the garden surrounded by hedges (orchatos/kêpos) at the palace of Alcinous, which was always in full bloom, and where nothing was lacking; hence there was no dependence on the seasons, but rather a privileged situation. It included an orchard with apple, pear, fig and olive trees, a vineyard and a vegetable garden; in other words, it was without decoration or flowers, but oriented toward utility, and was irrigated from a source that also supplied the citizens (7.129 ff.). In Ithaca too, Laertes, Odysseus’ father, lived in seclusion and dedicated himself assiduously to his garden (orchatos/kêpos), where fruit and olive trees, grapes and vegetables grew (24.244 ff., 340 ff.). These gardens were thus not only connected to the royal house, but also served to feed and supply the people. In the garden of the ruler, nature went hand-in-hand with the aristocratic order, which permitted it to be put to use by the entire community. In that way, divine nature was reflected in and controlled by the rulers, who thus also warded off fear and terror from it. Increasingly in the context of the polis, this concept of rule changed. As early as the sixth century BCE, the emergence of the gymnasia can be ascertained as public places of education which constituted a new connection between the divine realm and the polis institutions. In the fifth century BCE, they were renewed by certain political leaders and consciously upgraded through landscaping. In Athens too, at the end of the Archaic period, the first public gymnasia emerged in connection with the groves. Aristocrats began to landscape public groves and to make them usable for the athletic education of the youth. In Athens, the Peisistratids cared for the Academy (Plut. Sol. 1), a delimited grove to the hero Academus northwest of the city in which Athena too was venerated (Athen. 13.561e). Cimon, who landscaped the Agora, transformed the Academy into a well watered grove with shaded walkways (Plut. Cim. 13), and expanded the stadium; Pericles built an athletic facility in the Lyceum (Philochoros FGrHist 328 F 37), the cultic site (hieron) of Apollo Lyceius southeast of the Diochares Gate, with the gymnasium rebuilt in the fourth century BCE by Lycurgus and also planted with trees (IG II [2nd ed.] 457; Plut. Mor. 841d; Paus. 1.29.16). At the beginning of the fourth century BCE Antisthenes founded the philosopher’s school of the Cynics in Cynosarges, the shrine of Heracles, which with its gymnasium was located south of the Ilissos and surrounded by a grove (Diog. Laert. 6.13). All these facilities in Athens were used regularly by philosophers 11 Birge (1982) 98.

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since the fourth century BCE. Some of them established private gardens there, and thus appropriated the use of these groves and gymnasia. The first philosophers’ school was established by Plato after his return from Sicily around 387 BCE: “First, Plato philosophized in the Academy, and then in the park (kêpos) near Colonos, as Alexander reported, according to Heraclitus” (Diog. Laert. 3.5). “Aristotle angered him and caused him to abandon his practice of taking walks there, so that he withdrew into seclusion and now taught his philosophy in his garden (kêpos)” (Ael. VH 3.19). This area (colonos Hippios) was located directly next to the Academy, and part of it became Plato’s property (Diog. Laert. 3.20). It was here that he was ultimately buried (Paus. 1.30.2 – 3), although other sources locate his grave and the Museum he built in the Academy itself (Diog. Laert. 3.41, 4.1).12 This distinguished him from ordinary citizens and credited him with some kind of immortality. The area of the colonos was in any case considered a grove (phyllas; leafy grove), dedicated to Dionysus as well as to the Muses and Aphrodite (Soph. OC 668 ff.), which now established some kind of connection with Plato’s site for the Muses. The Academy and its gymnasium did not thus become private property, although Pausanias (1.29.2) reports that the land of the Academy had once belonged to a private citizen. Rather, this area outside the city was increasingly built up due to the establishment of a private school (cf. Ael. VH 3.19), which used the park grounds “inspired” by the Muses. Here, the philosophers’ concept of nature was an important factor. Particularly in his Phaedrus dialogue (230 b–c), Plato, through the figure of his teacher Socrates, certainly reveals an appreciation for the beauty of nature in untouched groves, and in Critias (110e, 111c) expresses general veneration for the Attic countryside. In spite of the reference to nature of his school, the philosophic teaching of Plato nonetheless favours intellectual existence (logos) over material existence (physis). Nature thus becomes the expression of the imperfect transient, in contrast to the eternal extant. In the Platonic creation mythology however, nature is also traced back to the “Demiurge”, who, using the material available, shaped the world according to the primal image of the ideal (Tim. 28c– 29b). Accordingly, viewing nature serves the purpose of recognizing the harmonious world order embodied in the cosmos. By theologizing the concept of nature, Plato gave the ordered harmonic rational elements priority over the disordered earthly realm in which humans, with their intellectual capacities, can intervene by means of technology (technê) and culture (nomos) (Leg. 890d). The cosmological order is, in the Platonic state, also embodied in the philosopher king, so that the ideal societal order legitimized by nature is again connected with the hierarchical stages and rational rule into which the individual is to be in-

12 Hoepfner (2002).

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corporated. Nature has thus contributed both spatially and in imagery to the design of Plato’s ideal state. Plato’s pupil Aristotle (384 – 322 BCE) initially also visited the Academy, but then moved his teaching practice to a different park. In 355 BCE, when Aristotle “upon his return found the school under different direction, chose the promenade in the Lyceum, where, walking to and fro until the time of oiling, he philosophized with his pupils” (Diog. Laert. 5.2; cf. Cic. Acad. 2.1.17). Since Aristotle, as a metic, was not permitted to own land and property, he could not open his own garden, but used a public facility and the neighbouring site to found his Peripatetic School. Here, he also began to investigate the material aspect of nature and to systematically categorize objects; here too, he supported the concept of the divine eternal world, of a nature existing of itself and creating by process. Even if humans were technically skilful and thus superior to animals (Pol. 1254b 10 ff., 1256b 15 ff.), he maintained, they were still part of the natural whole, which they had to respect (Eth. Nic. 1104a). Philosophic teaching in natural surroundings went hand-in-hand with the postulate that humans had to assume their destined place and task in the world order, according to the principle of the spirit (nous). For Aristotle himself, public life in Athens increasingly became a burden and danger, so that he spent the last part of his life in the private home and garden of his mother in Chalkis on the island of Euboea.13 Thus he ultimately turned his back on the city, and dedicated himself to a remote natural environment. After Aristotle’s death, his pupil Theophrastus is reported to have “purchased his own garden (idios kêpos) with the aid of his friend Demetrios of Phaleron” (Diog. Laert. 5.39), directly next to the Lyceum in Athens. In his will, he left “the garden (kêpos) and the Peripatos, together with all houses around the garden, to the below named friends who wish to study and philosophize there together, but under the condition – since not all may always be present there – that no one shall sell the same or use it as private property; but that it shall be common property, like a shrine” (hieron) (5.52 – 3). Here, Theophrastus distinguished between the garden and Peripatos on the one hand, and the public shrine with the Museum, two stoas and an altar on the other.14 The site that refers specifically to Theophrastus and his future tomb is the kêpos, where he also carried out his botanical studies, and for the first time wrote a comprehensive botanical work (Historia plantarum; De causis plantarum). The Lyceum remained basically open as a temenos and hieron, and was seen as a place of sojourn of the Muses. In its vicinity – as at the Academy15 – troops could however assemble and exercise (Xen. 13 D. Frede, DNP 1 (1996), 1136 s.v. Aristoteles. 14 Cf. Lynch (1972) 99 ff. 15 Delorme (1960) 53.

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Hipp. 3,1; Hell. 1.1.33: gymnasion; Aristoph. Pax 353 ff.). The facility thus continued to embody a classical locus of the polis, which however increasingly came into conflict with private institutions. The philosopher Epicurus (342/1 – 271/0 BCE) could, since he was an Athenian, purchase a garden with no problem at the end of the fourth century BCE (Diog. Laert. 10.10 – 11; Plin. NH 19.51), and named the school he founded there after this kêpos. Moreover, he owned a house inside the city where he allowed his pupils to live with him (Cic. Fin. 1.65). The garden was located on Kiphisa Street between the centre of the city and the Academy, and served solely for instruction, so that this too was no longer a shrine. The site was finally left in his will to his successor “Hermarchus… and his philosophical friends, as well as to such successors in the direction of the school as he shall determine” (Diog. Laert. 10.17). The garden thus legally had a purely private character, and was entirely detached from the public and divine spheres. This process was accompanied by a new understanding of nature. The philosophy of Epicurus had the goal of freeing people from their fear of nature, death and superstition by explaining physical processes to them, and thus enabling a life in happiness (eudaimonia).16 According to his natural philosophy, which was based on Democritus’ atomic theory, worlds develop of themselves in an endless and numberless series, through the conglomeration and subsequent dissolution of atoms. In the interstices between these worlds dwell the gods, eternal and blessed, unconcerned about the world and its people. Living things and their souls, too, consisting of atoms, emerge and pass away. Epicurus therefore recommended that both physical and intellectual desire (hedonê) and the control of one’s urges be sought for the sake of the peace of the soul (ataraxia), far from the political realm, in one’s own personal circles. The garden in its secular form thus remained suitable for this form of philosophy, while the living community in an urban house corresponded to the Epicurean ideal of a political life in a secluded circle of friends. The philosopher Zeno on the other hand at the same time conducted his teachings in the stoa Poikile on the Agora. Philosophy thus moved to the very centre of the city, but was not bound to a location, nor was it fundamentally removed from nature. In the mid-third century BCE, the scholarch Chrysippus of Soli also taught at the Lyceum, and ultimately at the Odeon of Pericles (Diog. Laert. 7.184 – 5). Here, the Stoic school not only sought a new manner of dealing with nature, but also contributed to establishing the concept of natural law (nomos physikos/physeôs), in which nomos and physis become one.17 The Stoics saw the natural order of things as explicitly an expression of the divine command, 16 Sources in Long/Sedley (2000) 29 ff. 17 Cf. Kullmann (2010) 38 ff., 136 – 7.

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with which they knew how to deal rationally. In the Hellenistic Stoic philosophy, nature was made rational according to the precepts of Platonic and Aristotelian theology, so that unemotional, rational life was considered in accord with nature. Accordingly, people are, certainly, tied to nature by fate, but they can find moral fulfilment within it through logic (logos/ratio). Since humankind, thanks to its intelligence, has the capacity to formulate and to exercise power over plants and animals, it has the possibility of acting as the master within nature, in other words to approach the divine and to perfect its own happiness (Sen. Ep. 76.9 – 10). During the Hellenistic era, the city not only became a new centre of life, but also increasingly incorporated nature within itself. The parks of the Hellenistic rulers restored green space to Athens, and with the gymnasium of Ptolemaion received its first public library. During this period, new park-like green spaces and groves were increasingly installed in cities, such as the Daphne near Antioch and the gardens in Alexandria, such as that of the Museum (Strab. 17.1.8 – 10);18 also famous were the palace gardens such as that founded by Hieron II in Syracuse (Athen. 12.542a).19 On the one hand, the cities experienced new pomposity, and on the other, were presented with nature in a new form as a result of the increased construction. The monarchs were able to present themselves as the image of divine nature, and with its help to gain a new kind of control over the city, the traditional locus of citizen autonomy. In this context, some Hellenistic rulers ultimately began to adopt the near Eastern paradeisos (Plut. Demetr. 50). The first hint of the introduction of the royal gardens, which was familiar in the Near East, can already be seen in Xenophon, who, during his march through Asia Minor, became familiar with the gardens (paradeisoi) of Cyrus along the Meander and in Sardes (Xen. An. 1.2.7, cf. Oec. 4.20 – 25; Cic. Sen. 59). After being banished by the Athenians in 394 BCE, he was given a residence in Scillus near Olympia by the Lacedaemonians.20 Here, he purchased a plot of land (chorion) for the goddess Artemis, and built her an altar and a temple inspired by the Ephesian shrine around which he planted a grove (alsos) of fruit trees. All in all, it was a hieros choros of vast proportions, with forest covered mountains and fertile meadows, one tenth of the income of which went to the goddess. Moreover, hunts and sacrifice festivals were carried out, in which the citizens were involved (Xen. An. 5.3.7 – 13). Xenophon thus reactivated the privately owned shrine and tied it to the Near Eastern tradition of the royal garden. He was present in the community of citizens as a prominent leader, and allowed the community to participate in the use of his property according to his own desire. In that, he both 18 Bonnechere/De Bruyn (1998) 82 ff.; M. Carroll-Spillecke, DNP 4 (1998), 787 s.v. Garten. 19 Sonne (1996). 20 Cf. Ruggeri (2004); for Persian influence on his estate, see L’Allier (1998); differently Tuplin (2004) 270 ff.

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sought the power of patronage over the citizenry and domination over nature, which was to be tamed and utilized. This went hand-in-hand with the belief in the capacity of nature to regenerate, and in the inexhaustible nature of resources, to which Xenophon explicitly referred (Vect. 1.4, 4.2 ff.). However, with this behaviour, he violated both the commandment of non-interference with the grove and the principle of public access. As a representative of the ruling class, he evidently saw it as his right to act according to his own criteria, and thus to place himself both above the citizenry and above nature. In later times, Hellenistic rulers were to once again increasingly view themselves as the image and direct mediator of the natural, divine order, and hence to move away from public access to the sacred groves. Moreover, the kings made an effort to attract philosophers and other poets and scholars to their courts, and to place them in their service. Thus did the gardens of the philosophers during the transitional period of the fourth century BCE as a whole constitute a kind of intermediate category in which the public space and divine nature was reappropriated anew. Philosophical instruction was carried out both in the public spaces in the suburb and in the neighbouring private kêpos; later, in the Stoic school, it would be disconnected from nature and integrated into the urban centre. Thus however did the grove, in the framework of the polis, lose its communal orientation and increasingly acquire an aristocratic or even monarchical character.

Bibliography Baltes, Matthias (1993): “Plato’s School, the Academy”, Hermathena 155 (1993), 5 – 26. Bertholet, Florence / Reber, Karl (eds.) (2010): Jardins antiques. Grèce – Gaule – Rome, Gollion, 2010. Billot, Marie-Françoise (1989): Dictionnaire des philosophes antiques I (1989), 693 – 789 s.v. Académie (topographie et archéologie). Birge, Darice E. (1982): Sacred Groves in the Ancient Greek World, Diss. Berkeley, 1982. Birge, Darice (1994): “Sacred Groves and the Nature of Apollo”, in: Jon Solomon (ed.), Apollo. Origins and Influences, Tucson/London, 1994, 9 – 19. Bonnechere, Pierre / De Bruyn, Odile (1998): L’art et l’âme des jardins. De l’Égypte pharaonique à l’époque contemporaine. Une histoire culturelle de la nature dessinée par l’homme, Anvers, 1998. Carroll-Spillecke, Maureen (1989): Kêpos. Der antike griechische Garten, Munich, 1989. Carroll-Spillecke, Maureen (1998): “Griechische Gärten”, in: Maureen Carroll-Spillecke (ed.), Der Garten von der Antike bis zum Mittelalter, 3rd ed., Mainz, 1998, 153 – 175. De Cazanove, Olivier / Scheid, John (eds.) (1993): Les bois sacrés, Naples, 1993. Deger, Sigrid (1970): Herrschaftsformen bei Homer, Vienna, 1970.

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Delorme, Jean (1960): Gymnasion. Étude sur les monuments consacrés à l’éducation en Grèce (des origines à l’Empire romain), Diss. Paris, 1960. Dillon, Matthew P. J. (1997): “The Ecology of the Greek Sanctuary”, ZPE 118 (1997), 113 – 127. Giebel, Marion (2011): Rosen und Reben. Gärten in der Antike, Darmstadt, 2011. Glass, Stephen L. (1968): Palaistra and Gymnasium in Greek Architecture, Diss. Pennsylvania, 1967, Ann Arbor, 1968. Goette, Hans R. / Hammerstaedt, Jürgen (2004): Das antike Athen. Ein literarischer Stadtführer, Munich, 2004. Gothein, Marie L. (1914): Geschichte der Gartenkunst, vol. 1: Von Ägypten bis zur Renaissance in Italien, Spanien und Portugal, Jena, 1914. Gros de Beler, Aude, et al. (2009): Jardins et paysages de l’Antiquité. Grèce et Rome, Arles, 2009. Hoepfner, Wolfram (2002): “Platons Akademie. Eine neue Interpretation der Ruinen”, in: Wolfram Hoepfner (ed.), Antike Bibliotheken, Mainz, 2002, 56 – 62. Hoepfner, Wolfram / Schwandner, Ernst-Ludwig (1994): Haus und Stadt im klassischen Griechenland, 2nd ed., Munich, 1994. Horster, Marietta (2004): Landbesitz griechischer Heiligtümer in archaischer und klassischer Zeit, Berlin/New York, 2004. Jordan, Borimir / Perlin, John (1984): “On the Protection of Sacred Groves”, in: Kent J. Rigsby (ed.), Studies presented to Sterling Dow on his eightieth birthday, Durham N.C., 1984, 153 – 159. Knell, Heiner (2000): Athen im 4. Jahrhundert v. Chr. – eine Stadt verändert ihr Gesicht. Archäologisch-kulturgeschichtliche Betrachtungen, Darmstadt, 2000. Kullmann, Wolfgang (2010): Naturgesetz in der Vorstellung der Antike, besonders der Stoa. Eine Begriffsuntersuchung, Stuttgart, 2010. L’Allier, Louis (1998): “Le Domaine de Scillonte: Xénophon et l’exemple perse”, Phoenix 52 (1998), 1 – 14. Long, Anthony A. / Sedley, David N. (2000): Die hellenistischen Philosophen. Texte und Kommentare, Stuttgart/Weimar, 2000 (Engl.: The Hellenistic philosophers, vol. 1: Translations of the principal sources with philosophical commentary, Cambridge, 1987). Lynch, John P. (1972): Aristotle’s School. A Study of a Greek Educational Institution, Berkeley et al., 1972. Osborne, Robin (1992): “Classical Greek Gardens: Between Farm and Paradise”, in: John D. Hunt (ed.), Garden History. Issues, Approaches, Methods, Dumbarton Oaks Colloquium on the History of Landscape Architecture 13, Washington D.C., 1992, 373 – 391. Pohlenz, Max (1947): Der hellenische Mensch, Göttingen, 1947. Ruggeri, Claudia (2004): “Senofonte a Scillunte”, Athenaeum 92 (2004), 451 – 466. Sokolowski, Franciszek (1969): Les lois sacrées des cités grecques, Paris, 1969. Sonne, Wolfgang (1996): “Hellenistische Herrschaftsgärten”, in: Wolfram Hoepfner / Gunnar Brands (eds.), Basileia. Die Paläste der hellenistischen Könige, Mainz, 1996, 136 – 143. Thommen, Lukas (2009): Umweltgeschichte der Antike, Munich, 2009 (Engl. expanded version: An Environmental History of Ancient Greece and Rome, Cambridge, 2012). Thommen, Lukas (2011): “Nachhaltigkeit in der Antike? Begriffsgeschichtliche Überlegungen zum Umweltverhalten der Griechen und Römer”, in: Bernd Herrmann (ed.),

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Beiträge zum Göttinger Umwelthistorischen Kolloquium 2010 – 2011, Göttingen, 2011, 9 – 24. Tuplin, Christopher (2004): “Xenophon, Artemis and Scillus”, in: Thomas J. Figueira (ed.), Spartan Society, Swansea, 2004, 251 – 281.

Susan Guettel Cole

Under the Open Sky: Imagining the Dionysian Landscape Professor Emeritus of Classics University at Buffalo SUNY

Homer and Hesiod imagine the universe as a space arranged both vertically and horizontally. The vertical divisions represent a cosmic hierarchy that ranks the gods above mortals and the living above the dead (Homer, Iliad VIII 13 – 16; Hesiod, Theogony 720 – 725). Within this universe the surface of the earth is imagined as a horizontal plane divided by rivers and seas and interrupted by mountains and valleys. In myth Dionysos is one of a few individuals who cross both horizontal and vertical boundaries. This god is a great traveler. In his earliest appearance in Greek literature he is already on the go. The catalogue of his journeys, with sites listed in geographical order, is one of the standard features of Dionysian travelogues, as the god makes contact with local peoples throughout the inhabited world. Panhellenic journeys are distinguished from foreign itineraries. In Euripides’ Bacchae Dionysos travels the entire world before he arrives at Thebes. Here Euripides lists the foreign ethnic groups through which the god passed on his journey from the lands of the Lydians and Phrygians, Baktria, the land of the Medes and the Persians, Arabia, and all of Asia (Euripides, Bacchae 13 – 27). In Greece Dionysos is a Panhellenic god, reflected in the fourth century paean of Philodamos inscribed at Delphi, where the chorus invites Dionysos to crown his travels through his mainland sites by making a visit to Delphi itself.1 There is another characteristic that sets Dionysos apart from other divinities. Although he is usually treated like a god, he is nevertheless often perceived as mortal. For Dionysos the boundary between mortal and immortal is permeable. Dionysos can look and act like a human being. He is also a Greek divinity who shares his epithets with his worshippers. Both can be called “Bakchos.” Dionysos does not need to fear death because he and his mother, Semele, have an ambiguous status. Hesiod calls Semele mortal and her son immortal, but then goes on in the next sentence to say that now they are both divine (Hesiod, Theogony 940 – 943). However, although Dionysos himself can travel beneath the earth to 1 Käppel (1992) 375 – 380, for the text of Philodamos’ paean.

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the world of the dead and return again safely to the upper air, he was not always treated as an immortal. He had a tomb at Delphi, where at times it seems that he was considered dead. Philochoros tells us that his coffin was inscribed: Ἐνθάδε κεῖται θανὼν Διόνυσος ἐκ Σεμέλης. (“Here lies Dionysos, dead, (born) from Semele”).2 So, despite Hesiod’s assertion, others plainly felt that Dionysos shared his ambiguous status with his mother. Semele dies from a direct hit of Zeus’ thunderbolt and has her own grave at Thebes, but curiously, like her son, she can receive slaughtered animals in thusia.3 This type of ritual suggests a god-like status, but her incineration indicates mortal vulnerability. Nevertheless, there is always the possibility that Dionysos can cross the boundary between the living and the dead and bring his mother back to the surface of the earth by journeying to the realm of Hades below and leading her back.4 Pausanias tells the story, but he is reluctant to believe that Semele could die, because she was a mate of Zeus (2.31.2, 2.37.5). Dionysos also crosses the vertical boundary between human and divine. Dionysiac processions are the scenes of choice on the earliest figured Attic vases. The most popular scene depicts Dionysos leading a drunken Hephaistos to Olympos.5 This is not simply a humorous story about a foolish workman, but a serious account of the god’s ability to cross an important boundary when he effects reconciliation between Hephaistos and Hera, and introduces Hephaistos to the realm where he belongs. In poetry Dionysian ritual is associated with several types of landscapes: mountains, wooded land, caves, and springs. The land itself responds like a person to the arrival and presence of the god. When Sophocles’ chorus in his Antigone welcomes Dionysos to Thebes, the singers recall that the mountains of the god’s birthplace, Nysa, and the green coasts heavy with grapes have sent the god to them (1131 – 1136).6 In the paean of Philodamos inscribed at Delphi, Dionysos is received with joy everywhere.7 The land is personified and sings with a choral voice. The paean follows the route Dionysos travels, his itinerary written on the land itself. First Thebes (land of Kadmos) breaks out in Bacchic rout; then the valley of the Minyans and the land of Euboia “with its beautiful crops” begins to dance, and finally “all the blessed, sacred land of Delphi, teeming with hymns,” joins the dance. On his second journey the god travels to Eleusis (where the whole 2 Philochoros FGrH IIIB 328 F 7. 3 In the Attic deme of Erchia Dionysos and Semele receive sacrifice on the same day, both are worshipped by the women alone and no meat is to be carried away; SEG 1965.541. 4 Plutarch, De sera numinis vindicta 27.566a. The story is told by many: Diodoros 4.25.4; Apollodoros 3.5.3; Plutarch Quaestiones Graecae 12.293c-d, among others. 5 Hedreen (2004) 38 – 64. 6 Cuyler (2005) 3 – 20, for summary of the discussion about the location of this Nysa. 7 Käppel (1992) 375 – 380, for the text of Philodamos’ paean.

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people of the Greek land call him “Iakchos”) and from Eleusis to the cities of Thessaly, the temenos of Mt. Olympos, home of the gods, and famous Pieria, home of the Muses.8 Another important characteristic of Dionysos is that he does not have a predominant home site, like Artemis at Ephesos, Hera of Samos, Zeus at Olympia, or Apollo at Delphi and Delos. In Attica the most popular name for a male child was Dionysios,9 but Dionysos himself does not profit from large-scale dedications collected in major sanctuaries, and he does not pile up wealth by renting out temple property. There are records of significant holdings for him only at Herakleia.10 Finally, although Dionysiac scenes are the ones most frequently represented on Attic pottery, even at Athens the god himself is never completely at home. The theater is his only enduring monument, the Dionysia his most important public festival. At Athens the Dionysia could not begin until the god’s xoanon (a small portable wooden image of the divinity) was carried to the city center from Eleutherai on the Boeotian border. This journey recalls the god’s original arrival and his movement from the borders to the center, but it also marks Dionysos as a temporary visitor and therefore, an outsider. Dionysos has many sanctuaries, but few temples.11 His sanctuaries were modest. Dionysian rituals could be performed in the open air under the open sky.12 Even Teos, a center for the Dionysiac Technitai in the Hellenistic period, had a relatively modest temple. There were no monumental altars built exclusively for this god; yet at Athens only Zeus Soter received more cattle in sacrifice than Dionysos received at the Dionysia.13 Although the available evidence indicates that feasts of Dionysos made his worshippers great consumers of meat, we cannot point to substantial material remains of his ritual. He was not a god whose temples stored lavish gifts donated by sponsors. His effects were ephemeral. Dionysos’ influence could be measured instead by the success of communal ceremonies associated with the drinking of wine, the activities and rituals associated with the theater, the processions performed as part of his festivals, the group dining sponsored by the polis, the meals provided by private associations, and the bakcheia where his worshippers danced for the god in the countryside. It is common to believe that Dionysian rituals were traditionally celebrated in the country or on a mountain. Euripides’ description of violent mountain dancing 8 9 10 11 12 13

Strauss Clay (1996) points out that Philodamos’ paean emphasizes Panhellenic sites.

Horster (2012) 67 – 69. Gernet (1981) 66, commenting on an observation by Jeanmaire. Detienne (1989) 43. Cole (1993) 29, for a summary of the evidence. The number of animals slaughtered at some of the major festivals in Athens is estimated from the records of the sale of their hides.

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and the dismemberment of Pentheus has had an enormous influence on scholars and readers.14 The commentary on Euripides’ Bacchae of E. R. Dodds played no small part. Dodds, following Euripides’ representation of Dionysiac mania and orgia, describes a spontaneous burst of ritual energy able to infect ordinary women like a disease and incite them to madness. Albert Henrichs’ sober article on historical maenads and ritual maenadism has taught us the difference between myths of Dionysian frenzy and the realities of ritual behavior.15 Dionysos was certainly worshipped in the countryside, but many Dionysian rituals were celebrated in town centers. Inscriptions (and Pausanias) describe the placement and maintenance of buildings, usually small, associated with the worship of Dionysos. Some of these were connected with the local theater. This was so at Sikyon (Pausanias; 2.7.5); Athens (where there were two temples at the theater; 1.20.3); and Kalydon (7.21.3). The little temple “on the plain” at Eleutherai had lost its traditional xoanon by Pausanias’ day (1.38.8), but a new one replaced it so that local rituals could be maintained. At Megara there was a temple (naos) of Dionysos Nyktelios (“nocturnal”) and a “built sanctuary” for Dionysos Dasyllios (“Bushy” 1.43.5). The real monuments to Dionysos, nevertheless, were the theaters themselves and the dramatic poetry presented in them. Temples and sanctuaries of Dionysos did not have to be located in specific types of landscape. In the countryside Dionysos could be found on mountains or flat land, near significant sources of water, or in a grove or glade. In a grove on Mt. Pontius near Lerna, a temple of Dionysos Saotes was located near a temple to Demeter Prosymne. In the same area Pausanias describes a boundary of stones near a river called “Winter-torrent,” a waterway said to mark the entrance to the underworld through which Hades passed with Kore on his return to his “underground kingdom” (2.36.7). Pausanias also saw the Alcyonian Lake, claimed by the Argives to be the route Dionysos took when he went down to bring his mother back to the upper earth (2.37.5). This path to the world below was considered so dangerous and the lake so deep that swimmers never reached the bottom. Dionysos was apparently the only one who could safely pass through the barrier. Pausanias refuses to disclose anything about the nocturnal rites performed here for Dionysos. He is firm when he says that it is not right for him to write out for just anyone the nocturnal rites that take place here every year (2.37.5 – 6). Dionysos is not a god of the world of the dead, but he knows how to get there and find his way back. There were also temples of Dionysos at Argos (2.23.7) and Epidauros. At Argos Pausanias describes in addition a cave of Dionysos (2.23.1), where hovering goats once saved shipwrecked Argives from starvation. He does not mention a temple 14 Dodds (19602) xi-xxv. 15 Henrichs (1978) 121 – 160.

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of Dionysos at Troizen, but he does identify this city as another candidate for the place where the god returned from the underworld with Semele (2.31.2).16 Dionysos Melanaigidos (“with a black goatskin” 2.35.1) had a temple at Hermione, and Dionysos Kolonatas had one on a hill at Karneus (3.13.7 – 8). Passing into Lakonia, Pausanias describes temples for Dionysos on Mt. Ilios (3.24.8), at Alagonia, and at Korone (4.34.6). The landscape in Messenia is identified with the activities of the god himself. Here, Mt. Eva, named for the Bacchic ritual cry “Euoi,” embodies the sound of the god and his worshippers (4.31.4). This is the place where Dionysos and the women traveling with him shouted the cry for the first time. Stories about the miraculous origin of springs of wine or water are widespread. At Kyparissia near Pylos Dionysos struck the earth with his thyrsos and a spring surged forth. Near Elis Dionysos changed water into wine every year for one of his festivals. Pausanias says that the people on the island of Andros claimed the same thing. He admits that he believes neither story (6.26.1 – 2). Brasiai has its own stories about Dionysos. There was a temple of Dionysos here, with one cult statue out in the open (ἐν ὑπαίθρῳ, 3.20.3). Men could look on this one, but they could not look at the one inside the temple, where the women performed their own sacrifices. “Only the women may see the one in the temple” (Pausanias 3.20.4). Brasiai is important because here the local people told an unusual story about a chest that washed ashore. When it was opened, it was found to contain the infant Dionysos together with his mother’s corpse. The people of Brasiai combined events from the biographies of two infants, Dionysos and Perseus. The people of Brasiai did not have to adopt Dionysos because Semele’s sister Ino turned up to become the nurse of the baby. Ino cared for the baby Dionysos in a local cave and the people called the plain “garden of Dionysos” (Pausanias 3.24.4 – 5). We have noticed the caves for Dionysos at Argos (Pausanias 2.23.1). Dionysos also had ties to caves elsewhere. Dionysos needed caves because caves were a source of the clear water required to bring wine to its proper dilution for consumption. The limestone base of much of the Greek landscape provided the geological conditions that created caves in areas where the underground water drained and bubbled up in the form of a spring. Caves were considered to be a haven for the nymphs, guardians of springs. Dionysos is not present in every cave, but he appears with the nymphs at many sites. Dionysos was worshipped at Aphytis on the Thracian mountain Pallene, where pottery finds date back to the eighth century and an inscription records a dedication to Dionysos and the nymphs.17 Another dedication to Dionysos and the nymphs was found at Atrax in Thessaly.18 16 Torjussen (2006). 17 Larson (2001) 170, 239, and 312 n. 26 18 SEG 1995.554; Larson (2001) 312 n. 152.

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An inscription from Thasos, dated to the first century, but only partially published, gives us some idea of how a modest building for Dionysos might look. The poem (in iambic trimeter) describes a temple of Dionysos at Thasos as “under the open sky (ὑπαίθριον)” and as “a pretty cave, always green.” In form, the text is a dedication, with which Timokleides son of Diphilos, a doctor at Thasos, announces his gifts to Dionysos on behalf of the local initiates. The text has been published several times, but only in French translation: Pour toi, un temple à ciel ouvert, enfermant un autel (ὑπαίθριον… ναὸν ἀμφιβώμιον), et son berceau de pampres (σκεπαστὸν ἀμπέλοισι), ô prince des Ménades (Μαινάδων ἄνα), un bel antre toujours vert (ἀειθαλὲς . . . ἄντρον), voici, Dionysos Baκkheus, ce qu’a fondé Timokleidès, fils de Diphilos; et pour les initiés, un oikos vénérable (σεμνόν) où chanter évohé, et l’onde des Nymphes Naïades, à l’éclat pur (ἁγνὸν γάνος ), voici ce qu’avec ta grâce (σὺν σοι), voulant mêler le nectar si doux qui suspend les soucis des hommes (τὸ παυσίλυπον νέκταρ, ἥδιστον βροτοῖς), a consacré ton ministre (θυηπόλος), ô bienheureux; et toi, à ton tour, conserve un médecin à Thasos sa patrie, garde-le sain et sauf, toi qui reviens toujours jeune d’année en année (ἐξ ἔτεος ἐς πᾶν ἕτος).19 English translation: For you, a temple open to the sky enclosing an altar (ὑπαίθριον…ναὸν ἀμφιβώμιον) and its bower covered with grape vines (σκεπαστὸν ἀμπέλοισι), ô Lord of the Maenads (Μαινάδων ἄνα), a pretty cave, always green (ἀειθαλὲς…ἄντρον), here it is, ô Dionysos Bakcheus, the sanctuary founded by Timokleides, son of Diphilos; and for the initiates, a hallowed (σεμνόν) house where they may chant “Euoi!” and wishing to mix the wave of the Nymphs Naïades with the pure moisture (ἁγνὸν γάνος), nectar that puts an end to grief (ὸ παυσίλυπον νέκταρ), sweetest for mortals (ἥδιστον βροτοῖς), here is what, with your grace (σὺν σοι), your minister (θυηπόλος) has consecrated, ô blessed one; and you in your turn, preserve a doctor in his hometown of Thasos, keep him safe and sound, you who always keep returning, ever young, year after year (ἐξ ἔτεος ἐς πᾶν ἕτος).

Timokleides’ gift to the Thasian worshippers of Dionysos is an artificial construction that seems to include at least three spaces: a temple (ναός) without a roof, open to the sky (ὑπαίθριον),20 “a cave, always green” (ἀειθαλὲς…ἄντρον), and “a hallowed (σεμνόν) house,” a place where initiates can shout “Euoi!” The significant word here is ὑπαίθριος, “under the open sky.” Usually used of soldiers camping out in the countryside, ὑπαίθριος does not often appear in ritual contexts. Plutarch, however, knows that the word is important. In his Roman Questions he asks why parents warned their children not to swear by Herakles or by Dionysos under a roof, but only outside in the open air (ἐν ὑπαίθρῳ, using the 19 Jaccottet (2003) II.69 no. 31, for the latest version (used here for the text). Henrichs (1993) 40 n. 73, reconstructs the first 2 lines: ὑπαίθριόν σοι ναὸν ἀμφιβώμιον /σκεπαστὸν ἀμπέλοισι, Μαινάδων ἄνα. 20 Vitruvius explains such a building as colonnaded, without a roof; De architectura 3.2.8, cited by Albert Henrichs (1993) 40 n. 73.

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noun). The Romans apparently attached a special importance to the distinction between inside and outside. The issue is one of pollution. Plutarch explains that if a man mistakenly reported as dead and buried was actually alive and managed to return home unmolested, he had to enter his house through a hole in the roof.21 This was so because the sky and the upper air were considered to be pure. By entering through that part closest to the open sky, he avoided polluting the house with the fiction of his death. The Romans were not the only ones concerned about polluting the house by fictional contact with death. He goes on to say that, on the Greek side, the Delphic oracle required those mistakenly reported as dead to be treated like newborn infants polluted by childbirth. Like infants considered polluted, at birth, each one falsely reported as dead had to be washed and swaddled in clean cloths “under the open sky” before he could be reintegrated into his community.22 The Romans advised their children not to swear by Dionysos or Herakles inside the house because an oath to one of these divinities in a covered place would pollute their home. Timokleides’ dedication of a cave is not an innovation in the history of Dionysos. The association of Dionysos with caves may go back to the archaic period. The earliest possible piece of evidence is the cedar chest that Pausanias saw at Olympia (Pausanias 5.17.5 – 5.19.10). The details of Pausanias’ description of the boustrophedon writing on the chest and his interpretation of the inscriptions have convinced recent scholars that the chest was an authentic sixth century piece, preserved for seven centuries in a protected area of the sanctuary.23 Pausanias describes a scene on the chest that depicts a bearded, recumbent Dionysos in a cave, holding a golden cup. Vines, and apple and pomegranate trees surround the spot. If the chest was truly an artifact from the Archaic period, it would have been one of the earliest depictions of Dionysos in a cave. The same emphasis on sweet food and a generous Dionysos, however, appears in other traditional descriptions of Bacchic caves. Plutarch describes a guided tour of the underworld for a man called Thespesios, who, three days after his death, returned to life at his own funeral and reports what he had seen while he was away. For the souls of the dead he describes a divided space deep under the earth where he says he saw a great chasm not unlike Bacchic caves: It was gaily diversified with tender leafage and all the hues of flowers. From it was wafted a soft and gentle breeze that carried up fragrant scents, arousing wondrous pleasures and such a mood as wine induces in those becoming tipsy; for as the souls regaled themselves on the sweet odours they grew expansive and friendly with one another; and 21 Plutarch Quaestiones Romanae 5.264a-f. 22 Plutarch Quaestiones Romanae 5.264f – 265b. 23 Habicht (1998) 161 n. 2; Snodgrass (2004) 127 – 141.

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the place all about was full of Bacchic revelry and laughter and the various strains of festivity and merry-making.24

Thespesios’ guide explains the good mood of these souls by the location of the chasm, directly on the route that Dionysos had taken when he brought Semele back from the world of the dead. Bacchic grottoes associated with the worship of Dionysos mirror the chasm on the route from the underworld. Caves identified with this god are pleasant places, where the food is good and requirements easy. The initiates at Thasos can expect to have a good time. Caves are associated with Dionysos elsewhere. The chorus singing the hymn of Philodamos advises the people of Delphi to attract the god by building a cave appropriate to his status (strophe 11), where they can expect the god to care for them in return. The second birth of Dionysos, from the thigh of Zeus, had to be hidden from Hera (Euripides Bacchae 98). Semele had died because of Hera’s jealousy, a fact that convinced Zeus to hide Semele’s child by sewing the embryo into his thigh. Zeus prepared for childbirth out of Hera’s sight. The scene of Dionysos’ birth is represented on several vases. We shall consider two. The first is a Red Figure Athenian lekythos found at Eretria (figure 1, 460 – 450 BCE).25 The birth is attended by Hermes, who stands facing Zeus, holding his own kerykeion in his left hand and the scepter of Zeus in his right. With one hand on his thigh, Zeus sits with his head tilted in the direction of the infant Dionysos, whose own head is just beginning to emerge from his father’s limb. The drawing indicates that Zeus is sitting on a rock, an indication that the scene takes place in the open air. The second vase is a Red Figure volute crater from Taranto (figure 2, 405 – 385 BCE).26 The infant Dionysos, wearing a flowered crown, emerges from the thigh of Zeus and turning away from Zeus, reaches out to Artemis, identified by her hunting spear. The baby Dionysos is named, and we have no trouble identifying the witnesses. Their names are inscribed like labels: Zeus, Pan, and Hermes. There are no clues to the location of the scene, but the vase gives us some important information about how to represent an adult male giving birth. Zeus is seated like any Greek woman in labor, in the birthing chair position. The baby does not exit Zeus in the same way that a child normally would exit the female body of its mother, but is being extruded head first from the top of Zeus’ knee. Although the setting of Dionysos’ second birth are not made explicit in these representations, a marble sculpture of a cave found in a Roman house on the 24 Plutarch De sera numinis vindicta 565f – 566a (translation by Phillip H. De Lacy and Benedict Einarson). 25 Boston Museum of Fine Arts 95.39; ARV2 33, 58; LIMC III.1, Dionysos, 666. 26 Museo Nazionale Archeologico di Taranto; Taranto 8264. Trendall, JHS 4 (1934) 175 – 179; LIMC III.1, Dionysos, 667.

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Fig. 1. Birth of Dionysos from the thigh of Zeus. Red Figure Athenian lekythos found at Eretria, 460 – 450 BCE. Boston Museum of Fine Arts 95.39; ARV2 33, 58; LIMC III.1, Dionysos, 666.

north side of the Athenian Areopagus suggests that a cave was associated with this transition (figure 3, dated to about 330 BCE).27 This model of a cave was inscribed with the name of its dedicator, Neoptolomos, son of Antikles, of the deme Melite.28 Sadly the characters posing in the cave for the baby’s first portrait have all had their faces damaged, and the infant himself has been whittled down 27 Strocka (2008) 1005 – 1015. 28 Neoptolemos was a very wealthy Athenian who supported the religious projects of Lycourgos. See Mikalson (1998) 34 – 36 for the list of the contributions of Neoptolemos.

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Fig. 2. Birth of Dionysos from the thigh of Zeus. Red Figure volute crater from Taranto, Italy; 405 – 385 BCE; Museo Nazionale Archeologico di Taranto; Taranto 8264. Trendall, JHS 4 (1934) 175 – 179; LIMC III.1, Dionysos, 667.

to what looks like a small pillow. Nevertheless, we can identify some of the figures by their attributes. Beginning with the far left, we have Demeter standing, a seated male (identified by some as Apollo), Artemis, Hermes handing the baby to one nymph, two more nymphs to the right (one is seated), Pan drinking from a cup, and, at the lower right, what might be identified from the scant remains, as Acheloos, father of all rivers. Beyond the group portrait, on the upper plane, Zeus looks down on the scene in the cave from his elevated seat on a mountainside.29 The ground line for the mountain passes from the raised arm of the standing nymph on the right, up to and behind Zeus. 29 Carroll-Spillecke (1985) 57 – 58 describes the convention of the divided frieze. She describes the position of Zeus as “deep within the cave,” but recognizes that he is “set apart.”

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The entire collection of deities is seen by some to represent local sanctuaries on and around the Acropolis.30 There is, however a problem with this interpretation. Τhe identification of the seated male figure on the left side of the Athenian relief is questionable. Although his face is very damaged, it is possible that the figure once had a beard. A bearded Apollo is unlikely. Moreover, if we compare this seated male figure to the representations of Zeus on the Athenian lekythos and the krater from Taranto, we can see that he sits in the same position and has the same uncovered knee. The pose of the seated male on both vases is that of the customary pose used to represent a woman giving birth. Women sat on a stool to give birth. This is clear from representations on fourth century tombstones of women dying in childbirth.31 Zeus, as father playing the part of mother, sits on a stone to give birth. Artemis, as midwife, holds a cloth and turns to face the seated Zeus. It is unusual to have two examples of the same individual depicted in a single scene, but this representation is exceptional. We have three separate areas arranged on two planes in this picture.32 Each section encloses a particular divinity or divinities. The ground plane is divided into two parts. The local divinities associated with the cave are on the right (Pan and the divinities associated with water), and the visiting Olympians on the left. Hermes mediates between the two groups as he carries the infant Dionysos from his double parent to the nymphs who are going to wash him and raise him. The higher plane is the mountaintop reserved for Zeus in his role as supreme Olympian, watching the scene below. There are several questions we can ask when looking at these two levels. How can a mountain be inside a cave? Whose cave is it? What is the name of the mountain? It could be Mt. Nysa, whose name, combined with the root of the name “Zeus,” was believed to be the source of the name of Dionysos. There are several locations claiming to be the actual Mt. Nysa where Dionysos was born, but because we are dealing with a mythical event, there is no “right” choice. We should notice, however, that the cave model of Neoptolemos at Athens and the paean of Philodamos at Delphi are dated to the same decade, around 330 BCE. The shorter Homeric Hymn to Dionysos could even serve as a caption to the scene in Neoptolemos’ marble cave: Of ivy-haired Dionysos the mighty roarer first I sing. Zeus’ and glorious Semele’s splendid son, whom the lovely-haired nymphs took to their bosoms from his divine father and reared and fostered attentively in Nysa’s glens; and he grew according to his father’s design in the fragrant cave, numbered among the immortals. After the god-

30 The most recent presentation of this interpretation is Despinis (2009) 11 – 19. Without noticing the bare knee, he argues that the scene represents the birth of Ion. 31 Demand (1994) 122, 157. 32 Despinis (2009) 12 – 13.

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desses had raised him, god of such song, he took to going about the wooded valleys, wreathed with ivy and bay; the nymphs would follow along as he led, and the noise of the revel pervaded the boundless woodland. So I salute you, Dionysos of the abundant grape clusters: grant that we may come again in happiness at the due time and time after time for many a year.33

The hymn also echoes the language of Timokleides’ dedication at Thasos. Cave imagery associated with Dionysos continued to be popular during the Hellenistic period. Alexander’s journey to India, inspired by the legends of Dionysos, in turn influenced the myths of the god. After the death of Alexander, Dionysos became a model for Hellenistic kings who called themselves “New Dionysos” and sponsored rich festivals for the god. Ptolemy II Philadelphos in the early third century BCE sought to confirm his own prestige by sponsoring a series of processions. His procession for Dionysos, described by Kallixeinos and preserved for us by Athenaeus, gives an impressive account of Dionysian imagery. Hundreds of cups and pitchers held wine for the Alexandrian audience as they observe a sumptuous cave described like this: It would not be right to pass over this four-wheeled cart, which was 22 cubits long by 14 cubits wide and was hauled by 500 men. On top of it was a cave very deeply covered by ivy and smilax. Pigeons, ringdoves, and turtledoves flew out of this along the whole course of the procession. and wool ribbons were tied to their feet to make them easy to catch. Two springs, one of milk and the other of wine gushed forth from it; all the nymphs around it wore golden garlands, and Hermes carried a gold messenger’s staff and wore expensive clothing. On another four-wheeled cart, which contained the return of Dionysos from India, was a 12-cubit tall Dionysus lying on an elephant and wearing a purple robe and a gold garland made to resemble ivy and grapevines. He held a gold thyrsus-lance in his hands and wore shoes with gold stitching on his feet.34

The two large carts carry displays that represent two signature events in the biography of Dionysos: his miraculous birth and his expedition to India. The first cart carries a model of a cave and the witnesses of his birth. The second cart, displaying Dionysos in triumph, is accompanied by animals from around the world. In addition to the troops of donkeys and billy goats marching in procession, not to mention the elephant on which Dionysos rode, there were 2400 dogs, parrots, peacocks, pheasants, Ethiopian birds, 130 Ethiopian sheep, 300 Arabian sheep, 20 Euboean sheep, 26 Indian cows (zebus), 20 Ethiopian cows, 1 adult bear, 14 leopards, 16 cheetahs, exotic African antelopes, 3 cheetah cubs, 1 giraffe, and 1 Ethiopian rhinoceros. The traditional Dionysian landscape is enlarged, marked by specific populations of animals each representing a part of the world. The power of Dionysos therefore reaches the ends of the earth. 33 Homeric Hymns 26 (translated by Martin L. West). 34 Kallixeinos in Athenaeus 5.200b-d (translated by S. Douglas Olson).

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In the last years of the Roman Republic, Marcus Antonius, during his visit to the Greek east exploited Dionysiac imagery to glorify his own position. He had a Bacchic “cave” built above the theater at Athens so that he could play Dionysos himself. Socrates of Rhodes describes his mishandling of ritual objects: He also reports that when Antonius himself spent some time in Athens after this, he had a roughly framed hut built in a conspicuous spot above the Theater and covered with green brushwood, as they do with Bacchic “caves”; and he hung drums, fawnskins, and other Dionysiac paraphernalia of all sorts in it.35

Antonius uses his cave for drunken orgies and has it announced throughout all the cities that he himself was Dionysos. He made himself so publicly identified with the god that on the night of his death, people thought they heard the noise of Bacchic worshippers departing the city of Alexandria (Plutarch, Antony 75.3 – 4). The second century was a period of great interest in the story of the biography of Dionysos, and many complicated variants survive. The context of familiar landmarks changes, but mountains and caves are still part of the story. Oppian, for instance preserves a version of Dionysos’ early days that places his development on a mountain called Mêros (“Thigh”) located by Strabo and Pliny in India. Ino, who had killed her own children, was the baby’s nurse. The child was hidden from Hera, laid in a pine coffin covered with fawnskins and wreathed with grape vines. Dionysos is a foster child; in every version of his young life he is cared for by strangers. Here, his nurses danced the dance called mystikon, played drums and cymbal, and secretly taught the women of Boeotia the their sacred rites (teletai). Next they took the young Dionysos to Aristaios, a local culture hero who dwelt in a cave on a mountaintop. Aristaios received the boy. We are told that as a child Dionysos could draw wine from rocks, and as he grew up he traveled throughout the world spreading the growth of the grapevine and teaching all to make wine (Cynegetica 4.244 – 353). Oppian wrote in the second century, a high point in the history of Dionysos, and also a period of great consumption and urbanization. Dionysiac imagery, poetry, and inscriptions increase during periods of high production. Inscriptions dedicated by Dionysiac worshippers also increase during the second century, at a time when the literature of the Second Sophistic recounts complicated myths that emphasize a contrast between the urban environment and the wilderness of the surrounding countryside. The story told by Oppian is an example. Greeks and Romans did not need a real wilderness to worship Dionysos in the wild. People did not construct artificial grottoes just because a local cave was not handy. Caves require a certain socialization of a space. Tended landscapes are always to some extent artificial. Like Timokleides at Thasos, anyone could create a Dionysian 35 Socrates of Rhodes in Athenaeus 4. 148b-c (translated by S. Douglas Olson).

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Fig. 3. Hermes receives Dionysos, born from the thigh of Zeus. Marble relief of cave, fourth century BCE. Found in a Roman house on the north slope of the Athenian Areopagus in 1971. Athens, Agora Museum, Inv. I 7154, Agora3 193 – 194, fig. 100; Shear, Hesperia 42 (1973) 168 – 170. Photo by author.

landscape by building a “cave” decorated with vines of grape and ivy to commemorate the god’s birth. In the first century, at Kallatis on the west coast of the Black Sea, the priestess of Athena dedicated a cave to the Dionysos.36 The priestess did not donate a real cave, but an artificial one, like the cave dedicated by Timokleides at Thasos or the model dedicated by Neoptolemos at Athens. These gifts show that an artificial landscape can be as meaningful as a real one. We have seen that cities were eager to claim to be the place where Dionysos emerged when he brought his mother Semele back from the world of the dead. Neoptolemos’ “cave” frames three places: above, Zeus on a mountain (perhaps even Olympos itself), “under the open sky”; below on the left, the surface of the earth where gods can walk with human beings; and on the right, deities who represent the wilderness and the underground waters bordering the world of the dead. Dionysos belongs to all three realms.

36 Jaccottet (2003) II 127 – 129 no. 61, with discussion I 151 – 154.

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Bibliography Boyancé, Pierre (1960 – 61): “L’Antre dans les mystères de Dionysos”, in: RPAA 33 (1960 – 61) 107 – 127. Carroll-Spillecke, Maureen (1985): Landscape Depictions in Greek Relief Sculpture: Development and Conventionalization, Frankfurt, 1985. Clay, J. Strauss (1996): “Fusing the Boundaries. Apollo and Dionysos at Delphi”, in: Metis 11 (1996), 83 – 100. Cohen, Ada (2007): “Mythic Landscapes of Greece”, in: Greek Mythology, R. D. Woodard (ed.) Cambridge, 2007, 305 – 330. Cole, Susan Guettel (1993): Procession and Celebration at the Dionysia, in: Theater and Society in the Classical World, R. Scodel (ed.), Ann Arbor, 1993, 25 – 38. Cullyer, Helen (2005): “A Wind That Blows from Thrace: Dionysus in the Fifth Stasimon of Sophocles’ Antigone”, in: CW 99 (2005) 3 – 20. Demand, Nancy (1994): Death, and Motherhood in Classical Greece, Baltimore, 1994. Detienne, Marcel (1989): Dionysos at Large, Cambridge MA, 1989 (English translation of Dionysos à ciel ouvert, Paris 1986). Detienne, Marcel (2001): “Forgetting Delphi between Apollo and Dionysos”, in : CP 96 (2001), 147 – 158. Dodds, E. R. (19602): Euripides, Bacchae, Oxford, 19602. Elderkin, G. W. (1941): “The Natural and the Artificial Grotto”, in: Hesperia, 10 (1941), 125 – 137. Habicht, Christian (1998): Pausanias’ Guide to Ancient Greece, Berkeley, 1998. Hedreen, Guy (2004): “Dionysiac Processional Ritual and the Creation of a Visual Narrative”, in: JHS 124 (2004), 38 – 64. Henrichs, Albert (1978): “Greek Maenadism from Olympias to Messalina”, in : HSCP 82 (1978) 121 – 160. Henrichs, Albert (1993): “He Has a Man in Him”, in: Masks of Dionysus, T. H. Carpenter and C. A. Faraone (eds.), Ithaca 1993, 13 – 43. Horster, Marietta (2011): “Cults of Dionysos: Economic Aspects”, in: A Different God? Dionysos and Ancient Polytheism, Renate Schleisier (ed.), Berlin, 2011, 61 – 84. Jaccottet, Anne-Françoise (2003): Choissir Dionysos: Les associations dionysiaques ou La face cachée du dionysisme, Zurich, 2003. Käppel, Lutz (1992): Paian: Studien zur Geschicte einer Gattung, Berlin, 1992. Larsen, Jennifer (2001): Greek Nymphs : Myth, Cult, Lore, Oxford, 2001. Mikalson, Jon D. (1998): Religion in Hellenistic Athens, Berkeley, 1998. Moret, J.-M. (1993): “Les départs des enfers dans l’imagerie apulienne”, in: RA (1993) 293 – 348. Siebert, Gérard (1990): “Imaginaire et images de la grotte dans la Grèce archaïque et classique”, Kernos 5 (1990) 151–161. Snodgrass, A. M. (2004): “Pausanias and the Chest of Kypselos”, in: Pausanias : Travel and Memory in Roman Greece, S. E. Alcock, J. C Cherry, and J. Elsner (eds.), Oxford, 2001, 127 – 141. Strocka, V.M. (2008): “Das verkannte Weihrelief des Neoptolemos”, in : Festschrift E. Pochmarski, Vienna, 2008, 1005 – 1015.

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Torjussen, S. S. (2006): “Dionysos in the Underworld. An Interpretation of the Toledo Krater”, Nordlit 20 (2006) 87 – 104.

Efrosyni Boutsikas

Landscape and the Cosmos in the Apolline Rites of Delphi, Delos and Dreros University of Kent

Earlier work has argued that the time for the consultation of Apollo’s oracle in Delphi was signalled by the heliacal rising of the constellation of Delphinus.1 This paper tests this idea in three ways: firstly, by applying it to the timing of known rituals and sacrifices that took place outside Delphi in preparation for the departure of processions sent to Delphi for the annual oracular consultation; secondly, the paper investigates the foundation myth and landscape of the sanctuary of Apollo in Delos in association with the timing of the major cult rites, as well as the landscape of the Cretan sanctuary of Apollo in Dreros. The aim is to investigate whether the landscape and positioning of the key structures in these sanctuaries can be associated with specific astronomical observations of Delphinus, which could have signalled the arrival of key moments in the year of religious significance in the sanctuaries in question. Finally, the timing of major festivals held in Delphi, Athens, Delos and Dreros is plotted against the timing of the major phases of Delphinus in order to infer whether these cult rites can be associated with the movement of the constellation. The predominant forms of Apollo are taken from localities (e. g. Delian, Didymaios, Amyklaios), from animals (e. g. Delphinios, Lykeios) and from his association with other gods or heroes (e. g. Hyakinthios).2 This paper deals with the three most popular epithets of Apollo in Greece, which fall in the first two categories: Pythios, Delphinios and Delian. It has been extensively argued that Apollo Delphinios was associated with the public and political life of the city and with male ephebic initiation rites.3 Recent work has revealed though, that the Pythios and Delphinios cults may have not been as distinct in the minds of the ancients as we believe; instead, the two epithets seem to overlap.4 That titles of Apollo were not mutually exclusive is confirmed also in the literary sources: 1 2 3 4

Salt and Boutsikas (2005). For more associations see Davies (1997) 51. See for example Farnell (1907) 176 – 179; Graf (1979) 2 – 22. Davies (2007) 57, 60.

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Demosthenes invokes Apollo Pythios as the ‘ancestral divinity of Athens’, referring to Apollo Patroios (Demosthenes, On the crown, 18.141); Euripides places the worship of Apollo Hypoakraios on the Akropolis North Slope (Ion, 283 – 285), where in fact, this cult was dedicated to Apollo Pythios; similarly, evidence suggests that the cult of Apollo Archegetes in Sicilian Naxos was associated with the Delphic Apollo.5 In the case of Delphi, the written sources converge in favour of the idea of an overlap between the Pythios and Delphinios epithets: although Apollo Pythios is believed to emphasise Apollo’s oracular abilities6, the oracle of Apollo in Delphi was strongly associated with lawgiving; in other words, consulted as a mode of government.7 Plato in his ideal states leaves to Apollo in Delphi the religious lawgiving (Plato, Republic, 427b–c), a trait that is usually associated with Apollo Delphinios. An example of this practice is the suggestion of a legistrator or arbitrator by the oracle, such as those of Zaleukos to the Lokrians and Demonax of Mantineia to the Kyrenaians (Schol. Pindar, Olympian, 11.17 quoting from Aristotle’s Lokron Politeia). Moreover, Apollo Pythios had the role of the chief political deity in Sparta, to the extent that the epithet gave its name to body of officials, the ‘Pythioi’ (Herodotos, VI.57.2 – 3) and had intimate relations with the Delphic sanctuary.8 It is not argued here that all epithets of Apollo were interchangeable. On the contrary, in several cases, deliberate attempts were made to distinguish between epithets, as for example in the oaks taken in Dreros, which distinguished between Apollo Delphinios and Apollo Pythios.9 What seems, however, to have been the case in Delphi, is that the cult of Apollo, although dedicated to Apollo Pythios, it overlapped with attributes usually associated with the Delphinios epithet. The Homeric Hymn to Apollo narrates how Apollo during his quest for the founding of his oracle in Delphi, transformed into a dolphin and led the Cretan sailors to the port of Krisa, where he ordered them to build an altar to Apollo Delphinios, before leading them to Delphi (Homeric Hymn to Apollo, 390 – 401, 436 – 446, 491 – 502, 514 – 524). According to the poem, the foundation of the Delphinian and the Pythian cults in Krisa and Delphi take place at the same time; thus, the Homeric Hymn to Apollo establishes a close association between the cult of Delphinios Apollo and his sanctuary in Delphi. Apollo Delphinios was by no means a marine deity, however, discussion on the association of Apollo and the dolphin has been reinitiated. This connection,

5 6 7 8 9

Davies (2007) 60. Davies (1997) 51. Farnell (1907) 197, 202. Farnell (1907) 216. For more cases where the different epithets of Apollo were distinguished and honoured separately, see Davies (2007) 60.

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which was refuted in earlier works10 is now argued to be present, to the extent that dolphins are seen as Apollo’s ‘flèches vivantes’, while Condos citing Aratos11 argues that Delphinos ‘is’ Apollo;12 dolphins not only rescue men, but also indicate Apollo’s will to men.13 Myths allude to Apollo’s life as a dolphin. Arion’s last request, before he jumped off the ship to meet his death was to perform one last hymn. In this myth, Arion uses Apollo’s symbol, the lyre, and is rescued from certain death by a school of dolphins which carried him on to Korinth (Herodotos, I.24). With regards to Delphi, apart from the Homeric Hymn which associates the founding of the Delphic oracle with Apollo and the dolphin, an anecdote related by Plutarch and Tacitus narrating the transport of the statue of Serapis (or Pluto) to Alexandria also attests to this connection. In the anecdote we are told that the dolphin saved the ship of the envoys, which was blown off course, and guided it to Kirrha. From there, the envoys visited the Delphic oracle, which revealed to them what to do to ensure arrival to Alexandria (Plutarch, De Sollertia Animalium. 984a–b; Plutarch, De Iside et Osiride, 361 f; Tacitus, Histories, 4.83 – 84). As in the case of the foundation of the Delphic oracle, divine intervention in the form of a dolphin ensures that divine will is fulfilled. The link between the Delphic cult of Apollo Pythios and the dolphins is further supported by the etymological connection between Delphi, Delphinios and the Greek word for dolphin (Δελφίνος)14 and also by the presence of dolphins on either side of the head of a goat in the Delphic coins. To assume that the association between the dolphin and Apollo’s cult in Delphi was limited only to their presence on the Delphic coins – being simply the result of the common etymological root between the animals and Delphi – is much too unsatisfying. Instead, the presence of the dolphins on the Delphic coins should be interpreted as the confirmation of Apollo’s association with dolphins in his Delphic cult, just like coins from Argos – depicting a wolf – relate to the presence of the animal in Apollo’s Argive cult (Figure 1) and coins from Kyrene and Mytilene – depicting Apollo bearing ram’s horn on his head – confirm the links between Apollo and the ram in these locations15 (Figures 2 and 3). Apollo Delphinios may be seen as the protector of founding colonies, as was Apollo Pythios in the guise of Apollo Archegetes in Sicilian Naxos (Thucydides, VI 3.1).16 Apollo Delphinios, the dolphin and Delphi are connected through the 10 e. g. Graf (1979). See also Graf (2009). 11 (1997) 237 note 5. 12 For a further discussion in favour of the connection between the animal and the god see Farnell (1907) 145 – 148). 13 Monbrun (2007) 216 – 243. 14 see also Graf (1979) 4. 15 Farnell (1907) 319. 16 Davies (2007) 60.

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Fig. 1. Coin from Argos showing wolf on obverse, ca. 343 BC.

Fig. 2. Coin from Kyrene Obverse: head of Apollo Karneios with ram’s horn. Reverse: Silphium plant, KY to left, P[A] to right, ca. 300 – 280 BC. AR stater (7.57 gm). SNG Copenhagen 1234.

Fig. 3. Coin from Mytilene. Head of Apollo Karneios obverse, wearing horn of Ammon. Reverse: Eagle standing right, head turned to the left. ca. 377 – 326 BC.

role of the Delphic oracle in the founding of new colonies.17 Founding new colonies involved seafaring; the role of the dolphin was to ensure safe arrival to

17 For a discussion on the role of Delphi and its oracles in founding colonies see Malkin (1987) 17 – 28.

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the new city.18 The connection of Apollo Delphinios with the dolphin may therefore also be seen as his symbol in founding colonies. The Homeric Hymn to Apollo narrates in effect, how the Cretan merchants found a colony in Delphi guided by Apollo ‘the Dolphin’. In Crete, the cult of Apollo Delphinios was present in numerous key locations. The link of the Delphic cult with Crete is attested in archaeological finds from Delphi such as the votive bronze double axes unearthed under the temple of Apollo and around the altar.19 The emphasis of this aspect of Apollo as the protector of colonies is also present in Sicilian coins. Those from Alaesa and Tauromenion, commemorate Apollo as Archegetes and the fifth century BC coins from Katana and Leontini bear Apollo’s head. Similar examples from the colonies of Magna Grecia exist. Such are for example the coins of Kroton, which display Apolline symbols (e. g. the tripod and Apollo’s head) even though the founder of the city was believed to have been Herakles, Kroton or Myskellos)2021 (Figure 4).

Fig. 4. Coin from Kroton, ca. 480 – 430 BC. Obverse: Tripod, legs terminating in lion’s feet; crab to right Reverse: Incuse tripod; to right, dolphin upward.

That the cult of Apollo Delphinios may have been indeed associated with ephebic initiation rites and with the affairs of the polis in certain locations, should not exclude his links with dolphins, as suggested by the mythological, etymological and archaeological evidence. Similarly, archaeological and literary (i. e. Homeric Hymn to Apollo) evidence also attest to the association of Apollo Pythios in Delphi with the dolphin, at least at some point in time (probably in its earliest form during the Geometric and Archaic periods), even though he was not viewed

18 For a further discussion on the suitable association of the dolphin with the founding of new cities and examples in myth, see Beaulieu (2008) 105 – 108. 19 Perdrizet (1908) 4. 20 For more information on the founders of Kroton and the ancient sources referring to them see Hall (2008) 399. 21 Farnell (1907) 321.

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as a god of seafaring.22 In other words, the ‘meaning’ of an epithet of Apollo (in the case of this paper Pythios, Delian, or Delphinios) does not necessarily only suppose a connection between the epithet and “the role imputed to the god in that aspect”;23 instead, the cult of the epithet (indicating a locality for example, e. g. Pythios), may have incorporated aspects of another cult (such as for example those of Delphinios).

Delphi Archaeological and literary evidence aside, the association of Apollo and the dolphin is also present in the timing of the operation of the Delphic oracle, the timing of the Pythian Games in Delphi, Apollo’s birthday and his return to Delphi at the end of his stay in the land of the Hyperboreans. All these events occur at the same time as the major astronomical phases of the celestial dolphin, the constellation of Delphinus (ancient Greek for dolphin) (Table 1). The temple of Apollo in Delphi faces NE. If standing at the entrance of the temple, one sees the Phaidriades rocks rise in front of the temple (Figure 5). This is the highest horizon in the site (Figure 6). The view from the temple is limited because of the proximity of the rocks. As a result, the rising of celestial bodies visible from this spot is delayed by ca. 2 weeks. Initially, the Delphic oracle would operate only once a year, on the birthday of Apollo, on the 7th day of Bysios, which is more or less the equivalent of our February. The sailing season did not start until March and even then, navigation in the Aegean was not pleasant until the end of April.24 February would be a difficult time for people to travel to a place as mountainous as Delphi, especially so if sailing to the site. An equally significant problem with the 7th of Bysios, would be locating this day outside the Delphic calendar, given the major differences in the calendars of the Greek cities: Greek city-states had different month names, started the year at different times, for example after the spring, or autumn equinox, and intercalated at different times of the year. So arriving to Delphi for the oracle’s consultation, which took place on a specific day of the Delphic calendar was a challenging undertaking. The heliacal rising of the constellation of Delphinus occurs at the same time as Apollo’s return to Delphi after his annual stay in the land of the Hyperboreans (Table 1). The constellation was in antiquity the same as the modern con22 For similar evidence deriving from the sanctuary of Apollo Delphinios in Miletos, see Herda (2005) 287. 23 Davies (1997) 50. 24 Farnell (1907) 289.

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Fig. 5. View of the Phaidriades standing at the entrance of Apollo’s temple (Photo: E. Boutsikas).

stellation of Delphinus. We know this from its description in the Phaenomena of Aratos of Soli (3rd century BC), which was based on the work of 4th century Eudoxos. Delphinus is also mentioned in the parapegma of Geminos (ca. 3rd

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Fig. 6. Panoramic horizon profile of Apollo’s temple in Delphi (Photo: E. Boutsikas).

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century BC)25. The parapegma lists the cosmical setting, acronychal rising and heliacal setting of Delphinus. It associates these observations with Eudoxos and Euktemon26 asserting that the constellation was widely known and that its movement was monitored and watched for at least as late as the 5th – 4th centuries BC. In a relatively flat horizon (ca. 4° – 6° altitude) Delphinus rose heliacally in the month preceding Bysios in ancient Greece. Heliacal rising is the first visibility of a star or small constellation after its invisibility period, when it was either hidden below the horizon or had been rising during the day. It is the one time in the year when a celestial body becomes visible in the morning for a few minutes before sunrise. So during its heliacal rising, Delphinus is seen to rise above the horizon just before the sun, while it is still dark enough to be seen, just before, the morning twilight. A few seconds later, the sun, which is much closer to the earth than the stars and therefore moves faster, rises and its light hides the star. This first visibility of the star in the pre-dawn sky is the heliacal rising and occurs every year, on the same day. The next day, Delphinus rises above the horizon, again, just before the sun, but a few minutes earlier than the day before. So by the time the sun’s glare hides the constellation, it manages to climb a little higher in the sky than the previous day. The Greeks used the risings and settings of stars and constellations much earlier that the earliest known epigraphical evidence of the 5th century parapegmata. This is confirmed by Hesiod’s Works and Days (7th century BC), where Hesiod repeatedly refers to these observations. Figure 7 shows a reconstruction of the horizon in front of Apollo’s temple in Delphi from where Delphinus would have been seen to rise. Since the heliacal rising of Delphinus occurred in the month before Bysios, Bysios, the month in which the Delphic oracle operated, was the first full month in which Delphinus was visible in the sky.27 The constellation would always be visible in the late night sky on the 7th of Bysios, which was also Apollo’s birthday in Delphi. Delphinus’ heliacal rising occurs at the same time as its heliacal setting. Both events take place in the heart of the winter, when bad weather conditions are more likely to occur, so being able to observe both phenomena at the same time is advantageous. In Delphi, the heliacal setting would become visible before the heliacal rising, as the altitude to the W is considerably lower. Observing Delphinus’ heliacal rising and setting across Greece could perhaps be the signifier of the periods of consultation of the oracle. In addition, the delayed viewing of the 25 Lehoux (2007) 39. 26 On the eighteenth day of Leo “according to Eudoxos Delphinus sets in the morning” Lehoux (2007) 233. On the second day of Capricorn “according to Euktemon Delphinnus rises, it is stormy.” Lehoux (2007) 236. On the fourth day of Aquarius “according to Eudoxos Delphinus sets acronychally” Lehoux (2007) 237. 27 Salt and Boutsikas (2005).

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heliacal rising of the constellation in Delphi by two weeks compared to a flat horizon, would offer advance travel time for visitors to arrive to the oracle in time for the annual consultation; a Panhellenic event, which attracted oracle seekers from across the Greek world.

Fig. 7. Reconstruction of the Delphic night sky and horizon altitude at the time of the heliacal rising of Delphinus (ca. 700 – 300 BC).

The Pythian festival was held in Delphi in the second month of the Delphic calendar, Boukatios,28 which was also the first month after Delphinus’s cosmical setting (Table 1).

Attica and Boeotia In Athens, we are told of the custom of the Pythaistai, according to which, the Pythaistai group spent three days and nights in each of three months watching the sky in anticipation for a divine sign (a lightning) in order for the Athenian delegation to depart for Delphi (Strabo, IX.2.11).29 The Pythaistai were looking for a lightning in the direction of Harma, which Strabo tells was located in Boeotia, to the NW of Athens (Strabo, IX.2.11)30. The Pythaistai then would have watched the NW part of the night sky. An inscription places the beginning of the Pythaistai watch in mid–late Boedromion (during our October)31 and consequently, its end in Poseideon (December–January). The chance of seeing a lightning in the space of three days in a month for three months is small. Indeed, we are informed by inscriptions that the lighting did not come in most years.32 28 Πύθια ἀγόντων τοῦ Βουκατίου μηνὸς τοῦ ἐν Δελφοῖς (C.I.A. 2.545). 29 That this lightning was considered to be a message from Apollo Pythios is attested in Euripides, Ion, 285. For more references to the custom of the Pythaistai see Farnell (1907) 395 – 396 note 156d – n. 30 Lambert (2002) 370. 31 Lambert (2002) 392. 32 Richards (1919) 113.

Boukatios Boathoos

Heraios Daidaphoros

Poitropios

Amalios

Bysios Theoxenios

Edyspoitropios Herakleios

Metageitnion Boedromion

Pyanepsion Maimakterion

Poseideon

Gamelion

Anthesterion Elaphebolion

Mounychion Thargelion

Delphic oracle operation (7th)

Pythia, Delphi (7th)

Relevant Festivals

Skirophorion Ilaios Daphnephoria, Delphi Tab. 1. Delphic festivals plotted against the movement of Delphinus.

Delphic months Apellaios

Attic months Hekatombaion

Acronychal rising in Delphi (15 – 17 June)

Acronychal rising (1 – 3 June)

Helical rising (1 – 3 Jan) Helical setting (3 – 5 Jan) Helical rising in Delphi (17 – 19 Jan)

Movement of Delphinus Cosmical Setting (6 – 8 August)

June–July

April–May May–June

February–March March–April

January–February

December–January

October–November November–December

August–September September–October

Gregorian months July–August

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However, we are not told on what grounds the procession began during those years. The spacing and occurrence of this watch recalls the observation of an astronomical phenomenon: you watch for three days, if what you are looking for is not there you come back a few days later, watch for another few days and so on until you see the celestial phenomenon you are looking for. This works for the rising and setting of stars. As seen on Table 2, the end of the Pythaistai watch period overlaps with Delphinus’ heliacal rising and setting as visible in lower horizons, like that of Athens. During the time of the watch in October–January, it is the only time in the year when Delphiuns is seen to set in the west towards the direction that the Pythaistai were observing. At this time, Delphinus sets earlier and earlier every evening until early January, when the constellation’s heliacal rising (visible in the east) occurs, and a day or so later, its heliacal setting in the west, approximately an hour after sunset. On the seventh of Gamelion (January–February), sacrifices were offered to Apollo Delphinios among other gods in Erchia (Table 2). The procession departed Erchia for Delphi after the sacrifices, to be there for the oracle’s consultation. If the end of the Pythaistai watch at the end of the previous month and the Erchian sacrifices in the beginning of Gamelion were signalled by Delphinus’s heliacal rising, those travelling to Delphi for the oracle’s consultation had approximately 15 days to arrive before the same phenomenon was visible at the sanctuary of Apollo in Delphi. The festival of the Daphnephoria was associated with Apollo in relation to his solar and cosmological attributes. The festival was celebrated both in Delphi and Thebes every ninth year, although the two rites were very different. The Delphians called Daphnephoria a rite which comprised of sending a solemn boy to the Tempe (Plutarch, Quaestiones Graecae, 12), in the month Thargelion. The Theban Daphnephoria probably took place in the same month and on the same day on which the Delphian boy broke the purifying laurel-boughs in Tempe. This overlaps with the timing of the acronychal rising of Delphinus. The Theban Daphnephoria, associated with Apollo, had very distinct astronomical and cosmological connotations. According to Proclos, who gives a full account of the festival (Christomatheia), the procession was led by a child and its closest relative. The relative held a branch of olive tree wrapped with garlands of laurel and flowers. In the top of the branch a bronze globe was attached, from which small bronze globes were suspended. In the centre of the branch there was another bronze globe smaller than the one on the top, with red garlands attached to it. Proclos notes that the large globe symbolized the sun, also referred to as Apollo33 the smaller one the moon, the numerous globes that were suspended from the big sphere symbolized the stars. The 365 garlands indicated the course of the year. 33 Βούλεται δὲ αὐτοῖς ἡ μὲν ἀνωτάτω σφαῖρα τὸν ἥλιον (ᾧ καὶ τὸν Ἀπόλλωνα ἀναφέρουσιν) […].

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The boy leading the procession followed the branch and was touching it with his hand. Based on the testimony of Proclos, Müller concluded that the Daphnephoria procession was a symbolic re-enactment of the procession of time, seasons and the alternation of light (large sphere) and night/darkness (small sphere and multiple little spheres).34 A festival of similar nature seems to have been celebrated in Athens, but is only mentioned in Proclos (apud Photium), who remarks that the Athenians honoured the seventh day as sacred to Apollo and that they carried laurel-boughs, adorned the basket with garlands, and sang hymns to the god. Since the horizons of these areas are much lower than Delphi, the movements of the constellation of Delphinus would become visible earlier than in Delphi. The end of the Pythaistai watch, the timing of the Erchian sacrifices to Apollo (on the seventh and eighth days of Gamelion and on the fourth day of Thargelion), the Thargelia in Athens and the timing of Daphnephoria (in Thebes and Delphi), overlap with three of the four most significant astronomical phases of Delphinus: the heliacal rising and setting at the end of Poseideon or the beginning of Gamelion and the achronycal rising in Thargelion (Table 2). These phases are recorded in the parapegma of Geminos (see note 26). The timing of the Athenian Delphinia though cannot be associated with the movement of the constellation (Table 2). The foundation myth of this festival was not associated with a myth in which Apollo played a prominent role. Instead, we are told that the festival was associated with Theseus, who gave offerings to Apollo Delphinios before setting off to slay the Minotaur (Plutarch, Theseus, 18.1). Since the most prominent role in the foundation myth of this festival was occupied by the myth of Theseus and not Apollo, this could perhaps explain why the timing of the festival does not overlap with the movement of Delphinus.

Delos The reason for testing the idea of the constellation’s movement against the timing of the major Delian festival is because both Suidas and Photios state that Polykrates carried out the Delia and the Pythia at the same time in Delos (line 473 – 4, p.408 in Photii Lexicon e codice Galeano)35. In addition, Apollo’s sanctuaries in Delos and Delphi were the two major Apolline sanctuaries in ancient Greece, providing the hearths of Greece with pure fire36, whilst both being also associated 34 On the astronomical character of the Daphnephoria see Müller (1820) 215. Consult also Schachter (2000). 35 Suidas s.v. Πύθια καὶ Δήλια ποιήσαντα ἅμα ἐν Δήλῳ. 36 Dietrich (1978) 9 and notes 176 and 177. The eternal flame at Athens was for example from

Pythia, Delphi (7th)

Boukatios

Boathoos

Heraios

Daidaphoros

Poitropios

Amalios

Bysios Theoxenios

Edyspoitropios Delphinia in Athens (6th) Herakleios Sacrifice to Apollo in Erchia (4th) Thargelia, Athens (7th) (to Apollo) Daphnephoria, Thebes

Ilaios

Metageitnion

Boedromion

Pyanepsion

Maimakterion

Poseideon

Gamelion

Anthesterion Elaphebolion

Mounychion Thargelion

Skirophorion

Acronychal rising (1 – 3 June)

Helical rising (1 – 3 Jan) Helical setting (3 – 5 Jan) Helical rising in Delphi (17 – 19 Jan)

Movement of Delphinus Cosmical Setting (6 – 8 August)

Acronychal rising in Delphi (15 – 17 June) Tab. 2. The timing of Delphic, Attic and Boeotian festivals and sacrifices plotted against the movement of Delphinus.

Daphnephoria, Delphi

Delphic oracle operation (7th)

End of Pythaistai watch followed by sacrifices(end of month) Sacrifices to Apollo Delphinios, Lykeios, etc. in Erchia (7 – 8th)

Beginning of Pythaistai watch (end of month)

Relevant Festivals

Delphic Attic months months Hekatombaion Apellaios

June–July

April–May May–June

February–March March–April

December–January January–February

October–November November–December

August–September September–October

Gregorian months July–August

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with the Hyperboreans. In Delphi, Apollo spent part of the year in the land of the Hyperboreans. The Delian association with the Hyperboreans is threefold: a) Herodotos tells us that Hyperborean maidens brought to Delos offerings from their land in time for the early-summer Apollo festival (Herodotos, IV.33; Porphyry, De Abstinentia, 2.19)37; b) Delos contained the graves of Hyperborean girls (located near the Artemision): Laodike, Hyperoche, Opis and Arge (Herodotos, IV.33.3; IV.34 – 35.2); c) Herodotos notes that during his time cereal offerings, believed to have come from the land of the Hyperboreans, arrived from the north to Delos (via Tenos) in time for the early-summer Apollo festival (Herodotos, IV.33). In Delos, all three temples of Apollo are oriented SW almost to the opposite direction of the Delphic temple (Figure 8). The earlier Oikos of the Naxians (marked as A in Figure 8) was placed on a similar orientation, but had two entrances, one on the east wall and another on the west. So the western orientation seems to be quite deliberate. We can therefore assume that the temples were oriented towards a particularly sacred area or relic. Most probably the ‘Horn altar’ (Keraton), the most significant altar on the island, believed to have been made by Apollo using the horns of sacrificed goats (Kallimachos, Hymn to Apollo, 60; Plutarch, Theseus, 21.2). This north-western orientation, when projected to the horizon, points towards the area from where the constellation of Delphinus would have been seen to set (Figure 9). In a myth preserved by Kallimachos (Hymn to Delos, 36 – 40, 191) and Apollodoros (Library, 1.4.1) Asteria (She-star), the daughter or Koeos and Phoebe and therefore Leto’s sister (Hesiod, Theogony, 409), in her attempt to avoid Zeus’ advances, leapt from heaven taking the shape of a star. Upon her arrival on earth, she became Delos.38 This reference to Asteria has been interpreted as the deity of the altar (“[…] πότνια σὸν περὶ βωμὸν [..]”, Kallimachos, Hymn to Delos, 312). The temples of both Delphi and Delos then, are orientated towards altars dedicated to gods who in myth changed temporarily to a star, before either landing on Delphi, or turning to Delos. In Delos, the day of Apollo’s birthday was different to that in Delphi; the Delians believed Apollo’s birthday to have been on the seventh of Thargelion (May–June) (Diogenes Laertios, 3.2), but here too, it was timed during a sigDelphi (Plutarch, Numa, 9.5 – 6) and in Lemnos the people would put out their fires for nine days and relight them with new pure fire brought from Delos (Philostratos, Heroikos, 21.5 – 7: καθ’ ἐνάτου ἔτους). 37 See also Farnell, who associates the presence of Apollo Γενέτωρ in Delos with the Hyperboreans ((1907) 101 and note 276). 38 In Hygginos and Servius, Asteria becomes a quail instead of a star (Hygginos, Fabulae, LIII; Servius to Verg. Aen. III, 73). In all the versions Asteria becomes the island of Delos after abandoning her starry or bird shape.

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Fig. 8. Ground plan of the sanctuary of Apollo in Delos. Letters A–D mark the temples of Apollo (adapted after Bruneau and Ducat (2005)).

nificant phase of the constellation of Delphinus, its acronychal rising (Table 3), the recording of which in the parapegma of Geminos confirms that it was watched for in ancient Greece (see note 26). The eastern horizon of Delos is low, so the phenomenon would have become visible with no delay. The most important Delian festival believed to have been called Delia and/or Apollonia,39 was probably held in the Delian month Hieros40 or in Thargelion.41 If celebrated in Thargelion, the festival would overlap with the timing of Delphinus’s acronychal rising, Hieros is favoured by most scholars as the month of the festival and this timing cannot be associated with a phase of Delphinus. Farnell, has argued that the choruses the Greek cities sent to Delos for the Delia would have needed to have departed well in advance of the festival and based on ancient references he argued that the cities would, need to start preparing for the departure of the choruses in early spring (Theognis, 775; Dionysios Periegetes, 527), pinpointing the beginning of this preparation sometime between February and March. In other words, the preparations would probably start in the first month after Delphinus’ heliacal rising and heliacal setting. The sacrificial calendar of Athens agrees with this timing, as it records the actual departure of the theôria for Delos in early Anthesterion (Fragment 8.2)42, 1.5 months after the constellation’s

39 40 41 42

Homolle (1879) 379. Lambert (2002) 382; Ringwood (1933) 453; Sale (1961) 88, 89; Trümpy (1997) 64. Farnell (1907) 289 – 290; Pascual (2009) 84. see Lambert (2002) 393.

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Fig. 9. Panorama of horizon visible from the entrances of Apollo’s temples in Delos (Photo: E. Boutsikas).

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heliacal rising and setting became visible in the Attic horizon (the latter event being also recorded in Geminos’s parapegma) (Table 3).

Crete Dreros is the only surviving sanctuary in Crete dedicated to the Delphinios cult. The written sources refer to another, in Olous, but this site is now under water. Dreros is included in this study because the Homeric Hymn to Apollo points to the origins of the Delphic cult in Crete. The archaeological evidence that attests to this link has been briefly discussed previously in this paper. Apollo Delphinios temples are not always located on the coast; an obvious example apart from Delphi, is also that of Dreros. However, temples of Apollo Delphinios are located within close distance from the coast, even in those cases, where they are perched up in the mountains. The temple in Dreros was 13 km from the coast. The Delphinion in ancient Thera was located at 380 m. altitude, but only 2 km from the coast, surrounded by views to the sea. The Athenian Delphinion, was 6 km from the coast and, likewise, the Erchian temple would have been ca. 8 km, and that of Knossos ca. 6 km from the sea. Apollo’s sanctuaries in Delos, Delphi and Dreros were associated with myths in which goats play a significant role. The altars in Delos and Dreros were linked with horns of goats43 and the animal was also present in Delphi in the myth narrating the discovery of the oracular gasses emanating from the chasm and also, as previously mentioned, on the Delphic coins. Since the three sanctuaries focused on different epithets of Apollo, this common association with goats is interesting. Apollo’s cults are not universally associated with goats (e. g. the sacred animal of the Spartan Apollo Karneios cult was the ram, while there was Apollo of the wolves in Argos and Apollo Lykeios). Our knowledge of the Cretan calendar is terribly incomplete. We do not know the time in the year that the Cretan calendars started, or whether all Cretan cities started their years at the same time.44 It has been correctly pointed out elsewhere, that in those calendars in which we know the time in the year of the month Delphinios, its timing does not support an association with the sea.45 The most recent study of the timing of the month Delphinios in Cretan Olous – located ca. 20 km to the east of Dreros – places the month in March–April.46 If assumptions for the timing of Delphinios are correct, the month would fall at the 43 44 45 46

Burkert (1985) 92; Graf (2009) 115. Trümpy (1997) 188. Farnell (1907) 145 and Graf (1979) 6. Chaniotis (1996) 36, 38, 40.

Heraios

Daidaphoros

Poitropios

Amalios

Bysios

Theoxenios

Edyspoitropios Artemision

Pyanepsion

Maimakterion

Poseideon

Gamelion

Anthesterion

Elaphebolion

Mounychion

Galaxion

Hieros

Gamelion 1

Poseideon

Aresion

Apatourion

Bouphonion

Boathoos

Boedromion

Metageitnion

Boukatios

Delphinios in Olous

Movement of Delphinus Cosmical Setting (6 – 8 August)

Delphinia in Athens (6th)

Departure of theoria to Delos Delphic oracle operation/ Delia or Apollonia in Delos (7th)

End of Pythaistai watch followed by Helical rising (1 – 3 sacrifices(end of month) Jan) Helical setting (3 – 5 Jan) Sacrifices to Apollo Delphinios, Ly- Helical rising in Delkeios, etc. in Erchia (7 – 8th) phi (17 – 19 Jan) Cities probably start preparing choruses for departure to the Delia

Departure of Apollo festival, Delos

Beginning of Pythaistai watch (end of month)

Pythia, Delphi (7th)

Month DelphiDelian months nios in Crete Relevant Festivals Hekatombaion

Metageitnion

Delphic Attic months months Hekatombaion Apellaios

April–May

March– April

February– March

January– February

December– January

October– November November– December

August– September September– October

Gregorian months July–August

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Ilaios

Skirophorion

Month DelphiDelian months nios in Crete Relevant Festivals Thargelion Sacrifice to Apollo in Erchia (4th) Thargelia, Athens (7th) (to Apollo) Birthday of Apollo, Delos (7th) Daphnephoria, Thebes Panimos Daphnephoria, Delphi

Movement of Delphinus Acronychal rising (1 – 3 June)

Gregorian months May–June

Acronychal rising in June–July Delphi (15 – 17 June) Tab. 3. The timing of Delphic, Attic, Boeotian and Delian festivals and sacrifices and month Delphinios in Olous plotted against the movement of Delphinus.

Delphic months Herakleios

Attic months Thargelion

(Continued)

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opening of the sailing season, but it cannot be tied with the movement of Delphinus. We do not know whether Dreros had a month named Delphinios and the time in the year of the Apollo Delphinios festival. The landscape and temple orientation of the Dreros sanctuary seem to match those of Delphi; the Dreros Delphinion is, like the temple of Apollo at Delphi, close to the sea but with no sea views. The horizon altitude in Dreros is high, but not as high as Delphi and the landscape of Dreros seems similar to the Delphic. Dreros lies between mountains to the east and west on the southern slopes of Mount Kadiston47 (Figure 9). Both sites are surrounded by high horizons to the east, north and west. The architecture of the Dreros temple cannot be reasonably compared to the temple of Apollo at Delphi, as the Delphic temple was a later construction, but both temples share a very similar orientation to the northeast (the orientation of the temple of Apollo in Delphi has an azimuth of 49° and that of Apollo Delphinios in Dreros 30°48) and so Delphinus would have been seen to rise in front of the Dreros temple like in Delphi, but with a delay of 2 – 3 days as opposed to the 15 days delay in Delphi (Figure 10).

Conclusion Although a number of the festivals discussed here like the Delia and the Daphnephoria were not celebrated on an annual basis, the proposed argument of the possible astronomical association is not affected, as in the years the festivals were celebrated, they were always held at the same time. The astronomical observations would therefore always be visible at the time of these cult rites. The temples of Apollo in Delphi and Dreros have a very similar orientation, while his Delian temples are oriented to the opposite direction (i. e. south of west. The three Delian temples have an average azimuth of 264°). The constellation of Delphinus (and the sun) would have been seen to rise if standing at the entrance of the temples or in front of the altar in Delphi and Dreros and to set if standing at the entrance of the Delos temples. The proposed association of Delphinus’ movement with rites linked to Apollo in his sanctuaries in Delphi, Delos and Dreros seems to work in most, but not all the cases examined here. In Delphi, Apollo’s birthday, his return from the land of the Hyperboreans, the festival of the Pythia, the timing of the Delphic oracle, and the Daphnephoria, all occurred at the time of the constellation’s four major astronomical phases as visible from the Delphic landscape; times that were also 47 Wycherley (1949) 55. 48 Azimuth 0° is due North, 90° due East, etc.

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Efrosyni Boutsikas

Fig. 10. View of horizon in front of Apollo’s temple in Dreros (Photo: E. Boutsikas).

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recorded in the parapegma of Geminos. In Attica, rites in preparation of the departure of processions going to the Delphic oracle for the annual consultation were also timed during Delphinus’ major phases, which from those landscapes became visible approximately two weeks earlier than in Delphi. Such were the end of the Pythaistai watch in Athens and the sacrifices offered to Apollo Delphinios in Erchia prior to the procession’s departure. In addition, in Athens and Thebes festivals that focused on Apollo’s solar attributes like the Athenian Thargelia and the Theban Daphnephoria can be linked with Delphinus’ acronychal rising. However, the Athenian Delphinia cannot be associated with the movement of Delphinus. Apollo’s birthday in Delos overlaps with the constellation’s acronychal rising. The timing of the Delia or Apollonia in Delos is not known with certainty. If the festival was celebrated in Thargelion, this timing could be associated with Delphinus’ acronychal rising, but the other suggested time of the festival in Hieros does not overlap with the constellation’s movement. Since the annual departure of the Athenian theôria to Delos for the festival is known49, it has been estimated that the cities would start preparing for the departure of the choruses in the first month after Delphinus’ heliacal rising and heliacal setting, while we know that the theôria would depart 1.5 months after this astronomical event. The time that the month Delphinios in Olous has been estimated to occur cannot be associated with the movement of the constellation. Of the festivals considered here those that cannot be associated with the movement of Delphinus is the Athenian Delphinia and possibly the Delia/Apollonia. It is perhaps indicative that both of these festivals are very strongly associated with the myth of Theseus (Plato, Phaedo, 58a–b) rather than Apollo per se.50 Other case studies such as the Athenian Acropolis51 and the sanctuary of Artemis Orthia in Sparta52 have yielded positive results in terms of case specific astronomical links with religious practice. However, the idea that the positioning of sanctuaries and temples being linked to astronomical observations that can be, in turn, associated with these specific cults in myth and in the timing of the religious festivals may not necessarily be supported throughout ancient Greece. There is no single interpretation that can justify the positioning and orientation of Greek temples, nor should there be expected to be one given how localized the Greek religious system was. ‘Broad-brush’ analyses of Greek temple orientations and the role of landscape fail to take into account cases where different factors (e. g. topographic) may have determined the positioning and spatial layout of

49 Hirst and Hirst (1927) 113; Rutherford (2004) 82 – 83. 50 For a discussion on the links between the Delia/Apollonia and the myth of Theseus see also Rutherford (2004) 82 – 83 and Stehle (1997) 159 note 111.3. 51 Boutsikas and Hannah (2012). 52 Boutsikas and Ruggles (2011) 60 – 65.

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Greek sanctuaries.53 As demonstrated in the cases examined here, historical, literary and archaeological evidence can enable us to make plausible interpretations for the role of astronomical observations in ancient Greek religious practice, as a tool for advancing our understanding of the tight links between practical astronomy, cosmology and ancient Greek religion within particular groups.

Bibliography Beaulieu, Marie-Claire A. (2008): The Sea as a Two-Way Passage between Life and Death in Greek Mythology, PhD Thesis, University of Texas at Austin. Boutsikas, Efrosyni / Hannah, Robert (2012), “Aitia, astronomy and the timing of the Arrhe¯phoria”, in: Annual of the British School at Athens (in press). Boutsikas, Eforsyni / Ruggles, Clive (2011), “Temples, Stars, and Ritual Landscapes: the Potential for Archaeoastronomy in Ancient Greece”, American Journal of Archaeology 115.1 (2011) 55 – 68. Bruneau, Philippe / Ducat, Jean (2005): Guide de Délos. Sites et Monuments. École Française d’ Athènes, 2005. Burkert, Walter (1985): Greek Religion. Archaic and Classical, Oxford: Blackwell/Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1985. Chaniotis, Angelos (1996), “Bemerkungen zum Kalender kretischer Städte in Hellenistischer Zeit”, Tekmeria 2 (1996), 16 – 43. Condos, Theony (1997): Star myths of the Greeks and Romans: a sourcebook containing the Constellations of Pseudo-Eratosthenes and the Poetic astronomy of Hyginus, Phanes Press, Grand Rapids, Michigan, 1997. Davies, John K. (1997), “The Moral Dimension of Pythian Apollo”, in Alan B. Lloyd (ed), What is a god? Studies in the nature of Greek divinity, London: Duckworth / Swansea: The Classical Press of Wales, 1997 (reprint 2009), 43 – 64. Davies, John K. (2007), “Pythios and Pythion: The Spread of a Cult Title”, Mediterranean Historical Review 22. 1 (2007) 57 – 69. Dietrich, Bernard C. (1978), “Reflections on the Origins of the Oracular Apollo”, Institute of Classical Studies Bulletin 25 (1978) 1 – 18. Evans, James / Berggren, J. Lennart (2006): Geminos’s Introduction to the Phenomena. A Translation and Study of a Hellenistic Survey of Astronomy, Princeton University Press, 2006. Farnell, Lewis R. (1907): The Cults of the Greek states, Vol IV Oxford Clarendon Press, 1907. Flacelière, Robert (1965): Greek Oracles, Elek Books, London, 1965. Fontenrose, Joseph E. (1959): Pytho: A Study of Delphic Myth and Its Origins, University of California Press, Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1959. Graf, Fritz (1979), “Apollo Delphinios”, Museum Helveticum, 36 (1979) 2 – 22. Graf, Fritz (2009): Apollo, Routledge, London e.a., 2009. 53 Boutsikas and Ruggles (2011) 65.

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Hall, Jonathan, M. (2008), “Foundation Stories”, in: Gocha R. Tsetskhladze (ed), Greek Colonisation: An Account of Greek Colonies and Other Settlements Overseas. Vol. 2. Brill Mnemosyne Supplementa 2008, 383 – 426. Herda, Alexander (2005), “Apollon Delphinios, das Prytaneion und die Agora von Milet”, Archäologischer Anzeiger 1 (2005) 243 – 294. Hirst Graeme M. / Hirst Margaret E. (1927), “Prasiai or Phaleron?”, The Classical Review 41. 4 (1927) 113 – 114. Homolle, Théophile (1879), “Dédicaces déliennes”, Bulletin de correspondance Hellénique 3 (1879) 360 – 381. Lambert, Stephen (2002), “The Sacrificial Calendar of Athens”, The Annual of the British School at Athens 97 (2002) 353 – 399. Lehoux, Daryn (2007): Astronomy, weather, and calendars in the ancient world: parapegmata and related texts in classical and Near Eastern societies, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge e. a. 2007. Malkin Irad (1987): Religion and colonization in ancient Greece, Leiden, 1987. Monbrun, Philippe (2007): Les voix d’Apollon. L’arc, la lyre et les oracles, Rennes, 2007. Müller, Karl O. (1820): Geschichten hellenischer Stämme und Städte. Vol. 1: Orchomenos und die Minyer, Nabu Press, United States, 2011. Pascual, José (2009), “Xenophon and the Chronology of the War on land from 393 to 386 B. C.”, Classical Quarterly 59. 1 (2009) 75 – 90. Perdrizet, Paul F. (1908): Fouilles de Delphes. Tome V: Monuments figurés, petits bronzes, terres-cuites, antiquités diverses, Paris, 1908. Richards, George C. (1919), “Review: Die Pythais: Studien zur Geschichte der Verbindungen zwischen Athen und Delphi”, The Classical Review 33. 5/6 (1919), 113 – 114. Rigwood, Arnold I. (1933), “Local Festivals at Delos”, American Journal of Archaeology 37. 3 (1933) 452 – 458. Rutherford, Ian (2004), “Theo¯ria to Delos: the song of the Athenian empire”, in: Penelope Murray / Peter Wilson (eds.), Music and the Muses: the culture of ‘mousike¯’ in the classical Athenian city, Oxford University Press, Oxford e.a., 2004, 82 – 90. Sale, William (1961), “The Hyperborean Maidens on Delos”, The Harvard Theological Review 54. 2 (1961) 75 – 89. Salt, Alun / Boutsikas, Efrosyni (2005), “Knowing when to consult the oracle at Delphi”, Antiquity 79 (2005) 564 – 572. Schachter, Albert (2000), “The Daphnephoria of Thebes”, in: Paola Angeli Bernardini (ed.), Presenza e funzione della citta di Tebe nella cultura greca. Atti del Convegno internazionale (Urbino 7 – 9 luglio 1997). Istituti editoriali e poligrafici internazionali, Pisa e. a. (2000) 99 – 123. Stehle, Eva (1997): Performance and gender in ancient Greece: nondramatic poetry in its setting, Princeton University Press, Princeton, 1997. Taub, Liba (2003): Ancient Meteorology, Routledge, London e. a., 2003. Trümpy, Catherine (1997): Untersuchungen zu den altgriechischen Monatsnamen und Monatsfolgen, Universitätsverlag C. Winter, Heidelberg, 1997. Wycherley, Richard E. (1949): How the Greeks built cities, Macmillan, London, 1949.

Jeremy McInerney

From Delos to Delphi: How Apollo comes Home Davidson Kennedy Professor Department of Classical Studies University of Pennsylvania

Like the gods of epic, the Olympian deities in the Homeric Hymns travel a great deal. Demeter wonders inconsolably, mourning the rape of her daughter, Hermes rustles cattle up and down the Greek peninsula and Apollo travels from Delos to Delphi to establish his oracle. The itineraries of these travels are often reported in great detail, however, they have generally received scant attention. Describing, for example, the route taken by Leto on her way to Delos, Diane Rayor notes no more than that she moves roughly clock-wise.1 Apostolos Athanassakis comments that Leto’s itinerary is replete with references to Apollo’s (later) cult places throughout the Aegean, and a simple inference would be that this and other Olympian itineraries are catalogues, influenced by the Greek construction of odological space. As both Antony Snodgrass and Pietro Janni have shown, the Greeks were more inclined to conceive space as specific, connected points, to and from which one moved, rather than as an entire dimension.2 Nicholas Richardson, in the recent Green and Yellow commentary, offers more detail of the associations with Apollo in the various itineraries outlined in the Homeric Hymn, but does not comment on the function of the list of places visited by the god’s mother. One obvious observation – obvious but no less true – is that, as Ken Dowden noted twenty years ago, “No Olympian god is autochthonous.”3 Other approaches have taken us a little further down the road to a fuller understanding of divine itineraries. In the case of Apollo’s journey from Delos to Delphi, Eva Stehle sees the god’s travels as an analogue to the bard’s own wanderings, and has suggested that the theme of the god’s mobility is an ‘indirect way for a bard to claim male authority.’4 Marcel Detienne sees the god reconnoitering the neighbourhood where he will eventually settle, although Silvia Montiglio takes references in the itinerary to many peaks and islands to ‘suggest univer1 2 3 4

Rayor (2004) 116. Janni (1984) and Snodgrass (1987) 83 – 85. Dowden (1992) 69. Stehle (1997) 191 – 192, who suggests that the theme of the god’s mobility is an ‘indirect way for a bard to claim male authority.’

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sality rather than locality.’5 It is extremely telling that Detienne and Montiglio should see the itinerary’s significance leading in two such different directions, the local and the universal, because it is precisely as a negotiation between these two opposites that the divine itineraries of the Homeric Hymns function. In this paper I propose that the archaic period was marked by a tension between the hold of local cults on the one hand and the emergence of a panhellenic network and Olympian order on the other. The Olympian system would transcend but not always supersede the local. The theme of ‘Olympian propaganda’ in the Homeric Hymns has been explored with great subtlety by Jenny Strauss Clay, and I hope to show that with this tension in mind the specific itineraries of the Homeric Hymn to Apollo, the most detailed in the extant corpus, reveal in much greater detail the negotiation between local and panhellenic cults during the 6th century.6 Let us begin with the route taken by Leto. It will culminate, of course, in the god’s birth on Delos, an event commemorated by athletic and musical contests: ἀλλὰ σὺ Δήλῳ, Φοῖβε, μάλιστ᾽ ἐπιτέρπεαι ἦτορ, ἔνθα τοι ἑλκεχίτωνες Ἰάονες ἠγερέθονται αὐτοῖς σὺν παίδεσσι καὶ αἰδοίῃς ἀλόχοισιν. οἱ δέ σε πυγμαχίῃ τε καὶ ὀρχηθμῷ καὶ ἀοιδῇ μνησάμενοι τέρπουσιν, ὅτ᾽ ἄν στήσωνται ἀγῶνα. But it is in Delos, O Phoibos, that your heart delights the most, For Ionians with trailing garments gather there In your honour together with their children and modest wives. And with boxing matches dancing and song, They delight you and remember you whenever they hold the contests. (Homeric Hymn III to Apollo 146 – 150 tr. Athanassakis)

And, as has long been noted, the hymn also offers an aitiology for the island’s name. The island is afraid of what the god may do to her, saying, τῷ ῥ᾽ αἰνῶς δείδοικα κατὰ φρένα καὶ κατὰ θυμόν, μή, ὁπότ᾽ ἂν τὸ πρῶτον ἴδῃ φάος ἠελίοιο, νῆσον ἀτιμήσας, ἐπεὶ ἦ κραναήπεδός εἰμι, ποσσὶ καταστρέψας ὤσῃ ἁλὸς ἐν πελάγεσσιν Thus I dreadfully fear in my heart and soul lest, when he first sees the light of the sun, scorning an island whose ground is rocky, he overturn me with his feet and push me into the deep sea. (Homeric Hymn III to Apollo 71 – 74 tr. Athanassakis)

5 Detienne (1998) 21 – 22 and Montiglio (2005) 86. 6 Clay (1989) and (1994).

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But instead the god will honour the island and guarantee that she will be seen, ‘Delos’, rather than buried deep under the waves. The wanderings of Leto, however, are far from random, and certainly convey much more detail than needed if their function is simply to set up an aitiology for the cult of Apollo on Delos. Furthermore, the poet employs an unusual ambiguity in setting up Leto’s itinerary, because it actually begins as an invocation of Apollo and his travels, not Leto and her difficult journey: ἦ ὥς σε πρῶτον Λητὼ τέκε, χάρμα βροτοῖσι, κλινθεῖσα πρὸς Κύνθου ὄρος κραναῇ ἐνὶ νήσῳ, Δήλῳ ἐν ἀμφιρύτῃ; ἑκάτερθε δὲ κῦμα κελαινὸν ἐξῄει χέρσονδε λιγυπνοίοις ἀνέμοισιν, ἔνθεν ἀπορνύμενος πᾶσι θνητοῖσιν ἀνάσσεις. Shall I sing how first Leto bore you, a joy to mortals, As she leaned against Mount Kynthos, on the rocky and sea-girt Island of Delos, while on either side a dark wave Swept landwards impelled by shrill winds? Thence you arose to rule of all mortal men… (Homeric Hymn III to Apollo 25 – 30 tr. Athanassakis)

The subject of the final verb, anasseis, is clearly Apollo, so in the list that follows we should take the names of the towns and locales as a roster of the places that were subject to the rule of Apollo, marked by the god’s passage across their space shortly after his miraculous birth. But the same list actually ends with the claim not that these were visited by Apollo in his divine journey but by Leto during her labour: τόσσον ἔπ᾽ ὠδίνουσα Ἑκηβόλον ἵκετο Λητώ, εἴ τίς οἱ γαιέων υἱεῖ θέλοι οἰκία θέσθαι. So many places did Leto visit, in travail with the far-shooter, Searching for a land which would give him a home. (Homeric Hymn III to Apollo 45 – 46 tr. Athanassakis)

It is tempting to see in this bifurcation of Leto’s and Apollo’s journeys some trace of the myths and stories told as a cluster of Apollo sanctuaries and cult places sprang up around the Aegean in the early Archaic period. The claim of a visit by the god allowed a site to assert a position in the metageography of the Aegean, reconfigured in the hymn as a zone or network of places linked by their connections to Apollo. To give the network some coherence – so that the god’s wanderings in narrative form did not seem random and pointless – the story of Leto’s wanderings provided a narrative reason (within the story’s logic) for the god’s visits: she was looking for a place to give birth. Place ‘x’ (any of the sites in the itinerary except Delos) had been visited by Leto, but had rejected her. Apollo’s subsequent visit was presumably presented as an occasion on which place ‘x’

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expiated that insult to the god’s mother, probably played out in some ritual associated with the cult. Anything more extreme than this would have entailed a punishment visited upon the site, something which the second half of the hymn shows was devastating. Let us examine the itinerary, then, from the point of view of its Apollonian connections: ὅσσους Κρήτη τ᾽ ἐντὸς ἔχει καὶ δῆμος Ἀθηνῶν νῆσός τ᾽ Αἰγίνη ναυσικλειτή τ᾽ Εὔβοια, Αἰγαί, Πειρεσίαι τε καὶ ἀγχιάλη Πεπάρηθος Θρηίκιός τ᾽ Ἀθόως καὶ Πηλίου ἄκρα κάρηνα Θρηικίη τε Σάμος Ἴδης τ᾽ ὄρεα σκιόεντα, Σκῦρος καὶ Φώκαια καὶ Αὐτοκάνης ὄρος αἰπύ, Ἴμβρος τ᾽ εὐκτιμένη καὶ Λῆμνος ἀμιχθαλόεσσα Λέσβος τ᾽ ἠγαθέη, Μάκαρος ἕδος Αἰολίωνος, καὶ Χίος, ἣ νήσων λιπαρωτάτη εἰν ἁλὶ κεῖται, παιπαλόεις τε Μίμας καὶ Κωρύκου ἄκρα κάρηνα καὶ Κλάρος αἰγλήεσσα καὶ Αἰσαγέης ὄρος αἰπὺ καὶ Σάμος ὑδρηλὴ Μυκάλης τ᾽ αἰπεινὰ κάρηνα Μίλητός τε Κόως τε, πόλις Μερόπων ἀνθρώπων, καὶ Κνίδος αἰπεινὴ καὶ Κάρπαθος ἠνεμόεσσα Νάξος τ᾽ ἠδὲ Πάρος Ῥήναιά τε πετρήεσσα, Over the inhabitants of Crete and of the town of Athens, Of Aigina and Euboia, famous for ships, Of Aigai and Eiresiai and Peparethos by the sea, Of Thracian Athos and Pelion’s lofty peaks, Of Thracian Samos and Ida’s shady mountains, Of Skyros and Phokaia and Autokane’s steep heights, Of well built Imbros and Lemnos enveloped in haze, Of holy Lesbos, realm of Makar, son of Aiolos, Of Chios, brightest of all the islands lying in the sea, Of craggy Mimas and the lofy peaks of Korykos, Of shimmering Klaros and Aisagea’s steep heights, Of well-watered Samos and Mykale’s towering peaks, Of Miletos and Kos, city of Meropian men, Of rugged Knidos and wind swept Karpathos, Of Naxos and Paros and rocky Rheneia. (Homeric Hymn III to Apollo 31 – 44 tr. Athanassakis)

First, it is not difficult to identify the cults of Apollo that merit the inclusion of most of these various locales. These include cults at Prinias and Dreros on Crete (line 31); Apollo Patroos and Delphinios at Athens (line 31), the temple of Apollo at Colonna on Aigina (line 32), and the cult of Apollo Daphnephoros at Eretria on Euboia (line 32). Some locations evoke cults that would become very well known, such as Klaros, site of an oracular shrine (line 40), and Apollo Delphinios figures

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behind many of the locations: Samos (line 35) and Miletos (line 42) in particular. Other places may be more obscure now but seem to have enjoyed greater prominence in the Archaic period: the mention of Pelion hints at the cult of Apollo Koropaios at Boufa, on the western side of Pelion (line 34); Skyros has an Apollonian association thanks to an Archaic temple of Apollo at Phourka (line 36); on Chios there is an Archaic temple of Apollo Phanaios (line 39), while the mention of holy Lesbos (line 38) brings to mind both the cult of Apollo Maloeis at Mytilene and Strabo’s remark that along the shore between Lesbos and Tenedos Apollo was venerated as Smintheus, Killaios or Gryneus.7 But the close correspondence between actual, attested Apollo cults and the locations listed in the Apollo/Leto itinerary is hardly remarkable. That is to be expected in a hymn honouring the god. Rather, it is the curiously uneven treatment of local topographic references that deserves comment. For example, her travels will bring Leto to Delos, which the poem explicitly describes as a favorite place of Ionians, but the hymn also recognizes the Aiolians, referring to holy Lesbos as the realm of Makar, son of Aiolos. The region of the northeast Aegean figures quite prominently in the itinerary: Samothrace, Ida, Phokaia, Autokane, Imbros, Lemnos. And even if specific cults are not well attested here the association with Apollo is firmly based in myth and epic: it was on Ida that the young Apollo would tend the herds of Laomedon and the Iliad’s description of him as lord of Tenedos puts him right in this vicinity.8 The prominence of an Aiolian portion in what will finally be an Ionian geography perhaps makes sense if at least part of the compositional history of the poem occurred near Chios, a notion supported by the greater specificity of local topography from nearby: Mimas and Korykos are undistinguished peaks located opposite Chios and Aisagea is a local toponym known only from the local poet Nicander.9 But I am not trying to revive a positivistic reading of Archaic poetry in order to claim that the poet of the hymn was from Chios. Rather I am suggesting that just as genealogy provided a language for Archaic communities to assert connections, so too divine geographies allowed panhellenic cults to map a network of affiliated places. In this respect, exclusion may be as interesting a phenomenon as inclusion. Take, for example, the region around Miletos. The hymn recognizes Mykale as the itinerary moves south down the coast, and so the poet has included a specific local marker. The subsequent mention of Miletos is probably an allusion to the well-known cult of Apollo Delphinios, whose sanctuary, the Delphinion, was located ‘in the heart of the city.’10 There is, however, no mention of the prominent 7 8 9 10

Strabo XIII 618. Homer, Il. XXI 446 Apollo serving Laomedon; I 38 lord of Tenedos. Nicander of Colophon, Theriaca 218. See Richardson (2010) 89. Gorman (2001) 168.

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Apollo cult known at various times as Branchidai or Didyma, despite the fact that Branchidai was famous in the Archaic period. It was one of the oracles tested by Croesus and an oracular response from Delphi reported by Herodotus makes explicit reference to the plundering of Didyma by the Persians.11 Although Herodotus places Branchidai within the territory of the Milesians, it seems a step too far to take the mention of Miletos as an evocation of Branchidai.12 Its omission is curious. A more notable geographical oddity lies behind the treatment of the Dorians, once the catalogue of sites reaches the southeastern Aegean. Leto passes by Kos, Knidos and Karpathos, putting her in the region of the Dorian hexapolis whose tutelary deity was Triopian Apollo. The sanctuary of Apollo, the Triopion, was located, according to Thucydides, on a promontory in Knidian territory.13 Apollo Dalios, the Doric version of the god being hymned here, was the recipient of important cult on Kos and received offerings from theoroi before they made their way to Delos, so here we have a good example of an actual cultic analogue to the hymn’s itinerary.14 But just as we might expect to move into the rest of the Dorian hexapolis, to Halikarnassos and the three cities of Rhodes, Leto takes a sudden turn to the northwest and heads for the heart of the Cyclades, going to Naxos, Paros and Rheneia. Now, if one assumes that Apollo is the Ionian god par excellence, as Charles Hedrick has written, this may be enough to explain Leto’s journey, since we have to get her to Delos, but what the hymn seems to be offering is an opportunity for Aiolians and Dorians to participate in this cultic network.15 Regardless of their ethnic or political development, or perhaps in counterpoint to it, a religious network is emerging. We risk missing the organic quality of this if we simply describe Delian Apollo as exclusively or primarily Ionian. It is precisely because of the other elements at work here that a religious network served the needs of these archaic communities: the centre is symbolically rich but politically not powerful. It is the aggregation of clusters, Aiolian, Ionian and Dorian which makes the Aegean into an Apollo network. The relationship between this and the political landscape of the 6th century is difficult to pin down, but the sudden shift from the Dorian hexapoleis to the central Cyclades reminds us of a feature of the 6th century political landscape: Naxos was ruled by the tyrant Lygdamis, Parian marble was used by the Peisistratids to renovate the temple of Apollo at Delphi, and the tyrant Polycrates of Samos joined Rheneia to Delos by a chain. That is to say, the shadow of Archaic tyrants looms over Leto’s arrival in 11 Herodotus I 46 (Croesus testing the oracles); Herodotus VI 19 (forecasting the sack of Miletus and the end of Didyma). See Fontenrose (1988) 1 – 6. 12 Herodotus I 92 refers to ‘dedications at Branchidai of the Milesians.’ 13 Thucydides VIII 35. 14 Kowalzig (2007) 77. 15 Hedrick (1988) 206.

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the centre of the Cyclades. One is reminded of Adalberto Giovaninni’s thesis that the Catalogue of Ships represents an attempt by the priests of Delphi to accommodate those states that participated in the sacred truce and Pythian games by fashioning a heroic geography that actually reflects the political geography of the 7th century.16 So too the hymns look to an ancient past while keeping one eye on the present. More surprises will await us as Apollo moves from Delos to Delphi. Before narrating the god’s journey to Delphi, however, the hymn alludes to various accomplishments of Apollo in wooing girls and defeating competitors. In this coda between the two major sections of the poem, the lines refer to a cycle of myths presumably once well known but now usually dismissed as opaque: πῶς τ᾽ ἄρ σ᾽ ὑμνήσω πάντως εὔυμνον ἐόντα; ἠέ σ᾽ ἐνὶ μνηστῆρσιν ἀείδω καὶ φιλότητι, ὅππως μνωόμενος ἔκιες Ἀζαντίδα κούρην Ἴσχυ᾽ ἅμ᾽ ἀντιθέῳ Ἐλατιονίδη εὐίππῳ; ἢ ἅμα Θόρβαντι Τριοπέῳ γένος, ἢ ἅμ᾽ Ἐρευθεῖ; ἢ ἅμα Λευκίππῳ καὶ Λευκίπποιο δάμαρτι … πεζός, ὃ δ᾽ ἵπποισιν; Or am I to sing of you as wooer and lover of maidens, sing how, wooing the daughter of Azan, you raced against godlike Ischys Elationides, possessed of good horses, or against Phorbas sprung from Triops or against Ereutheus? Or in the company of Leukippos and his wife, … You on foot and he with his horses? (Homeric Hymn III to Apollo 208 – 214 tr. Athanassakis, modified)17

There are various threads of local myth being alluded to here. The first centres on Arkadia. According to Pausanias, Azan and Elatos (as he is known in the prose sources) were the sons of Arkas, eponym of the Arkadians. Azan gave his name to Azania and Elatos was given the rule of Kyllene. Ischys was the son of Elatos, who eventually moved to Phokis and gave his name to the important Phokian town of Elateia. This elaborate genealogy therefore represents a network of connections extending from Arkadia, in the central Peloponnese, to Phokis, in central Greece. Elatos’ departure to Phokis also allowed those connected by this fictive genealogy to plug into another set of local stories focused on Delphi. The key here is the tradition that Ischys, the son of Elatos, slept with Koronis while she was already pregnant to Apollo with Asklepios. For her reckless behaviour Koronis was punished by Artemis, who killed her. Hermes snatched the infant Asklepios from the flames of Koronis’ funeral pyre. The connection to Delphi lies both in the 16 Giovannini (1969). 17 Verrall (1894) 28. See also Hogan and Schenker (2001).

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presence of Apollo behind the paternity of Asklepios, but also in the presence of another shadowy figure embedded, as it were, in the genealogy. Koronis is always reported in these stories as the daughter of Phlegyas, eponym for the lawless tribe that raided Delphi and which was renowned for its recklessness.18 It was to aid the Phocians against the Phlegyans when they were marching on Delphi that Elatos went to central Greece and founded Elateia.19 The story, then, has elements that draw on Delphic accounts of attacks on the sanctuary by impious marauders. Pausanias’ account of Koronis’ punishment also uses the setting of a sanctuary, in this instance Epidauros, as the backdrop to the story, and it is likely that the threat of the Phlegyans served as a trope deployed by a number of sanctuaries to stake their place in the sacred landscape. They too had been threatened. It is also likely that it was in sanctuaries that Pausanias encountered these various, sometimes inconsistent, stories. In recounting some of the genealogy of Arkas and Erato Pausanias refers to the sanctuary of Despoina in Arkadia, which included a shrine of Pan where Erato was said to have served as Pan’s oracular prophetess. Pausanias speaks of having read some of Erato’s verses and it is likely that it was here that Pausanias learned of Apollo’s competition with the Arkadian heroes.20 Different threads of the story were teased out in different places and then rewoven into versions that bound different cult locations into a great tapestry of myth with local resonances. The second cycle alluded to in the coda from the Delian to the Delphic section concerns Phorbas, son of Triops. Once again, through the haze of mythical references it is possible to see sanctuaries sharing stories, conducting a kind of diplomatic negotiation carried on through stories about the gods and heroes. Triops gave his name to the federal sanctuary of the Dorian Hexapolis of the Knidos peninsula (see above, n.13). Phorbas, his son, was believed to have come to Rhodes from Thessaly and was worshipped there for having rid the island of snakes, a deed hinting at an equivalence between the hero and Apollo, whose great victory at Delphi would also involve destroying a snake. Here the cycle of myth links not Arkadia, Phokis and Delphi, but Thessaly and the Dodecanese.21 Whether the cult of Triops has an authentic Thessalian origin is unknown, but the putative Thessalian origins of Triops and Phorbas supply all the later elaborations with a common ancestry of place as well as genealogy. The Homeric Hymn to Apollo integrates Phorbas and Triops into the network of places, specifically sanctuaries, affiliated to Apollo. The references to competitions between the god 18 Versions of the Koronis story are told by Pindar, Pyth. 3, Pausanias II 26 and Apollodoros, Biblioth. III 118. For the Phlegyans as enemies of Apollo see Pausanias IX 36 2 and McInerney (1999) 195. 19 Pausanias X 34 2 (Phlegyans threaten Delphi); Pausanias VIII 4 4 (Elatos migrates to Phokis). 20 Pausanias VIII 4 2; VIII 37 11. 21 Robertson 1984.

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and Phorbas recognize Apollo’s Dorian appeal and mark the move away from Apollo’s identification as an exclusively Ionian god. As in the stories of Koronis and the Arkadian heroes there is also a hint of a darker side to the story: in some traditions Phorbas is cast as king of the Phlegyans, foregrounding the challenge to Delphi implicit in any story that concentrated on a hero whose accomplishments rivalled the gods. Philostratus has a detailed description of a painting depicting a boxing match in which youthful Apollo has smashed Phorbas to the ground with a single punch.22 By selecting tamer versions of episodes in which heroes vie with the god in athletic contests or erotic pursuits but without acting impiously or being destroyed Hymn 3 offers the possibility of proper heroic emulation of Apollo. These are narrative components easily replicated. The Athenians recast the same story, Phorbas was refashioned as Erysichthon, son of Triops, and his daughter was named Mestra (“She who is wooed”). Their story was told in the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women where once again the story has cultic overtones: Apollo’s hereditary priests at Athens were the Erysichthonidai. Accordingly, in the Homeric Hymn to Apollo we have but a sample of a story whose fabric changed from place to place and time to time. Some tellings were primarily for local consumption, attached to local cults, but in the Homeric Hymn we have stories stitched together to suggest a larger pattern. In sponsoring these elaborate versions, sanctuaries and their dominant families made overtures to each other by acknowledging the legitimacy of each other’s versions of the god. In this way the cultic, functional layer of Greek myth underlies the more literary manifestations of it. The Homeric Hymns draw on both. They hymn the gods, but the theology serves the needs of an age grasping for ways to build cross-regional networks. Now Apollo’s itinerary leads to Delphi but the god takes an especially meandering course by way of Olympos and Pieria. This allows the poet to mention locations that resonate with the myths of Apollo but without, as far as we can tell, strong local cultic associations. Pieria, for example, is the pasture land north of Olympos where the god kept his herds and raised the horses of Eumelos.23 From here the god moves south to sandy Lektos among the Ainianes. This was a Thessalian ethnos which sent a theoria to Delphi every four years to make sacrifices at the tomb of Pyrrhos. The Ainianes claimed descent from the Thessalian hero whose tomb was as important at Delphi as the hero Pelops’ was at Olympia.24 This is a different type of movement from Leto’s itinerary. In that case all places visited by the goddess are guilty for having turned her away, so the Apollo 22 Philostratus, Imagines II 19. 23 Homeric Hymn to Hermes IV 71; Homer, Iliad II 766. 24 For Pyrrhos see Fontenrose (1960). For the Ainianes see Heliodoros, Aithiopika and Farnell (1921) 315.

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sanctuaries that come into existence after this myth time serve, as we saw, to expiate that guilt. But the Pythian itinerary is more exclusively teleological: all paths lead to Delphi, because now it is Apollo himself looking for a permanent abode. There are no cult associations in Pieria or Iolkos, the next stage of his itinerary. In fact Apollo’s connections to the region derive from his youth, when he serves Admetos, king of the Thessalian kingdom of Pherai.25 It is while herding Admetos’ cattle in Pieria that Apollo sees Hymenaios, falls in love with him and refuses to leave the house of Magnes, whereupon Hermes steals his cattle.26 These northern locations, far from celebrating the god in the fullness of his power, focus on a youthful Apollo, a cowherd and a hired-man, who has not yet proved his power nor found his place. Appropriately these territories were known as rich cattle land. Jason refers to Iolkos as ‘well-pastured’ and a number of heroes and heroines from the area have names that recall the region’s reputation for its livestock: Eumelos, son of Admetos, Polymele, mother of Jason and Perimele, daughter of Admetos all bear names that evoke the region’s rich pasture-land.27 From Iolkos Apollo makes his way to Kenaion, the northern most part of Euboia, so called by Zeus, according to Hesiod, for its wealth in cattle.28 During the Archaic period the straits between Euboia and the mainland, from the Petalai Islands to Cape Kenaion, were controlled by Eretria, whose most important sanctuary was that of Apollo Daphnephoros.29 This section of the itinerary, then, is rich in associations with the story of Apollo, although the Eretrian sanctuary of Apollo is the only attested cult connected to the god’s northern travels. It comes as a shock, therefore, to find the hymn addressing Apollo thus: στῆς δ᾽ ἐπὶ Ληλάντῳ πεδίῳ: τό τοι οὐχ ἅδε θυμῷ τεύξασθαι νηόν τε καὶ ἄλσεα δενδρήεντα. You stood on the Lelantine plain, but it did not please Your heart to build a temple with wooded groves. (Homeric Hymn III to Apollo 220 – 221 tr. Athanassakis)

25 Apollo serving Admetos: Diodorus Siculus IV 71 3; Hyginus, Fabulae 49; Valerius Flaccus, Argonautica I 445. Apollo serving Laomedon: Homer, Iliad XXI 440 – 450. 26 Antonius Liberalis, Metamorph. 23. Apollo serving Admetos: Kallimachos, Hymn to Apollo; Diodorus Siculus IV 71.3; Hyginus, Fabulae 49; Valerius Flaccus, Argonautica 1 445; Apollo also serves Laomedon: Homer, Iliad XXI 440 – 450. Like many other elements in Apollo’s story, it is echoed in Hermes’ biography. According to the Homeric Hymn to Pan, Hermes entered the service of Dryops as a shepherd to win the hand of his daughter. 27 For these and other instances of the association between Iolkos and herding see Matthews (1977) 192. 28 Hesiod fr 296. 29 IG XII 9 1273/4. For discussion see Cairns (1991).

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Given that the poem is utterly explicit about the god’s location – on the Lelantine plain – as he surveys the land and decides not to build a sanctuary, these lines are truly astonishing. The dismissal of the Eretrian cult of Apollo is all the more extraordinary since Delphic tradition maintained that Apollo’s first temple was made of laurel, a legend for which there is no archaeological evidence at Delphi but which exactly describes the late Geometric temple of Apollo Daphnephoros at Eretria. The Homeric Hymn represents a quite deliberate attack on Eretria’s credentials as a sanctuary of Apollo, even to the extent of appropriating Eretria’s specific emphasis on laurel, which subsequently became a cornerstone of Apollo’s prophetic role at Delphi.30 Quitting Eretria, Apollo continues into eastern Boiotia, past Mykalessos and Teumessos, places whose mythic resonances do not involve Apollo but which are consistent with the bovine associations suitable to Apollo as cowherder and apprentice: Mykalessos, (from mukaomai, ‘to bellow’) was named after the mooing of the cow that led Kadmos to Thebes and Teumessos was where Zeus hid Europa.31 Since Apollo has not yet slain the dragon or acquired the lyre, he is still little more than a cowboy, his wanderings a cosmic expansion of the pastoralist’s passage across a landscape appropriately named Boiotia: cattle country. The god even acknowledges as much when he tells Hermes of learning divination from the three sisters dwelling in the folds of Parnassos, “when as a mere child I tended the cows.”32 This portion of the itinerary is full of allusions to stories that either mention Apollo directly or connect with the trope of pastoralism, but once again what is truly remarkable is the treatment of actual Apollo sanctuaries. When Apollo reaches Thebes it is unpopulated, and no more than primeval forest. These are necessary details because, as with Eretria, any audience from the Archaic period onwards would have been familiar with an early and well-known Apollo sanctuary in Thebes, the temple of Ismenian Apollo where Herodotos saw a tripod inscribed with Kadmean letters.33 So, in time, Thebes would become home to a significant Apollo sanctuary. There are indications that his cult was embedded in the local topography: the god’s epithet, for example, shows that the cult was connected to the river Ismenos, which ran past Thebes. This local importance was in turn confirmed by genealogy: Pausanias explains that Apollo fathered two sons by the nymph Melia. One was Teneros, to whom he gave skill in 30 Sourvinou-Inwood (1979). On the conflict between the cults of Apollo at Delphi and Eretria see Bruneau (1976) 15. 31 For Mykalessos see Pausanias IX 19 4. For Teumessos, see Pausanias IX 19 1 and West (2002) 127. 32 Homeric Hymn IV to Hermes 555. The association of herding with youth is also used in the Homeric Hymn I to Aphrodite 55 – 76, when the goddess first sees Anchises, “whose beauty was divine”, tending the cattle alone on Mt Ida. 33 Herodotos V 58.

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divination and the other was Ismenos, who gave his name to the river flowing through Thebes.34 The cult of Ismenian Apollo, then, was just as important to the sacred topography of Thebes as Apollo Daphnephoros was to Eretria, yet as at Eretria the hymn deliberately ignores a site which by the 6th century had distinct associations with Apollo cult. In fact, the closer one gets to Delphi from Delos, the greater grows the threat of competition to Delphi from other regional sanctuaries. Eretria and Thebes are written out of the Apolline itinerary. As he proceeds west through Boiotia, Apollo’s actions will become even more dramatic. Apollo continues on to Onchestos, where the poem recognizes a shrine and cult, but not of Apollo. The location is identified as the “fair grove of Poseidon”, thereby acknowledging Poseidon’s ownership.35 Next Apollo approaches Lake Kopais by way of two sites, Okalea and Haliartos, both of which occur in the Catalogue of Ships.36 Upon reaching Haliartos Apollo surprisingly announces his intention of building his temple here and even goes so far as to lay the foundations. At this point the local nymph Telphousa speaks to Apollo, explaining that the sound of pounding hooves at her spring will annoy the god. At Onchestos nearby such traffic is already controlled, as the poem has suggested at lines 235 – 238. Andrew Miller has shown that Telphousa is able to persuade Apollo because the god’s preference is for a place that will guarantee his freedom from disturbance, a goal he will achieve with the killing of the dragon at Delphi, but it is also worth noting that Apollo’s search is for a place in a landscape that already has sanctuaries in it. This space is taken, explains Telphousa, but Krisa in the folds of Parnassos is not.37 When Apollo subsequently realizes that he has been deceived, since Telphousa forgot to inform him of the dragon’s existence, he returns in a rage and buries the Telphousa spring under “a shower of rocks” and builds himself an altar. In other words, Apollo will recognize the claims of Poseidon, to whom all of Boiotia was sacred, but will take sanctuary land for himself when such a seizure is justified as punishment for attempts to deceive the god. The entire narration of Apollo’s journey to Delphi reflects a delicate balance between rival sanctuaries and powers: Poseidon is acknowledged, rivals to Phoibos are not.38 After the Telphousa episode the Hymn to Apollo describes the birth of Typhaon and the killing of the she-snake by Apollo. The mention of Typhaon casts Apollo’s victory as a repeat of Zeus’ victory, but while Zeus’ victory is cosmic, 34 Herodotos V 59. See also Pausanias IX 10 5. 35 The description of the broken chariot at lines 230 – 239 has produced a good deal of speculation concerning the ritual practiced at Onchestos. For a survey of views of varying implausibility see Teffeteller (2001). 36 Homer, Iliad II 494 – 511. 37 Miller (1986). 38 Fontenrose (1969) 129.

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Apollo’s, like the victory of Kadmos over the snake at Thebes, is tied to a particular place. The triumph over a monster is a regular part of the foundation narrative of a town, and by modeling Apollo’s arrival at Delphi on ktistic traditions the poem in essence creates an equation: sanctuary is to god as city is to men.39 It is important to recognize this, since the traditions concerning the previous owners of the sanctuary have been interpreted as evidence for the suppression of older cults, dominated by female deities such as Gaia, by the new patriarchal order of the Olympians. Yet the only evidence for these earlier, female earth cults is the Homeric Hymn itself. What looks to be the suppression of older, epichoric religious practice may be something quite different: an invented tradition designed to give the victory of the Olympians – in this case Apollo – a teleological impetus.40 The elevation of the locale to the special status of panhellenic sanctuary requires that there be an earlier indigenous cult, the suppression of which is not only necessary for Apollo’s triumph, but which must be inscribed in memory and topography: ἐνταυθοῖ νῦν πύθευ ἐπὶ χθονὶ βωτιανείρῃ: οὐδὲ σύ γε ζώουσα κακὸν δήλημα βροτοῖσιν ἔσσεαι, οἳ γαίης πολυφόρβου καρπὸν ἔδοντες ἐνθάδ᾽ ἀγινήσουσι τεληέσσας ἑκατόμβας: οὐδέ τί τοι θάνατόν γε δυσηλεγέ᾽ οὔτε Τυφωεὺς ἀρκέσει οὔτε Χίμαιρα δυσώνυμος, ἀλλά σέ γ᾽ αὐτοῦ πύσει Γαῖα μέλαινα καὶ ἠλέκτωρ Ὑπερίων. Rot now right here on the man-nourishing earth; You shall not ever again be an evil bane for living men Who eat the fruit of the earth that nurtures many And will bring to this place unblemished hecatombs, And not Typhoeus or ill-famed Chimaira Ward off woeful death for you, but right here The black earth and the flaming sun will make you rot. (Homeric Hymn III to Apollo 363 – 369 tr. Athanassakis)

The double figurae etymologicae – both πύθευ, “rot”, and Python, the serpent’s name, evoke the god’s epiklesis, Pythian – serve to reinforce the connection between land, narrative and memory.41 The act of hymning the god’s passage through the landscape transforms it into a memoryscape, connecting all places he 39 Other episodes include Phorbas on Rhodes (snakes), Diodorus Siculus V 58 5, and Byzas at Byzantion (a bull), Hesychios, FGrH IIIB 390 f1.11. See Buxton (1994) 90. 40 For suppression of female deities, see Clay (1994). For the argument that the evidence for these earlier cults is part of the Delphic tradition created for Apollo see Sourvinou-Inwood (1979) and Chappell (2006). 41 On the importance of such word-play in epic and hymns (though not this one), see Reece (1997).

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has touched upon, fashioning them into a network of cultural relations that come together at Delphi. The hymn allows Delphi to emerge from the landscape as a lieu de mémoire, a central place whose significance is marked by the god’s presence, his coming of age, and the commemoration of this in the hymn’s performance.42 From Apollo’s triumph over the serpent the hymn moves immediately to the story of Apollo bringing the Cretan priests to serve him at Delphi. A recent study of the hymn draws attention to the fact that the southern and western movement of the Cretan priests describes a broad arc that parallels the arrival of the god from the north and east, both arcs converging on Delphi.43 It is also notable that the Cretans’ exogenous origins parallel Apollo’s, each reinforcing Delphi’s claim to lie at the centre of the Greek world, just as Delos lies at the centre of the Aegean sphere. The claim of centrality is clearly critical to a sanctuary that boasted the omphalos, and was perhaps made pressing by the emergence of the Amphiktyony, the “Dwellers-Around”, as the controlling power at Delphi. In fact, Beate Wagner-Hasel has recently argued for a broad correspondence between the places visited by the god coming from Pieria to Delphi and the states of the Amphiktyony. Wagner-Hasel also draws attention to the late date (6th century) for the first epigraphic attestation of Apollo at Delphi, pointing out that there is no evidence for an Apollo cult here in the Mycenaean period. Moreover, the seasonal movement of Apollo, who quits the sanctuary in the winter to spend time among the Hyperboreans parallels the seasonal rhythm of the Amphiktyony, which rotated its spring and fall meetings between Delphi and Anthela. All of this points to an Amphiktyonic setting for the Pythian hymn.44 The connections should not be pressed too far, however. A number of Amphiktyonic states are not mentioned: the smaller ones include the Dorians, Phthiotians, Oitaians, Malians, while the powerful Thessalians and Athenians are also missing.45 On the other hand, the itinerary is heavy with Boiotian sites while yet dismissing Thebes. It would be a mistake, therefore, to read the Pythian hymn as a charter for Amphiktyonic control of Delphi any more than as an instance of Olympian propaganda at the expense of an earlier cult of the Earth-Mother. If there is a political message in the poem, it is surely in the downgrading of powerful political centres, such as Eretria and Thebes, and the dismissal of their Apollo cults. The hymn does not tolerate potential competitors to the primacy of Delphi. The trope of the god’s travelling is so familiar to us from the hymns to Demeter, Apollo, Hermes and other episodes that it is easy to ignore the oddities of 42 43 44 45

On impressing place into memory see Yates (1966). Frame (2006). Wagner-Hasel (2000). On the composition of the Amphiktyony see Hall (2002) 135 – 139 and Sánchez (2001) 37 – 41.

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their travels or to wonder why their journeys figure so prominently in myth and cult. It may be worth looking at a modern parallel, drawn from an African pastoral society, in order to shed some light on the possible origins of this peculiar aspect of Apollo’s arrival in Delphi. The same combination of elements, from coming of age, to herding, adventure and even story-telling, can be seen in the Yaaral and Degal festivals, celebrated twice a year by the Fulani and Peul people of west Africa. Young Fulani men spend months herding other people’s cattle across the Sahel before returning to Diafarabé in December. After driving their cattle across the river they celebrate the Cattle Crossing Festival. The first day of this popular community festival is called the Promenade des Jeunes, when the young men and women, beautifully dressed and their hair carefully braided mingle freely, while the young men recount their accomplishments.46 How they and their stories are received influences their position as men (and especially as husbands) in Fulani society. Those with the fattest, best kept herds are highly esteemed; the worst herder is given a peanut, and stands little chance of attracting a bride. At Delphi it is the rhapsodes who will perform in honour of the god, but rather than simply praise the god’s omnipotence the hymns explore the tricks and battles of strength in which the god has been tested along the way from Delos to Delphi.47 In fact, as Marcel Detienne has shown, the Apollo worshipped at Delphi is a god “of murderous drives”, knife in hand, whose thirst for blood and meat, far from evoking a distant Olympian calm like the god’s portrait on the pediment at Olympia, instead “makes public the extreme fragility of a cultural frontier between the blood-crime and the sacrificial meal.”48 Performances of the god’s adventure-filled journey, recreated by poets like Kynaithos, will be witnessed by sacred ambassadors, whose own journey to Delphi imitates and in some sense replicates the god’s. Embassy, journey, bearing witness through hymns to the god’s victory and presence are all aspects of the theoria, a recursive reinforcement of both the god’s stature and the status of those who come as pilgrims.49 In this way the entire landscape through which pilgrims travel is poetically reconfigured as a sacred landscape, under the protection of Apollo. ‘How are we now to live?’ ask the new acolytes of Apollo, but they need not fear: δεξιτερῇ μάλ᾽ ἕκαστος ἔχων ἐν χειρὶ μάχαιραν, σφάζειν αἰεὶ μῆλα: τὰ δ᾽ ἄφθονα πάντα παρέσται, ὅσσα τ᾽ ἐμοί κ᾽ ἀγάγωσι περικλυτὰ φῦλ᾽ ἀνθρώπων: 46 Reisman (1977) 24. For a video summary see http://www.unesco.org/culture/ich/index.php? lg=en&pg=00011&RL=00132. 47 For a convincing argument placing the hymn’s first performance in 522 on Delos see Burkert (1979). 48 Detienne (1986) 49. 49 On the various meanings of theoria and the elisions between them see Rutherford (2000).

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‘With a knife in his right hand let each one of you slaughter sheep forever, and there will be an abundance of them brought to me by the glorious races of men gathered here…’ (Homeric Hymn III to Apollo 536 – 538 tr. Athanassakis)

The god reassures them. Apollo has come home.

Bibliography Athanassakis, Apostolos (2004): The Homeric Hymns. Translation, introduction, and notes by Apostolos N. Athanassakis, Baltimore, 2004. Bruneau, Phillippe (1976): “Hypothèses sur les vers 220 – 221 de l’H.H.A.: Delphes et Eretria”, in: REG 89 (1976) 15. Burkert, Walter (1979): “Kynaithos, Polycrates and the Homeric Hymn to Apollo”, in: Glen W. Bowersock, Walter Burkert, and Michael C. J. Putnam (eds): Arktouros: Hellenic studies presented to B. M. W. Knox, Berlin, 1979, 53 – 62. Buxton, Richard (1994): Imaginary Greece. The Contexts of Mythology, Cambridge, 1994. Cairns, Francis (1991): “The ‘Laws of Eretria’ (‘IG’ XII. 9 1273 and 1274): Epigraphic, legal, historical, and political aspects”, in: Phoenix 45 (1991) 296 – 313. Chappell, Mike (2006): “Delphi and the Homeric Hymn to Apollo”, CQ 56 (2006) 331 – 348. Clay, Jenny Strauss (1989): The Politics of Olympus: Form and Meaning in the major Homeric Hymns, Princeton, 1989. —(1994): “Tendenz and Olympian Propaganda in the Homeric Hymn to Apollo”, in: Jon Solomon (ed.), Apollo: Origins and Influences, Tucson and London, 1994. Détienne, Marcel (1986): “Apollo’s slaughterhouse”, Diacritics 16 (1986), 46 – 53. —(1998): Apollon. Le Couteau à la main. Une approche expérimentale du polythéisme grec, Paris, 1998. Dowden, Ken (1992): The Uses of Greek Mythology, London, New York, 1992. Farnell, Lewis R. (1921): Greek Hero Cults and Ideas of Immortality. The Gifford Lectures 1920, Oxford, 1921. Fontenrose, Joseph (1960): The Cult and Myth of Pyrrhos at Delphi, Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1960. —(1969): “The spring Telphusa”, TAPA 100 (1969) 119 – 131. —(1988): Didyma: Apollo’s Oracle, cult, and companions, Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1988. Frame, Douglas (2006): “The Homerizon: Conceptual Interrogations in Homeric Studies, The Homeric Poems after Ionia: a Case in Point”, http://chs.harvard.edu/publications. sec/classics.ssp. Center for Hellenic Studies, Washington, DC. September, 2006. Giovannini, Adalberto (1969): Etude historique sur les origines du Catalogue des Vaisseaux, Bern, 1969. Gorman, Vanessa B. Miletos, the Ornament of Ionia: a History of the City to 400 B.C.E., Ann Arbor, Michigan, 2001. Hall, Jonathan M. (2002): Hellenicity: Between Ethnicity and Culture, Chicago and London, 2002.

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Hedrick. Jr Charles W. (1988): “The Temple and Cult of Apollo Patroos in Athens”, AJA 92 (1988) 185 – 210. Hogan, J. C. and D. J. Schenker (2001): “Challenging Otherness: a Reassessment of early Greek attitudes toward the divine”, in: Ancient Journeys: A Festschrift in Honor of Eugene Numa Lane. Ed. C. Calloway, 2001, http://www.stoa.org/lane/. Janni, Pietro (1984): La mappa e il periplo: cartografia antica e spazio odologico, Rome, 1984. Kowalzig, Barbara (2007): Singing for the Gods. Performances of Myth and Ritual in Archaic and Classical Greece, Oxford, 2007. Matthews, Victor J. (1977): “Naupaktia and Argonautika”, in: Phoenix 31 (1977) 189 – 207. McInerney, Jeremy (1999): The Folds of Parnassos: Land and Ethnicity in Ancient Phokis, Austin, 1999. Miller, Andrew (1986): From Delos to Delphi. A Literary Study of the Homeric Hymn to Apollo, Mnemosyne Suppl. 93, Leiden, 1986. Montiglio, Silvia (2005): Wandering in Ancient Greek Culture, Chicago, 2005. Rayor, Diane J. (2004): Introduction to The Homeric Hymns. Tr. D. Rayor. Berkeley, Los Angeles, 2004. Reece, Steve (1997): “A figura etymologica in the Homeric Hymn to Hermes”, CJ 93 (1997) 29 – 39. Reisman, Paul (1977): Freedom in Fulani Social Life: An Introspective Ethnography. Tr. Martha Fuller, Chicago, 1977. Richardson, Nicholas (2010): Three Homeric Hymns: to Apollo, Hermes, and Aphrodite: hymns 3, 4, and 5, Cambridge, 2010. Robertson, Noel (1984): “The ritual background of the Erysichthon story”, AJPH 105 (1984) 369 – 408. Rutherford, Ian (2000): “Theoria and Darsan: Pilgrimage and Vision in Greece and India”, CQ n.s. 50 (2000) 133 – 46. Sánchez, Pierre (2001): L’Amphictionie des Pyles et de Delphes: recherches sur son rôle historique, des origines au IIe siècle de notre ère. Historia Einzelschriften Heft 148, Stuttgart, 2001. Snodgrass, Anthony (1987): An Archaeology of Greece. The Present State and Future Scope of a Discipline, Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1987. Sourvinou-Inwood, Christiane (1979): “The myth of the first temples at Delphi”, CQ ns. 29 (1979) 231 – 251. Stehle, Eva (1997): Performance and Gender in Ancient Greece: Nondramatic Poetry in its Setting, Princeton, 1997. Teffeteller, Annette (2001): “The chariot rite at Onchestos: Homeric Hymn to Apollo 229 – 38”, JHS 121 (2001) 159 – 166. Verrall, Arthur W. (1894): “The Hymn to Apollo: an Essay in the Homeric question”, JHS 14 (1894) 1 – 29. Wagner-Hasel, Beate (2000): Der Stoff der Gaben. Kultur und Politik des Schenkens und Tauschens im archaischen Griechenland, Frankfurt, 2000. West, Martin (2002): “ ‘Eumelos’: A Corinthian epic cycle?”, JHS 122 (2002) 109 – 133. Yates, Francis A. (1966): The Art of Memory, Chicago, 1966.

Sarah Hitch

Barren Landscapes and Sacrificial Offerings in the Homeric Hymn to Apollo Leverhulme Early Career Fellow in Classics Corpus Christi College, Oxford

What is the landscape of animal sacrifice, the central act in Greek religious practice? “Normative sacrificial ritual”, that is to say, the slaughter of an animal dedicated to a god, engages with its location in a number of ways.1 The location of the sacrifice is special to the god addressed, either in a sacred precinct or other significant and/or pleasing location, marked by the presence of a permanent or make-shift altar. In Homer, a range of settings are utilized for sacrifice, including shrines, river banks and courtyards.2 From the Classical period, some sacrifices featured processions leading the animal towards the altar, while other sacrifices concluded with the deposit of part of the animal, usually the skin or horns, in the sanctuary.3 The circular stance of the participants around the altar and the scattering of grains are other ways sacrifice is integrated into its physical surroundings.4 The Homeric Hymn to Apollo (3) paints a remarkable picture of a god’s engagement with his sacrifices as a reflection of the landscapes of his two greatest sanctuaries, Delos and Delphi. The ritual of sacrifice is described in the Homeric Hymn to Apollo as a substitute for natural fertility: remarkably, sacrifices are promoted in the hymn as a means for feeding mortal inhabitants of barren places that otherwise cannot support human life. The need for the ritual is tied to the landscape, rather than any desire of the god, and the landscape is continually described in terms of its ability to support agriculture, which is either undeveloped or semi-developed, and therefore human life. The relatively early stage in the development of the Olympian hierarchy and development of mortal 1 On “normative animal sacrifice”, see Bremmer (2010); recent studies of sacrifice as the core of Greek religion include Naiden (2013) and essays in Faraone and Naiden (2012). 2 E.g. Hom.Il.2.303 – 308 (spring), 6.94 – 96 (naos ‘shrine’), 11.725 – 736 (riverbank), 773 – 5 (courtyard); on the topic, see Sourvinou-Inwood (1993) 2 – 3, Bremmer (1994) 27 – 37. 3 On processions, Burkert (1983) 38; Peirce (1993) 228, 251; van Straten (1995) 13 – 35; Hermary et al. (2004) 113 – 16. Dedications from sacrificial victims: van Straten (1995) 159. 4 E.g. Hom.Il.1.449 ff., 2.410 ff., Od.3.445 ff.; Ar.Pax 956 – 1016; Eu.Electra 784 – 843; Burkert (1983) 5; van Straten (1995) 31 – 46.

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centres of worship in the longer Homeric Hymns, as observed by Jenny Strauss Clay, is naturally paralleled by an equally early stage in the development of Greek civilization: as Marcel Detienne has shown, most of the Greek world traversed by Apollo seems to be uninhabited.5 We can extend the observations of Clay and Detienne with the ways in which the Homeric Hymn to Apollo predicts future fame and fortune for Delos and Delphi as dependent on sacrificial offerings by people from other places. Sacrifice takes over where the landscape fails, but the god is relatively removed from the process. As the young god founds his most famous sanctuaries, mortals are continually characterized as dependent on food that is, at least in these locations, naturally scarce. The god’s offerings will become a means of feeding the inhabitants of Delos and Delphi, a caveat to the divine reception of this offering long considered by scholars to be central to Greek perceptions of a relationship with divinities. The Homeric Hymn to Apollo, which I will treat as a unified composition dating from the early sixth century, can be divided into three ‘movements’ corresponding to the movement of the god in the creation of his new sanctuaries.6 The first movement describes Apollo’s birth, concluding with a description of the Delian festival (Hymn.Hom.Ap.1 – 178); Delos is designated as a future centre for sacrificial offerings that will nourish inhabitants of the barren island. The second movement begins with Apollo’s singing and dancing with the gods before detailing the foundation of Delphi (Hymn.Hom.Ap.179 – 387); reminiscent of the establishment of rites at Delos, future sacrifices are described as ‘food for men’. The third movement charts the establishment of the Cretan priests, with whom Apollo sings a paean (Hymn.Hom.Ap.388 – 544); Apollo instructs these sailors to perform a bloodless sacrifice, from which the god seemingly absents himself, and tells them they will feed themselves with future sacrificial offerings. In each movement, sacrifice is described as part of Apollo’s honors, but always in ways which distance the god from the reception of sacrifices and situate sacrifice as a kind of substitution for divinely granted natural abundance. Sacrifice, in this hymn, operates on a mortal-to-mortal level, rather than as a transcendent gift from man to god.

5 Clay (2006) 15 and passim; Detienne (1997). 6 For a survey of arguments relating to the poem’s date, composition and unity, Clay (2006) 17 – 19; the preface and Appendix 1 of Miller (1986); Richardson (2010) 13 – 15. I have adapted the “movements” described by Richardson (2010) 10 – 12; cf. Richardson (2009) 47, where he points out the parallel journeys in each movement. This paper focuses on sacrifice within the hymn; I refer the reader to the commentary of Richardson, whose text I have followed here, and the in-depth studies of Clay (2006) and Miller (1986) for further discussions and bibliography on other aspects mentioned in passing here.

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When Leto finally arrives at Delos after a long and fruitless search for a birthplace, she offers the future sacrifices for Apollo as the reason Delos should shelter her, Δῆλ᾽, εἰ γάρ κ᾽ ἐθέλοις ἕδος ἔµµεναι υἷος ἐµοῖο, Φοίβου Ἀπόλλωνος, θέσθαι τ᾽ ἔνι πίονα νηόν· ἄλλος δ᾽ οὔ τις σεῖό ποθ᾽ ἅψεται, οὐδέ σε τίσει: οὐδ᾽ εὔβων σέ γ᾽ ἔσεσθαι ὀΐοµαι οὔδ᾽ εὔµηλον, οὐδὲ τρύγην οἴσεις, οὔτ᾽ ἂρ φυτὰ µυρία φύσεις. αἰ δέ κ᾽ Ἀπόλλωνος ἑκαέργου νηὸν ἔχῃσθα, ἄνθρωποί τοι πάντες ἀγινήσουσ᾽ ἑκατόµβας ἐνθάδ᾽ ἀγειρόµενοι, κνίση δέ τοι ἄσπετος αἰεὶ δηµοῦ ἀναΐξει βοσκήσεις θ᾽ οἵ κέ σ᾽ ἔχωσι χειρὸς ἀπ᾽ ἀλλοτρίης, ἐπεὶ οὔ τοι πῖαρ ὑπ᾽ οὖδας. Delos, if only you should want to be the home for my son, Phoebus Apollo, and to establish his rich temple– no one else will ever move here, nor will you be honoured, since I think you will not be rich in cattle or flocks of sheep, nor will you bear fruit, nor will you grow abundant trees. But if you were to have a temple for Apollo the FarShooter, then all men will bring hecatombs for you, gathering here, and for you unceasing sacrificial smoke (knise) of fat will always rise up and you will feed those who live here from another’s hand, since you do not have richness under your soil. (Hymn. Hom.Ap.51 – 60)

Leto’s description of the hecatombs brought by people ‘gathering here’ (ἐνθάδ᾽ ἀγειρόµενοι) anticipates the gathering of the Ionians which pleases Apollo’s heart at the Delia, ἀλλὰ σὺ Δήλῳ Φοῖβε µάλιστ’ ἐπιτέρπεαι ἦτορ/ ἔνθα τοι ἑλκεχίτωνες Ἰάονες ἠγερέθονται “But you, in Delos, Phoebus, you most delight your heart,/ where for you the long robed Ionians gather…” (Hymn.Hom.Ap.146 – 7). However, no sacrifices are mentioned in connection with the Delia and Leto’s image of future hecatombs does not include an image of Apollo’s pleasure, such as that prompted by the Delia. Her proposal of sacrifices is contextualized in a description of Delos as unable to support crops or livestock, and as a consequence, mortal inhabitants: the sacrifices brought to Delos by others will feed the mortal inhabitants, a very striking transference of the ritual from a gift offering to Apollo. The phrase ἐνθάδ᾽ ἀγειρόµενοι is twice used in the Odyssey of the suitors ‘gathering here’ to devour Odysseus’ livestock, an echo further linking the hecatombs with mortal hunger.7 Leto elaborates that the knise of animal fat will always rise, but both the sacrificial smoke and hecatombs are localized as gifts for Delos (τοι) rather than Apollo; we may compare the gathering of Ionians ‘for Apollo’ (τοι) in the description of the Delia. Knise rising upwards might imply some kind of Olympian 7 Hom.Od.16.390, 17.379; the formulaic phrase is noted by Richardson (2010) ad loc.

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reception, but Leto seems to indicate that Delos is the beneficiary, nor is knise a well-ingrained aspect of sacrifice as a gift offering in early epic. Although knise is described by Zeus in the Iliad as part of the gods’ geras, it only rises from a sacrifice twice in Homer; these two instances raise the possibility of smoke feeding gods, but in the first case the smoke is not received by gods and in the second case, if authentic, it is rejected. The overall Homeric picture is suggestive of a deliberate avoidance of notional nourishment for deities from sacrifice, particularly when compared with the more linear depictions of smoke feeding gods in Near Eastern texts and the Hebrew Bible.8 Significantly, Leto does not imagine that Apollo will come to meet these offerings, nor is a verb of consecration used, but rather a generic verb meaning ‘to bring’ (ἀγινήσουσ᾽ ἑκατόµβας).9 So, before Apollo is even born, the sacrifices his worship will prompt are identified as beneficial to Delos and her hungry mortals rather than desirable for the god himself. Although Apollo is indirectly involved in this image of prolific sacrifice through the predicted popularity of his sanctuary, there is no sense that the god enjoys his sacrifices, as he enjoys the gathering of the Ionians in the subsequent description of the Delia. In fact, Apollo is not mentioned with reference to these offerings, except in the sense that they will be brought to his temple. Any idea of a potential bond between Apollo and his worshippers is further dispelled in Leto’s description of knise from fat (demos), an offering found only once in Homeric sacrifice, but is the central element of Prometheus’ deception of Zeus in Hesiod, a sinister description of the origins of sacrifice as punishment for mortals: the former commensality of shared meals with immortals is sundered by Prometheus’ attempt to give bones wrapped in demos to Zeus.10 The echoes of 8 Knise as geras: Hom.Il.4.49 =24.70; cf. 1.66, 9.500. knise rises from sacrifice: Hom.Il.1.312 (no divine reception), Il.8.548 – 552 (rejected). The latter episode is questionable because verses 8.548 and 550 – 552 are only found in the manuscript of (Plato) Alcibiades II 149d. On the issue of divine consumption of smoke, including comparanda from other religions, Kirk (1990) 10 – 13; on the manuscript tradition, Kirk (1990) ad loc. 8.549. Knise is not found elsewhere in Homer, the Hymns or in Hesiod. 9 Cf. the more typical language used in the description of sacrifices made by the Cretan priests, ἱερά τε ῥέζουσι (Hymn.Hom.Ap.394). On the language of sacrifice, Casabona (1966). In Homer and Hesiod, ἀγινεῖν does not refer to sacrifice, but crops and livestock (Hom. Il. 24.784, Od. 14.105, 20.213, 22.198; Hes. Op. 576). Argos is also taken on a hunting trip, Hom. Od. 17.294. 10 Eumaios makes a burnt offering of pieces cut from the animal, wrapped in demos, Hom. Od.14.428; contrast the portion of meat set aside for Hermes and the nymphs, 14.435 – 6. Demos only elsewhere refers to sacrificial offerings in two prayers: Hom. Il. 8.240, Od. 17.241. Hes. Theog. (538 – 41) τῷ µὲν γὰρ σάρκάς τε καὶ ἔγκατα πίονα δηµῷ/ ἐν ῥινῷ κατέθηκε, καλύψας γαστρὶ βοείῃ,/ τῷ δ᾽ αὖτ᾽ ὀστέα λευκὰ βοὸς δολίῃ ἐπὶ τέχνῃ/ εὐθετίσας κατέθηκε καλύψας ἀργέτι δηµῷ. ‘For before him he set the meat and innards rich with fat inside the skin, having covered them with the ox’s stomach, and then he set before him the white bones of the ox, ordering them with deceptive skill, having covered them with shining fat’. On the place of the

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a sacrifice in which mortals are forever separated from former commensality is coupled with Leto’s overall emphasis on sacrifices as a replacement for natural abundance or agriculture in the provision of food for mortals, effectively undermining any notion that the sacrifices would be received by Apollo. This depiction of Apollo’s distance from his sacrifices is compounded by the absence of any signs of divine beneficence that often accompany epic descriptions of special relationships between gods and people. Leto’s insistence on sacrificial offerings as the reason for allowing Apollo’s birth is predicated in her description of Delos as totally barren (Hymn.Hom.Ap.53 – 5). The vocabulary Leto uses to illustrate the infertility of Delos inverts imagery typically found in ‘golden age’ typology of places in which mortals live toil free existences as a consequence of very close, or even symbiotic, relationships between gods and men; natural abundance is a frequent expression for this divine presence or beneficence. So, the golden race in Hesiod’s Works and Days enjoy constant feasting, natural abundance of food without need to work, and gentle death ‘like sleep’.11 Two examples from the Odyssey demonstrate typical Homeric descriptions of such utopian settings, which emphasize both natural abundance and affinity to gods. Eumaios describes his birth home, the island Syria, οὔ τι περιπληθὴς λίην τόσον, ἀλλ᾽ ἀγαθὴ µέν, εὔβοτος, εὔµηλος, οἰνοπληθής, πολύπυρος. πείνη δ᾽ οὔ ποτε δῆµον ἐσέρχεται, οὐδέ τις ἄλλη νοῦσος ἐπὶ στυγερὴ πέλεται δειλοῖσι βροτοῖσιν: ἀλλ᾽ ὅτε γηράσκωσι πόλιν κάτα φῦλ᾽ ἀνθρώπων, ἐλθὼν ἀργυρότοξος Ἀπόλλων Ἀρτέµιδι ξὺν οἷς ἀγανοῖς βελέεσσιν ἐποιχόµενος κατέπεφνεν. It is not very thickly settled, but a good land, rich in herds, rich in sheep, full of wine, great amounts of wheat. Famine does not ever come into this land, nor does any miserable sickness fall upon wretched mortals. But whenever the tribes of men grow old throughout the city, Apollo the silver-bow coming, along with Artemis, slays them, assailing them with his gentle shafts. (Hom.Od.15.405 – 11)

Leto’s description of Delos as without cattle and sheep (οὐδ᾽ εὔβων… οὔδ᾽ εὔµηλον, l.54) may be a deliberate echo of Eumaios’ description of Syria as rich in cattle and sheep (εὔβοτος εὔµηλος). The other two aspects of fertility on Syria, rich amounts of wine and grain (οἰνοπληθής, πολύπυρος), are paralleled in Leto’s description of Delos as lacking fruit or trees (οὐδὲ τρύγην οἴσεις, οὔτ᾽ ἂρ φυτὰ µυρία φύσεις, l.55), but in neither case does she imagine that Apollo will better the island’s deficiencies. Eumaios connects the natural abundance of Syria with the Homeric Hymns in the theogonic tradition, Clay (2006) 37. Further echoes of the Theogony can be found in the Pytho episode, Miller (1986) 85 and Clay (2009) 66. 11 Hes.Op.109 – 20.

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overall health of the people and the gentle deaths brought to them by Apollo and Artemis: such descriptions are typical demonstrations of the beneficence of gods towards favorite people and places-they provide natural wealth and protect the inhabitants from ills and painful deaths. We find similar expressions of natural abundance as the gift of Apollo in a range of sources. Part of a hymn quoted by Menander Rhetor celebrates abundant harvests brought by Apollo; a fragment of Pindar’s 6th paean seems to connect sacrifices to Apollo with the aversion of famine, which can be compared to Plutarch’s description of offerings at Delphi to Apollo as ‘giver of fruits’.12 Given the epic model of divine beneficence as represented in Eumaios’ description of Syria and the reflections of this model in other sources for Apollo’s worship, the picture in the Homeric Hymn to Apollo seems bleak indeed. Eumaios’ description of Syria is one of several idyllic locations in the Odyssey, all of which are attributed to a closeness or affinity to gods, perhaps most vividly in the marvellous abundance of the island of Alcinous. Odysseus’ experience at the court of Alcinous begins with a very long description of the natural profusion and perennial fruit production of the island, all of which are described as the “gifts of the gods”.13 In epic, natural abundance is not lucky, but is usually a direct consequence of affinity to deities. Another aspect of ‘Golden age’ scenarios is commensality between men and gods such as described later by Alcinous, αἰεὶ γὰρ τὸ πάρος γε θεοὶ φαίνονται ἐναργεῖς ἡµῖν, εὖτ᾽ ἔρδωµεν ἀγακλειτὰς ἑκατόµβας, δαίνυνταί τε παρ᾽ ἄµµι καθήµενοι ἔνθα περ ἡµεῖς. εἰ δ᾽ ἄρα τις καὶ µοῦνος ἰὼν ξύµβληται ὁδίτης, οὔ τι κατακρύπτουσιν, ἐπεί σφισιν ἐγγύθεν εἰµέν, ὥς περ Κύκλωπές τε καὶ ἄγρια φῦλα Γιγάντων. Before now, the gods always appeared openly to us, whenever we sacrifice glorious hecatombs, and they feast among us, sitting where we sit. If anyone, going alone as a traveller, meets them, they do not hide themselves, since we are near to them, just as the Cyclopes and the wild race of Giants. (Hom.Od.7.201 – 6)

12 Menander Rhetor 444.15 – 16 καὶ ὁ µὲν διατελεῖ καρπῶν ἀφθόνων διδοὺς φορὰν καὶ ῥυόµενος κινδύνων, ἡµεῖς δὲ ὕµνοις ἱλασκόµεθα· “(Apollo) continues to give us abundant harvests and to rescue us from dangers, and we propitiate him with hymns.” Cf. the fragmentary reference to famine in Pi. Paean 6.58 – 73 = D6 Rutherford θύεται γὰρ ἀγλαᾶς ὑπὲρ Πανελλάδος, ἅν τε Δελφῶν ἔθ[ν]ος εὔξατο λιµοῦ. Plut. de. Pyth. orac. 402a: offerings to Apollo “giver of fruits” (καρπῶν δοτῆρα). 13 Τοῖ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ἐν Ἀλκινόοιο θεῶν ἔσαν ἀγλαὰ δῶρα, Hom.Od.7.132: an orchard with year-round fruit and a flourishing vineyard with vegetable beds providing year-round fruit, watered by one of two springs-the other spring provides water for the townspeople (vii.108 – 130); cf. the land of the Cyclopes, Hom. Od. 9.116 – 41.

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Food provides the link between mortals and immortals: either in the miraculous abundance of food as a sign of divine affinity or the sharing of meals with gods. Some such link between natural fertility, sacrifice and commensality with gods may lie behind the widely attested altar for Apollo Genetõr on Delos, which was famous for its bloodless offerings. Genetõr is an attribute relating to abundance and generation shared by many divinities, while Marcel Detienne has argued that bloodless offerings are often linked to this concept of a golden age when men and gods dined together: the fruits offered symbolize the automation of such a time.14 Strikingly, Delos is represented by Leto in exactly the opposite fashion, nor will Apollo’s patronage change this. Unlike the “gifts of the gods” which make Scheria a land of eternal springtime in the Odyssey, Delos will rely on the popularity of Apollo’s shrine among mortal worshippers, whose hecatombs will feed her inhabitants. Unlike the connections between Phaeacians and gods expressed through their commensal sacrificial meals, a typical ‘golden age’ motif, no association is established between Apollo and his sacrifices or worshippers, but rather the association is made between Delos herself, the worshippers and the sacrifices. Sacrifices are thought of as a means for Delos to attract mortal inhabitants, who cannot live without food. The barren soil of Delos will not be changed by the proposed future relationship with Apollo, which is characterized entirely in terms of popularity among mortals rather than divine pleasure or beneficence. Leto does not imagine that Apollo will come to meet these offerings, nor is a verb of consecration used, but rather a generic verb meaning ‘to bring’ (ἀγινήσουσ᾽ ἑκατόµβας, l.57). Delos, of course, accepts Leto’s offer after some hesitation; Leto’s difficult labor produces the young god, who joyfully leaps into the light of day to announce his three spheres of influence, the bow, lyre and oracle (l.115 – 132), which are established in the remainder of the hymn (and one of the strongest arguments for the hymn’s unity).15 The omission of agricultural gifts of gods is brought to the fore after Apollo’s birth, when the island sprouts a golden growth to the amazement of the goddesses in attendance (χρυσῷ δ᾽ ἄρα Δῆλος ἅπασα/ βεβρίθει, καθορῶσα Διὸς Λητοὺς τε γενέθλην,/ γηθοσύνῃ, Hom.Hym.Ap. 135 – 7). Gold is the material of divinity in epic, and as such is a suitably divine reaction to Apollo’s birth. Significantly, gold is often contrasted with mortal materials by virtue of being imperishable, the thematic opposite of automatic vegetation with its implied divine insurance of the life cycle. In his discussion of the epic de14 Detienne (1997) 26 – 7. Bloodless offerings: Diog. Laert.8.1.13 (cf. Timaeus FGH 566 f 147) Iambl.VP. 25, Macrob. 3.6.2, Plut. Conv.sept.sap.158, Clem.Al.Strom.848 P; Porph. Abst.2.28; Serv. Aen. 3.85, on which Farnell (1907) 161, 374; Burkert (1985) 68n.19. On the Cretans’ bloodless sacrifice, below p. 127. 15 On this point, see Clay (2006) 18 – 19; other positive arguments for unity are given by Miller (1985) and Richardson (2010) 13 – 15.

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piction of gold, A.S. Brown concludes, “Divine gold characterizes both the power of the gods in their moments of intense and dramatic involvement with mortals, and the distance that separates them from humanity.”16 Delos can grow gold for Apollo, but such growth cannot feed mortals.17 Certainly, the proverbial barrenness of the island and universal popularity of the sanctuary underlie this transposition of a golden age of automatic food production to a promise of hecatombs; however, expressions of the distance between god and mortals seem particularly vivid in descriptions of sacrificial offerings. In cult, Apollo was especially connected with animal sacrifice. For example, in Athens, the festival for Apollo Hekatombaios gave the month its name, and Delos also had a month Hekatombaion.18 Many, even very prominent, aspects of Apollo’s worship are not covered in this hymn, but the emphasis on hekatombs in Leto’s speech and in the subsequent foundation of Delphi highlight the role of these offerings in Apollo’s cult, but not, as we might expect, as pleasing or especially suitable gifts that will motivate the god to bless the island with his presence or divine favour. The transport of hecatombs first introduced by Leto as a means for feeding Delians is offered by Apollo to both locations where he stops, Telphousa and Crisa. Having travelled far and wide over a largely unpopulated Greek earth, Apollo decides upon the spring Telphousa for his oracular shrine (l.214 – 45). In this context, he expands Leto’s promise to Delos by including himself, rather than the place, as the recipient of the sacrifices, although he repeats Leto’s relatively muted phrase of ‘bringing sacrifices’ rather than a verb of consecration: Τελφοῦσ᾽, ἐνθάδε δὴ φρονέω περικαλλέα νηὸν ἀνθρώπων τεῦξαι χρηστήριον, οἵτε µοι αἰεὶ ἐνθάδ᾽ ἀγινήσουσι τεληέσσας ἑκατόµβας Telphousa, I think I will build my beautiful temple here as an oracle for mankind, who will always bring perfect hecatombs to this place for me. (Hym.Hom.Ap.247 – 9)

Apollo links the hecatombs with the oracle, a sort of reciprocal gift exchange; Telphousa prevaricates and Apollo moves on to Crisa at her suggestion (l.255 – 16 Brown (1998) 394. 17 A contrast made all the more striking through the use of the verb βρίθειν ‘to flower’. Richardson (2010) ad loc. points out parallel responses to epiphany, but notes “This gilding of the whole island, however, goes beyond what we find elsewhere in early epic”; Clay (2006) 45 – 6 describes the “unnatural” but divine source of Delos’ future wealth. 18 On Apollo Hekatombaios and the month Hekatombaion, Deubner (1956) 201, Burkert (1985) 231. Detienne (1997) 16 describes Apollo as the highest patron of consecrations; he notes the strangeness of the Cretan bloodless sacrifice (see below p. 127) but finds the hymn’s focus on Apollo’s role in foundations of temples and altars. Of the many “absences” in the hymn of integral parts of Apollo’s cults at Delos and Delphi, the most conspicuous is the Pythia: on this and other absences, Allen et al. (1936) 185, 192; Clay (2009).

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86). When he arrives at Crisa, he repeats the proposal made to Telphousa, including the description of the hecatombs (οἵτε µοι αἰεὶ/ ἐνθάδ᾽ ἀγινήσουσι τεληέσσας, l.288 – 293). Unlike the speech to Telphousa, Apollo’s announcement at Crisa has no addressee and the place seems uninhabited.19 Apollo then meets and defeats the Pytho, over whose dead body he boasts, οὐδὲ σύ γε ζώουσα κακὸν δήληµα βροτοῖσιν ἔσσεαι, οἳ γαίης πολυφόρβου καρπὸν ἔδοντες ἐνθάδ᾽ ἀγινήσουσι τεληέσσας ἑκατόµβας Nor will you live to be an evil bane for mortals, who, eating fruit of the bountiful earth, will bring perfect hecatombs here. (Hym.Hom.Ap.365 – 367)

The same verse about ‘bringing perfect hecatombs’ from Leto and Apollo’s earlier pronouncements is repeated, but no recipient is specified. Rather, hecatombs are explicitly linked with mortals in their identification as eaters, building on the theme established in Leto’s speech to Delos, a theme which will culminate in Apollo’s announcement to the Cretans that they will survive by eating sacrificial offerings at the end of the poem (l.526 – 539). Apollo boasts that his intervention will protect mortals, identified here in their capacity as eaters, a typical epic motif.20 However, Apollo does not implicate himself in either the production of such fruits or as recipient of the sacrifices: in fact, this abundance belongs elsewhere, an unspecified place of greater abundance from which people will travel with their hecatombs. After this conquest, Apollo returns to Telphousa to punish her for lying to him by blocking up her streams (l.375 – 87). Streams and rivers are consistent features of utopian settings and often symbolize automation; not only does Apollo leave barren landscapes unchanged, he prevents previously fertile areas from remaining so.21 After he has blocked up the water source, he builds an altar for himself on the site, where future worshippers will honor him as Telphousios: the natural fertility of the spot is replaced with an area for sacrifice (l.384 – 8). The barrenness of the locations of Apollo’s temples is contextualized by numerous references in the poem to a pre-civilized or uninhabited world.22 The 19 Detienne (1997) 6. 20 Cf. Hom.Il.6.142, 21.465 ‘eaters of fruit’ and Il.9.568, ‘bountiful earth’. On other formulaic phrases in Homer such as ‘eaters of bread’ (σῖτον ἔδοντες, Hom. Od. 10.101 et al.) or ‘grainbearing earth’ (φυσίζοος αἶα, Hom.Il.3.243 et al.) as signifiers of civilization as well as mortality, see Floyd (1989); Kitts (1994) and (2000). 21 E. g. the springs of Alcinous that conclude the catalogue of divine blessings, Hom.Od.7.129 – 131. On rivers as symbols of automation in comic utopias, Wilkins (2000) 119. Compare the changed depiction of Crisa by the future ministers of Apollo: the inhabitants and their flocks are terrorized by Pytho (l.304) but the Cretans describe the place as barren (l.529). 22 There are no toponyms in the hymn, Detienne 1996/7: n.10; the first vista surveyed by Apollo finds the Lelantine plain uninhabited, despite the very early sanctuary to Apollo there, the

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issue of where mankind is getting his food supply in what seems to be a preagricultural time is part of this estranged depiction of sacrifice: the transportation of hekatombs by visitors seems to supplant the development of agriculture in Delos and Delphi. There are only two descriptions of livestock in the hymn: the flocks at Crisa terrorized by the serpent (l.303) and the happily grazing sheep of Helios as glimpsed by the Cretan sailors (l.410). Reminiscent of the sinister undertones of the description of demos in Leto’s speech, the sheep belonging to Helios evoke the catastrophic sacrifice of Helios’ cattle by Odysseus’ comrades to avoid starvation.23 This reference to the sheep of Helios may anticipate the later angst of the Cretans about starvation, prompting Apollo to instruct them to feed themselves with sacrifices brought to Delphi (l.527 – 535). Apollo’s establishment of these Cretan priests is framed with the threat of mortal starvation. It is not only sacrifice, but food consumption that divides man from god: when Apollo brings up food, the Cretans ignore him only to find themselves later, when confronted with the temple which they will serve, entirely consumed by the issue. The issue of their food supply is first raised in Apollo’s typical series of formulaic encounter questions to the Cretans that directly echo Nestor’s questions to Telemachus in book three of the Odyssey, following a sacrificial banquet for Poseidon, and those of the Cyclops to Odysseus in book nine.24 Nestor questions Telemachus after dinner, while the Cyclops, in a clearly transgressive reversal of the expected hospitality scene, prepares milk for his dinner before questioning Odysseus and eating two of his companions. Apollo’s questions recall these scenes, both of which depict bountiful banquets: one a normative sacrificial banquet, the other a disgusting transgression by a monster, but one who has abundant cheese and milk. Apollo does not prompt the Cretans to sacrifice and/or eat with him, as Nestor shares a meal with Telemachus and the disguised Athena, nor does he furnish the means for their banquet himself, which is the backdrop to the Cyclops’ murders: the luxurious cheeses in his cave have

Eretrian Daphnephorion (l.216 – 219); the second vista depicts a forest covering the future site of Thebes (l.220 – 228); the ‘wheat-bearing plain of Thebes’ (Θήβης πεδίον πυρηφόρον, l.228) has not yet been cultivated. Although Poseidon already has a sacred area at Onchestus (l.230 – 238), the first human settlement is Phlegyae, city of hubris (278), Detienne 1996/7:3 – 6. He points out the thematic link between founding cities and ‘eaters of bread’ in archaic thought: both are signs of civilization, p.8. Similar to my argument about sacrifice, he finds the hymn rather elusive on Apollo’s role as patron god of foundations, p.9. This early stage of the divine/ mortal cosmos suits the thematic goals of the Hymns in charting the establishment of the Olympians (Clay 2006) as well as situating the foundation of the oracle at the beginnings of mortal time (Förstel 1979:243, 464). 23 Hom.Od.12.340 – 419, cf. 1.8 – 9. Richardson (2010) ad loc. finds no other references to sheep of Helios in extant sources. 24 l.452 – 455 = Hom.Od.3.91 – 94, 9.252 – 255, on which Richardson (2010) ad loc. The Cretans’ reply echoes Odysseus’ reply, l.469 – 473 ~ 9.259 – 263.

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tempted the men.25 Apollo’s questions about food break with the close echoes of the Homeric encounter questions, preserving the backdrop of dining, but transferring it exclusively to the arriving strangers rather than as an opportunity for the characteristic interaction between the questioner and recipients as in the Odyssey (the friendly hospitality of Nestor and murderous intent of the Cyclops). Upon their arrival at Crisa, the god, appearing to the Cretans as a young man, insists that they must be hungry after their long journey and therefore directs them to eat, αὕτη µέν γε δίκη πέλει ἀνδρῶν ἀλφηστάων, ὁππόταν ἐκ πόντοιο ποτὶ χθονὶ νηῒ µελαίνῃ ἔλθωσιν καµάτῳ ἀδηκότες, αὐτίκα δέ σφεας σίτοιο γλυκεροῖο περὶ φρένας ἵµερος αἱρεῖ. This is the manner of men who eat bread, whenever they come in their dark ship from the sea onto land, weary from toil, and immediately desire for sweet food seizes their hearts. (Hymn.Hom.Ap.459 – 462)

The description of “grain-eaters” identifies the Cretans as mortal inhabitants of a civilized world, but Apollo’s role in this regard is still unclear.26 The Cretans do not respond to this comment about dinner, but rather focus on their miraculous delivery to this new place, a speech followed by Apollo’s revelation of his identity and instructions for the altar, sacrifice of barley, meal and paian (l.462 – 519). Given the emphasis on hecatombs in the establishment of Delos and Delphi in Leto and Apollo’s earlier pronouncements, his instructions for a bloodless sacrifice of barley grains are surprising. Bloodless offerings can be a sign of poverty or restricted access to animals, but sacrificial animals are transported by ship in a few Homeric sacrifices.27 The barley grains are burned: burnt offerings can be distinguished from various aspects of ‘normative’ animal sacrifice, as performed

25 Nestor comments, νῦν δὴ κάλλίον ἐστι µεταλλῆσαι καὶ ἐρέσθαι/ ξείνους, οἱ τινές εἰσιν, ἐπεὶ τάρπησαν ἐδωδῆς “now it is better to question and speak to strangers, whoever they are, when they have been cheered by food.” Hom.Od.3.69 – 70; luxurious cheeses, 9.218 – 225; Cyclops’ dinner, 9.248 – 249, 287 – 298. It is interesting that both scenes involve Poseidon, whose sanctuary at Onchestus is passed by Apollo en route to found Delphi: on the implicit rivalry, see Detienne (1997) 4 – 5 on l.230 – 238. 26 Cf. the description of the Phaeacians as dwelling far from ‘men who eat bread’ Hom.Od.6.8: ἑκὰς ἀνδρῶν ἀλφηστάων. 27 Richardson (2010) ad loc. suggests that the Cretans do not have any animals to sacrifice. However, they make their dinner out of something-the point of the scene seems at least partly to feed these men, whom Apollo assumes must be hungry (Hymn.Hom.Ap.459 – 61) On the availability of sacrificial victims for mariners, contrast Agamemnon’s declaration in the Iliad that he did not pass an altar en route to Troy without sacrificing thigh-bones of animals, Hom. Il.7.236 – 44. Other examples of sacrificial animals taken off ships in Homer: Hom.Il.1.438ff; Od.9.551 – 33, 11.20 – 36.

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in Iliad Book 1, that imply commensality between worshippers and god.28 Generally, bloodless offerings represent some kind of ‘simple, age-old peasant world’ or are gifts to deities associated with harvests.29 There may be a connection here with the Delphic Theoxenia, in which offerings of foods are made to Apollo and Leto, either as recompense for the aversion of famine or as an offering for a good harvest.30 However, such an offering to Apollo as a protector of harvests is not the point of this sacrifice to him as ‘Delphinios’, and since the Theoxenia symbolizes a shared meal between god and worshippers, we might expect some kind of direct participation in the sacrifice or reception by Apollo, an image this hymn seems to take great pains to prevent. Typical of the fragmented depiction of agriculture and civilization in this hymn, Apollo’s encounter with the Cretans suggests that they do have some access to food, but apparently not much. After the bloodless sacrifice, during which Apollo disappears from the narrative, he (apparently) rejoins the Cretans to sing the paean in a procession to the temple. Once they have reached the new temple, rather than rejoice at their new destiny as servants of Apollo, their leader asks how they will feed themselves in such a barren place (l.526 – 530). Apollo replies, νήπιοι ἄνθρωποι δυστλήµονες οἳ µελεδῶνας βούλεσθ᾽ ἀργαλέους τε πόνους καὶ στείνεα θυµῷ ῥηΐδιον ἔπος ὔµµ᾽ ἐρέω καὶ ἐπὶ φρεσὶ θήσω. δεξιτερῇ µάλ᾽ ἕκαστος ἔχων ἐν χειρὶ µάχαιραν, σφάζειν αἰεὶ µῆλα· τὰ δ᾽ ἄφθονα πάντα παρέσται, ὅσσα ἐµοί κ᾽ ἀγάγωσι περικλυτὰ φῦλ᾽ ἀνθρώπων· O foolish men, sufferers of hard things, who want sorrows, hard toil, and heartache. I will give you an easy answer and I will put it in your minds: each of you, holding a sacrificial knife in your right hand, continually sacrifice sheep: they will be available in abundance, as many as the renowned races of people bring for me. (Hymn.Hom. Ap.533 – 538)

He continues with a warning to the Cretans to behave themselves or become subject to the rule of other men, before the hymn concludes with the formulaic valediction to the deity (Hymn.Hom.Ap.538 – 46). Significantly, Apollo’s de28 On ‘normative’ animal sacrifice, Bremmer (2010). 29 Burkert (1985) 67. The Hymn.Hom.Ap. does largely depict a pre-civilized, unihabited world (see Detienne (1997) and above page 000) so the barley could signify this early stage of development, except that the frequent descriptions of hecatombs in relation to Apollo’s future worship raise the expectation of such a sacrifice at this point. 30 The Panhellenic festival of theoxenia, celebrated in Pind.Pae.6.58 – 73 = D6 Rutherford (2003); Kowalzig (2007) 183. Elsewhere the theoxenia is connected with prayers for a good harvest: scholia Pind.Pae.6.62ff Diehl; Kowalzig (2007) 188. Whoever brought Leto the biggest onion could take a share from the trapeza (Polemon fr.36 Preller = Athen.9.372a).

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scription of the abundant sacrifices is tied with a threat to the Cretans rather than an image of pleasure or synthesis between god and temple servants. The wealth and greed of the sacrificers at Delphi was proverbial, a characteristic Apollo holds out to the Cretans as a means for providing food for themselves; similar to Leto’s description of demos and the echoes of transgressive sacrifices and meals in the Odyssey, a more negative association of food consumption and sacrifice lies beneath the surface.31 Apollo, as described in this hymn, acts as a generator of mortal life, not through endowing places with fertility, but through establishing sanctuaries that will attract worshippers bearing sacrificial offerings for the benefit of the inhabitants. This may be a method of eliding the natural difficulties posed by Delos and Delphi, but the notion, directly expressed by two divinities, that the sacrifices will not go to Apollo but to the temple ministers or local inhabitants would seem to overturn the very idea of sacrifice as a gift offering to gods. Apollo’s assignation of the sacrifices as a means for feeding the mortal ministers recalls Leto’s designation of sacrifices on Delos as a food supply for mortals: the conclusion of the hymn reiterates the use of sacrifice to benefit mortals as ‘eaters’ in the context of a barren landscape, rather than as a pleasing gift for the deity or a thank offering for divine bestowal of natural abundance.

Bibliography Allen, T.W., W.R. Halliday and E.E. Sikes (1936): The Homeric Hymns, Oxford 1936. Athanassaki L., Martin R. P., and Miller J. F., eds. (2009): Apolline Politics and Poetics: International Symposium, Athens, 2009. Bremmer, J. N. (1994): Greek Religion, Oxford 1994. Bremmer, J. N. (2010): “Greek Normative Animal Sacrifice” in D. Ogden, ed. A Companion to Greek Religion, Oxford, 2010, 132 – 44. Brown, A. S. (1998): “From the Golden Age to the Isles of the Blest”, Mnemosyne 51 (1998) 385 – 410. Burkert, W. (1983): Homo Necans: The Anthropology of Ancient Greek Sacrificial Ritual and Myth, Trans. P. Bing, Berkeley, 1983. Burkert, W. (1985): Greek Religion, Trans. J. Raffan, Cambridge, Ma 1985. Casabona, J. (1966): Recherches sur le vocabulaire des sacrifices en grec, des origines à la fin de l’époque classique, Aix-en-Provence, 1966. Clay, Strauss J. (2006): The politics of Olympus: Form and Meaning in the Major Homeric Hymns, 2nd ed. London, 2006. 31 On the warning, a possible reference to the “first sacred war” as well as the proverbial greed of Delphic priests see the bibliography and brief discussion given by Richardson (2010) ad loc., as well as Nagy (1979) 279 – 288 and further references at Kowalzig (2007) 191.

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Clay, Strauss J. (2009): “The Silence of the Pythia”, in Athanassaki L., Martin R. P., and Miller J. F., eds (2009), 5 – 16. Deubner, L. (1956): Attische Feste, Berlin, 1956. Detienne, M. (1997): “This is Where I intend to Build a Glorious Temple”, trans. J. Lloyd, in: Arion 4.3 (1997) 1 – 27. Faraone, C. and F. Naiden, eds. (2012): Greek and Roman Animal Sacrifice: Ancient Victims, Modern Observers, Cambridge, 2012. Farnell, L. R. (1907): The Cults of the Greek States, Vol. 4, Oxford, 1907. Floyd, E.D. (1989): “Homer and the Life-Producing Earth”, CW 82 (1989) 337 – 49. Förstel, K. (1979): Untersuchungen zum Homerischen Apollonhymnos, Bochum, 1979. Hermary, A. et al. (2004): “Les sacrifices dans le monde grec”, ThesCRA 1, 59 – 134. Kirk, G. (1990): The Iliad: A Commentary, Volume 2: Books 5 – 8, Cambridge, 1990. Kitts, M. (1994): “Two Expressions for Human Mortality in the Epics of Homer”, History of Religions 34 (1994) 132 – 51. Kitts, M. (2000): “Why Homeric Heroes Don’t Eat Quiche, or the Perils of Kukeon”, Literature and Theology 15 (2000) 1 – 19. Kowalzig, B. (2007): Singing for the Gods: Performances of Myth and Ritual in Archaic and Classical Greece, Oxford, 2007. Miller, A. (1986): From Delos to Delphi: a Literary Study of the Homeric Hymn to Apollo, Leiden, 1986. Nagy, G. (1979): The Best of the Achaeans: Concepts of the Hero in Archaic Greek Poetry. Baltimore, 1979. Naiden, F. (2013): Smoke Signals for the Gods. Ancient Greek Sacrifice from the Archaic through Roman Periods, Oxford. Peirce, S. (1993): “Death, Revelry, and Thusia”, CA 12 (1993) 219 – 66. Richardson, N. (2010): Three Homeric Hymns: to Apollo, Hermes, and Aphrodite, Hymns 3, 4, and 5, Cambridge, 2010. Richardson, N. (2009): “In Search of an Oracle: The Homeric Hymn to Apollo” Athanassaki L., Martin R. P., and Miller J. F., eds (2009) 45 – 54. Rutherford I. (2003): Pindar’s Paeans: A Reading of the Fragments with a Survey of the Genre, Oxford, 2003. Sourvinou-Inwood, C. (1993): “Early Sanctuaries, the Eighth Century and Ritual Space: Fragments of a Discourse”, in N. Marinatos and R. Hägg, eds. Greek Sanctuaries: New Approaches, London (1993) 1 – 17. Van Straten, F. (1995): Hierà Kalá: Images of Animal Sacrifice in Archaic and Classical Greece, Religions in the Greco-Roman World 127, Leiden, 1995. Wilkins, J. (2000): The Boastful Chef: the Discourse of Food in Ancient Greek Comedy, Oxford, 2000.

Mercedes Aguirre Castro

Landscape and Females in the Odyssey: Calypso, Circe and Nausicaa Universidad Complutense in Madrid

In the human world a sacred space is one marked out by men for the worship of the gods; that is, a place is sacred through the cult institutionalized by human beings. Even in those places which might be thought to emanate, in and of themselves, something of the divine, it is man who appropriates such places for cult1. In the Odyssey we find a world which belongs to myth. In the poem there are many descriptions of landscapes which serve as frames for some of the episodes: some are landscapes of rich vegetation, others are marine landscapes with shores and beaches. Some are places where mortals live and into which certain spaces dedicated to the gods are integrated, such as the cave of the Nymphs in Ithaca, or spaces within which men can offer their sacrifices to the gods, such as the beach in Pylos. Others are landscapes which belong only to the divine world, like Ogygia. And although we do have examples of sacrifices carried out by mortals, such as those by Nestor to Poseidon on the beach at Pylos (Od. 3.5 – 11) and that to Athena in Nestor’s palace (Od. 3, 445, ff.), or even the one performed by Odysseus to invoke the dead (Od. 11, 23, ff.), more often the communication between gods and men is expressed in a more direct way, without any ritual to mediate the contact between the two sides (for instance, we have the constant intervention of Athena, who even attends personally the sacrifice made by Nestor in Od. 3.445, ff.), nor are the limits between divine and human spaces always completely marked – particularly in Odysseus’ adventures. From these Odyssean landscapes I want to dedicate this article to those which surround three female figures: Calypso, Circe and Nausicaa, who belong to that ‘fairy tale’ world in which the hero’s adventures are inscribed in his journey to Ithaca, in particular, I want to explore to what extent we might consider them in relation to the concept of the sacred landscape.

1 See Ries (2006); Burkert (1985); Alcock-Osborne (1994); Cole (2004).

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I begin with Calypso. When Hermes arrives at the island of Ogygia to relay to Calypso the order of the gods to leave Odysseus, Homer describes the environment of the ‘lovely-haired’ goddess in these words2 : There was a growth of grove around the cavern, flourishing, alder was there, and the black poplar, and fragrant cypress, and there were birds with spreading wings who made their nests in it, little owls, and hawks, and birds of the sea with long beaks who are like ravens, but all their work is on the sea water; and right about the hollow cavern extended a flourishing growth of vine that ripened with grape clusters. Next to it there were four fountains, and each of them ran shining water, each next to each, but turned to run in sundry directions; and round about there were meadows growing soft with parsley and violets, and even a god who came into that place would admire what he saw, the heart delighted within him.

This beautiful landscape, this garden, which even a god would admire – as is explicitly said in line 74, and is in fact admired by Hermes in line 75 – is doubtless one more attraction to detain and retain the hero, in addition to the beauty and sensuality of Calypso herself, a place where the goddess can exercise her erotic seduction on Odysseus. It is an appropriate place for all kinds of pleasures. Such a place can influence his heart to make him desire to stay for ever as the immortal husband of the nymph and forget his intention of returning to Ithaca3. But can we understand this place as ‘sacred’? Let us consider two possible models in which a strange or unusual mythical or literary garden can be imagined. One is a clearly supernatural kind of place, for example the garden of the golden apple trees of the Hesperides, or the trees of precious stones in Gilgamesh, or the ‘poison’ garden in the story by Nathaniel Hawthorne Rapaccini’s Daughter4. In this tale Hawthorne describes an extraordinary garden – looked after by a famous doctor and his daughter – , a garden with huge plants and leaves of shining colours, whose attractiveness is combined with malignant and poisonous characteristics, qualities shared with the doctor’s daughter who looks after these same plants. A weaker form of the unusual or strange garden could be the so-called ‘enchanted garden’, a place of delight in which plants and flowers possess exceptional beauty or an exceptionally abundant and constant way of growing (even growing in winter!), being especially suitable for love and pleasure, a kind of earthly paradise or locus amoenus. We might consider as examples of this type of 2 Od. 5. 63 – 74. Translation by Lattimore (1967). 3 On Calypso and her role in Odysseus’adventures see for instance: Crane (1988), 15 – 30; Aguirre (1994) 301 – 317. 4 Hawthorne, Rappaccini’s Daughter. Hesperus Press, London, 2003.

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garden the one described on the third day in Boccaccio’s Decameron, an exceptionally beautiful garden which is compared with Paradise ‘if it were to be planted on earth’.5 To what extent can Calypso’s garden be seen as either supernatural in a strong sense or ‘enchanted’ in a weaker sense? Certainly it is an environment within which a divinity lives, a precinct only suitable for gods. Odysseus can only remain there because of the wishes of Calypso herself. The difference between this place and a place inhabited by mortals is explicitly stressed in lines 101 – 102: …And there is no city of men nearby, nor people who offer choice hecatombs to the gods and perform sacrifice…6

Another unusual characteristic is that the garden seems to be there spontaneously: it is not a garden cultivated by men7. Even though the text says that the garden has a vine, it does not say that the vine is cultivated8. But the plants are plants which belong to human world and are not created by a god. The divine character of the garden does not come from the unusualness of the trees and plants which compose it but from the goddess who lives in it9. In the case of Calypso’s garden, its characteristics also recall the way the Greeks described the Islands of the Blessed or Elysium, places of flowery and soft meadows; this would reinforce the idea that Odysseus is here in a world which is

5 Boccaccio, The Decameron Vol.I, London 1968, 153 – 155. In this case it is a walled garden which is admired for its beauty, fragrance and the extraordinary number and sorts of its flowers. It has been considered the prototype of the enclosed medieval garden, although the image of this garden suggests that it is supported by a more naturalistic and less symbolicallegorical conception (see Impelluso ( 2007), 358 – 9). An earlier example of this type of garden could be the garden of king Midas (Herodotus VIII, 138) with its roses of sixty petals and extraordinary fragrance (‘sweeter smelling that any others in the world’). Some of these beautiful and extraordinary gardens have also been represented in art, inspired by the literary models, for example the paintings ‘The enchanted garden’ by Waterhouse, depicted according Boccaccio’s Decameron or ‘The garden of Armida’ by David Teniers (1650), inspired by the garden described in Tasso’s Jerusalem Delivered. Beautiful and extraordinary gardens are considered as well to be enchanted by fairies (see for instance Briggs (1967), 15 – 16). 6 As Vidal-Naquet (1981), 88 points out the normal means of communication between men and gods is unknown. 7 See Vatin (1974), 345. 8 See Vidal-Naquet (1981), 84. 9 Homer does not refer to this garden as explicitly sacred (hieros, theios), but leimon (74) is especially associated with divine landscapes. According to Motte (1971), 7, leimones possess a significant religious mark. Leimones especially qualified as malakoi are marked with religious resonances, evoking a divine place, such as the place where Poseidon unites with Medusa (Hesiod, Theogony 278 – 9) or where Persephone is abducted (Homeric Hynn to Demeter, 7) (See Motte (1971), 180).

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beyond the human. Ogygia is for Odysseus – as Crane points out – like an Island of the Blessed10. It is high time to point out that Calypso lives in a cave. Caves were of course cult places from Minoan times onwards, places to deliver offerings and make sacrifices to the gods. Many caves were sacred precincts, such as the one dedicated to the Nymphs in Ithaca or that to Pan on one slope of the Athenian Acropolis11. In these cases sacredness presumably derives from the divinity who supposedly frequents the cave, and – crucially – is worshipped there. By contrast, Calypso’s cave is simply the place where the goddess lives; it is not a cave in which to worship Calypso. In a similar way Maia lives in a cave in the Homeric Hymn to Hermes (6 – 7), where Zeus unites with her: She dwelt in a deep shaded cave, where Kronos’ son used to join with the nymph whose tresses are fair…

Both Maia and Calypso are referred to as nymphs and daughters of Atlas. Both Maia and Calypso live apart from humans and gods12. In both cases we also have the motif of the sexual union in a cave: in one case a union of two divinities, in the other a liaison between a goddess and a mortal man. Caves present the ambiguity of being a place connected with the deep of earth – that is, with the underworld – , but at the same time they are places for love encounters for the divinities. They are also places for secret sexual encounters and for divine births (such as Zeus’ birth in Crete or Hermes, born in the cave where his mother Maia lived; or the monster Echidna)13. To summarise: All the environment of Calypso – her garden and her cave – possesses the characteristics of a sacred realm, imbued by the sacrality of the goddess who inhabits it. But it is neither a place built by men to honour the gods, nor it is in the land of human beings: rather, it is divine in itself. The only inhabitant is a goddess; here there is no regular or ritualised communication between mortals and gods, a feature which would be the main characteristic of a ‘sacred space’ in the world of humanity. Circe – in Book 10 of the Odyssey – is similar in many respects to Calypso. As scholars have noted, both episodes in the poem have parallel aspects in the way the two goddesses are presented, a fact which has generated extensive discussion

10 According to Crane (1988), 15, Ogygia is for Odysseus like Leuke for Achilles ‘or it would have been, had Odysseus chosen to stay’; but in spite of some sinister undertones, the dominant note is positive (Crane (1988), 18). 11 For caves as places for cult see for instance Bourgeaud (1979); Burkert (1985), 24 – 26. 12 For female deities who live isolated, away from the divine and human world see Aguirre (1996), 143 – 157. 13 On caves and their relationship with sexual encounters and births see Motte (1971) 18, 213; Crane (1988), 17; Buxton (1994) 104 – 107; Aguirre (1996) 145 – 155.

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about the priority of one or the other in the epic composition14. Circe and Calypso live at the edge of the world, apart from gods and mortals15 ; they are both dangerous for Odysseus in the sense that they want to detain him and to prevent him from returning to Ithaca, although ultimately both provide significant help for the hero. The landscape which surrounds Circe marks the environment as a place where a goddess lives. Once more it is different from more familiar human landscapes in that nobody sacrifices to the gods16 : it is a self-sufficiently divine realm, where a goddess lives accompanied by the nymphs who attend her. But the environment is not a garden, like Calypso’s, but a forest in which is built her house of stone: Smoke rising in the middle through the undergrowth and the forest… (Od.10, 197). In the forest glen they came to the house of Circe. It was an open place, and put together from stones. (Od. 10.210).

Circe is a witch, a polypharmakos, whose main ability is to transform men into animals17. Circe apparently lives surrounded by animals bewitched by her potions and we could see her forest as similar to the enchanted forest of a fairytale18, but the trees in Circe’s forest are not haunted trees, nor humans transformed into trees; they cannot walk (unlike those in an old Basque legend, which used to go on their own to people’s houses in order to be cut as firewood, until one day they gave up doing it19 ; or the Ents, the race resembling trees of the forest of Fangorn in The Lord of the Rings, or the willows in a Cornish tale which are said to walk after people in the darkness, muttering20). However in the Circe episode there is a reference to a plant which does seem to have magical and divine qualities: moly. This plant is unknown to humans but has qualities which a god, Hermes, does know21: 14 15 16 17 18

19 20 21

For some bibliography and discussion about this subject see Crane (1988) 31. See note 14. Vidal-Naquet (1981) 88 (see note 9). For Circe as a witch who transforms men into animals and her role in the Odyssey see for instance Germain (1954); Page (1973); Crane (1988); Yarnall (1989); Buxton (2009), 38 – 43; Bettini-Franco (2010). Like in many enchanted forests in folklore and literature it is a place bewitched by the presence of a ‘fairy’ queen or which contains enchantments, a place of magic and danger (examples of that sort of forest could be the ones in the stories of Hansel and Gretel and The Beauty and the Beast) ( For the similarities between the Circe episode and a folktale such as Hansel and Gretel see Carpenter (1962), 18 – 22, 144; For trees and their relationship to fairies see Briggs (1967). In Basque folklore trees are characterised as having a rational thought, the capacity to communicate and also to move. For this Basque ‘animism’ see Caro Baroja (1972), 265; Ortiz Osés-Garagalza (2006), 53 – 55, 101 – 103. A tale recollected by Briggs (1967), 41. Od. 10.330.

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He gave me the medicine which he picked out of the ground.

This line seems to show that moly, the magical plant which serves Odysseus as an antidote to being transformed into a pig, grew in Circe’s island. And it is clearly a plant which does not belong to human world but to immortals22. Assuming this to be so, we might speculate that the other plants which grew in Circe’s island might also have special and divine qualities, and that those plants might be the ones which provide Circe with the magical ingredients for her potions. As I have already said, the landscape of Circe is different from that of Calypso: it is not a beautiful garden of flowers and scents producing the impression of being a place appropriate for happiness and pleasure. But it shares with Calypso’s landscape a divine and sacred quality: the fact of being the environment in which a goddess lives. Although, as in the case of Calypso, there is no mention of a word to designate it as sacred, Circe’s own divinity sacralises that which surrounds her. There is an interesting contrast between, on the one hand, the spaces inhabited by Calypso and Circe, and, on the other hand, sacred places established by men in order to honour the gods. In any temple, sanctuary or sacred precinct one of the most important restrictions for mortals is not to have sexual relationships in them – an act which would inevitably attract punishment by the gods, as in the case of Atalanta and Hippomenes (or Melanion) who made love in a sacred precinct and were transformed into lions as a result. In the landscapes of Calypso and Circe, by contrast, sexual relationships are perfectly suitable. What is more, flowery meadows, places of luxuriant vegetation, and also caves, are associated with erotic encounters between gods and goddesses and gods/goddesses and heroes or heroines23. Examples are the union of Poseidon and Medusa in a flowery meadow24, or the similar environment for the union between Zeus and Hera25, or again the union in a cave between Zeus and Maia (Homeric Hymn to Hermes 6 – 7). Doubtless Odysseus feels in some way afraid to be in the presence of the goddesses, but he participates in a physical way in their divine world, having sexual relationships with them and accepting their food and drink, even though a difference between man and god is expressed in the fact that, while Calypso offers nectar and ambrosia to Hermes, Odysseus takes human food and drink26. Let us pass now to our third female character and our third landscape: Nausicaa in Scheria.

22 23 24 25 26

About moly in Heubeck-Hoekstra (1989), 60. See note 13. Hesiod, Theogony 278 – 9. See also note 11. Iliad 14. 346 – 9. See also note 11. Od. 5.196 – 7.

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The case of Nausicaa is slightly different from the two which I have just commented on. To start with, the Phaeacians seem to be, not divine, but simply mortals, mainly because of the fact that they sacrifice to the gods: …and to the immortals accomplish fine sacrifices… (Od.7.191) …we must dedicate also to Poseidon twelve bulls, chosen out of the herds… (Od. 13.181 – 2).

As I have already said, in Calypso’s and Circe’s islands the normal way of communication between men and gods is unknown27. This is a crucial distinction between Ogygia, Aiaia and Scheria. Scheria has a double character: on the one hand it is comparable to Ithaca, on the other it resembles to the magical places of Odysseus’ adventures28. The episode starts on the beach, when Nausicaa and her handmaidens are playing with a ball after washing clothes and putting them to dry. This is the moment when Odysseus, after having been shipwrecked and having lain asleep on the shore of Scheria, is awoken by the girls’ voices. In this scene the landscape which surrounds Nausicaa is a human marine landscape of beach and river: the delightful stream of the river (Od. 6.85) where the water of the sea had washed the most big pebbles up on the dry shore. Then they themselves, after bathing and anointing themselves with olive oil, ate their dinner all along by the banks of the river and waited for the laundry to dry out in the sunshine. (Od. 6.94 – 8).

But Odysseus, as soon as he wakes up, compares Nausicaa and her maidservants with the Nymphs (Od.6.123, ff.); and this fact, although it could be considered as a cliché29 (they have all already been compared with the Graces in 6.18 – 9), recalls that in some way the landscape which surrounds them might be similar to those landscapes which the Greeks consider to be the dwellings of the Nymphs. Next Odysseus asks Nausicaa: ‘Are you mortal or goddess?’ (Od. 6.149). And he goes on to compare her to Artemis: If indeed you are one of the gods who holds wide heaven then I must find in you the nearest likeness to Artemis, the daughter of great Zeus, for beauty, figure and stature. (Od. 6.150 – 2).

Although immediately he raises the possibility that she could be simply a mortal, he still expresses his admiration to her. And now he compares her with a young palm tree, like the one he saw once in Delos, by Apollo’s altar (Od. 6.162 – 7). This is again a comparison with something related to the divine, in this case a tree 27 See note 8. 28 See Vidal-Naquet (1981), 91. 29 Vidal-Naquet (1981), 92.

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which plays a very important role related to the cult in Delos30. In short, the encounter between Odysseus and Nausicaa displays a constant ambiguity between the human and the divine. For Motte31 this episode seems a poetic transposition of the theme of divine epiphany. In his view the scene between Odysseus and Nausicaa is tinged by that feeling of simultaneous fascination and fear which characterizes the presence of the sacred. On the other hand, there is an interesting detail in this scene which adds to the interrelationship between human and divine: the fact that Odysseus had been hidden beneath an olive tree32 recalls his special connection with Athena by referring to her sacred tree, which might even suggest a symbolic presence of the goddess herself. As the episode develops we find still more details relevant to our theme. When Nausicaa is about to show Odysseus the way to the palace of her father Alcinoos, she describes the place where the hero should wait: You will find a glorious grove of poplars sacred to Athene near the road, and a spring runs there, and there is a meadow about it, and there is my father’s estate and his flowering orchard… (Od. 6.291 – 3).

The mention of a meadow, a flowering orchard and a spring recalls again the idea of a sort of divine garden, similar to the ‘enchanted garden’ which I have referred to before. But the fact that there is also a grove of poplars consecrated to Athena constitutes a difference from Calypso’s garden and transforms this landscape into a human one. It is a garden in which men worship the gods33. The Phaeacians are very dear to the immortals (6.203); they are human but, like Circe and Calypso, they live apart from men and gods: We live far apart by ourselves in the wash of the great sea (Od. 6.204).

The sacred character of the landscape of Scheria can be seen in two ways: on the one hand we have a human landscape, a sacred precinct from the point of view of men, in that grove of poplars dedicated to Athena which lay beside the road outside the city; on the other hand in book 7 (112 – 132) there is a detailed description of another ‘landscape’, a more divine landscape, in this case Alcinoos’ garden:

30 For the palm tree and its relationship to Apollo see for instance Motte (1971) 175, ff. 31 Motte (1986), 185. 32 Od. 5.476 – 485. On the symbolism of the olive tree in this scene see for instance Ahl-Roisman (1996), 46 – 7. 33 Gothein (1909), 107 – 8 has opposed Calypso’s garden, completely natural, to Athena’s grove in the Phaeacians’ land. See also Vatin (1974), 345.

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On the outside of the courtyard and next the doors is his orchard, a great one, four land measures, with a fence driven all around it and there is the place where his fruit trees are grown tall and flourishing pear trees and pomegranate trees and apple trees with their shining fruit, and the sweet fig trees and the flourishing olive. Never is the fruit spoiled on these, never does it give out, neither in winter time nor summer, but always the West Wind blowing on the fruits brings some to ripeness while he starts others. Pear matures on pear in that place, apple upon apple, grape cluster on grape cluster, fig upon fig. There also he has a vineyard planted that gives abundant produce, some of it a warm area on level ground where the grapes are left too dry in the sun, but elsewhere they are gathering others and trampling out yet others, and in front of these are unripe grapes that have cast off their bloom while others are darkening. And there at the bottom strip of the field are growing orderly rows of greens, all kinds, and these are lush through the seasons; and there two springs distribute water, one through all the garden space, and one on the other side jets out by the courtyard door, and the lofty house, where townspeople come for their water Such are the glorious gifts of the gods at the house of Alkinoos.

I have already mentioned the idea that the land of Scheria is double. Its fields are beyond doubt the ‘works of men’. But at the same time there are no seasons in the garden of Alcinoos. This garden is not ordinary, but a golden-age land in the heart of Phaeacia34. There is an obvious reference to the gardens of the gods in relation to the extraordinary richness of the plants and the perpetual – and in some way supernatural – abundance of its fruits35. But those plants, such as in the cases I have already commented on, are not different from human plants36. This is then an ‘enchanted garden’, extraordinary, divine in its characteristics and in the fact that it is a gift from the gods. It is a landscape which awakens Odysseus’ admiration (7.133 – 134), an admiration which could be interpreted again as the feeling of being in the presence of the sacred, the realm of the gods37. 34 Vidal-Naquet (1981), 91. For Segal (1962) 17 the Phaeacians are between two worlds: they are placed at the intersection of the world of the tales and the ‘real’ world. 35 See also Venturi Ferriolo (1989), 89 – 91. 36 Vidal-Naquet (1981) 91 – 94 opposes the utopy of Alkinoos’ garden the the reality of Laertes garden in Od. 24.341 – 344. 37 Homer uses the word thauma such as in 5.75, but in this case it is a man’s admiration and not a god’s. Thauma can be interpreted in relation to a feeling imbued with religious experience (see Motte (1986), 172). Festugière (1942) points out the old word thambos from the same root as thauma thaumazein, in which he sees the reaction of a mortal man in front of a manifestation of the supernatural. Buxton (2009), 24 – 25 refers to astonishment (particularly in the presence of a metamorphosis) as an internal theme describing the impact of the sacred upon characters who register its presence.

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This garden, then, associates the Phaeacians – and with them Nausicaa – with the divine. Odysseus is once more in danger of being under the charm of the environment and the beauty – in this case of the lovely Nausicaa – all of which could make him forget Ithaca. My three female characters coincide in some aspects, particularly in the idea of the danger they represent for Odysseus’ return. If Calypso and Circe are clearly divinities, in Nausicaa there is also something divine, although in her more human aspect she could become even more tempting than Calypso and Circe. The landscapes which surround these figures possess a sacred character which comes – in the cases of Calypso and Circe – from being locations where a goddess lives and where a mortal like Odysseus is conscious of their superhuman quality. They are places which, although at first sight may appear similar to human places in their characteristics, in fact belong to the world of the sacred. They can also be likened to the Islands of the Blessed and to Elysium, with their fertile and luxuriant landscape, produced by a mild climate and a fertile land. And here we can include the landscape of the Phaeacians, which, in spite of not being intrinsically divine, comes very close to it. If we can say – with Motte38 – that the Greeks experienced the presence of the sacred in meadows and gardens, in these texts of the Odyssey the hero Odysseus is really in the realm of the divine. The sacrality of my three landscapes is not the result of a particular cult or a sanctuary39, but derives from the divine aspects of their inhabitants. Even in the case of Nausicaa Odysseus feels in the presence of something associated with the divine. And in all three cases Odysseus shares his existence with the divine, for a shorter or longer time, in a manner which is more direct and more intimate than any other way in which a mortal can communicate with a god. But in the end Odysseus prefers to return to humanity, and even when he is offered immortality by Calypso, his choice is to remain human40.

38 (1971) 148. 39 Like in places such as Eleusis their sacrality derives from a reference to the divine (see Ries (2006), 37). 40 For Vidal-Naquet (1981), 83, the Odyssey as a whole is in one sense the story of Odysseus’ return to normality, of his deliberate acceptance of his human condition. When Odysseus leaves Calypso he is deliberately choosing the human against all that is not human (see also Segal (1962), 20; Stanford (1954).

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Bibliography Aguirre, M. (1994): “El tema de la mujer fatal en la Odisea”, CFC (egi) 4, 301 – 317. Aguirre, M. (1996): “Ambiguedad y otros caracteres en las divinidades remotas de la épica arcaica”, CFC (egi) 6, 143 – 157. Ahl, F.– Roisman, H. (1996): The Odyssey Reformed, Cornell University Press. Alcock, R.S. – Osborne, R. (1994): Placing the gods: sanctuaries and sacred space in ancient Greece, Oxford. Bettini, M.-Franco, C. (2010): Il mito di Circe, Einaudi. Bourgeaud, P. (1979): Recherches sur le dieu Pan, Geneva. Briggs, K. (1967): The Fairies in Tradition and Literature, Norfolk. Burkert, W. (1985): Greek Religion, Oxford. Buxton, R. (1994): Imaginary Greece: The Contexts of Mythology, Cambridge. Buxton, R. (2009): Forms of Astonishment. Greek Myths of Metamorphosis, Oxford. Caro Baroja, J. (1972): Los vascos, San Sebastián. Carpenter, R. (1962): Folktale, Fiction and Saga in the Homeric Epics, Berkeley. Cole, S. G. (2004): Landscapes, Gender and Ritual Spaces, University of California Press, London. Crane, G. (1988): Calypso. Backgrounds and conventions of the Odyssey, Frankfurt am Main. Festugière, A. J. (1942): La Sainteté, Paris. Germain, G. (1954): Genèse de l’ Odyssée, Paris. Gothein, M. (1909): “Der griechische Garten”, Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Athenische Abteilung, 34, 100 – 144. Heubeck, A.– Hoekstra, A. (1989): A commentary on Homer’s Odyssey, vol. II, Oxford. Impelluso, L. (2007): Gardens in Art, Getty Trust Publications, Santa Monica. Lattimore, R. (1967): The Odyssey of Homer, Cambridge. Motte, A. (1971): Prairies et jardins de la Grèce antique, Brussels. Motte, A. (1986): “L’expression du sacré dans la religion grecque” in J. Ries (ed.), L’expression du sacré dans les grands religions vol. III, Louvain-La-Neuve, 109 – 256. Ortiz Osés, A.-Garagalza, L. (2006): Mitología vasca, San Sebastián. Page, D. (1973): Folktales in Homer’s Odyssey, Harvard. Ries, J. (2006): Il senso del sacro nelle culture nelle religioni, Milan. Segal, C. (1962): “The Phaeacians and the symbolism of Odysseus’ return” Arion 1. 4, 17 – 63. Stanford, W.B. (1954): The Ulysses theme, a study in the adaptability of a traditional hero, Oxford. Vatin, Cl. (1974): “Jardins et vergers grecs” in Mélanges hélleniques offerts à Georges Daux, Paris, 345 – 367. Venturi Ferriolo, M. (1989): “Homer’s garden” in Journal of Garden History, vol. 9, n. 2., 86 – 94. Vidal-Naquet, P. (1981): “Land and sacrifice in the Odyssey: a study of religious and mythical meaning” in R.L. Gordon (ed.) Myth, Religion and Society, Cambridge, 80 – 94. Yarnall, J. H. (1989): The transformation of Circe. The history of an archetypal character, University Montreal, Quebec.

Richard Buxton

An Ogre in Three Landscapes: Cyclops in Homer, Euripides and Theokritos Emeritus Professor, Senior Research Fellow in Classics and Ancient History University of Bristol

The topic of this volume raises all kinds of definitional questions relating to the terms ‘sacred’ and ‘landscape’. Since the definition of neither word is widely agreed, it will be simplest if I state how I myself shall be using these terms, and then move on. My inclination is to take ‘landscape’ to be a very broad concept, embracing not only what one might call ‘the natural landscape’ (itself a highly problematic term, of course) but any area of the visible space of the earth – what Frits Naerebout, in defining ‘die Landschaft’, calls ‘eine Aggregation von Orten’.1 The application of such a broad definition to the specific context of ancient Greece implies that not just Mount Parnassos, or the plain of Lassithi, or a field of corn in Messenia, or an olive grove on Naxos, but also the temple of Aphaia on Aigina, and the Athenian agora and Acropolis, should be regarded as forming part of ‘the landscape’. Nevertheless, it so happens that the ‘landscape’ with which we shall be concerned in the present discussion – that is to say, the setting within which Homer, Euripides and Theokritos located the Cyclopes – is in fact a landscape in the narrower sense of ‘natural landscape’ as well as in the broader sense, since, although elsewhere in Greek tradition the Cyclopes were emphatically connected with ‘the built environment’ in their capacity as master (‘Cyclopean’) masons, in the three texts which I shall analyse in the present brief essay they live in what one might call a state of environmental passivity.2 Moving now to the concept of ‘sacred’, I state baldly that in my view this term should be applied not universally but rather on a culture-by-culture basis. That is, I remain quite unpersuaded that it is productive to operate with the idea of a universal, cross-cultural dichotomy between ‘the sacred’ and ‘the profane’, or, to change the language, le sacré et le profane, as Mircea Eliade’s psychological/ 1 Naerebout (2009) 191. Compare also the formulation by Mehl (2009) 155: ‘die sichtbare Form überschaubare Bereiche der Erdoberfläche’. 2 Cyclopes as builders: e. g. Pind. fr. 169a, 7 Maehler; Bacchyl. 11.77 – 79; Eur. Her. 15, 944; IA 265, 1500 – 1; Apollod. Bibl. II 2,1; Paus. II 16, 5; 25, 8; VII 25, 6; Strabo VIII 372 – 373.

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emotional study expressed what he saw as the relevant distinction.3 For the limited purposes of our present study, however, we may set the universal-versusculture-specific debate to one side. In regard to the Greek data which I shall be reviewing, I shall take ‘sacred’ to refer simply to places or actions to which this or that narrator ascribes some type of relationship, whether intrinsic or temporary, with the gods. Before turning to my three selected texts I would like to make two further, general points. (1) First, I concur with Paul Cartledge when he affirms that, for the ancient Greeks, sacred space is cut off from less sacred space, rather than from nonsacred space.4 Clearly there may, in certain contexts, be a strong boundary between, for example, what lies within a temenos and what lies outside it: we may recall Pausanias VIII 38, 6, where it is related that anyone who enters the sanctuary of Lykaian Zeus on Mount Lykaion dies within a year, and that any living being, man or beast, who ventures into the sanctuary, loses his shadow – that is, symbolically ceases to be alive. But that does not mean that all the space outside such a temenos is uniformly non-sacred. Take the example of land used for arable cultivation. According to Hesiod’s Works and Days, the grain which grew on such land fell within the province of Demeter (393), having been brought to fruition by the rain sent by Zeus (415 – 416), in a field tilled with a plough made thanks to the skill of a carpenter, otherwise known as ‘the servant of Athene’ (430).5 From certain perspectives no part of the landscape could be denied an element of sacredness. My first general point, then, is that the sacredness of space in ancient Greece is more extensive than might be suspected. (2) My second general point is the converse of the first. I refer to comments recently made by Domenico Accorinti in his study of the relationship between mountains and the sacred in ancient Greece. Accorinti argues that there is little support in the ancient evidence for the idea that the Greeks revered mountains in themselves; rather, Greeks were aware of specific connections between divinities and mountains in certain contexts, either because a divine cult was practised there, or because of a mythical tradition recording the presence of a divinity at a certain place.6 I would generalise Accorinti’s perception to include the whole of the rest of the landscape: we should normally look, not for a sacrality immanent and always present in landscape features in and of themselves, but rather for a more specific, 3 4 5 6

Eliade (1972). Cartledge (1996) 106 – 107, cited by Naerebout (2009) 195 n.18; my italics. Plough and Athene: see Detienne (1981) 31. Accorinti (2010) 26 – 27.

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contingent sacrality, the product of a cult, a sanctuary, or a mythical tradition about a divine epiphany or other form of divine intervention at a particular location, or type of location. My second general point, then, is that sacred space in Greece is more limited than might be suspected. Adding my second point to my first, I conclude that sacred space in Greece is rather more complex than might be expected. The debate about ‘sacred landscape’, or ‘sacred space’, is one to which archaeologists, landscape historians, epigraphers, and philologists each have their own contributions to make. My own speciality is the study of mythological narratives, and in the remainder of this paper I shall ask if there is anything in that field of study which can throw light on the central concerns addressed in this volume. Myths, after all, explore; they conduct thought-experiments. And one of the many topics they explore is that of landscapes: landscapes within which the gods might be thought to be present and active, or, sometimes, landscapes to which they might be thought to be rather peripheral. I shall focus on the Cyclops Polyphemos, a mythological figure whose relationship with the gods was complex and paradoxical. I shall discuss what three myth-tellers had to say about him and about the landscapes he lived in. As we shall see, those three landscapes are themselves characterized by complexity and paradox, especially in relation to the notion of the sacred. Ever since a ground-breaking article by Pierre Vidal-Naquet in 1970,7 it has been impossible to ignore the significance of variations in the landscape of the Odyssey: first, how different cultural groups use the land, and how those cultural groups sacrifice (or do not sacrifice); and second, how land use and sacrifice are interrelated. I want to look at Odyssey Book IX from a similar angle, but adding a third dimension to the two stressed by Vidal-Naquet, namely how the different cultural groups interact with the gods in other ways than through sacrifice. My aim will be to draw some conclusions about the sacredness or otherwise of the landscape. The encounter between Odysseus and the Cyclopes in Odyssey Book IX is narrated by Odysseus himself. According to this narrative, the Cyclopes live in a landscape in which they neither sow nor plough; rather, they trust that crops – wheat, barley, vines – will grow without cultivation, watered by the rain sent by Zeus (107 – 111). This ‘trust’ is no subservient faith, but a confidence, based on the Cyclopes’ extreme physical strength (276), that the weather and the earth will go on helping them regardless of their explicit disregard of the gods, including Zeus himself (275). This is why I referred a moment ago to a paradox: Zeus is dismissed as unimportant, yet his assistance in sending the rain is taken for 7 Translated as Vidal-Naquet (1981).

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granted. One more detail about the Cyclopean land needs emphasis: the Cyclopes could, says Odysseus, exploit the island which lies offshore close to their own territory, and make it grow all kinds of crops; but they fail to do so, since they have no ships (125 – 135). Indeed they build nothing at all, not even houses, for they live in mountain caves. Is this landscape ‘sacred’? Neither the uninhabited island, nor the land opposite it in which the Cyclopes dwell, is described either explicitly or implicitly as sacred. What are described, and described repeatedly, as taking place within this landscape, however, are both human actions oriented towards the gods, and actions performed by the gods, in other words two different sorts of ‘sacred actions’ which occur in specific, precise and localised contexts throughout Book IX. At first, Odysseus’ narrative links these god-related actions exclusively to the Greeks. He hints at how the gods can act so as to favour mortals, or rather, to favour the Greeks in particular: tis theos (‘some god’), he guesses (142), guided him and his crew safely ashore at the island in the darkness; and the Nymphs (for who else could it have been?) drove some goats out of cover so Odysseus’ men could eat them (154). What of Polyphemos’ cave? It is the location of a thriving, highly organized, semi-pastoral, semi-industrial enterprise devoted to processing of milk into cheese. In other words, the cave is not intrinsically sacred. However, at one specific moment in the narrative the actions of the Greeks make the cave temporarily a place of sacred activity: they make offerings – ethusamen – though what is offered seems in fact to be cheese, the only food immediately to hand (231 – 232). By contrast with this sacred action performed by the Greeks, on arriving back at his cave Polyphemos makes no offering, whether of cheese or anything else. When the ogre espies him, Odysseus tells his story, which again ascribes a prominent role to the gods: Zeus it presumably was who set the Greeks on a wandering course (262), and it will be Zeus, god of suppliants and guests, who will avenge any wrong to Odysseus and his men (270 – 271). Polyphemos’ reply pushes Zeus from the centre – to which Odysseus had brought him – to the margins: ‘The Cyclopes care nothing either for Zeus who wields the aegis, or for the (other) blessed gods, because we are much stronger than they’ (275 – 276). Odysseus persists with a narrative which brings the gods back centre-stage: Poseidon (he alleges) smashed my ship (283 – 285). Polyphemos’ omophagous reaction prompts the Greeks into another sacred action: ‘Lamenting, we held up our hands to Zeus (in prayer)’ (294). When he hatches his plan to blind the ogre, Odysseus once more invokes divine intervention on the Greek side: ‘May Athene grant my prayer’ (317); and grant it she apparently does, at least symbolically – for the stake of wood which effects the blinding is made of olive wood. The weight of Odysseus’ narrative so far in Book IX has placed the support of the gods

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decisively behind the Greeks. When Polyphemos tastes the wine given him by Odysseus, the ogre repeats exactly what we learned earlier about the Cyclopes’ attitude to the gods: the Cyclopes have their own vines, but they grow spontaneously, watered by the rain of Zeus (110 – 111). So far Polyphemos has learned nothing, nor has Odysseus’ arrival in any way changed his perception of the world. But the blinding alters the tone radically, forcing even this race of self-sufficient super-beings to involve the gods in their explanation of, and reaction to, what is happening. First, those Cyclopes who come along to find out what all the noise is about attribute Polyphemos’ inexplicable shouting to a sickness sent by Zeus, and suggest a prayer to Poseidon as the best way forward (410 – 412). Then Polyphemos himself, his independence weakened by his loss of eyesight, now makes much more extensive reference to a divine perspective. He recalls a prophecy by a mantis who used to live among the Cyclopes, Telemos by name; Telemos had once prophesied that a man called Odysseus would blind Polyphemos (507 – 512). Then Polyphemos calls upon his father Poseidon to take vengeance on Odysseus (528 – 536). In this crisis, then, prayer and prophecy have become part of the Cyclopes’ strategy for interacting with the gods. What is still not part of that strategy is sacrifice. So it is highly appropriate that the religious difference between the Cyclopes and their visitors should be highlighted by a sacred action on the part of the Greeks at the end of the Polyphemos episode, when Odysseus, having sailed over to the nearby island, sacrifices to Zeus the ram under which he had escaped (551 – 553). As it happens, the ruler of the gods pays no heed to the offering. This is not because, pace Vidal-Naquet, the sacrifice is improper on the grounds that the animal offered was not raised by man; nothing in the text supports such an interpretation.8 Rather, the fact that Zeus is not swayed by the sacrifice is simply a part of the human condition: we may do the right thing by the gods and still achieve no positive result. What general characterization shall we make of the presence or absence of sacredness in the landscape of the Homeric Cyclopes? In that landscape there is no temenos, no altar, no temple, no sacred grove (unlike the dwelling of the Thracian priest who gave Odysseus the lovely wine, and who lived ‘in the wooded grove (alsos) of Apollo’ (200 – 201)). Moreover, as I argued earlier, nothing whatever in the text suggests that Polyphemos’ cave is intrinsically ‘sacred’. And yet – even though no god intervenes directly in the events which unfold in the land of the Cyclopes (in contrast to what happens on, say, Kalypso’s island, or Circe’s, or in Phaeacia, or indeed on Ithaca, in each of which locations gods appear in person in order to inflect the action) – the narrative about the Cyclopes is punctuated by two types of ‘sacred behaviour’: human actions oriented to8 Vidal-Naquet (1981) 85.

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wards the gods, and actions ascribed to the gods themselves. To repeat: this is not a sacred landscape, but a landscape in which, in specific contexts, actions involving divinities take place. My second Cyclopean landscape is that portrayed by Euripides in his boisterous and occasionally obscene satyr-play Cyclops, a drama which reworks Odyssey IX in an amusing play of sameness and difference. This time the imagined landscape is the foot of Mount Etna in Sicily, or, as Silenos describes it, ‘rocky Etna, where the one-eyed sons of the sea-god, the man-slaying Cyclopes, live in their desolate caves.’ (20 – 22). More specifically, the cave of Polyphemos is located in a pastoral setting, with gentle breezes, grass and streams (44 – 48), the herdsmen this time being the luckless satyrs, unwillingly forced into this labour by Polyphemos (25 – 26). Thanks to the help of this servile workforce, Polyphemos has the leisure to go out hunting with dogs (130). What of the sacredness of this landscape? As in the Odyssey, we are not confronted by an immanent, all-pervasive sacredness, but rather by limited and contingent elements of sacredness associated with the gods’ appearance or influence – or absence. For here in Euripides’ play we find another paradox. Although the action is dominated by the adherents of Dionysos and the effects of his wine, there is, as the chorus of satyrs gloomily laments, no Dionysos here (63 – 75). The master they are compelled to serve is Polyphemos (76 – 81), who is – to reinforce the paradox – himself, at least metaphorically, a god, indeed the equivalent, in his all-powerfulness, of Zeus himself (212). Poor Silenos is dragged off by Polyphemos into his cave, to be the ogre’s little Ganymede (585) – truly a fate worse than death. As in the Odyssey, so too in Euripides’ play, the landscape where the Cyclopes dwell does from time to time accommodate sacred actions, as when Silenos swears an oath by various sea divinities (262 – 268). But there are no temples, even though temples are said to exist elsewhere in Greece (290 – 291). As for sacrifices, these do take place, but only those of a highly metaphorical kind, when the Cyclops is said to sacrifice to ‘the greatest god of all, this belly of mine’ (334 – 335). The Greeks, by contrast, are more orthodox and respectful to the gods: Odysseus prays to Athene (350 – 351), to Zeus Xenios (353 – 355; cf. 375), to Hephaistos and to Hypnos (599 – 605). As for the satyrs, the play comes to its end when they abandon their temporary, enforced allegiance to Cyclops-as-Zeus in order to resume their permanent allegiance to Bacchos (709). Let us return to the question of the play’s landscape. Compared with the setting of Odyssey IX, there are similarities but also differences. In Euripides there is no mention of the unexploited island. The mountain, nameless in Homer, is now identified as Etna. The cave remains largely the same, although there are now a few hints that its surroundings are a kind of locus amoenus – the breeze, the green grass, and the eddying streams which we cited earlier (44 – 48). What

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certainly does remain the same is the fact that the landscape, in Euripides as in Homer, is not in some all-pervasive sense ‘sacred’; rather, the presence (or absence) of gods is registered from time to time, whether in relation to ritual action (prayer), or to a more or less metaphorical identification (Dionysos as wine; Cyclops ‘as’ Zeus). My third and shortest Cyclopean text is the delightful, gently ironical eleventh Idyll by Theokritos. The subject is the wooing of the sea-nymph Galatea by the love-sick shepherd Polyphemos (a topic which the poet also developed in Idyll 6). The landscape has shifted to the sea-shore, the boundary between the pastoral world normally inhabited by Polyphemos, and the sea, where his beloved lives. Truly this Polyphemos is in a marginal, liminal state, both topographically and psychologically. Hitherto his mental world has been dominated by the values and priorities of pastoral: ‘I do not lack cheese in summer, in autumn, or in the depths of winter; and my cheese-baskets are very heavy’ (36 – 37). But where he longs to be is somewhere quite different: he wishes he had gills, like a fish (54) – if only someone would come to his shore in a ship, to teach him how to swim (60 – 62). Odysseus’ only role in the poem is as a figure on the edge of the action, a future possibility perfectly well known to Theokritos’ audience, but not to the gullible and naive Cyclops. As for the cave, it nestles in a fully-developed locus amoenus, expanding the hints which we found in Euripides; it is situated among the shade of bay trees and cypresses, ivy and vines, and refreshed by the cool water of the melted snows of Etna (45 – 48). The only indication of the presence of an Olympian deity is when the poet describes Polyphemos as suffering from an arrow shot into his liver by Aphrodite (16). But two other, lesser divinities are present. One is the sea-nymph Galatea, whose name suggests both milk (gala) and the calm sea (galene) – the two poles of Polyphemos’ existence, as he devotes his work to the production of milk and cheese, while longing to plunge into the sea to join his beloved. The other deity is another sea-nymph, Polyphemos’ mother, who once, together with Galatea, came out of the sea to pick hyacinths in a mountain meadow; this was when Polyphemos originally fell in love with Galatea (25 – 27). Once more, the landscape is not intrinsically sacred; once more, however, it constitutes the background to a number of actions in which gods are believed to be active. Let me try to draw some threads together. Like all retellings of Greek myths, our three narratives are ‘thought experiments’. In each of the three cases the experiment consists of imagining a world outside the world of human culture. The three experiments imagine this in three literary genres: epic, satyr play and pastoral. The Homeric epic imagines what it would be like for there to be a race of powerful beings who purport to care nothing for the gods, yet who also, in a crisis, pray to those very gods, and who explain events in terms of the gods’ actions. The Euripidean satyr play depicts an ogre who goes even further in existential au-

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tonomy than his Odyssean ancestor: not only does he belittle the orthodox gods of Olympos, but he even regards himself as a god. In Theokritos’ idyll, the great gods of Olympos are thoroughly marginalised. Instead, the poet explores the relationships between three non-Olympian non-humans: an ogre and two seanymphs. Epic, satyr play, pastoral: three different generic contexts for imagining the world ‘outside’. And yet, perhaps surprisingly, all three narratives transmit a rather similar message about the sacredness of the landscape. All three are set in a physical space whose basic elements – mountain, cave, pasture land, flowering meadow, sea-shore, sea – were a familiar part of the everyday experience of mythtellers and their audiences. But myths do not just reproduce or ‘reflect’ familiar everyday experience: they rework and refract it. What do our three narratives refract? Not ‘sacred landscape’, but rather the sacred and the landscape, and the varying interrelationships between the two. Myths are less tangible than the solid wall of a temenos as excavated by an archaeologist. But they are still part of the real world of the ancient Greeks. They constitute one kind of context, alongside other contexts, in which Greeks imagined both the nature of the gods, and the characteristics of the various landscapes within which everyone – gods and mortals alike – were believed to have their being.

Bibliography Accorinti, Domenico (2010): “La montagna e il sacro nel mondo greco”, in: A. Grossato (ed.), La montagna cosmica, Milan, 2010, 17 – 42. Cartledge, Paul (1996): “Putting the Greek Gods in their Places”, International History Review 18 (1996) 104 – 112. Detienne, Marcel (1981): “The ‘Sea-Crow’”, in: R. L. Gordon (ed.), Myth, Religion and Society, Cambridge, 1981, 16 – 42. Eliade, Mircea (1972): Le sacré et le profane, Paris, 1972. Mehl, Andreas (2009): “Veränderte und gestaltete Landschaft im antiken Götter- und Totenkult”, in: Eckart Olshausen and Vera Sauer (eds.), Die Landschaft und die Religion, Stuttgart 2009, 155 – 174. Naerebout, Frits (2009): “Territorialität und griechische Religion – die aufgeteilte Landschaft”, in: Eckart Olshausen and Vera Sauer (eds.) Die Landschaft und die Religion, Stuttgart, 2009, 191 – 213. Vidal-Naquet, Pierre (1981): “Land and Sacrifice in the Odyssey: A Study of Religious and Mythical Meanings”, in R. L. Gordon (ed.), Myth, Religion and Society, Cambridge, 1981, 80 – 94.

Lutz Käppel

Landscape and the Magic of Music in Pindar’s Twelfth Pythian Ode Professor of Ancient Greek Literature, Kiel University Graduate School “Human Development in Landscapes”

Pindar was the most prominent poet connected with Delphi. His victory songs have captured the interest of modern scholar for centuries. From the early 16th century down to our age he was praised for his rhetorical skills, his elegant style, and his high moral standards. His works were studied under a wide range of perspectives. Issues like the autobiographical traces in Pindar’s poems dominated the first quarter of the 20th century, largely fostered by Wilamowitz, who published his book on Pindar in 1922. Soon other questions like the unity of the Pindaric epinicion (Schadewaldt 1928), the forms of Pindaric narratives (Illig 1932), or the archaic world view (Gundert 1935) lead the way to a new era of Pindaric scholarship, which was inaugurated by E. L. Bundy in 1962, who radically focused on the generic features of encomiastic poetry, leaving aside the historical, religious or cultural factors, that may have influenced the shape and contents of a poem. In the meantime the pendulum has swung back in the opposite direction again, and research issues of social (which also means historical) dimensions dominates the scene again. On this line of research I would like to show you, in which way Pindar uses the notion and the elements of landscape in order to praise the victor – our general topic, by giving a consistent paradigmatic interpretation of one full poem and asking for the interdependencies of the different dimensions of the poem and the function of landscape within this system. This has the advantage that I don’t have to present you bits on landscape from here and there without context, but that we can follow a whole poem and ask for the function of landscape in its context. I chose Pythian 12 for several reasons: 1. First of all because it is short. 2. Secondly, because it is a Pythian Ode and might serve as a tribute to the wonderful place where we are having our conference. 3. Thirdly, because Pindar is praising a victor in a musical competition and is developing his concept of a poetry in general, and 4. Fourthly, landscapes play an important role in the poem.

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So, let me first turn to Pindar’s 12th Pythian ode itself. In this ode Pindar praises a man named Midas from Akragas for a victory in the contest of solo aulos players at the Pythian Games in Delphi. ‘Midas’ as a historical figure is largely unknown. The scholia report that he won victories in Delphi in 490 and 486 B. C. and at the Panathenaia in Athens. Editors are used to assigning Pythian 12 to the first of the two Pythian victories in 490 B. C., because Pindar does not mention earlier victories in the ode, and so it is a plausible assumption that this victory is the first that Midas won. So Pythian 12 is one of the earliest epinician odes of Pindar and definitely the oldest surviving poem in dactylo-epitrites. Like Pythian 6, which was performed in the same year, it is monostrophic. In one respect, however, Pythian 12 is totally unique: It is the only epinician ode that praises a victory in a musical contest. All the others – except N. 11, which is an ode on the victory in an election – are addressed to athletes or horse-owners. Pindar, Pythian 12 For Midas of Akragas, the Aulos Player (490 B. C.) A’ I ask you, lover of splendor, most beautiful of mortal cities, throne of Persephone, you, who dwell above the sheep-nutruring banks of Akragas on the well built-up hill, your majesty, graciously with the good will of the immortals and men 5

welcome this wreath from Pytho for famous Midas, and him in person, who was victorious over Greece in the art, which Pallas once invented, when she wove the fierce Gorgons’ deadly dirge through and through, Athena,

B’ which she had heard being poured forth under the unapproachable serpent heads 10 with the toil of terrible grief, when Perseus killed the third part of the sisters in order to bring it as a share to Seriphos, the island in the sea, and its people. Yes, he weakened the awful race of Phorkos, and made the wedding-banquet baneful for Polydektes and his mother’s continuous 15 slavery and her enforced bed by taking out the head of Medusa with beautiful cheeks, C’ the son of Danae, who, as we say, descends from self-streaming gold. But when the virgin had rescued her favourite hero from these labours, she created a full-toned piece of music for auloi, 20 so that she could imitate the loud wailing, which was brought to her from the swiftly grasping jaws of Euryale, with instruments. The goddes invented it. But she invented it for mortal men to have

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and called it ‘tune of many heads’, the famous admonisher to contests that cause the poeple to gather, D’ which often streams through thin bronze and reeds, 26 that dwell by the city of the Charites with beautiful dancing places in the precinct of Cephisis, faithful witnesses of chorus-dancers. If there is any bliss among men, it does not appear without toil. But (only a) a god will bring it to complete fulfillment either today 30 - yet it is impossible to escape one’s fate, but there will be this time, and that will be one which will strike one with unexpectedness and will, against all expectations, give one thing, the other, however, not yet.

The first thing that strikes the reader (or I should rather say: the audience) is the beautiful ring composition of this poem. After the address to Akragas the choral “I” requests a warm reception of “this crown”, which basically means ‘this present epinicion’ (I’ll come back to this later), and of Midas himself, who won the victory in the art, which Pallas Athena invented by imitation of the lament of the Gorgons. This first strophe, which consists of only one sentence, nevertheless clearly develops three distinct themes: the city (theme I), the crown as a symbol of the epinicion for the victor (theme II) and Athena’s invention of an art from a lament of the Gorgons (theme III). The three themes are connected by two transitions: the “reception” (lines 4 and 5) is the joint between city and epinicion for the victor, the “art” (line 6b) is the joint between the victor and the invention of Athena. From there the train of thought is lead over to the theme no. IV: Athena heard the lament, when Perseus killed Medusa. So we have (elegantly and without any break) arrived at the central part of the poem: the myth, which describes the story of Perseus cutting off Medusa’s head and (line 12) bringing it to Seriphos. In line 13 we reached the center of the myth, which turns out to be a symmetric axis. For from now on the chain of themes continues in the reverse sequence: The punishment of Polydektes, the king of Seriphos, who had forced Perseus’ mother to marry him (l. 14), corresponds to Seriphos, Medusa (l. 16) takes up (l. 7 f), and finally we arrive at the point from which we started, the central figure of the myth: a long paraphrase of the name of Perseus (lines 17 to 18 a) closes the section, which started with his name in line 11. The rest of the poem takes up the themes of the first part one by one and gives supplementary information: The transitional idea ‘Perseus was helped by Athena’ (lines 18 b – 19 a) brings us back to Athena’s musical invention and the lament of the Gorgons (theme III) and from there the line of thought moves to the performance of this music in the real world. A description of its basic features follows: its name and function, the material of instrument, the geographical origin of the material and finally the use of the instrument in choral lyric, so that the ring is closed. For ‘choral lyric’ includes the present epinicon in the same way

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as ‘this crown’ in line 5 pointed to the present celebration. The gnome (theme VI) stands outside the structure together with theme I, the address of Akragas. We shall later see that this structure is not just ornamental, but essentially serves the meaning of the poem. But let us first go through the text in detail: The poem starts with a formulaic address of praise to the nymph Akragas, a personification of the city, where the victor comes from. This praise of the native city of the victor is a common feature of an epinician ode and it contributes to its general purpose to mark the victor’s home as the natural origin of splendid accomplishments. Generally the praise of the native city is supplemented by the praise of the victor’s ancestors and his family. This praise of ancestors and family is missing here. Perhaps Wilamowitz (in Pindar, p. 143) is right, when he takes this as a piece of evidence that Midas was not a member of the aristocracy. In this case the city is significantly connected with the landscape surrounding it: it is situated “above” the banks of the river Akragas, where the sheep graze, on a hill, supposedly the acropolis. It is called the “throne of Persephone”, the patron deity of Akragas in particular and Sicily in general, thus producing a slight tension between the paradise-like landscape and the deity controlling the underworld. I’ll come back to this later. In a next step the home city of Midas is called upon to receive “this wreath”. ‘This wreath’ is clearly a metaphor for the present victory song and this song is to be received by the city for (dative case) its famous son. Indeed δέχομαι with a dative may also mean “to receive something at the hand of another”, which would lead to an interpretation, which many commentators have preferred, for example Burton who gives the paraphrase: “The poet asks Midas’ home town to accept him and his crown on his return from Delphi” (p. 27). But this does not take into account the demonstrative pronoun. It must hint at something present, and so the self-reference of the chorus to its own song is the natural interpretation. Also the scholia understand the phrase in this way, and this fits together very well with many other Pindaric odes, in which the reception of the song and the welcome of the victor introduce the celebration which the epinicion is about to perform. The myth of the poem is an extremely complicated aetiology, a charter myth, for the discipline in which the victor won his victory. The narrative presents it – due to the sandwich-structure of the ring composition I have just described – in different layers. The first one which is immediately relevant to the praise of the victor, is Athena’s invention of the art in which Midas was successful. Interesting is the manner in which this invention is described: “she wove the fierce Gorgon’ deadly dirge through” (7 f.) ‘Weaving’ corresponds to that notion of producing a piece of music, that was already present in ‘wreath’ in line 5: The epinicion is woven like a wreath. The preposition ‘through’ expresses the artful interlacing of the different threads or twigs on the one hand, and the finishing of the process on

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the other, that means: after the Gorgons’ lament had died away, Athena finished it weaving her part into their song. The whole image is obviously supposed to represent the act of imitation (which is – by the way – directly expressed in line 21). So Athena’s product finally has the same quality as the Gorgons’ lament, because of this specific procedure of ‘weaving through’: Old and new threads (or rather voices and tunes) intermingle and form something new. This new product, however, is not explained further (at least at the moment). The narrative now focuses on the Gorgons’ lament itself. It is characterized by οὔλιον, “having to do with destruction or death”. There is an irritating ambiguity in this word. On the one hand it seems to mean actively ‘destructive’, ‘deadly’ (as often in Pindar: O.9, 76; O.13, 24), on the other hand it means ‘referring to death’, in the sense of ‘bewailing a dead person.’ So the word may both point forward to the myth that will be subject of the main part of the narrative, the killing of Medusa, and mark the wailing of the Gorgons as dangerous to those who hear it: The Gorgons cry out in pain because of the death of their sister Medusa, they sing a dirge, and this situation is definitely deadly to anyone who runs into the angry monsters. This interpretation is confirmed by the transitional section lines 9 and 10: The lament was uttered by the ‘unapproachable (that is: deadly) serpent heads’ ‘with the toil of terrible grief ’ (sc. because of the death of Medusa). From now on it becomes clear, that Athena’s invention is only a marginal episode of a large and complex myth: The killing of Medusa by Perseus. The elements that Pindar picked out of this story and which he joined and so to speak ‘wove’ together composing his artful ring-composition refer to a larger myth that roughly runs as follows according to Pherekydes of Athens (fragment 10 – 12 Jacoby) and Apollodorus (Book 2, chapters 34 – 49): Perseus was the son of Danaë. Her father Akrisios, being warned by an oracle that a son of Danaë would kill him some day, imprisoned his daughter, but Zeus came to her in the shape of a stream of gold, and 9 months later Perseus was born. Akrisios put them both into a chest and cast it out into the sea. The chest drifted to Seriphos and Diktys gave them shelter and reared the child. Polydektes, brother of Diktys and king of Seriphos, however, fell in love with Danaë and forced her to marry him. Her son Perseus, however, was sent out to bring the head of the Gorgo Medusa as his contribution to the wedding-banquet a job that was meant to kill him. But Perseus was guided by Athena and equipped with winged sandals, a kibisis, which is a kind of wallet, a magic hood and an adamantine sickle. So he caught the three Gorgons asleep: Their names were Sthenno, Euryale and Medusa. Everyone who looked at their faces was turned to stone. So Athena used Perseus’ shield as a mirror, so that he could behead Medusa without looking at her face directly. Perseus put the head in his wallet, and when the other two Gorgons awoke and started to pursue him, he used his magic hood, so that he was not seen, and escaped with his winged sandals. Back to Seriphos he took out Medusa’s head,

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turned Polydektes to stone, appointed Diktys king of Seriphos, and gave the head of Medusa to Athena, who inserted it in the middle of her shield. The audience who knows the story will understand Pindar’s presentation. So he can concentrate his account of the story on the basic elements and can also use an obscure periphrastic style, which gives the whole an air of mysteriousness without being totally incomprehensible. Thus the name of Perseus opens the new section in line 11, the ‘third part of the sisters’ is easily recognized as ‘one of the three Gorgons’, only the word ἄνυσεν is in my view incomprehensible. Usually it is translated by “he cried out in triumph” or similar, but there is no parallel for this meaning, normally it denotes the uttering of a war-cry before a battle. In addition to that the framing word order suggests that “the third part” is the object to the verb, and that is impossible with ἄνυσεν. Therefore I reluctantly prefer Boeckh’s emendation ἄνυσσεν ‘he brought to an end’, ‘he killed’ Medusa. The catchword μέρος ‘part’ then introduces – as Wilamowitz has already seen (p. 146) – an etymological pun: It points forward to the next line. Perseus kills Medusa in order to bring the third part of the sisters to Seriphos as a “share” in a double sense: his share of the wedding feast and their share of fate, which means ‘their death.’ The second part of the ring-composition IV b (lines 14 – 17) describes the actual punishment of Polydektes by taking out the head out of the kibisis. What, then, is the sense of line 13, which obviously is – according to the ring structure of the poem – the thematic center of both the mythical narrative alone and the whole poem? “Yes, he weakened the awful race of Phorkos”. Here the first problem is: Who is the ‘race of Phorkos’? The scholia have two suggestions: Either the Graiae, three old women (already mentioned by Hesiod in the Theogony lines 270 ff.), daughters of Phorkos, who have to share one common eye. According to some sources of the myth (including Apollodoros) Perseus steals the eye and forces them to give important information on how to find and kill their sister Gorgo Medusa. In this case ἀμαυρόω ‘to make faint or dim’ would refer to Perseus’ theft of the common eye: He made them blind (Gildersleeve p. 366 and others: Race, Loeb 1, 379 etc.). Or, in my view, the Gorgons must be meant, who are daughters of Phorkos, too. I think, the train of thought clearly points to the second alternative: ‘Perseus beheaded Medusa in order to bring Medusas’ head to Seriphos. Indeed he weakened, (he made faint) the race of Phorkos, and turned Polydektes to stone.’ In the particle ἤτοι at the beginning of the sentence “τοι serves”, as Denniston, Greek Particles 553 puts it, “to bring home a truth of which the certainty is expressed by ἤ: ‘Verily, I tell you’”. But what is the point in stressing the idea that Perseus actually reduced the efficiency of the daughters of Phorkos? First of all it is a perfect transition from IVa to IVb. That means that ‘the race of Phorkos’ must be a periphrasis of the three Gorgons altogether or the two surviving Gorgons, not Medusa alone, because her death was already mentioned in line 11. The Graiae would be be completely out of place

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here, because they would by no means have any transitional function between the killing of Medusa and the punishment of Polydektes. The verb ἀμαυρόω leaves it to the imagination of the audience what exactly Perseus was doing. He ‘weakened’ the Gorgons can mean: He reduced their number from three to two; but the word also has a visual connotation ‘to reduce the light, to make dim, to obscure the sight’, and that may be an allusion to the use of the magic hood (or the magic cap), which helped Perseus to escape. Such an ambivalence would be very appropriate for both the mythical situation and the context of the narrative. Having killed Medusa he reduces the Gorgons to impotence and helplessness and is thus able to do his job at Seriphos. The surviving monsters cannot even pursue him, they can only wail and moan. So the central section of the myth turned out to be occupied by ‘Perseus’ total defeat of the Gorgons, and not – as one would expect – the beheading of Medusa. Medusa’s head is rather the prey, the surviving Gorgons are the losers and Perseus is the winner. This central scene of the myth and even the whole poem is again associated with a place: The well-known paradise of the Hyperboreans. It is described by Pindar for example in Pythian 10: And traveling neither by ships nor on foot could you find the marvelous way to the assembly of the Hyperboreans. With them Perseus, the leader of people, once feasted, upon entering their halls., when he came upon them sacrificing glorious hecatombs of asses to the god. In their banquets and praises Apollo ever finds greatest delight and laughs to see the beasts’ braying insolence. And the Muse is no stranger to their ways, for everywhere choruses of maidens, sounds of lyres, and pipes’ shrill notes are stirring. With golden laurel they crown their hair and feast joyfully. Neither sickness nor accursed old age mingles with hat holy race, but without toils or battles they dwell there, having escaped strictly judging Nemesis. Breathing courage in his heart, the son of Danaë once came – Athena led him – to that throng of blessed men. He slew the Gorgon, and bearing her head adorned with locks of serpents, came to the islanders, bringing them stony death.

(Transl. by Race)

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This is the end of the story we know from Pythian 12. So in the middle of the poem we have a paradise associated with death (Hyperboreans – Perseus – Medusa) as we had a beautiful landscape at the beginning (Akragas), also associated with death (Persephone). But let us first continue in the poem: After the successful rescue of her favorite, Athena creates ‘a’ or “‘the’ fulltoned music for auloi”, πάμφωνος referring to the capability of the auloi for playing in all keys. This music is purely instrumental (line 21) and it imitates the sound that comes from the jaws of the serpent heads of Medusa’s sisters (Euryale in line 20 standing pars pro toto for the two Gorgons). That was Athena’s invention εὗρεν θεός (line 22a): the asyndeton summarizes and closes section III. Section II (ll. 22 b – 27) is the most difficult passage of the poem. Its interpretation will provide answers to the central questions: Has Athena invented aulos-music in general or a special melody? What has Midas exactly played in the contest? For – as we have heard – she invented the art with which he won. Athena named her invention “tune of many heads”. This is a clear indication, I think, that the scholia are absolutely right when they infer from this wording, that after Athena had invented aulos music: She gave it to men and named it “Nomos Polykephalos”. Indeed the term ‘Nomos Polykephalos’ actually describes an ancient nome, which was performed at Delphi. Ps-Plutarch, De musica, chapter 7 reports: “Now that I have given an account of the ancient nomes sung to the auloi …, I shall pass to instrumental music for the auloi alone … Olympus, an aulete from Phrygia, is said to have composed a nome for the auloi in honor of Apollo, the so-called ‘Nomos Polykephalos’ …”. This is essentially all the information we have in addition to what we read in Pythian 12 itself, but details like “instrumental aulos music” and the “dedication to Apollo” are sufficient evidence that Pindar is very likely to refer to this nome. Indeed there were parallel nomes like the “Nomos Pythikos”, a kind of program music, which portrayed in music the central religious myth of the Pythian sanctuary: Apollo’s defeat of the serpent that guarded the place before his arrival. The nome consisted of five different parts presenting five stages of the story. Another nome like this is the Trimeles nomos, a threemelody or three-mode nome, in which successive strophes were in Dorian, Phrygian and other modes. Thus it clear that program music with special musical effects existed and as solo aulos music belonged to the program of contests at the Pythian games, as Pausanias 10,7,4 reports, there is no reason to doubt that line 23 refers to the Nomos Polykephalos, whatever the ‘many heads’ of the nome may have been. The scholiast speaks of many ‘prooimia’, modern scholars like Martin West propose several movements. After the name of the composition its function is described: It summons the people to the contests, μναστήρ meaning “suitor”, who is so to speak courting for

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the people, or – as a derivation of μιμνήσκω – “reminding” them to come. We cannot refer this statement to any exterior evidence, so one can only assume that the phrase is supposed to signify that this contest took place as the opening ceremony, so to speak announcing the sports events. Finally the instrument is described: The aulos consisted of a bronze mouth piece and double-pipes made of reed. The further explanations now become interesting. The reed of the aulos is made of cones from the sanctuary of the nymph Kephisis, where the river Kephisos falls into lake Kopaïs, near Orchomenos, the city of the Charites, which has beautiful dancing places. First of all one has to be aware that this section on the instrument is not part of Athena’s invention any more. That section had been finished with line 22. So it is out of the question that Athena did not invent the instrument. Yet a different aetiological myth comes to one’s mind in connection with the instrument. Pindar uses the myth of the invention of the aulos and aulos music in general, that is evidently connected with Libya, in order to explain the name of the piece of music which Midas played at the Pythian games. The story of the many serpent heads of the Gorgons and their wailing offered a good link between the myth and the hissing sound of the aulos on one hand (which may have been a feature of the general myth already) and especially of the name of the Nomos Polykephalos. So Pindar uses the general aetiology of the aulos for the etymological explanation of the Delphic nome in honor of Apollo. One may be in doubt if Pindar invented this highly artificial construction or used an established version, but there are no parallels until Nonnos’ Dionysiaka 24, 35 – 38 and 40, 224 – 233. From line 26 onwards Pindar even goes a step further: Instead of using the canonical Libyan origin of the material of the instrument in the original myth he distinguishes between a mythical aetiology of the Nomos polykephalos which is not localized at all and a characterization of the instrument which is used among men in the real world. Indeed the origin of this instrument, is explicitly placed at Orchomenos at Lake Kopais in Boeotia. It may very well be that this was a region where good auloi were produced, because there were large fields of reed at Lake Kopaïs (see picture 3 hand-out). Wilamowitz even thinks that it was Pindar’s patriotism as a Boeotian that made him introduce this place. The real point, however, is a very different one. For Orchomenos gives Pindar the opportunity to introduce the Charites, who had their main sanctuary at this place. Olympian 14 is a poem which almost exclusively deals with this local provenance of the Charites. So the instrument that is used to play the music (which Athena invented and with which Midas won his victory) comes from the place where the Charites live and it is thus so to speak a gift of these deities. On the other hand the Charites are the goddesses, who grant χάρις, grace. Charis is a central notion not only in Greek social life in the archaic and classical period in general, but it is also an important concept in Pindaric poetics. Hermann Gundert in his famous book “Pindar und

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sein Dichterberuf” from 1935, Leslie Kurke in “The Traffic in Praise” (1991) and Bonnie MacLachlan, “The Age of Grace” (1993) have brilliantly explained the meaning and function of charis in Pindar. I give you a short summary of the notion as far as it seems relevant to my interpretation of Pythian 12: Charis is the impression or the impact, which a person or a thing has on other persons (like beauty, splendor, even prudence), so that the other person reacts joyfully (the verb χαίρειν has the same root as χάρις). This reciprocity of splendor on one side and the resulting pleasure on the other side may be completely material. Then charis means ‘gift’ and ‘gratefulness’. L. Kurke has interpreted the poetics of Pindar’s epinician odes on the basis of the pattern of gift-exchange which secured guest-friendship (“Xenia”) in the archaic Greek world. In such a social system the victory and the epinicion can be seen as objects which are exchanged and which reciprocally enhance the symbolic capital of the victor, his community and the poet. But charis also describes the relation between gods and men. Men sacrifice and the gods grant a favor. This principle of ‘giving and taking’, however, also works on multifarious other levels. Thus there is grace and splendor on one side and admiration or love on the other, or beauty on one side and pleasure on the other and so forth. Charis is always a mutual relationship of constant exchange. In Pindar’s epinician odes charis works in several directions. The first is from the victor and his victory to the poet and his song. For The Charites – as we can see for example in Ol. 14 – grant the splendor of victory (ll. 19 – 20). On the other hand they are very important for poetry in general: without the Charites there is no ‘grace’ and no ‘charming effect’ in the work of the poet. In both cases the impact of the Charites is what impresses the spectator of the contest or the audience of the epinicion respectively. Especially the epinician ode is charis insofar as it reflects the splendor of the victory as a joyful reaction, which at the same time pays back the favors at the hand of the victor. So right at the end of the poem before the gnome a third landscape comes in: Lake Kopais/Orchomenos as a sympbol of charis, which represents the reciprocity of epinician splendor. Also Pythian 12 follows this pattern of reciprocity. Indeed it even elaborates it in a more artistic and sophisticated way than all the critics of Pindaric art have seen by now. So after a long, long introduction I want to start my interpretation of the ode. Let us turn back to the poem: The reed which is used for auloi comes from landscape governed by the Charites. That means that the instrument, on which Midas played his Nomos Polykephalos is so to speak a gift at the hands of the landscape of the Charites. Thus the splendid victory Midas has won was granted as a charis, it is charis itself. Yet, if we look at the final apposition in line 27, it becomes clear that the aulos is no more the instrument for the Nomos Polykephalos, but it is the “faithful witness of chorus-dancers”, with means that it is

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apostrophized as the instrument that accompanies choral performances. As we have seen Midas took part in the competition of solo aulos players which is very different from performances of choral dancing and we should add: choral singing. So the aulos turned out to be the accompanying instrument of choral lyric in general and Pindar’s epinicion, which he has composed for Midas in particular. It is by no means sheer coincidence that the aulos comes from the city with “beautiful dancing-places” (line 26). It is so to speak Pindar’s instrument as much as it was Midas’ instrument. Pindar’s work of art is symbolized by the reed which was used to produce the aulos that accompanied his epinicion. This allusion is underscored by the structural reference to the corresponding element of the ring composition at the beginning: ‘this wreath’ (line 5, section II). This subtle poetic construction of overlapping functions eventually makes the reed of the aulos the symbol of a connection means between Midas as an aulos player and Pindar as a poet of an epinician ode. For both artists the material of the instrument is a gift of the Charites, and so it seems very clear that Pindar uses it as the bond that connects victor and poet, a symbol that conveys the notion of charis. That makes very good sense in the light of what we know about the charisconcept in Pindar in general: Midas’ victory is a charis. As such it is a source of Pindar’s song, which reflects the splendor of the victory and returns the poem as his charis. Yet there is another dimension, I mean the relationship between the victor and the gods. This relationship is also characterized by charis. In this context the general nature of man, the condition humaine plays an important role. For the victor certainly gains his victory because of his personal “Arete”, his first class performance, which is derived from the nobility of his ancestors to a great extent. But things are not under his control completely. He is – as the Greeks called it – an “ephemeros”, a person who is just like the day which happens to be on him (eph-hemeros), that means he is like a feather in the wind, which is blown up and down. This instability of human nature is – as Hermann Fränkel has shown more than 50 years ago – an important feature of Pindaric anthropology. Compare the famous line from Pythian 8, 95 f.: Creatures of the day! What is a man? What is he not? A dream of a shadow is man.

From this general characterization of man, however, follows a serious problem for a poet who wants to praise a splendid victory. But how can a poet praise a victor for his victory, which is supposed to be won by his own strength and his own performance, if the person is an ephemeros, if his success or failure is beyond his control and is – as he does not have a stable substance – subject to the unpredictability of the day? The Pindaric solution of this paradox is a religious one: It is true, that the victor has to work hard for his victory and that he inherited his qualities from his ancestors, but the crucial cause for a realization of his

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qualities in the moment of victory is always a god. Also the famous pessimistic passage in Pythian 8 continues: “But whenever Zeus-given brightness comes (which means: the victory), a shining light rests upon men, and a gentle life.” That means: Human success is granted by god. Personal abilities and a good performance are certainly involved in the victor’s success, but eventually only a god brings it to pass. The term for this dependence is again “charis”. But this dependence is again an interdependence. On the one hand the charis of victory granted by god makes the victor splendid, but on the other hand it is returned and dedicated by the victor to the deity (and his ancestors and his city etc.). The medium of this return is the charis of the epinicion. The final gnome of Pythian 12 seems to take up exactly this concept: “Success is a product of human labor. Full accomplishment, however, is only granted by god, but you cannot even rely on that.” The pessimistic end of the ode contrasts with the happy and jubilant beginning and leaves the audience in a highly ambivalent and almost depressed mood. How does that fit together with a joyful celebration of a victory? I think a consequent reflection on this question will reveal a feature of the aesthetics of Pythian 12 in particular and of Pindar’s epinicia in general. So what do the different sections of the poem have to do with each other? Midas has won his victory with a piece of music, which Athena had invented by imitation of the wailing of the Gorgons, whom Perseus had beaten by killing Medusa, whose head was used for turning Polydektes to stone with the help of Athena. What is the significance of this complicated construction? At first glance the analogies between the victory of Midas and the mythical situation seem clear: Midas’ victory was won with the help of a god (Athena) just as the gnome maintains (l. 29 f.). The Perseus-Myth can be read as a paradigm for Midas’ victory as well: Perseus defeats the Gorgons because he was willing to undertake πόνοι (l. 18) and because Athena helped him (l. 19). Polydektes, who thought he was safe, after he had sent away Perseus to Medusa, was caught unexpectedly and was brought the lot of death. He is a proof for the negative side of what the gnome says. The common instrument symbolically establishes the bond of charis between victor and poet. So the internal structure of the poem seems thoroughly consistent and the pattern of poetic strategies follows the generic patterns we know from the other epinician odes: Yet it is somewhat irritating that the origin of the winning piece of Music goes back to the moaning and hissing of the losers of the mythical combat between Perseus and the monsters. Their dirge is deadly (l. 8), their serpent heads are unapproachable (l. 9), their grief is bitter toil (l. 10), their jaws are swiftly grasping (l. 20), their outward appearance has to be imagined as ugly and frightening, their gaze turns everyone to stone. This seems a strange model for a

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musical performance which is to be celebrated as a splendid victory, which the city of Akragas, that is known for the love of brightness and splendor, is asked to give a warm welcome, and which is paralleled with Pindar’s epinikion that is reflecting the charis of the victory by the charis of the poem. Athena does not change the character of the sound: The Gorgons’ dirge is imitated and transformed into the Nomos Polykephalos. The striking thing is that in the form of Athena’s imitation the sound does not seem harmful at all. The Gorgons’ dirge was destructive, the serpent heads, which uttered the lament, were unapproachable. Athena’s music, however, is just the opposite: as a, as a wooer or suitor, it attracts the people to the competitions (l. 24). What – one may ask – is the attraction? It is evidently the music that represents the dangerous, the intolerable, the unapproachable. A similar set of associations – by the way – applies to the visual aspect: Everyone who looks at the Medusa’s face directly, will be turned to stone. Polydektes is a good example. Perseus, however, uses a mirror and survives. So the main effect that Athena’s mimesis of the awful cries of the Gorgons has, is that it in a way ‘binds’ the terrible sound and makes it not only perceptible for human beings without being killed, but even attractive and beautiful. The binding of the deadly dirge into a piece of music has actually been a prominent image of what Athena was actually doing: already she ‘bound’ or ‘wove’ the dirge ‘through’ (l. 8). The binding of the supernatural and its transformation into charming art is certainly one of the layers of meaning which the aetiology conveys. What has this to do with Midas? What sense does it make, if the lament of the defeated in myth becomes the art of the victor in reality? The answer to this question, I think, is hidden in the final gnome. Our first reading of the first sentence of the gnome (l. 27) was that success is a product of human labor: it does not appear without toil. This is – as I pointed out – a topos of Pindaric wisdom, and I think, this reading is – at least on the surface of the text – a correct one. No bliss without toil. If we look at the use of the word κάματος elsewhere in the text, we surprisingly discover that it describes the Gorgons’ ‘toil of terrible grief ’ (l. 10). The labor of the winner Perseus, however, is called πόνος in l. 18. So if one accepts a subtle reference of κάματος in l. 28 also to the Gorgons lament in l. 10, the message of the passage may very well be: There is not only no bliss without labor, but there is also no bliss or happiness without losers: the mischief of the losers in myth is the ground for the victory of Midas. Athena binds the result of the mythical combat into art. And so the lament of the Gorgons becomes the joyful jubilation of the victory ode. All this is effectively structured by the distribution of landscapes over the Ode: The paradise of Akragas is in the beginning patronized by the goddess of the underworld Persephone, the paradise of the Hyperboreans is contrasted

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with Seriphos, where everyone is turned into stone. Only Lake Kopais at the end representing the connection between gods and men and the power of music in particular is able to balance the dialectics of victory and defeat, joy and depression, life and death.

Bibliography Barrett zu Eur. Hipp.: W. S. Barrett, Euripides, Hippolytos, Oxford, 1964. Chantraine: P. Chantraine (Hg.), Dictionnaire Étymologique de la Langue Grecque I – IV, Paris, 1968 – 1980. Denniston, GP: J. D. Denniston, The Greek Particles, 2nd ed., Oxford, 1954. KG: R. Kühner u. B. Gerth, Ausführliche Grammatik der griechischen Sprache, Zweiter Teil: Satzlehre, Hannover-Leipzig, 2 Bde., 3. Aufl. 1898 – 1904. Frisk: H. Frisk, Griechisches Etymologisches Wörterbuch, 3 Bde., Heidelberg, 1960 – 1972 Kannicht zu Eur. Hel.: R. Kannicht, Euripides, Helena, 2 Bde., Heidelberg 1969. LSJ: H. R. Liddell u. R. Scott, A Greek-English Lexicon. Revised and augmented throughout by H. S. Jones and R. McKenzie, 9th ed. Oxford 1940, with a supplement 1996.

Text, Scholia, Lexicon Pindarus, Carmina cum fragmentis, Pars I: Epinicia, edd. B. Snell, H. Maehler (81987), Pars II: Fragmenta. Indices, ed. H. Maehler (1989). Schola vetera in Pindari Carmina, ed. A. B. Drachmann, I – III (1903 – 1927). W. J. Slater, Lexicon to Pindar (1969).

Commentaries Boeckh (1811 – 21): A. Boeckh (ed.), Pindari opera quae supersunt, Vol. 1.1 – 2; 2.1 – 2, Leipzig (Vol. 2.2 [= Lat. übers. Kommentar, Fragmente u. Indices] Ndr. 1963 Kommentar zu Olympien und Pythien von Boeckh, zu Nemeen und Isthmien von Dissen). Dissen (1843 – 47): L. Dissen (ed.), Pindari carmina quae supersunt cum dperditorum fragmentis selectis ex recensione Boeckhï commenatio perpetuo illustravit L. Dissen. Ed. altera auctior et emendatior. Curavit F. G. Schneidewin, Sect. I/II, Gotha. (Sect. II enthält Dissens Kommentar zu Olympien und Pythien). Mezger (1880): F. Mezger, Pindars Siegeslieder, Leipzig. Gildersleeve (1885): B. L. Gildersleeve (ed.), Pindar. The Olympian and Pythian Odes, with introductory essay, notes and indexes, New York. Schroeder (1992): O. Schroeder, Pindars Pythien, Leipzig. Farnell (1930 – 32): L. R. Farnell (ed.), The Works of Pindar, Vol. 1 – 3, London. Burton (1962): R. W. B. Burton, Pindar’s Pythian Odes. Essays in Interpretation, Oxford. Thummer (1968/69): E. Thummer, Pindar, Die Isthmischen Gedichte, 2 Bde., Heidelberg.

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Hamilton (1985): R. Hamilton, Selected Odes of Pindar, Bryn Mawr Greek Commentaries, Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania. Dickey u. Hamilton (1991): E. Dickey und R. Hamilton, New Selected Odes of Pindar, Bryn Mawr Greek Commentaries, Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania. Bernardini et al. (1995): Pindaro, Le Pitiche. Introd., testo critico e trad. d. B. Gentili, comm. a cura di P. A. Bernardini, E. Cingano, B. Gentili e P. Giannini, Milano, p. 307 – 323. 671 – 684.

Literature with special reference to Pythian 12 Alsina (1969): J. Alsina, “Simbolismo en al Pítica XII de Píndaro”, BIEH 2/1, 45 – 47. Barié (1990): P. Barié, “Vom Urschrei zum Flötenspiel: Pindars zwölfte Pythische Ode und die Mythologie der Musik”, AU 33/3, 65 – 78. Belfiore (1992): E. S. Belfiore, Tragic Pleasures: Aristotle on Plot and Emotion, Princeton 18 f. Benveniste (1948): E. Benveniste, Noms d’agent et noms d’action en indo-européen, Paris. Bernardini (1971): P. Angeli Bernardini, “Il branchetto die Polidette in Pindaro, Pyth. 12, 14 e il nuovo scolio papiraceo di Teone (P. Oxy. 2536)”, QUCC 11, 99 – 101. Blome (1998): P. Blome, “Das Schreckliche im Bild”, in: F. Graf (Hg.), Ansichten griechischer Rituale. Geburtstagssymposium für W. Burkert, Stuttgart und Leipzig, 72 – 95. Bowra (1964): C. M. Bowra, Pindar, Oxford. Bundy (1962): E. L. Bundy, Studia Pindarica, Berkeley-Los Angeles. Burkert (1998): Kulte des Altertums. Biologische Grundlagen der Religion, München. Chauvin (1995): P. Chauvin, “Un éloge paradoxal de l’aulos dans la douzième Pythique à Midas d’Agrigante aulète, 490 av. J. C.”, in: Poésie et lyrique antiques, ed. L. Dubois, Villeneuve-d’Ascq, 119 – 127. Clay (1992): J. Strauss Clay, “Pindar’s Twelfth Pythian: Reed and Bronze”, AJP 113, 519 – 525. Currie (2005): B. Currie, Pindar and the Cult of Heroes, Oxford. Dornseiff (1933): F. Dornseiff, Die archaische Mythenerzählung, Berlin-Leipzig. Dougherty (1993): C. Dougherty, The Poetics of Colonization. From City to Text in Archaic Greece, New York-Oxford. Else (1958): G. F. Else, “Imitation in the Fifth Century”, Classical Philology 53, 73 – 90, bes. 77. Fraenkel (1910): E. Fraenkel, Geschichte der griechischen Nomina agentis auf -τήρ, -τωρ, -της (-τ-), 2 Bde., Straßburg. Fränkel (1968): H. Fränkel, Wege und Formen des frühgriechischen Denkens, 3. Aufl. München. Gentili-Luisi (1995): B. Gentili – F. Luisi, “La Pitica 12 di Pindaro e l’aulo de Mida”, QUCC n. s. 49 (1995) 7 – 33. Gerber (1986): D. E. Gerber, “The Gorgon’s Lament in Pindar’s Pythian 12”, Mus. Helv. 43, 247 – 249. Gundert (1935): H. Gundert, Pindar und sein Dichterberuf, Frankfurt am Main.

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Halliwell (2002): S. Halliwell, The Aesthetics of Mimesis. Ancient Texts and Modern Problems, Princeton. Heath (1988): M. Heath, “Receiving the Komos: the Context and Performance of the Epinician”, AJP 109, 180 – 195. Held (1998): G. F. Held, “Weaving and triumphal shouting in Pindar, Pythian 12.6 – 12”, Classical Quarterly N. S. 48 (1998) 380 – 388. Hamilton (2003): J. T. Hamilton, Soliciting Darkness. Pindar, Obscurity and the Classical Tradition, Cambridge/Mass. Hornblower (2004): S. Hornblower, Thucydides and Pindar. Historical Narrative and the World of Epinician Poetry, Oxford. Janke (2005): W. Janke, Archaischer Gesang. Pindar – Hölderlin – Rilke. Werke und Wahrheit, Würzburg. Illig (1932): L. Illig, Zur Form der pindarischen Erzählung. Interpretationen und Untersuchungen, Berlin. Köhnken (1971): A. Köhnken, Die Funktion des Mythos bei Pindar. Interpretationen zu sechs Pindargedichten, UaLG 12, Berlin-New York, zu Pyth. 12: 117 – 153. Köhnken (1976): A. Köhnken, “Perseus’ Kampf und Athenes Erfindung (Bemerkungen zu Pindar, Pythie 12)”, Hermes 104, 257 – 265. Köhnken (1978): A. Köhnken, “Two Notes on Pindar”, BICS 25, 92 – 96. Krummen (1990): E. Krummen, Pyrsos Hymnon: Festliche Gegenwart und mythisch-rituelle Tradition als Voraussetzung einer Pindarinterpretation, UaLG 35, Berlin-New York. Kurke (1991): L. Kurke, The Traffic in Praise. Pindar and the Poetics of the Social Economy, Ithaca-London. Lattmann (im Druck): C. Lattmann, Das Gleiche im Verschiedenen. Metapher des Sports und Lob des Siegers in Pindars Epinikien, Berlin-New York. Lattmann (im Druck): C. Lattmann, “Icons of novel thought. A new perspective on Peirce’s definition of metaphor (CP 2.277)”, Semiotica (im Druck). Lasso de la Vega (1986): J. Lasso de la Vega, “Pindarica (I – IV)”, Cuadernos de Filología Clásica 20, 367 f. Loscalzo (1989): D. Loscalzo, “Pindaro e la canna auletica della palude copaide”, QUCC n. s. 33, 17 – 24. MacLachlan (1993): B. MacLachlan, The Age of Grace. Charis in Early Greek Poetry, Princeton. Mann (2001): Chr. Mann, Athlet und Polis im archaischen frühklassischen Griechenland, Hypomnemata 123, Göttingen. Martin (2003): R. P. Martin, “The Pipes are Brawling: Conceptualizing Musical Performance in Athens”, in: C. Dougherty, L. Kurke (Hgg.), The Cultures within Ancient Greek Cultures. Contact Conflict, Collaboration, Cambridge, 153 – 180, zu Pyth. 12: 161 – 164. Méautis (1956): G. Méautis, “Pindarica”, Rév. Phil. sér. III 30, 224 – 230, zu P. 12: 226 – 228. Most (1985): G. Most, The Measures of Praise. Structure and Function in Pindar’s Second Pythian and Seventh Nemean Odes, Hypomnemata 83, Göttingen. Neumann-Hartmann (2008): A. Neumann-Hartmann, “Prosopographie zu den Epinikien von Pindar und Bakchylides”, Nikephoros 21, 81 – 131. Neumann-Hartmann (2009): A. Neumann-Hartmann, Epinikien und ihr Aufführungsrahmen, Nikephoros Beihefte 17, Hildesheim.

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Otto (1970): W. F. Otto, Die Götter Griechenlands. Das Bild des Göttlichen im Spiegel des griechischen Geistes, 6. Auflage, Frankfurt am Main. Pavese (1991): C. O. Pavese, “Αὔω 3° τὸ ξηραίνω: un nuovo verbo nella Pitica XII di Pindaro, in Simonide e in Alcmane”, Lexis 7 – 8, 73 – 97. Pellizer (1987): E. Pellizer, “Voir le visage de Méduse”, Metis 2, 45 – 60. Pellizer (1991): E. Pellizer, “Vedere il volto di Medusa. La storia di Perseo”, in: ders., La peripezia dell’ eletto. Racconti eroici della Grecia antica, Palermo, 75 – 93. Pfeijffer (1991): I. L. Pfeijffer, “Die Bedeutungen von ἐκτελευτᾶν in Pind. P. 12, 29”, Mnemosyne 44, 410 f. Poiss (1993): Th. Poiss, Momente der Einheit. Interpretationen zu Pindars Epinikion und Hölderlins Andenken, Wiener Studien Beihefte 18, Wien. Radt (1974): S. L. Radt, “Rez. zu A. Köhnken, Die Funktion des Mythos bei Pindar”, Gnomon 46, 113 – 121. Riano Rufilanchas (2001): D. Riano Rufilanchas, “Píndaro, P. 12.28 – 32: demon y tiempo en la concepción de la providencia de Pindaro”, Emerita 69, 63 – 91 (f. Il. 4, 155 – 170). Schachter (1981 – 94): A. Schachter, Cults of Boiotia, BICS Suppl. 38, London. Schadewaldt (1928): W. Schadewaldt, Der Aufbau des Pindarischen Epinikion, Schriften der Königsberger Gelehrten Gesellschaft, Halle an der Saale. Schlesier (1982): R. Schlesier, “Das Flötenspiel der Gorgo”, in: R. Kapp (ed.), Notizbuch 5/6: Musik, Berlin-Wien, 1 – 57. Schlesinger (1968): E. Schlesinger, “Pindar, Pyth. 12”, Hermes 96, 275 – 286. Schmitz (1993): Th. Schmitz, Pindar in der französischen Renaissance: Studien zu seiner Rezeption in Philologie, Dichtungstheorie und Dichtung, Hypomnemata 109, Göttingen. Schroeder (1904): O. Schroeder, “πολυκέφαλος νόμος”, Hermes 39, 315 – 320. Segal (1995): Ch. Segal, “Perseus and the Gorgon: Pindar, Pythian 12.9 – 12 reconsidered”, AJP 116, 7 – 17. Segal (1994): Ch. Segal, “The Gorgon and the Nightingale: The Voice of Femal Lament and Pindar’s Twelfth Pythian Ode”, in: L. Dunn, N. Jones (Hgg.), Embodied Voices: Representing Female Vocality in Western Culture, edd. L. Dunn and N. Jones, Cambridge, 17 – 34. Sörbom (1966): G. Sörbom, Mimesis and Art, Uppsala. Sotiriou (2001): M. Sotiriou, “Pindar, P. 12.11 Sn.-M. ἄϋσεν oder ἄνυσσεν?” Hermes 129, 124 f. Theunissen (2000): M. Theunissen, Pindar. Menschenlos und Wende der Zeit, München, 442 – 482, 485 – 490, 1007 f. Vivante (1990): P. Vivante, “Pindar, Pythian XII”, in: Essays in the Topography, History and Culture of Boiotia, Teiresias Suppl. 3, Montreal, 125 – 127. Welles (1966): C. Bradford Welles, “Pindar’s Religion and the Twelfth Pythian Ode”, YClS 19, 79 – 100. West (1992): M. L. West, Ancient Greek Music, Oxford. Wilamowitz (1922): U. v. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, Pindaros, Berlin, 143 – 150. Wilson (1999): P. Wilson, “The aulos in Athens”, in: S. Goldhill, R. Osborne (Hgg.), Performance Culture and Athenian Democracy, Cambridge, 58 – 95. Wüst (1967): E. Wüst, Pindar als geschichtschreibender Dichter. Interpretationen der 12 vorsizilischen Siegeslieder, des sechsten Paians und der zehnten olympischen Ode, Diss. Tübingen, 66 – 88.

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Young (1968): D. C. Young, Three Odes of Pindar. A Literary Study of Pythian 11, Pythian 3, and Olympian 7, Mnemosyne Suppl. 9, Leiden etc.

Commentary of Theon Pap. Oxy. 2536 Pap. Oxy.: The Oxyrhynchus Papyri, Vol. 31 (1966) No. 2536 (ed. E. G. Turner). Bernardini (1971): P. A. Bernardini, “Il banchetto di Polidette in Pindaro, Pyth. 12, 14 e il nuovo scolio papiraceo di Teone (P. Oxy. 2536)”, QUCC 11, 99 – 101. Galvani (1973): G. Calvani, “Nota al P. Oxy. 2536 (Hypomnema a Pind. Pyth. XII vv. 14 – 32, ll. 5 – 14)”, QUCC 16, 142 – 145. Maehler (1968): H. Maehler, “Notes on Theon’s Hypomnema to Pindar’s Pythians (Pap. Oxy. 2536)”, ZPE 3, 100. Treu (1974): M. Treu, “Theons Pindarkommentar (Pap. Oxy. 2536)”, in: J. L. Heller (Hg.), Serta Turyniana. Studies in Greek Literature and Paleography in honor of A. Turyn, Urbana etc., 62 – 85.

James Roy

The Distribution of Cult in the Landscape of Eleia Honorary Research Fellow, Department of Classics University of Nottingham

Eleia, the region bounded by Achaia to the north, Messenia to the south, and Arkadia to the east, was a large area, approximately 2660 km2.1 Within this territory lay numerous separate communities, not united into a single polis until the Hellenistic period, probably in 146.2 This paper aims to examine the distribution of major cult centres across this area. This approach admittedly concentrates on a single, rather limited, aspect of the sacred in ancient Greece, but nonetheless raises interesting questions. (To avoid confusion, the name ‘Eleia’ will be used in this paper for the region just described, and ‘Elis’ will be used for the polis Elis and for the town Elis.) The early history of Elis is obscure. Ancient writers offer various more or less legendary accounts of the founding of the Olympic Games, and accounts of conflict between Elis and Pisatis for control of Olympia. Several recent articles3 have presented strong and persuasive arguments against the historicity of these reported struggles between Elis and Pisatis. If however we then reject the accounts, we have no basis for any detailed reconstruction of Elean history before the sixth century. In broad terms it seems that the Eleans established control of the valley of the Peneios, where their central settlement lay, and then expanded farther. By the middle of the sixth century they had taken control of Olympia, to judge by the Elean inscriptions that then began to be published in the sanctuary.4 Their expansion continued, and in Herodotus’ day Elis was fighting in Triphylia, south of the Alpheios, to gain control of communities there (Herodotus 4.148). (The name Triphylia does not appear until c. 400, but, since there is no other name for the part of Eleia lying between the Alpheios and the Neda, it is convenient to use it, even anachronistically, as a label for that area). Before the beginning of the Peloponnesian War Lepreon, situated in southwest Triphylia 1 H. Swoboda RE 5.2422 art. ‘Elis’. The frontier between Eleia and Arkadia changed over time, Roy (2000). 2 Roy (1999) 164 – 167. 3 Nafissi (2001) and (2003); Gehrke (2003); Möller (2004); Giangiulio (2009). 4 Minon (2007) 9 – 12.

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beside the River Neda, the frontier between Triphylia and Messenia, was a subordinate ally of Elis (Thucydides 5.31.1 – 5), which suggests that by then all Triphylia was dominated by Elis. In the course of this expansion Elis incorporated some communities directly into the polis Elis; their territory became part of the territory of the polis Elis, and their citizens, if not driven out, presumably became Eleans. Other communities became subordinate allies of Elis; these are sometimes referred to in modern studies as the ‘perioikoi’ of Elis, but there is no good evidence that the Eleans used the term.5 By the 420s the subordinate allies were: Akroreia, east of Elis;6 the three small communities Amphidolia, Letrinoi, and Marganeis west of Olympia; and all the communities of Triphylia. The remaining territory north of the Alpheios belonged directly to the polis Elis, but Elis did not hold any strictly Elean territory south of the Alpheios.7 A quarrel with Sparta led to a war between Elis and Sparta in 402 – 400 (the exact date is disputed); Sparta won and deprived Elis of all its subordinate allies.8 The communities of Triphylia then united in a federal state that lasted at least until the 360s, after which its history is obscure; certainly by the mid-third century the Triphylian cities were no longer united.9 After 400 Elis sought to regain control of its allies, with some success particularly north of the Alpheios. We have little information about the period from the mid-fourth century until the mid-third, by which time Elis again controlled Triphylia, but from the midthird century until the mid-second there were again numerous fluctuations until finally all of Eleia was reunited within the polis Elis.10 Strikingly, Elean ambitions were apparently limited to Eleia, since Elis made little attempt to extend its domination beyond the limits of Eleia, and even then only to nearby parts of Arkadia.11 By the mid-sixth century at latest the Eleans took control of Olympia, and they made the sanctuary very Elean.12 Both the sanctuary and the Olympic Games were run by Elean officials, and rules established by the Eleans for both the

5 On Elean expansion and the perioikoi see Roy (1997) and (1999). 6 On the geographical location of Akroreia see Ruggeri (2004) 146 – 149. Lasion, which lay east of Akroreia, was a subordinate ally of Elis by c. 400, but we do not know when the alliance was created: see Roy (2004) 499. 7 Lepreon had ceded half of its land to Elis, but this land was rented to Lepreon (Thucydides 5.31.2). 8 Schepens (2004), Roy (2009). 9 Nielsen (1997) and (2004). 10 Roy (1999) 164 – 167. 11 Roy (2000). 12 On the Elean administration of Olympia see Nielsen (2007) 29 – 54. The Elean character of Olympia is treated more fully in Roy (forthcoming): see also Roy (2008b).

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sanctuary and the Games were posted on inscriptions in the sanctuary.13 These and other Elean inscriptions posted at Olympia used a distinctive form of Elean dialect.14 Elean coins used Olympic symbols, notably Zeus and his eagle, and also Hera.15 At least from the fifth century Elean sacred ambassadors (thearoi) travelled throughout the Greek world to announce the Games each time that they were held, and were officially received at the cities they visited. Likewise the cities sent their own thearoi to represent them at the Games.16 Other Greek states must thus have been conscious that their official contact with the Olympic Games was through the Elean administration of the sanctuary. The Eleans used Olympia for the administration not only of the sanctuary and the Games but also of the polis Elis itself. The Hellanodikai, for instance, had quarters both in Elis and at Olympia, and there was a bouleuterion in Elis and another at Olympia (possibly for the Olympic council).17 It is striking that no prytaneion is known at Elis, whereas there is one at Olympia: it may well be that the only prytaneion of Elis, a central feature of polis life, was at Olympia.18 Certainly any visitor to Olympia would have been aware that it was an Elean sanctuary, albeit one with panhellenic status. There is no good evidence that the other communities of Eleia – or indeed any other Greeks at all – played a part in administering the sanctuary.19 On the other hand Elis used the sanctuary to strengthen its control over its subordinate allies. The treaty between Elis and its subordinate ally Ewa (or Eua), for instance, imposed penalties relating to Olympian Zeus for any breach of the treaty’s terms.20 In addition some allies in effect subjected themselves to the authority of the Eleans by making agreements between themselves that provided for punishment relating to Zeus in the event of a breach.21 As the agents of Zeus at the sanctuary the Eleans would have determined whether a penalty should be im13 14 15 16 17 18 19

20 21

Minon (2007), nos. 2 – 9, 13, 18 – 19. Colvin (2007). See the Elean coins catalogued in Walker (2004). Nielsen (2007) 39 – 40. On the question of whether the Olympic Council was a separate body from the council of the polis Elis see Jacquemin (2002) 290 on Pausanias 6.23.7. Nielsen (2007) 52 – 53. It has been suggested that there was an Olympic Amphiktyony, or that other communities of Eleia supplied some officials of the sanctuary : see Siewert (1991); Taita (1999), (2002), 136 – 8 and 145 – 6, and (2007), 126 – 130. However the negative reaction of Gehrke (2003) 18 to such suggestions is typical, and in her most recent consideration (2007) of the arguments for an amphictyony, Taita suggests it only as a possibility. Minon (2007), no. 10: compare no. 22, evidently the Elean response to trouble at Skillous, where penalties payable to Zeus are prescribed for various offences. Minon (2007), no. 14: compare no. 12, in which the Chaladrioi (unknown, but using the dialect of Eleia) impose a penalty of banishment before Zeus in a decree conferring honours on an individual.

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posed and then, if one was imposed, would have executed it. Even if the Eleans were themselves theoretically liable to be penalised for any breach of an agreement (as in the alliance with Ewa), in fact they were using their power at the sanctuary to impose discipline on their allies. Among the cult centres of Eleia Olympia was by far the greatest, and needs little comment here. Cults of many deities became established in the sanctuary: Pausanias, for instance lists the numerous cults to which in his day the Eleans made regular sacrifices, as well as a daily sacrifice to Zeus.22 The oracle at Olympia was also famous,23 as were the Olympic Games. The town of Elis was also a special case. It was the centre of the region’s biggest and most powerful city-state, and had – unsurprisingly – a number of temples and sanctuaries. Pausanias (6.23.3 – 26.3) mentions several of them, for the most part only briefly. However he does say that the temple of Aphrodite Ourania in the city had both a chryselephantine statue by Pheidias and a bronze statue by Skopas (Pausanias 6.25.1), while the sanctuary of Athena on the acropolis had a chryselephantine statue said to be by Pheidias (Pausanias 6.26.3).24 Little is known of most of the rituals, although those of Dionysos and of Achilles have attracted some modern attention.25 What is more interesting is the distribution of cult centres elsewhere in Eleia, and what may have influenced that distribution. It is worth noting that the geography of the region creates few difficulties for movement across it. To the northeast Eleia approaches the high mountain Erymanthos, but there is no truly mountainous terrain within Eleia. The uplands of Akroreia were crossed by armies in antiquity,26 and, while Mt. Minthe and its westward extension Mt. Lapithas divide Triphylia into northern and southern sections, there are tracks across these mountains (shown on the maps of the Geographical Service of the Greek Army). The R. Alpheios could be crossed at several points in antiquity, e. g. near Epitalion (Xenophon Hell. 3.2.29) and near Olympia (Pausanias 5.6.7). Generally movement within Eleia is easy. A serious problem is the very patchy and uneven knowledge that we currently have of archaeological remains in Eleia.27 The only systematic survey so far undertaken in Eleia as a whole was unfortunately begun in 1939 and abandoned 22 Pausanias 5.14.4 – 10 on the regular sacrifices, and 5.13.10 on the daily sacrifice to Zeus. Cf. Pausanias 5.7.1 – 6.21.3 on Olympia generally. 23 Strabo 8.3.30; Parke (1967) 164 – 193. 24 On the statues by Pheidias see Cullen Davison (2009) 1.29 – 37 and 2.906 – 7: on the statue by Skopas see Stewart (1977) 93. 25 Pausanias 6.26.1 (Dionysos) and 6.23.3 (Achilles): in both cases see the comments of Jacquemin (2002) on the passages. 26 Ruggeri (2004) 146 – 147. 27 See the comments of Moustaka (2002) 303 and Ruggeri (2004) 116 n. 326.

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in the autumn of that year; its results, though limited, were promising.28 Currently a very thorough survey of settlement in Triphylia by a team from the Deutsches Archäologisches Institut is under way, but so far only preliminary results are available.29 Other archaeological work of course continues to produce results, and many sites that may be settlements have been located.30 Sanctuaries have also been found, but, curiously, the most recent discovery of a religious sanctuary in the region is at Olympia itself – a sanctuary of Demeter (possibly Demeter Chamyne) and Kore.31 Literary coverage is also uneven. The main accounts are by Strabo (8.3.1 – 33) and Pausanias (Books 5 and 6), but Pausanias, for instance, while offering a fairly detailed account (6.21.3 – 22.3) of the route westwards from Heraia in Arkadia to Olympia, dismisses in a few lines (6.26.10) another road, 157 stades long, from Elis northwards to the Achaian frontier, and mentions nothing at all to be seen on the way. However, despite these problems of evidence, some patterns in the distribution of cult centres do emerge. Here small shrines will not be considered, though there were many in at least parts of the countryside of Eleia. Strabo (8.3.12), for instance, says that the area near the mouth of the Alpheios was full of shrines of Artemis, Aphrodite, and the nymphs. The shrines noted by Pausanias (6.21.3 – 22.3) along the road from Heraia in Arkadia on the north bank of the Alpheios were probably also minor. Pausanias’ ruined sanctuary of Herakles (6.21.3) is probably the same as that mentioned in the area by Dio Chrysostom (Or. 1.52 – 54), and Dio was clearly referring to a minor rural shrine. The temple of Asklepios (Pausanias 6.21.4) was a private foundation by someone called Demainetos, and – as Jacquemin has suggested32 – may not have survived long after the death of its founder. The sanctuary of Artemis Kordax (Pausanias 6.22.1) was very close to Olympia.33 Despite such occasional glimpses of small rural cults, the evidence for such cults generally in Eleia, including Triphylia, is very limited and covers little of the region. Small sanctuaries may well be important,34 but, given the poor evidence, it is impossible to make any meaningful statement about their distribution across Eleia. This paper will therefore concentrate on larger cult centres. In purely Elean territory little is known of major cult outside Olympia and the town Elis. At the port Kyllene there were sanctuaries of Aphrodite and Asklepios, 28 Sperling (1942). See also Mantzana (2000), a partial survey with primarily prehistoric interests but nonetheless recording material of historical date. 29 Rohn and Heiden (2009). See also www.poliskultur.de: Siedlungstopographie in Triphylien, with preliminary reports, and Archaeological Reports, especially for 2009 – 2010. 30 Roy (2004) 489 – 490, 493. Cf. the map on p. 127 of Osborne (1987). 31 Liangouras (2007 – 2008). A terracotta figure, possibly of a sphinx, has an engraved dedication ‘to Demeter, to Kore, to King’ (pp. 69 – 71): Liangouras suggests that the ‘King’ may be Hades. 32 Jacquemin (2002) 269. 33 Maddoli, Nafissi, and Saladino (1999) 363; Jacquemin (2002) 268. 34 See the arguments of Alcock (1994).

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and a statue of Hermes in the form of a standing phallus.35 At Herakleia, a small town northwest of Olympia, there was a cult of the nymphs Ioni(a)des at a healing spring.36 Otherwise no cults are attested, either by texts or by archaeological finds. It is surprising that nothing is known of cult at Pheia, a port town from the archaic period to the later Roman period, but it is also striking that the thorough excavations at Armatova, generally identified as Elean Pylos, produced no trace of communal buildings, either secular or religious.37 Equally little is known of major cult among the other, non-Elean, communities of Eleia north of the Alpheios. At Letrínoi there was a cult of Artemis, with rituals interpreted by modern scholars as intitiation rites for young women.38 Otherwise nothing is known. However Akroreia, the main area north of the Alpheios not directly incorporated into the territory of Elis, is not well known, to the point that none of the four poleis known in Akroreia can even be located.39 South of the Alpheios in Triphylia the situation is very different. There is literary evidence for a cult of Artemis Ephesia set up by Xenophon at Skillous;40 for a cult of Athena Kydonia at Phrixa;41 and for a cult of Poseidon at Samikon, administered according to modern interpretations by a Triphylian amphiktyony.42 Near Mt. Minthe there was a cult of Hades, and another near Hypana and Typaneai, where there was also a cult of Demeter and Kore.43 On the coast south of Samikon there was a cult of the nymphs Anigri(a)des, with healing waters.44 Then, in addition to literary evidence, there is also archaeological evidence for several cult centres. At Lepreon an earlier temple of Demeter was replaced in the first half of the fourth century by a peristyle temple measuring 21.69 x 11.98 m.45 South-east of Lepreon, near modern Prasidaki, there was a substantial settlement, protected by 35 Strabo 8.3.4; Pausanias 6.26.5 with the commentary of Jacquemin (2002) ad loc. 36 Strabo 8.3.32, Pausanias 6.22.7: see Ruggeri (2004) 151 n. 459. 37 On Pheia see Yalouris (1957) and (1962); Themelis (1968). On Pylos see Coleman (1986) 67: Pylos was important in the fighting between Elean oligarchs and democrats in 365 – 4 (Xenophon Hell. 7.4.16 and 26). 38 Pausanias 6.22.8 – 10 with the commentary of Jacquemin (2002) ad loc. Given what Strabo says about distances, it is not clear whether Strabo 8.3.12 refers to the same sanctuary. On Letrinoi see Ruggeri (2004) 170 – 171, Roy (2004) 499 – 500. 39 See Roy (2004) 493 – 494 (Alion), 498 – 499 (Eupagion), 500 (Opous, possibly at Gartsiko), and Thraistos (502). 40 Xenophon Anab. 5.3.7 – 13, Pausanias 5.6.5. On Skillous see Ruggeri (2004) 115 n. 324. 41 Pausanias 6.21.6. 42 Strabo 8.3.13: on the amphiktyony see Tausend (1992) 19 – 21, and on Samikon Rohn and Heiden (2009) 356. Pausanias 5.6.1 – 3 on Samikon says nothing about cult, though at 6.25.6 he mentions the transfer on the cult-statue to Elis. 43 Strabo 8.3.14 (cult on Mt. Minthe); 8.3.15 (cults near Hypana and Typaneai). 44 Strabo 8.3.19 with the commentary of Baladié (1978) 226; Pausanias 5.5.11. 45 Knell (1983), Rohn and Heiden (2009) 351. There may also have been a temple of Zeus Leukaios, not visible in Pausanias’ day (Pausanias 5.5.5 – 6).

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a wall, and a sanctuary that was frequented from the archaic period into Roman times; in the sanctuary an earlier archaic temple was replaced c. 475 by a classical Doric temple. The latter measured 35.30 x 15.90 m., and 33.30 x 14.70 m. on the stylobate.46 On Mt. Minthe near modern Kombothekra on a prominent site frequented from the Geometric period onwards a small temple has been excavated and identified by two inscriptions as that of Artemis Limnatis.47 Near modern Mazi (now Skilloundia) was ancient Makistos (or Makiston), and excavations have revealed, among other things, a temple of Athena dating from the early fifth century. It measures 35.10 x 15.85 m.48 Finally at Babes, east of Skillous and near the Alpheios, a small temple of Zeus has been excavated, near an ancient settlement. Measuring 8.36 x 4.55 m., it dates from the early fifth century, and around it were found votives beginning in the late Geometric period.49 For comparison the measurements of temples at Olympia are: the Heraion 50.02 x 18.65 m.,50 the temple of Zeus 64.12 x 27.68 m.,51 and the Metroon 20.67 x 10.62 m.52 The temple of Zeus at Olympia was the largest in the Peloponnese, and Triphylia has nothing to match that, nor yet the temple of Hera, also large. However the temples at Prasidaki and Mazi are both much larger than the Metroon, and even the temple at Lepreon is a little bigger than the Metroon. Triphylia had some substantial temples. In addition a rich votive deposit of the 6th to 4th centuries has been found between Skillous and the Alpheios, suggesting that there may have been a sanctuary there.53 Also the current survey of Triphylian settlement has led to suggestions, still to be confirmed by further examination, of a temple at Anilio north of Lepreon and another at Platiana.54 There is thus a considerable difference between the pattern north of the Alpheios and that to the south, or more probably between the territory of the polis Elis (before 146) and the other communities of Eleia. The only non-Elean territory north of the Alpheios for which we have evidence of cult is Letrinoi, whose 46 Arapogianni (2002a), (2002b), and (2010); Rohn and Heiden (2009) 350 – 351. Rohn and Heiden suggest that the settlement was “eine grössere Polis”. The proposal to identify it as Triphylian Pyrgos is rejected by Nielsen (2004) 545. 47 Müller (1908), Sinn (1978) and (1981), Gregarek (1998), Ruggeri (2004) 80 – 82, Taita (2007) 96 – 98, Rohn and Heiden 357. 48 Trianti (1986). On Makistos see Nielsen (2004) 544; Ruggeri (2004) 72 with n. 163 and 102 – 103; and Rohn and Heiden (2009) 352 – 354 and 357. 49 Lang (1992), Moustaka (2002) 304 with nn. 59 – 62, Rohn and Heiden (2009) 354 – 357 (with the suggestion, at 355, that there was a second small temple at Babes). 50 Jacquemin (1999) 200. 51 Jacquemin (1999) 148. 52 Maddoli and Saladino (1995) 308. 53 Ruggeri (2004) 115 n. 324. 54 Archaeological Reports for 2009 – 2010 53 (Anilio) and Rohn and Heiden (2009) 351 – 352 (Platiana).

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territory lay on the north bank of the Alpheios; it had an important cult of Artemis, and could well be classed with the Triphylian cities south of the Alpheios.55 The difference in pattern of cult distribution is then between Elis on the one hand, where major cults are rare outside Olympia and the town Elis, and on the other the remaining communities of Eleia where, in the areas for which we have evidence, several major cult centres are found. It is unlikely that Elis, either directly or through Olympia, interfered much in cult in the non-Elean communities of Eleia. The cult-statue of Poseidon from the sanctuary at Samikon was transferred (at an unknown date) to Elis, where, according to Pausanias, it received even greater honour.56 On the other hand the Eleans, according to Pausanias, again at an unknown date transferred the cult of Artemis Elaphiaia that had been celebrated in the town of Elis to Letrinoi, where the epiclesis of the goddess was transformed to Alpheiaia.57 Strabo (8.3.12) mentions near the mouth of the Alpheios a grove sacred to Artemis Alpheionia or Alpheiousa, and says that there was a festival of that goddess every year at Olympia. It is not clear whether he means the same sanctuary described by Pausanias as that of Elaphiaia/Alpheiaia, but he evidently envisages a link between cult at Olympia and cult near the mouth of the Alpheios. It is also worth noting that, although cults of Hades were very rare in the Greek world, in the town of Elis Hades had a sacred precinct and a temple, and there were also in Triphylia sanctuaries of Hades near Mt. Minthe and near Hypana and Typaneai.58 However there is no direct evidence of a connection between the Hades-cult in Elis and those in Triphylia, although it is a striking coincidence that there are three examples of such a rare cult in Eleia. In any case this limited evidence does not suggest that Elis had much influence on the cult practices of other communities of Eleia. The communities of Eleia other than Elis of course worshipped at Olympia, and, for example, inscribed dedications by some of them have been found.59 It is possibly because of their respect for Olympia and the Olympic Games that there is apparently no evidence for athletic contests held anywhere in Eleia other than Olympia.60 On the other hand it is odd that, on present evidence, the very 55 Note the suggestion by Nielsen (2004) 540 – 541 that, when created c.400, Triphylian identity may initially and fairly briefly have extended north of the Alpheios. 56 Pausanias 6.25.5 – 6 with the commentary of Jacquemin (2002) ad loc. Cf. Strabo 8.3.14 on the cult of Poseidon at Samikon. Pausanias 5.6.1 – 3 on Samikon does not mention any sanctuary or cult. 57 Pausanias 6.22.8 – 11 with the commentary of Jacquemin (2002) ad loc. 58 Pausanias 6.25.2 – 3 (Elis), see also the commentary of Jacquemein (2002) ad loc.; Strabo 8.3.14 (Mt. Minthe) and 15 (Hypana and Typaneai). 59 Siewert 1991; Minon (2007), nos. 44 (Amphidoloi), 45 (Alasyes and Akroreioi), 46 (Skillous?), and 47 (Letrinoi). 60 I am grateful for this information to Thomas Nielsen, who is compiling a gazetteer of Greek

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prominent position of Hera at Olympia did not lead any community in Eleia to introduce a cult of Hera.61 Altogether there is no reason to suppose that the presence and prestige of Olympia had a major effect on the cult practices of the non-Elean communities of Eleia, and it is very obvious that the prestige of Olympia did not stifle the development of cult centres in Triphylia. It is not difficult to explain the distribution of cult centres in Triphylia. Fifteen settlements are known in the area, of which eight were considered poleis during at least part of the archaic and classical periods.62 There were evidently some changes among these city-states over time: Noudion appears only in Herodotus (4.148.4), while Stylangion appears only in Polybius (4.79.9) and in Stephanus (under Styllagion). In addition, Triphylian Pylos was synoikised, at an unknown date, into Lepreon (Strabo 8.3.30). Despite such changes, however, Triphylia consistently had a number of separate city-states. Although several must have been small, Triphylian cities were capable of development. For instance, preliminary results from the German survey of Triphylian settlements suggest that in the fourth century, once freed from Elean control, new towns were founded at Samikon and Platiana.63 (It is often difficult to identify archaeological sites in Triphylia with known ancient toponyms, and many sites are therefore commonly referred to by the name of the nearest modern village.) It would have been natural for each Triphylian polis to develop its own cult centre or centres, and so it is not surprising that numerous cult centres are known from literary evidence and from archaeology. What is notable is that the Triphylians frequently chose to locate their sanctuaries on prominent and highly visible sites. The temple of Demeter at Lepreon is unusual among sanctuaries of Demeter, though not unique, in being located on top of the acropolis within the city,64 but a hilltop site for a sanctuary is typical of Triphylian practice. Rohn and Heiden point to the small sanctuary at Babes and probably another at Phrixa as “weithin sichtbaren Heiligtümern” marking the frontier of Triphylia towards Elis, and suggest that generally for Triphylian communities in the choice of the sites for settlements and for monumental buildings the decisive element was “representative, auf Fernwirkung zielende Absichten.”65 These conspicuous monuments would mark off the

61 62 63 64 65

sites at which athletic contests were held in the archaic and classical periods. Until this work is completed, the findings are provisional. Homer Iliad 11.696 – 702 mentions a horse-race to be held at Elis, in the time of Nestor and Augeias, but there is no archaic or classical evidence for such events in Eleia save at Olympia. Moustaka (2002) (though her suggestion that the cult of Hera was introduced at Olympia only in the 5th century is highly speculative). Nielsen (2004) 540 – 546. On Tripylia generally see Nielsen (1997), (2002), and (2004). Archaeological Reports for 2009 – 2010 52 – 53. Guettel Cole (2000) 147 – 8. Rohn and Heiden (2009) 357. Guettel Cole (1994) 210 – 211 points out that Lepreon, like

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identities of the Triphylian city-states from the Elean identity that the Eleans may sometimes have tried to impose upon them. The evidence for any attempt to impose an Elean identity is admittedly slight: Olympic victors from Lepreon were apparently proclaimed as Eleans, and the name Eleia for the whole territory had come into use by Thucydides’ day (Thucydides 5.34.1).66 In any case Triphylians were frequently hostile to Elis,67 as might be expected since the Eleans tried over several centuries to establish enduring dominance over them. In comparison to the readily comprehensible pattern of cult centres in Triphylia, the distribution of cult in Elis is much sparser and more difficult to explain. Allowance must of course be made for the limited nature of our evidence. It is hard to imagine that a harbour town like Pheia would have no religious sanctuary or temple, and our ignorance of any cult at Pheia is almost certainly due to want of evidence. (Likewise in the allied territory north of the Alpheios it is hard to believe that the four poleis known to have existed in Akroreia did not have cult centres.) Nonetheless it is striking that we know of major cult centres only in Olympia, the town Elis, Kyllene, and Herakleia. The territory of the polis Elis was large, and its boundaries were probably established by the 6th century, and certainly by the 5th.68 Thereafter the territory remained unified except when the Pisatans, occupying the area around Olympia, broke away briefly in the years 365 – 362. Within the territory of Elis communications were generally good, and did not encourage division into geographical segments, though the hills between the valley of the Peneios and the valley of the Alpheios would make it easy to think of Elean territory as divided into these two subregions. Such a belief might have been fostered by the fact that of the twin poles of communal life in the polis one, the town Elis, lay in the Peneios valley and the other, the sanctuary at Olympia, in the valley of the Alpheios. Outside these two centres, major sanctuaries are known only at the port Kyllene and the small town Herakleia, though there were numerous smaller rural cult sites (see e. g. Strabo 8.3.12). Several other settlements, some of them clearly big enough to be called towns, are known from literary sources, and there is also archaeological evidence of other nucleated settlements, in two cases fortified.69 Present evidence thus

66 67

68 69

Mytilene and Iasos, is unusual in having a temple of Demeter on the acropolis: urban sanctuaries of Demeter were usually located elsewhere in the city. Nielsen (2002) 244 – 245: see also Nielsen (2005). Nielsen (2002) 257. There are examples of hostility in, e. g. Herodotus 4.148 (mid-fifth century), Xenophon Hell. 3.2.25 and Diod. Sic. 14.17.8 (in the Spartan-Elean war of 402 – 400), and after Leuktra (Nielsen (2002) 263 – 264). There were also occasional friendly relations, such as those between Lepreon and Elis before the Peloponnesian War (Thucydides 5. 31.2). Roy (1997), (1999). The evidence for settlements in Elis is assembled in Roy (2004), particularly at 492 – 3: to the literature cited there should be added Arapogianni (1999) on the cemetery at Sta-

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suggests that major cult centres were rare in Elean territory, even if one assumes that some major sanctuaries or temples remain for archaeology or epigraphy to reveal in addition to those now known in Olympia, the town Elis, Kyllene, and Herakleia. It is therefore tempting to suppose that Elis and Olympia together so dominated the religious life of the polis Elis that major cult was rare elsewhere in Elean territory of the polis. Such a view would be encouraged if we could draw conclusions from silences of Pausanias: he says nothing of any sanctuary (or indeed anything else of note) along the road form Elis to Achaia (6.26.10), and, if we took his silence to mean that there was no sanctuary or religious monument marking the northern frontier of Elean territory, that would suggest that the Eleans had not felt the need to impose a visibly Elean identity on this border area. Such an argument from Pausanias’ silence is however too risky to carry weight. However, if we therefore suppose that the main centres of the Eleans’ communal religious life were concentrated at Olympia and the town Elis there is a troubling passage in Polybius. Polybius (4.73.5 – 8) says that some wealthy Elean landowning families were content to live on their lands and did not attend the courts at Elis for two or three generations at a time. To cater for such citizens, says Polybius, the polis Elis allowed lawsuits involving them to be heard on the spot, and in general ensured that nothing was lacking for their needs in life (pros biotikas chreias).70 What then of the religious needs of such citizens? Were they satisfied by worship at small rural sanctuaries, which may well have been scattered across the countryside? Or did they go to the town Elis and to Olympia for religious purposes, even though they evidently did not care to go to Elis in pursuit of their interests at law? Our evidence certainly suggests that Elean religious life was primarily focussed on Elis and Olympia, as was also Elean political life, but some questions about how the Eleans worshipped their gods have not yet found an answer.

phidokampos. On problems relating to the settlement pattern in Elis see Roy (1999) 158 – 163, (2002a), ( 2002b), and (2004) 488 – 491 and 493. 70 Polybius’ statement explicitly refers to only some of the Elean landowners: others presumably lived differently. In addition the same passage shows the existence of numerous villages in the Elean countryside. See Roy (2008a) 267 – 268.

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Fig. 1. Major cult sites in Eleia.

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Kyrieleis, H. (2002): Olympia 1875 – 2000. 125 Jahre Deutsche Ausgrabungen. Internationales Symposion, Berlin 9.–11. November 2000, Mainz am Rhein. Lang, F. (1992): “Die Keramik von Babes in der Landschaft Elis”, in: Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts (Athenische Abteilung) 107 (1992), 43 – 105 with Plates 16 – 21. Maddoli, G., and Saladino, V. (1995): Pausania, Guida della Grecia, Libro V: l’Elide e Olimpia, Milan, 1995. Maddoli, G., Nafissi, M., and Saladino, V. (1999): Pausania, Guida della Grecia, Libro VI: l’Elide e Olimpia, Milan, 1999. Mantzanas, C. (2000): “Επιφανειακές αρχαιολογικές έρευνες στην Ηλεία”, in: Peloponnesiaka 25 (2000), 319 – 340. Minon, S. (2007): Les inscriptions éléennes dialectales (VIe-IIe siècle avant J.-C.), Vol. I Textes, Vol. II Grammaire et vocabulaire institutionnel, Geneva, 2007. Mitsopoulos-Leon, V. (1984): “Zur Verehrung des Dionysos in Elis nochmals: ΑΞΙΕ ΤΑΥΡΕ und die sechzehn heiligen Frauen”, in: Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Institutes, Athenische Abteilung 99 (1984), 275 – 290. Möller, A. (2004): “Elis, Olympia und das Jahr 580 v. Chr. Zur Frage der Eroberung der Pisatis”, in: R. Rollinger and C. Ulf (eds.), Griechische Archaik. Interne Entwicklungen – externe Impulse, Berlin 2004, 249 – 270. Moustaka, A. (2002): “Zeus und Hera im Heiligtum von Olympia und die Kulttopographie von Elis und Triphylien”, in: Kyrieleis (2002) 301 – 315. Müller, K. (1908): “Artemistempel bei Kombothekra (vorläufiger Bericht)”, in: Mitteilungen des Kaiserlich Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Athenische Abteilung 23 (1908) 323 – 326. Nafissi, M. (2001): “La prospettiva di Pausania sulla storia dell’Elide. La questione pisate”, in: D. Knoepfler and M. Piérart (eds.), Éditer, traduire, commenter Pausanias en l’an 2000, Geneva, 2001, 301 – 321. Nafissi, M. (2003) [2005]: “Elei e Pisati. Geografia, storia e istituzioni politiche della regione Olimpia”, in: Geographia Antiqua 12 (2003) [2005], 23 – 55. Nielsen, T. H. (1997): “Triphylia. An experiment in ethnic construction and political organization”, in: T. H. Nielsen (ed.), Yet More Studies in the Ancient Greek Polis, Papers from the Copenhagen Polis Centre 4, Historia Einzelschriften 117, Stuttgart 1997, 129 – 162. Nielsen, T. H. (2002): Arkadia and its poleis in the archaic and classical periods, Göttingen, 2002. Nielsen, T. H. (2004): “Triphylia”, in: M. H. Hansen and T. H. Nielsen (eds.), An Inventory of Archaic and Classical Poleis, Oxford, 2004, 540 – 546. Nielsen, T. H. (2005): “A polis as part of a larger identity group: glimpses from the history of Lepreon”, in: Classica et Mediaevalia 56 (2005), 57 – 89. Nielsen, T. H. (2007): Olympia and the classical Hellenic city-state culture, Copenhagen, 2005. Osborne, R. (1987): Classical landscape with figures. The ancient Greek city and its countryside, London, 1987. Parke, H. W. (1967): The oracles of Zeus. Dodona, Olympia, Ammon, Cambridge Mass. 1967). Rohn, C., and Heiden, J. (2009): “Neue Forschungen zur antiken Siedlungstopographie Triphyliens”, in: A. Matthei and M. Zimmermann (eds.), Stadtbilder im Hellenismus, Berlin, 2009, 348 – 364.

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Roy, J. (1997): “The perioikoi of Elis”, in: M. H. Hansen (ed.), The Polis as an urban centre and as a political community (Acts of the Copenhagen Polis Centre Vol. 4), Copenhagen, 1997, 282 – 320. Roy, J. (1998): “Thucydides 5.49.1 – 50.4: the quarrel between Elis and Sparta in 420 B.C., and Elis’ exploitation of Olympia”, Klio 80 (1998), 360 – 368. Roy, J. (1999) : “ Les cités d’Élide ”, in : J. Renard (ed.), Le Peloponnèse: Archéologie et Histoire. Actes de la rencontre internationale de Lorient (12 – 15 mai 1998), Rennes, 1999, 151 – 176. Roy, J. (2000): “The frontier between Arkadia and Elis in classical antiquity”, in: P. Flensted-Jensen, T. H. Nielsen, and L. Rubinstein (eds.), Polis and politics: studies in ancient Greek history presented to Mogens Herman Hansen on his sixtieth birthday, August 20th, 2000, Copenhagen, 2000, 133 – 156. Roy, J. (2002a): “The pattern of settlement in Pisatis: the ‘eight poleis’”, 229 – 247 in T. H. Nielsen (ed.), Even more studies in the ancient Greek polis (Papers from the Copenhagen Polis Centre 6), Historia Einzelschriften 162, Stuttgart, 2002, 229 – 247. Roy, J. (2002b): “The synoikism of Elis”, in: T. H. Nielsen (ed.), Even more studies in the ancient Greek polis (Papers from the Copenhagen Polis Centre 6), Stuttgart, 2002, 249 – 264. Roy, J. (2004): “Elis”, in: M. H. Hansen and T. H. Nielsen (eds.), An inventory of archaic and classical poleis, Oxford, 2004, 489 – 504. Roy, J. (2008a): “Elis in the later Hellenistic and early Roman periods”, in: C. Grandjean (ed.), Le Péloponnèse d’Épaminondas à Hadrien. Colloque de Tours 6 – 7 octobre 2005, Bordeaux, 2008, 263 – 270. Roy, J. (2008b) [2010]: “The nature and extent of Elean power in the western Peloponnese”, in: M. Lombardo and F. Frisone (eds.), Forme sovrapolieche e interpolieche di organizzazione nel mondo Greco. Atti del Convegno Internazionale (Lecce, 17 – 20 Settembre 2008), Galatina 2008 [2010] 293 – 306. Roy, J. (2009): “The Spartan-Elean war of c. 400”, Athenaeum 97 (2009) 69 – 86. Roy, J. (forthcoming): “Olympia, identity and integration: Elis, Eleia, and Hellas”, to appear in the proceedings of a conference held at Münster in June 2010. Ruggeri, C. (2004): Gli stati intorno a Olimpia: storia e costituzione degli stati formati dai perieci elei (400 – 362 a.C.), Stuttgart, 2004. Schepens, G. (2004) : “La guerra di Sparta contro Elide”, in: E. Lanzillotta (ed.), Ricerche di antichità e tradizione classica, Tivoli-Roma, 2004, 1 – 89. Siewert, P. (1991): “Staatliche Weihungen von Kesseln und anderen Bronzegeräten in Olympia”, in: Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archälogischen Instituts, Athenische Abteilung 106 (1991) 81 – 84. Sinn, U. (1978): “Das Heiligtum der Artemis Limnatis bei Kombothekra. Elische Lekythen”, in: Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Institutes, Athenische Abteilung 93 (1978) 45 – 82 with Tafeln 21 – 26. Sinn, U. (1981): “Das Heiligtum der Artemis Limnatis bei Kombothekra II: Der Kult”, in: Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Institutes, Athenische Abteilung 96 (1981) 25 – 71 with Tafeln 7 – 16 and Beilage 4. Sinn, U. (1994): “Die Entwicklung des Zeuskultes von Olympia bei Strabo (VIII 3,30 p. 353 f.)”, in: A. M. Biraschi (ed.), Strabone e la Grecia, Naples, 1994, 145 – 166.

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Sperling, J. (1942): “Explorations in Elis, 1939”, in: American Journal of Archaeology 46 (1942) 77 – 89. Stewart, A. F. (1977): Skopas of Paros, Park Ridge, New Jersey, 1977. Taita, J. (2007): Olimpia e il suo vicinato in epoca arcaica, Milan, 2007. Tausend, K. (1992): Amphiktyonie und Symmachie. Formen zwischenstaatlicher Beziehungen im archaischen Griechenland, Stuttgart, 1992. Themelis, P. (1968): “Φειά”, in: Αρχαιολογικόν Δέλτιον 23 (1968), B’1 162. Trianti, I. (1986): “Ο γλυπτός διάκοσμος του ναού στο Μάζι της Ηλείας”, in: H. Kyrieleis (ed.), Archaische und klassische griechische Plastik. Akten des internationalen Kolloquiums vom 22.–25. April 1985 in Athen, Mainz 1986, 155 – 168 with Tafeln 136 – 144. Walker, A. (2004): Coins of Olympia: the BCD Collection (Auktion Leu 90), Zürich 2004. Yalouris, N. (1957): “Δοκιμαστικαί έρευναι εις τον κόλπον της Φειάς Ηλείας”, in: Αρχαιολογική Εφημερίς 1957 (1961) 32 – 43. Yalouris, N. (1962): “Φειά”, in: Αρχαιολογικόν Δέλτιον 16 (1960) [1962], B’ 126.

Vassiliki Pothou

Newborn Babies and Newborn Islands: Insularity and Politics Graduate School “Human Development in Landscapes” Ancient Greek Literature, Kiel University

In many respects, islands are the antipodes of continents. If a continent symbolizes stability, spaciousness, power, authority, the insular world should represent instability, narrowness, lack of power, revolution. The remark of Strabon about the size of potential emerging islands demonstrates the contrast between small and big status: “Deluges […] and earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, and upheavals of the submarine ground raise the sea, whereas the settling of the bed of the sea lowers the sea. For it cannot be that burning masses may be raised aloft, and small islands, but not large islands; nor yet that islands may thus appear, but not continents”1. But the contrast between continental and insular topography has not only geographical dimensions. If the continent is a landscape, the island is a land-escape. The aim of this paper is to show that the phenomenon of emerging and floating islands in the Greek mythology and historiography is connected indirectly with the political reality and it constitutes a form of interpretation or criticism. The emergence of a new island contains in some cases a political message. It is the reaction of nature that wants to overcome the political authority and supremacy through the birth of an “unpackaged nature”, of a virginal landscape, of a landscape that did not exist until then. The concept of wandering islands is a topos which grosso modo stands for the illusion of the lost or movable paradise. It is an imaginary construction, an idolization of real conditions: the islands of the Aegean See should symbolize for Greek people wandering ships. A possible technical explanation for the buoyancy of floating islands could be the “peculiar dry brightness in the atmosphere of Greece which seems to annihilate or to enlarge distance”2. Interesting is the relationship between event and explanation. The same legend accompanies even 1 “Καὶ γὰρ κατακλυσμοὶ καὶ σεισμοὶ καὶ ἀναφυσήματα καὶ ἀνοιδήσεις τῆς ὑφάλου γῆς μετεωρίζουσι καὶ τὴν θάλατταν, αἱ δὲ συνιζήσεις ταπεινοῦσιν αὐτὴν. Οὐ γὰρ μύδροι μὲν ἀνενεχθῆναι δύνανται καὶ μικραὶ νῆσοι, μεγάλαι δ᾽ οὔ· οὐδὲ νῆσοι μέν, ἤπειροι δ᾽ οὔ” (Strabo 1. 3. 10 c54). 2 Stobart (1911) 7. Cf. Van Duzer (2004) 53: “while Bloch, p. 9, attributes the “fable” that the islands floated to the fact that they “prennent souvent une allure un peu fantastique dans le feu de la lumière de midi ou dans la brume du soir””.

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today some islands like Gavdos in the south of Crete, which was under the control of Gortynians in the late third century3. A miracle or a legend could explain the incredible or limit the absurd. This kind of explanation acknowledges the gods, but this causality encourages the reader to consider the delicate balance between the divine and supernatural powers and the recognition of the limits of human minds: “references to gods personalize nature and the tendency to balance and stability”4. If we accept this statement of D. Lateiner, then the reference to gods makes nature and landscape more human, because man tries to personify and to humanize the supernatural. The cause of this initiative is the reestablishment of balance and stability, when the balance has been disturbed for some particular reasons.

Asylum for the desperate Oiniadai Thucydides describes how the Acheloos river through Akarnania empties into the sea silting up the channels, with the result that some of the islands have already merged with the mainland. This process is known as coastal deposition which, being a natural phenomenon, has permanence and seasonality but no intensity (II 102. 3 – 4). The epilogue of his geographical excursus is mythological and concerns the shelter of an exile according to the legend of Alcmaeon son of Amphiaraus and murderer of his mother Eriphyle, a sort of “second Orest”, as Hans-Joachim Gehrke suggests (II 102. 5 – 6)5. The oracle of Apollo indicates that Alcmaeon “would not have release from the terrors until he found and set up home in a place which at the time when he killed his mother had not yet been seen by the sun nor yet existed as land”6. He finally finds the small and uninhabited islands Oiniadai7 opposite the islands of Echinades8. Pomponius Mela uses the adjective “πλωταί” for the islands of Echinades and the islands of Strophades. The islands of Oiniadai function as an asylum for persecuted individuals formatted in an environmental context9. The substance of the traditional story of Alcmaeon is the idolization of an emerged landscape. The emergence of a new landscape demonstrates as a remedial process of general toleration the position of the 3 4 5 6 7

Constantakopoulou (2007) 200. Lateiner (1989) 198. Gehrke (1994 – 1995) 48. Hammond (2009) 129. According to Vött “ancient Oiniadai lies on top of the Trikardo hills in the centre of the Acheloos River delta at a distance of 9 km from the present coast”: “Silting up Oiniadai’s harbours (Acheloos River delta, NW Greece). Geoarchaeological implications of late Holocene landscape changes”, Géomorphologie: relief, processus, environnement, 2007, 1, 19 – 36. 8 Freitag (1994) 212 ff. 9 Hilpert-Greger (1996) 71 – 74.

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individual towards a judicial decision or even the potential excess of jurisdiction. The agricultural economy may provide for Alcmaeon as a private landholder the acquisition of property. According to Thucydides “it was possible to make a living on the island”10.

Self-determination According to the forty-ninth narrative of the mythographer Konon, when Iason was sailing home from Kolchis after carrying off Medeia, an incredible storm and complete helplessness surprised them. While those on board of the Argo prayed and implored profusely, Apollo raised his bow above them and put an end to all their difficulties. While a flash of lightning rushed from the sky, the earth raised from the depths of the sea an island; setting their feet on it, they called it Anaphe from the circumstance that it was then seen for the first time under the sun, and they founded a sanctuary of Apollo Aigletes11: “Ἀπόλλων τόξον αὐτῶν ὑπερανασχὼν τὰ δεινὰ διέλυσεν ἅπαντα, καὶ σέλατος ἐξ οὐρανοῦ διαίσσοντος νῆσον ἀνέσχεν ἡ γῆ ἐκ τοῦ βυθοῦ, εἰς ἣν ὁρμισάμενοι ὡς πρῶτον ὀφθεῖσαν ὑφ᾽ ἡλίου τότε Ἀνάφην ἀπὸ τῆς συντυχίας ἐκάλεσαν καὶ ἱερὸν Ἀπόλλωνος Αἰγλήτου ἱδρύσαντο” (FGrHist 26, “Ἀπόλλων Αἰγλήτης” 49). It is remarkable what the historian underlines about the etymology of the island’s name not in light of “a flash of lightning rushed from the sky”, but in light “of the aetiological myth”12. The same underlines Thucydides about the islands of Oiniadai in the story of Alcmaeon: “a place which had not yet been seen by the sun nor yet existed as land”. Medeia and Jason are a young and uncompromising couple. At the beginning of their common life the venturesome couple has no home, they are not an “established” couple. Therefore, they are looking for a “non-established” landscape in order to realize their dreams. A standard type of landscape is not compatible with such an unconventional couple. Anaphe is a terra nullius, “i. e. new land or territory not possessed by a community having a social and political organization”13. The narrative of Anaphe focuses on the principle of self-determination and the problem of establishment of a fragile minority under “special” circumstances. In this context a continuous and stabile habitation is the key condition for the beginning of the establishment of territorial possession and territorial sea.

10 11 12 13

“Καὶ ἐδόκει αὐτῷ ἱκανὴ ἂν κεχῶσθαι δίαιτα τῷ σώματι” (II 102. 5). The translation is of Brown (2002) 338. Brown (2002) 340. Brownlie (20036) 133.

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Newborn babies and newborn islands The idea of floating islands was familiar to the Greeks, e. g. Delos and Patmos14, and the formation of mythical floating islands belongs to the topic of movable insularity. Hekataios of Miletos (F 305) mentions the island Chemmis, “sacred to Apollo, which is floating and sails about and moves”. Herodotus responds: “Near the temple in Bouto is an island called Chemmis. This island is said by the Egyptians to float. Now I myself certainly did not see it sailing or moved, and I wonder, hearing of it, whether an island truly can float”15. D. Lateiner correctly reminds us that “there is no rationalization here, to be sure, just gullibility”16. According to mythology, Isis, pursued by her enemy Seth-Typhon, finally bore his divine son Horos on the Chemmis island. The essence of the matter is the distinction between subjugation to the central authority and rebellious escape. Delos was a wandering rock in the Aegean Sea before Zeus made the island immovable after the birth of the twins Apollo and Artemis under a palm. In the case of Delos the floating island functions as a place of refuge for Leto pursued by Hera. In the two stories of Isis and Leto a pregnant woman takes refuge in a floating corner of the earth to give birth to her children. The umbilical cord between the two floating islands is the water, because – according to Callimaque – the water of the spring of Ἴνωπος came from the river Nile. Before its anchorage, Delos was not unnamed. However its first name had the opposite meaning of its second. Before the birth of the twins the rock was named “invisible” (“Ἄδηλος”), after their birth its name became “visible” (“Δῆλος”). The intellectual significance of the story is focused on the contrast between persecution, illegality and heartless legality. The anchorage of the island represents the view that it is necessary to put an end to the illegality of a legal act. Furthermore it involves the “duty of non-recognition” towards an adamant legality17. This duty derives from the norms concerning the basic human rights and from the principle “ex injuria non oritur jus”. It is not the first time that an islet indicates a relationship with newborn babies. On the north eastern part of the ancient Prepesinthos – the modern islet of Despotiko – between the islands of Antiparos and Siphnos in the centre of Cyclades, Y. Kourayos excavated an impressive sanctuary “not mentioned by ancient literary sources” dedicated to Apollo, as demonstrated by some inscribed potsherds18. A figurine representing a stocky man imitates probably Egyptian 14 Cf. Constantakopoulou (2007) 117. 15 “Λέγεται δὲ ὑπ᾽ Αἰγυπτίων εἶναι αὕτη ἡ νῆσος πλωτή. Αὐτὸς μὲν ἔγωγε οὔτε πλέουσαν οὔτε κινηθεῖσαν εἶδον, τέθηπα δὲ ἀκούων εἰ νῆσος ἀληθέως ἐστὶ πλωτή” (II 156. 2). 16 Lateiner (1989) 94. 17 Cf. Brownlie (20036) 491. 18 Κουράγιος (2008) 402. Cf. Constantakopoulou (2007) 221 note 220.

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figurines of the God “Bes”, who protected the motherhood and the newborn babies. Prepesinthos seams to be a sort of second Delos. The birth of unwanted children symbolizes the unwelcome innovation, the reaction to supremacy. Every new beginning needs a home, a new landscape. The standard landscape model underestimates potential developments of extremities. A continental landscape could not represent a change, because it is immovable and conservative. A floating island offers the necessary distance, protection and isolation for a new beginning, for an alternative, for an overthrow. The formation of a new landscape makes the new order more concrete, clear and obvious for the people. According to many scholars, Hellenism is the representative of a natural mysticism19. The virginal landscape includes physically – as an abstraction – the embodiment of an idea, the localization of a concept. When the continent seems to be too conservative, a new landscape must be born as a reaction to the oppression and to the collapse of continental authority. It is the reflection of moral renaissance and – in some cases – a reflection of anarchy.

Connectivity between Island and Continent The well-known story of Endymion, the lover of Selene who slumbers eternally on Mt. Latmos near Herakleia, was established by the Hellenistic Age (Apoll. Rhod. 4. 57 – 5820, Theokr. Id. 3. 49 – 50). The moon goddess Selene, who was in love with the young Endymion, visited him at the temple of Artemis at Caria and she lit the island of Patmos which was under water at the depths of the Aegean Sea. Selene asked Artemis to lift the island above water, which was made possible by Zeus, through the help of Apollo. According to a local tradition the island emerged from the bottom of the sea and the sun’s warmth greeted the flora and fauna of Patmos giving life21. Artemis encouraged humans – including people from Mount Latmos – to inhabit the unnamed emerging island, which was named “Letois” in honour of Artemis. The mythologized background of the story is illusory; this is the case of a “natural” emerged island for human habitation and environmental management with an artificial mythologized identity. An 19 “Viele sahen in ‘Hebraismus’ den Schuldigen an der Entseelung der Natur, im ‘Hellenismus’ den Anwalt einer Naturmystik, die im Zeitalter des Rationalismus eine Bekräftigung verdiene”: Kippenberg (2007) 65 and especially note 72. 20 “Οὐκ ἄρ᾽ ἐγὼ μούνη μετὰ Λάτμιον ἄντρον ἀλύσκω, οὐδ᾽ οἴη καλῷ περὶ δαίομαι Ἐνδυμίωνι” (Apollonius, Argonautica, 4. 57 – 58). 21 I would like to suggest that the source of this oral, local tradition could be the verses 7 – 8 of the epigram on the hydrophorοs of Artemis Patmia Vera: “νῆσσος ἀγαυοτάτη Λητωίδος, ἧς προβέβηκε | βένθεσιν Αἰγαίοις ἕδρανα ῥυομένη{ι}”. Cf. Werner Peek, “Die Hydrophore Vera von Patmos”, RhM 107, 1964, 315 – 325, esp. p. 317 and p. 322 note 9.

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emerged island as a starting point for a settlement with agricultural economy must be self-sufficient. The fertility of the soil should be considered as a guarantee for the autarchy and the normality of island environment combined with faunal results and climate conditions. However, this status would not exclude the connectivity with the rest of the insular world. Particularly in the case of islands, the principle of contiguity is undoubtedly the essential background of usurpation. In conclusion it may be stated that the case of Patmos demonstrates the desire for a redefinition or enlargement of traditional boundaries. Associated with the redetermination of frontiers is the process of symbolic annexation and the concept of consolidation as a declaration of permanent sovereignty over a territory or an island22. The same topic of connectivity between an island and the directly opposed continent exists latently in a poem of Sappho (98 Diehl, 218 Page), where the moonlight and the nostalgic love are again the bridge between an island of east Aegean (that is Lesbos) and the coast of Asia Minor (Lydia)23.

Redistribution According to Pindar, “ancient tales of men relate that when Zeus and the immortals gods were giving out portions of the earth, Rhodes had not yet appeared in the open sea, but it lay hidden in its salty depths. In his absence no one had allotted the sun-god Helios a share, and so they left him, a revered god, without a portion of land. He complained of this to Zeus, who set about recasting the lots, but Helios stopped him; he saw, he said, a land rising from the depths of the gray sea, a land fruitful for men and bountiful to their flocks”24. “An island sprang up from the watery sea and Helios, father of fire-breathing horses, now holds it as his own”25. The newborn unnamed island received later its name, when Helios coupled with the nymph Rhodes. In this case the emergence of the island symbolizes the reparation of an injustice, that is the unfair allotment of portions of the earth, and the equal redistribution. The emergence of the island seems to be necessary for the equivalence, the social balance based on equal rights, and the 22 Cf. Brownlie (20036) 140. 23 “Ὤς ποτ᾽ ἀελίω | δύντος ἀ βροδοδάκτυλος + μήνα + | πάντα περρέχοισ᾽ ἄστρα·| φάος δ᾽ ἐπί- | σχει θάλασσαν ἐπ᾽ ἀλμύραν | ἴσως καὶ πολυανθέμοις ἀρούραις·” Fr. 98 D. 24 “Φαντὶ δ᾽ ἀνθρώπων παλαιαί | ῥήσιες, οὔπω, ὅτε χθό- | να δατέοντο Ζεύς τε καὶ ἀθάνατοι, | φανερὰν ἐν πελάγει ῾Ρόδον ἔμμεν ποντίῳ, | ἁλμυροῖς δ᾽ ἐν βένθεσιν νᾶσον κεκρύφθαι. | Ἀπεόντος δ᾽ οὔτις ἔνδειξεν λάχος Ἀελίου· | καί ῥά νιν χώρας ἀκλάρωτον λίπον, | ἁγνὸν θεόν.| μνασθέντι δὲ Ζεὺς ἄμπαλον μέλ- | λεν θέμεν. Ἀλλά νιν οὐκ εἴασεν· ἐπεὶ πολιᾶς | εἶπέ τιν᾽ αὐτὸς ὁρᾶν ἐν- | δον θαλάσσας αὐξομέναν πεδόθεν| πολύβοσκον γαῖαν ἀνθρώποισι καὶ εὔφρονα μήλοις.” Pindar, Olympian Ode 7, 54 – 64. The translation is of Verity (2007). 25 “Βλάστε μὲν ἐξ ἁλὸς ὑγρᾶς | νᾶσος, ἔχει τέ νιν ὀξεῖ- | ᾶν ὁ γενέθλιος ἀκτίνων πατήρ, | πῦρ πνεόντων ἀρχὸς ἵππων· |” Pindar, Olympian Ode 7, 69 – 71. The translation is of Verity (2007).

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feudal justice. The emergence of Rhodes is a “law-making” decision on an equitable basis: it embodies the appearance of a new hierarchy that overthrows the erroneous decision or the “manifest injustice”26 of the ancient authority. The acquisition of territorial sovereignty includes not only the concept of ownership but also the recognition of national sentiment in harmonization with the principle of self-determination.

Rebellion After an earthquake 1000 kilometers south of Tokyo on November 21, 2013 a new island emerged in the Pacific Ocean. A similar event took place on September 24, 2013 at a place nearby the coast of Pakistan; and a volcanic island emerged after a number of eruptions about 30 kilometers south of Iceland since November 14, 1963. New emerged islands constitute a significant “episode” of life, which disrupts the geographical rigidity through a new geographical status. The sacred volcanic isle in front of Thera and Therasia in Plutarch (Moralia 399c-d) is not a natural emerging island for human habitation, but an emerging island as a holy event, as a location of the “unnatural”, “which the sea cast up” during the war between Philipp and the Romans27. According to the oracle of Pythia “ocean shall blaze with an infinite fire, and with rattling of thunder scorching blasts through the turbulent waters shall upward be driven”; “ἀλλ᾽ ὁπότε Τρώων γενεὰ καθύπερθε γένηται| Φοινίκων ἐν ἀγῶνι, τότ᾽ ἔσσεται ἔργα ἄπιστα·| Τό γάρ ἐν ὀλίγῳ χρόνῳ ῾Ρωμαίους τε Καρχηδονίων περιγενέσθαι καταπολεμήσαντας Ἀννίβαν καὶ Φίλιππον Αἰτωλοῖς συμβαλόντα καὶ ῾Ρωμαίοις μάχῃ κρατηθῆναι καὶ τέλος ἐκ βυθοῦ νῆσον ἀναδῦναι μετὰ πυρὸς πολλοῦ καὶ κλύδωνος ἐπιζέσαντος οὐκ ἂν εἴποι τις ὡς ἀπήντησεν ἅμα πάντα καὶ συνέπεσε κατὰ τύχην αὐτομάτως”. The isle has emerged from the depths of the sea after a heavy storm which incorporates the heavy political crisis. The depth of the sea, where – according to some people of New Guinea – the souls are going before they will reach the region of dreams and ancestors28, indicates the purity and the incorruptibility of the newborn insular landscape: “With them a rock, and the rock shall remain firm fixed in the ocean, making an island by mortals unnamed”29. The fact that the island has no name by mortals (“οὐ φατὸς ἀνθρώποις 26 Cf. Brownlie (20036) 507. 27 “Καὶ τὰ περὶ τῆς νήσου πάλιν, ἣν ἀνῆκεν ἡ πρὸ Θήρας καὶ Θηρασίας θάλασσα [καὶ] περὶ τὸν Φιλίππου καὶ ῾Ρωμαίων πόλεμον” (Plutarch Moralia 399c). 28 Böhm (1983) 250. 29 “Πόντος μὲν λάμψει πῦρ ἄσπετον, ἐκ δὲ κεραυνῶν | πρηστῆρες μὲν ἄνω διὰ κύματος ἀίξουσιν| ἄμμιγα σὺν πέτραις, ἡ δὲ στηρίξεται αὐτοῦ| οὐ φατὸς ἀνθρώποις νῆσος” (Plutarch Moralia 399c).

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νῆσος”) points to the innovation, the intensity and the uniqueness of the natural process. The contradictory combination of seawater and fire reflects the extremity and even the irrationality of the natural phenomenon as is shown in Anaphe’s narrative of Konon. Plutarch’s contribution is important for the interpretation of an enigmatic natural phenomenon as focus of the supernatural that does not encourage the connectivity with other insular locations, but it illustrates an image of absolute isolation representing a singular personality. The solitary mountain character of the erupted island created by volcanic activity is not only physical. Most important is the fact that the mystification of the uninhabited volcanic island has a political aspect: according to Plutarch’s Moralia “no one could say that they all met together at the same time and coincided by chance in an accidental way; their order makes manifest their prognostication, and so also does the foretelling to the Romans, some five hundred years beforehand, of the time when they should be at war with all nations of the world at once: this was their war with their slaves, who had rebelled”30. The revolutionary entity of the island is confirmed by the prophecy of Pythia which involves the principle of racial non-discrimination: “men who are weaker shall by the might of their arms be able to vanquish the stronger”31. Insofar, one could make the statement: The birth of the volcanic island is a natural coup d’état.

Epilogue According to Posseidonios of Apameia (Strabo VI 2, 11) the appearance of a mini island in the region of Lipari, north of Sicily, happened after the submarine eruption of 126 B. C.: “ὕστερον δὲ παγῆναι καὶ γενέσθαι τοῖς μυλίαις λίθοις ἐοικότα τὸν πάγον. Τὸν δὲ τῆς Σικελίας στρατηγὸν Τίτον Φλαμινῖνον δηλῶσαι τῇ συγκλήτῳ, τὴν δὲ πέμψασαν ἐκθύσασθαι ἔν τε τῷ νησιδίωι καὶ ἐν Λιπάραις τοῖς τε καταχθονίοις θεοῖς καὶ τοῖς θαλαττίοις”. The Sicilian consul of the year 123 B. C. Titus Quinctius Flamininus makes expiatory sacrifices for the subterranean and sea gods on the small island, born by a caprice of nature, and to Lipari. When people honour a newborn landscape, they confirm their need to fight against uncertainty and fragility. When political authority honours officially the “unpackaged” nature, it recognizes its mediocrity and its inability to control not only the “unpackaged” nature, but also the people. The political message of all newborn islands constitutes a sort of criticism. The political 30 “Ἁλλ᾽ ἡ τάξις ἐμφαίνει τὴν πρόγνωσιν. Καὶ τὸ ῾Ρωμαίοις πρὸ ἐτῶν ὁμοῦ τι πεντακοσίων προειπεῖν τὸν χρόνον, ἐν ᾧ πρὸς ἅπαντα τὰ ἔθνη πολεμήσοιεν ἅμα· τοῦτο δ᾽ ἦν τὸ πολεμῆσαι τοῖς οἰκέταις ἀποστᾶσιν” (Plutarch Moralia 399d). 31 “Καὶ χείρονες ἄνδρες| χερσὶ βιησάμενοι τὸν κρείσσονα νικήσουσι” (Plutarch Moralia 399c).

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authority does not feel strong and sovereign enough to ignore the new reality of landscape. The symbolic value of all emerged islands is the idea of being uncontrollable, rebellious, insubordinate, and invincible. It is de facto a victory over the foreign domination or suppression. This proud declaration aspires to the destructibility of continental authority and to the desire for independence and liberation from tyranny or injustice, as a Hellenistic dedicatory epigram of “Anthologia Palatina” (6. 171) for the Colossus of Rhodes clearly echoes: “dedicating it not only over the sea, but on the land, too, they raised the splendid light of unenslaved freedom”32.

Bibliography Böhm Karl, The Life of Some Island People of New Guinea, Collectanea Instituti Anthropos, 29, Berlin, 1983. Brown Malcolm Kenneth, The Narratives of Konon. Text, Translation and Commentary on the Diegeseis, Beiträge zur Altertumskunde 163, München-Leipzig, 2002. Brownlie Ian, Principles of Public International Law, Oxford, 20036. Constantakopoulou Christy, The Dance of the Islands. Insularity, Networks, the Athenian Empire and the Aegean World, New York, 2007. Freitag Klaus, “Oiniadai als Hafenstadt. Einige historisch-topographische Überlegungen”, Klio 76, 1994, 212 – 238. Gehrke Hans-Joachim, “Die kulturelle und politische Entwicklung Akarnaniens vom 6. bis zum 4 Jh. v. Chr.”, Geographia Antiqua 3 – 4, 1994 – 1995, 41 – 48. Hammond Martin, Thucydides. The Peloponnesian War: A new translation by M. Hammond, with an introduction and notes by P. J. Rhodes, Oxford/New York, 2009. Hilpert-Greger Regine, “Der Acheloos-Mythos”, Akarnanien. Eine Landschaft im antiken Griechenland, Oberhummer-Gesellschaft e. V. München, P. Berktold, J. Schmid, Chr. Wacker (Eds.), Würzburg, 1996, 71 – 74. Kippenberg Hans G., “Europäische Religionsgeschichte: Schauplatz von Pluralisierung und Modernisierung der Religionen”, Religion und Gesellschaft. Europa im 20. Jahrhundert, F. W. Graf – K. G. Kracht (Eds.), Köln, 2007, 45 – 72. Κουράγιος Γιάννος, “Δεσποτικό. Το νησί του Απόλλωνα”, Ο Αρχίλοχος και η εποχή του, Archilochos and his Age (Paros II), D. Katsonopoulou, I. Petropoulos, S. Katsarou, (Eds.), Athens, 2008, 383 – 408. Lateiner Donald, The Historical Method of Herodotus, Toronto, 1989. Stobart John Clarke, The Glory that was Greece, London, 1911. Van Duzer, Chet, Floating Islands. A Global Bibliography, California, 2004. Verity Anthony, Pindar. The Complete Odes, New York, 2007.

32 “Οὐ γὰρ ὑπὲρ πελάγους μόνον ἄνθεσαν, ἀλλὰ καὶ ἐν γᾷ | ἁβρὸν ἀδουλώτου φέγγος ἐλευθερίας” (Anthologia Palatina 6. 171). Cf. Wiemer (2011) 131.

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Vött Andreas, “Silting up Oiniadai’s harbours (Acheloos River delta, NW Greece). Geoarchaeological implications of late Holocene landscape changes”, Géomorphologie: relief, processus, environnement, 2007, 1, 19 – 36. Wiemer Hans-Ulrich, “Early Hellenistic Rhodes: The struggle for independence and the dream of hegemony”, Creating a Hellenistic World, A. Erskine-L. Llewellyn-Jones (Eds.), Swansea, 2011.

Hamish Forbes

A Greek Landscape with God and his Saints: A Case Study from the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries AD1 Associate Professor at University of Nottingham

Introduction: mise en scène Sacred landscapes have been the focus of numerous ethnographic studies in various parts of the world2. However, whereas European archaeologists have studied their prehistoric and early Christian sacred monuments and pasts3, ethnographic studies of recent European Christian landscapes have been surprisingly rare4. This paper sets out to address this imbalance by presenting ethnographic research conducted on the peninsula of Methana in the Peloponnese. My primary theme is that religious belief in the ordinary lives of Methanites in the 19th and 20th centuries has profoundly affected the organisation of their landscapes and their experiences of them. Methana is a small peninsula located on the Saronic Gulf in the eastern Peloponnese (Figure 1). It is less than 10 km across but nearly 750 m at its highest point. It is largely of geologically recent volcanic origin, which helps explain its extreme ruggedness and the relative fertility of its soils. When I first conducted ethnographic fieldwork there in 1972 – 1974 the majority of the population lived by subsistence farming. Although less than two hours from Piraeus by boat, the way of life of the majority of the population was very traditional, with families farming the land and keeping a few animals largely for their own consumption, using their own labour and that of a couple of work animals – donkeys and mules. During the 1980s 1 I wish to thank most warmly Vasiliki Pothou and Lutz Käppel for their invitation to the conference where this contribution was originally presented. I also acknowledge the award of a Leverhulme Research Fellowship in 1997 – 8, during which I first developed the main ideas presented here. 2 E.g. Arora (2006); Bernstein (2008); Robinson et al. (2003); Taçon (1999). 3 E.g. Tilley (2004); O’Brien (2006); Bender et al. (2008). 4 Nixon (2006) is an important exception. Lehr (1989) is a partial exception inasmuch as it discusses sacred landscapes of Ukrainian immigrants as they have been established in Canada.

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I returned to Methana to co-direct several seasons of archaeological field survey5. The project included a specialist’s study of Methana’s churches almost all of which are very small and unremarkable6. The evidence from the churches, combined with historical documents, indicated that the settlement pattern had undergone profound change since the beginning of the 19th century (see below).

Fig. 1. Methana: location map.

This contribution combines the settlement pattern evidence with Koukoulis’ meticulous research on these churches, and my ethnographic field studies. In it I will argue that the numerous churches scattered across this small peninsula, which range in date from Late Roman times until the early twentieth century, have formed a religious landscape which has had a significant impact on Methanites’ everyday lives. At the same time, however, the landscape itself in its alternative historical and productive aspects, has in turn affected religious aspects of Methanites’ lives. As part of my discourse I treat the landscape as primarily a conceptual phenomenon. Whereas for ecologists, geographers, etc., landscapes are physical, material, visible, tangible and measurable, for other scholars landscapes are regarded as the material expression on which human perceptions, memories and emotions are based. In other words ‘landscape, like “beauty” is in the mind of the beholder’ (Taçon 1999, 34). Thus, landscapes can be considered as polysemic mental constructs, structuring people’s information processing and their 5 Mee and Forbes (1997). 6 Koukoulis (1997a); Koukoulis (1997b).

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understanding of where they ‘fit’, physically, economically and socially. In this way of presenting landscapes, a single physical landscape can take on a variety of conceptual personae: productive landscape, historical landscape, religious landscape, etc.7 While the primary emphasis here is on the religious conceptualisation of the landscapes of Methana, from time to time other conceptualisations, such as historical, economic and kinship will elide with or overlap, the religious aspect.

Methana: a very brief and partial history From the later medieval period, for several centuries thereafter there had only been a single settlement on Methana. Originally positioned high up in the interior, by the first decade of the 19th century it was also called Methana, and located strategically at a point somewhat back from the coast because of fear of piratical attacks from the sea (Figure 2, the open circle on the map). By the early 1830s, only two decades later, there were at least 6, probably 7, villages, mostly in very similar sorts of locations. The reason for this sudden increase in settlements is the Greek War of Independence (1821 – 1828). The see-sawing of Greek fortunes during the War of Independence produced a large number of refugees. It would seem that they arrived on Methana seeking security in its rugged landscape, and from the defences of the philhellene Charles Fabvier on the isthmus. In addition, two or three other villages were founded following the War of Independence. The Methana settlement pattern therefore grew from one village in 1820 to ten in 18508. There are approximately three dozen churches on Methana (Figure 3). In a landmass of some 50 km2 this amounts to well over one church for every 2 km2 of the peninsula’s surface. Although they are not evenly spaced across the landscape, they are found out in the countryside as isolated extra-mural churches in a wide variety of locations, as well as in villages, where there is often more than one. Their presence in the landscape is thus very obvious9. This sort of density is not unusual for Greece, nor is the existence of isolated extra-mural churches dotted across the countryside, to be described in more detail below. Every permanent settlement on Methana has at least one church. Most have a second, associated with the village cemetery. A few have others as well. There are also more than a dozen extra-mural churches on Methana. Most churches were originally built in the medieval or Ottoman periods, well before the 19th century 7 E.g. Daniels and Cosgrove (1988); Forbes (2007). 8 Forbes (1997) 103 – 110. 9 Forbes (2007) 343 – 344.

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Fig. 2. Medieval and post-medieval settlement on Methana.

settlement explosion. They are widely distributed from the coast to high in the interior. A few of them were once associated with settlements which have disappeared long since; others have never been so associated. When the new settlers arrived on Methana during the War of Independence, they found a landscape which was largely a “clean slate” in terms of options for settlement locations. However, they did not find an empty landscape: although it had little cultivation, there were already large numbers of churches, many of which, according to Western travellers’ reports, were ruinous or nearly so10. 10 Forbes (2007) 62 – 66, 346, 352 – 355.

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Fig. 3. Distribution of churches and villages on Methana.

Most of the positions chosen for villages were in the same kinds of positions as the original settlement: approximately one third of the way up a landscape which can be diagrammatically envisaged as a cone. It is possible to make a purely economic argument for such a location. Because of the very roughly circular nature of the peninsula, there is considerably more land surface closer to the coast than in the higher parts in the centre. Hence for a village at approximately one third of the way inland from the coast there is very roughly as much land available for exploitation below settlements as there is above them. Their locations therefore ‘make sense’ in terms of geographical models of distance minimisation and energy efficiency. Nevertheless, this does not seem to have been the primary objective when settlements were founded. The locations they chose were mostly points in the landscape where the more gently sloping land rising from the coast met the steep slopes rising into the interior of the peninsula, very like the location of the original

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settlement. Methanites said the location at the base of the very steep slope up into the interior allowed villagers to escape into the higher parts of the peninsula if pirates were seen. The last time they actually did this was when a small German fleet approached, and then landed on, the peninsula during WW II. Given that most settlements were founded during a war, it is not surprising that security rather than energy efficiency was initially a prime concern11.

Churches and their place in landscapes In order to understand the effect of churches on landscapes it is necessary first to consider what a church is. What meaning does a church have as a place and in a place? A church is a sacred space. It is the mirror of the Kingdom of God. It is also the house of God. It is a visible projection of the spiritual world into the world of humans: on entering a church, humans enter into the presence of the Divine. As such a church is a replica of heaven on earth. The liturgy of the Orthodox Church, with its musical chanting, bright colours and incense may be understood as an imperfect re-creation of the full sensory experience of being in the landscape of Heaven. Many Orthodox churches enhance that feeling with paintings of saints on their walls and the stars of the firmament on their ceiling. For Methanites as members of the Orthodox faith, therefore, churches, being holy places, have a special position, physically, culturally, and spiritually, in their world. There is not space to discuss the issue at length here, but as I have noted elsewhere in the context of recent discussions of memory and its association with landscapes, for Methanites most churches are uncoupled from time. This is very different from ordinary houses, which are the primary repositories of family histories going back into past generations. Just as God is outside of time, so are His dwellings. They are thus definitely not primarily connected to secular history and memory. Instead, by being outside time, they become like notable geological features in the Methana landscape, such as the crater of the most recent volcanic eruption: one of the apparently timeless ‘givens’ of the local environment12. In the Greek Orthodox faith, other supernatural beings besides God have power in both the lived and supernatural worlds. Mary the mother of God and the saints, as well as certain supernatural powers such as the Holy Spirit, may be worshipped in their own right, as well as God. This is well illustrated on Methana by a graffito on the inside wall of a small medieval extra-mural church: “1685, 5th of December, day Wednesday. I, the priest [name illegible] I worshipped Saint 11 Forbes (2007) 64 – 65, 184 – 188. 12 Forbes (2007) 257 – 259.

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George” Signature: ?Stamatis13. Every church is dedicated to one of these supernatural beings or powers and so becomes, in effect, a special point of contact with him or her, as well as a special point of contact with God. Every divine being has a day specially dedicated to his or her or its celebration by the Orthodox Church. People named after saints etc. celebrate on the day set aside for celebrating ‘their’ saint. On this, their name-day, they keep ‘open house’ to receive and entertain relatives and friends who visit to wish the person ‘many happy returns’. On the day when any church’s dedicatee is celebrated there is a special liturgy in the church and usually some form of minor or major secular celebration afterwards. In Greek this saint’s day celebration is known as a panêgyri (pronounced in modern Greek as paniyiri). Local panêgyria (plural of panêgyri) count as local holidays as far as activities such as farm work are concerned.

Village churches and the landscape of kinship The day on which the dedicatee of a village’s main church is celebrated counts not only as a panêgyri, but as the whole village’s name-day. After a special liturgy in the church the whole village stays at home and keeps ‘open house’, having prepared sweets and food for guests. In a social system in which people living in small villages must find marriage partners who are more distantly related than second cousin, suitable partners may well not be available within one’s own village. As a result, many Methanites had a wide network of relatives who had married in, or come from, other villages on Methana and beyond, especially Athens and Piraeus: siblings, grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins. Annual village panêgyria therefore provided an opportunity to meet up with relatives who might rarely be seen at other times of year, not least due to the pressures of work. On this day therefore, people from other villages and even further away come to pay their respects to their friends and relations, and to wish them ‘many happy returns’. Because of this custom of village panêgyria, there is an annual round of travel across the peninsula, visiting different villages on their special day. Although the act of visiting to attend the liturgy in the celebrating village is of course an act of piety, the reason for the visit is related to the existence of close friends and especially relatives in that village. Normally only those who have relatives and friends there would attend another village’s panêgyri. In this way the sacred landscape of village churches elides with the kinship landscape of relatives scattered across the peninsula and beyond. 13 Koukoulis (1997b) 222.

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The supernatural in the foundation of the settlement pattern When the early nineteenth century settlers arrived on Methana they chose sites for settlement that gave them some security from pirate attacks from the sea. Both in the zone where the steep slopes of the interior meet the gentler slopes running down to the shore, and in the interior itself, there are numerous locations well suited to settlement. They have the right combination of safety provided by altitude along with expanses of good quality land which is not too steep, and they also have relatively deep soils. So why were some sites chosen while others were not, despite being apparently equally attractive in terms of safety and soils? All but two of the traditional villages on Methana have churches close by which pre-date their settlement. The exceptions both seem to be special cases: one seems to have started as a cluster of seasonally-occupied huts for work in distant fields, for instance14. The evidence thus suggests that site location decisions were heavily influenced by the pre-existing religious landscape which settlers found when they arrived. In the zone of the junction of the lower slopes with the steep slopes of the interior there are numerous locations which were potentially suitable as village sites: some had churches, but others did not. Yet it was locations close to preexisting churches that were chosen. A population with deep religious beliefs would have felt a strong need for a place of worship as a religious focus for their lives. Hence the pre-existing churches provided, in effect, a ready-made resource equal in importance with security, good soils, and other factors more normally considered in the study of settlement location. Being co-religionists of the original church builders, the incoming population would not simply have seen, but also accurately “read” the messages of this aspect of the material cultural record left by previous, apparently unrelated, generations. The village of Kounoupitsa provides an example of the importance of churches for these newly-founded communities, and the importance for the community of placing the divine at its heart. The village is hidden from the sea behind a rocky knoll overlooking the sea, significantly named Vighliza – the look-out point – about 200 metres from an early post-medieval church, now used as the cemetery church. In the middle of the central square there is a church dated to 1824 – the height of the War of Independence, when it was far from clear that the Greeks would succeed: not the most auspicious time for diverting one’s efforts from survival, yet a demonstration of deep religious faith15.

14 Forbes (2007) 66 – 68. 15 Koukoulis (1997b) 236 – 238; Forbes (2007) 65 – 67.

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One of the last of the villages to have been founded, some 20 years after the end of hostilities, was, like Kounoupitsa, hidden from the sea behind a rocky knoll. Immediately behind it rears up a great volcanic dome whose sheer crags seem almost to overhang it. A minute church on the edge of the present village was refurbished and extended to twice its original size in 1848, as dated by inscriptions. The register of male births records the first birth in the village in 1849: within five years all five of the present surname groups in the village are represented in the register16. In other words, it is evident that the need for a church was so strong that making one ready seems to have been the first act in establishing the community. Churches, their positioning and their dedications also relate the supernatural to other aspects of the landscape. Before the beginning of the 20th century, this village’s population had grown too large to be accommodated comfortably in the original main church. A larger church was therefore built in the centre of the village on land previously used for gardens. According to oral tradition, the possible dedicatees for the new church were narrowed down to Saints Peter and Paul (jointly), or Saint Anthony. Saint Anthony was chosen as the patron saint for the village’s main church for a number of reasons. High on the list was the fact that he had been a hermit: the Greek word means literally a ‘dweller in the wilderness’. Since the village is built directly under the beetling crags of a spectacular volcanic dome, the inhabitants feared that massive boulders might crash down onto the village during a hard frost or an earthquake. As a hermit, Saint Anthony, who had lived among the rocks of the wilderness was therefore considered a powerful protector against destructive rock-falls17. The productive landscape also affected the reasons for choosing Saint Anthony over Saints Peter and Paul. The festival for Saints Peter and Paul falls on 29 June, which coincided with the end of the cereal harvest and with the period of threshing. Both of these operations were arduous and relatively protracted in the days before mechanisation. In addition, there was always a concern that a summer storm might soak the harvested sheaves as they lay waiting to be threshed. Farmers did not want to delay threshing in order to celebrate the annual patronal festival. The festival for Saint Anthony however, occurs on 17 January. Mid winter is a relatively slack time of the agricultural year and thus better suited to holding a major celebration. Additionally, by the end of June, many households’ wine supplies might be running low, or might have turned vinegary in the summer heat, whereas in January, three months after the vintage, supplies of wine can be expected still to be plentiful. Since the consumption of substantial amounts of wine was traditionally a sine qua non of celebrations, ensuring adequate supplies was a major consideration18. 16 Forbes (2007) 68 – 70. 17 Forbes (2007) 356 – 357. 18 Forbes (2007) 357.

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In this small fragment of oral tradition, therefore, we see how decisions taken on which personality in the supernatural world to choose as a dedicatee and patron of the new spiritual focus were firmly rooted in the specificities of the landscape. We see the influence of the productive landscape in the way preference was given to a saint whose celebration fell during a slack time in the agricultural cycle rather than to dedicatees whose celebration occurred at an especially busy time of year. Another element in the decision was the natural, and therefore humanly untamed, landscape. The final element of the landscape involved here is the historical landscape. The village’s position hidden from view from the sea in a dip below the threatening crags of the dome behind was a direct result of historical concerns for security. That historical fact led in turn to other concerns for safety: the help of a supernatural being such as Saint Anthony was needed to control possible rock-falls which humans could not predict and over which they had no control.

Extra-mural churches in the landscape Like all other churches, extra-mural churches are dedicated to a particular divine personage or power, normally the Virgin Mary or a saint. In Christian belief, God is everywhere. Nevertheless extra-mural churches on Methana mark the heightened presence of God and His saints in the quotidian landscapes of fields and rocky scrub-covered hillsides, somewhat like a lens held up to the sun, focusing God’s power onto sections of the countryside and irradiating them with His presence. With few exceptions the names of the patron saints of extra-mural churches apply equally to the churches themselves and to the surrounding several hectares of countryside in which they are located: the place name could apply to a section of hillside, to a cape, or a hilltop. Methana is thus dotted with small ‘islands’ where the countryside is named after a saint, and the supernatural thereby becomes further inextricably embedded in the matrix of the landscape itself. There is normally only a single liturgy at these churches: a panêgyri on the day set aside in the Orthodox Church for celebrating its dedicatee. On that one day in the year, when people travel from many villages to worship, these apparently empty spaces in the countryside become central places at which large numbers of people gather for the liturgy. Because of the position of these churches outside of villages, there is no opportunity for families to keep ‘open house’ for wellwishers. Nevertheless there is still a strong kinship element to these celebrations. Because most families had relatives in a number of other villages, panêgyria at extra-mural churches often served, along with village panêgyria, as meetingplaces for friends and relatives. After the liturgy in the church, friends and relatives from different villages, and even Athens and Piraeus, would meet to talk

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and sometimes have a picnic together. Yet these churches mark God’s presence at the spot throughout the year, and many Methanites, if they are travelling nearby at other times of year, will enter a church for a brief stay in His presence. The kinship element to attending panêgyria at extra-mural churches was recognised to the extent that normally only those who expected to meet up with relatives would attend. There were also two or perhaps three panêgyria at extramural churches which were pan-peninsular events, to which all Methanites would normally go if they could. At these it was usual for a substantial number of relatives who lived beyond the confines of the peninsula to attend and meet up with relatives afterwards. For the most important pan-peninsular panêgyri on St. George’s day (a national holiday in Greece) several boats were chartered to transport expatriate Methanites living in Athens and Piraeus to the celebration at a church by a small harbour with its own jetty where the boats could dock. Following the liturgy it was normal for groups of relatives to spread out to share a picnic together in the surrounding area. These isolated churches represented ‘hot-spots’ of God’s divine power in spaces in the countryside which otherwise remained empty for almost the whole year. Yet traditionally, on the day of the panêgyri when religious belief decreed that no serious agricultural work could be done, they became important places in which, especially in the days before ready access to telephones, relatives and friends in different villages could almost guarantee to meet each other. It was thus another example of the way in which the religious landscape elided with the kinship landscape of relatives scattered in other villages on Methana and beyond. Besides affecting decisions on where to place settlements in the landscape in the 19th century, the presence of extra-mural churches continued to influence and structure important changes in the landscape in the 20th century. An all weather vehicular road connecting villages with each other and the mainland was constructed in stages from the late 1950s to the earlier 1970s. In this very rugged landscape the route that it could take was severely constrained in some parts by the landscape itself. Elsewhere, even where it could take a reasonably direct route between villages, it changes direction so as to pass close to a surprising number of extra-mural churches, and close to others on peripheries of villages, especially cemetery churches. Nearly a dozen of these churches are directly served by this road. As devout Methanites travelling along the road pass each church, they cross themselves in recognition of the divine power focused on it. As an example of the phenomenon, the road from the village of Kounoupitsa to the adjacent village of Palaia Loutra makes a detour by rising steeply to run right beside the second most important extra-mural church on the peninsula before dropping down again to the village a few hundred metres further along. In the other direction from Kounoupitsa, as the road approaches the village it climbs to pass close to an extra-mural church, then drops down quite steeply to

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pass a few hundred metres above the peninsula’s most important extra-mural church which is situated on the coast. At this point within a few years an access road was bulldozed to connect the church with the main road. The main road then rises quite steeply again to pass close to Kounoupitsa’s cemetery church, then on upwards again to the village itself19 (Figure 4).

Fig. 4. Pre-existing churches influenced the route of the vehicular road.

In the 1980s and 1990s there was a steady programme of ‘economic development’ of the peninsula’s countryside via the construction of a network of agricultural roads crossing the elevated centre, with ready access from most villages. The areas to be served directly by new roads are chosen by local officials – almost certainly with the results of future elections at least partially in mind. The routes taken and destinations reached therefore needed to be ‘meaningful’ in the minds of the local electorate on Methana if the programme was genuinely to serve them – and if it was to have any electoral effect. It is therefore instructive to see what choices were made in the locations to be served directly by these rural access roads. Funding for these roads was supposed to be for economic development, so blatantly constructing roads to give access to such non-economic destinations as remote churches was out of the question. Nevertheless, these roads have been 19 Forbes (2007) 376 – 377.

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placed in the landscape so as to give easy access to at least three of these remote churches while at the same time also providing access to areas of agricultural land. They pass within 100 – 200 metres of the churches, in such a way that a gently sloping bulldozed spur from the road proper provides easy vehicular access to the church itself. One of these churches is presently arguably the third most important extra-mural church on Methana, the other two already being served by the original all-weather road20. Until recently, a panêgyri at an extra-mural church beyond the peninsula’s confines was also important to Methanites. A small isolated church on the large coastal Plain of Troezên (pronounced Trizin) adjacent to Methana was dedicated to St. Epiphanios. His panêgyri was celebrated on 12 May. Attendance at this celebration was particularly popular with the transhumant shepherds who overwintered their flocks in the region, before they left for the annual migration to the central Peloponnese. Following the liturgy in the church many shepherds would sell the wool from their recently-shorn sheep. Some also sold pack animals that they had bred – hence the alternate name for the panêgyri – the Mule Bazaar. A substantial number of Methanites and other people from the surrounding area travelled to this church for the liturgy and subsequently to buy wool or pack animals. Some Methanites owned land on the plain which they let out to shepherds for grazing. It was at this panêgyri that shepherds paid their rent – often in the form of raw wool. Thus again it is possible to see the everyday landscapes of making a living eliding with the sacred landscape. In recent decades extra-mural churches on Methana have increased in importance as landscape features in certain respects, despite the decline in the importance of religious observance in Greece. The reason lies in the collapse of subsistence farming as the traditional way of life of most Methanites. Traditionally, families’ holdings of small plots were widely scattered across the landscape: a distance of 6 – 7 km between their most distant holdings was not particularly unusual21. In former times, therefore, a detailed acquaintanceship with the peninsula’s wider landscape was acquired by villagers via regular trips across it to work in their scattered fields. In the past these small terraced fields on the peninsula’s steep slopes provided a moderately secure subsistence livelihood to previous generations with limited material wants and an almost infinite capacity for hard work. However, with the modernization of agriculture across Greece and the European Union generally, there is no longer any desire among the younger generation for a lifestyle of very limited material possessions, dependent largely on very long hours devoted to practising hand cultivation associated with subsistence agriculture. The productive 20 Forbes (2007) 375 – 376. 21 Forbes (1982) 148 – 150.

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value and use of Methana’s steeply terraced agricultural land at substantial distances from villages has declined to almost nothing, and so much of the agricultural land and associated fruit trees have been abandoned. For the majority of Methanites in recent years, therefore, acquaintanceship with the wider landscape has become increasingly dependent solely on annual outings to panêgyria at extra-mural churches. Simultaneously, whereas in the past travel to these relatively remote sites was on foot or on mule- or donkey-back via steep rocky mule tracks, improved access to these sites via the all weather road or the new agricultural roads has meant that more people could attend with much greater ease in cars or trucks, whose ownership has also become much more common. These phenomena have combined to mean that many Methanites now know the wider landscape of their peninsula primarily through attendance at annual panêghyria in villages and at extra-mural churches. These churches, rather than scattered parcels of family land have therefore become the primary series of cognitive nodes in Methanites’ knowledge-grid of the landscapes surrounding their settlements.

The dead in the landscape Cemeteries are of course also sacred spaces and places. Those on Methana all have their own small chapel within their enclosure wall, emphasising their sacredness. The ultimate fate of all Orthodox Christians who live on Methana is burial in their local cemetery, located close to, but outside the bounds of, their settlement. The exact locations of almost all these cemeteries, like the locations of the settlements to which they belong, are dependent on the positioning of their churches which were originally extra-mural churches predating the settlements themselves. Here again we can see how the historical landscape of pre-existing churches has affected decisions on the positioning of the dead in the landscape as well as the positioning of the living in their settlements. Cemeteries with their associated cemetery churches, however, are very different kinds of sacred spaces from either extra-mural churches or churches in villages. While in some ways part of the landscape, they are in many ways set separate and apart from it. Their lack of integration into the rest of the landscape, in contradistinction to the other sacred structures, is a clear indicator of the special place and treatment of death in the landscape of the living. The positioning of cemeteries visa-vis villages reifies their liminality within the built environment. Cemeteries, and the human remains they contain, belong physically to villages, but burials are not allowed within the confines of the village. The cemetery is generally on the edge of, or a short distance from, the community of the living. As such, it is both a part of,

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yet simultaneously apart from, the village: while connected to the landscape of the living, it is not fully part of it. The substantial wall surrounding each cemetery with its single gateway into its interior is also sharply at odds with the rest of the landscape, which is criss-crossed by networks of paths and mule tracks, and more recently by vehicle roads, which almost always interconnect with others, at least conceptually. These communication networks are travelled on by humans in their essential activities associated with making a living and worshipping God and His saints. Tracks and roads impart a strong feeling that one is always moving through the landscape. This is the landscape of the living. The existence of the boundary wall, the single gate which emphasises that entrance into the enclosure leads to a literal dead end, and the acceptance that all humans are destined to make the one-way journey, set this small sector of the landscape apart as reserved for the dead. Around the inside of cemeteries’ perimeter walls there are cypress trees: the symbol of death par excellence. While the tall evergreen spires of these trees visually mark out the locations of cemeteries from a considerable distance, their dense dark foliage simultaneously masks a clear view of their interiors (Figure 5). The contradictory features that these characteristic symbols provide in marking yet also masking the cemetery is another element that reflects the marginal status of this part of the landscape. Cemeteries thus emphasise the liminal nature of death within the belief system, and the desire that the body of the deceased should decompose: the possibility of an undecayed corpse is greatly feared. Death is the end of Methanites’ way of life in this world, but belief in an afterlife means that death and bodily decay are necessary elements in the process by which the soul is freed from its body in order to enter that afterlife.

Discussion and conclusion The fundamental principle controlling all of what I have been describing here is the highly developed and complex belief system which is the Greek Orthodox faith. Through Methanites’ faith the divine is placed in the settlement landscape of villages distributed around the peninsula. The extra-mural churches which the settlers found when they arrived were critical in structuring the development of the local landscape of settlement in the earlier 19th century. The construction of settlements beside or around them indicates not simply putting houses near a convenient church, but the need to be close to that source of sacred power centred on the church, which for Methanites is an essential ingredient in their ordinary lives. Likewise, the exact positioning of village cemeteries in the landscape was governed by the location of other nearby isolated churches. Yet other extra-mural churches, which did not attract settlements, have acted to focus

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Fig. 5. A village cemetery, with its enclosure wall, single gate, small chapel and screen of cypress trees.

God’s power onto sections of the countryside, and to irradiate them with His presence. Once a year these otherwise empty spaces become central places to which relatives from different communities are drawn so that they can meet up with each other. The roads also, which seemingly coincidentally pass near so many extra-mural churches bring people within the ambit of that protecting power every time they travel along them. Other aspects of the supernatural – not all of them benign – roam the landscape. Thus during the 12 days of Christmas there are the nocturnal Kallikantzari – supernatural ogres who are forces of anomie. The divine is placed in the landscape in the form of the holy water which each household sprinkles onto representative arable and tree crops at Epiphany, the festival at the end of the Christmas period. The holy water not only places the divine supernatural in the productive landscape, but also drives the malign Kallikantzari back underground until the following Christmas22. The divine is again placed in the productive landscape in summer as each household leaves a cross-shaped patch of standing wheat in the last field to be reaped23. While such manifestations of the supernatural are not tangible in the way that churches and cemeteries are, they are nevertheless an integral part of the religious landscape, and have structured Methanites’ experiences of everyday life.

22 Forbes (2007) 351. 23 Clark (1988) 117 – 118.

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In conclusion, I have demonstrated that the meanings of landscapes on Methana are highly complex and overlapping. The religious landscape of churches and cemeteries elides with other aspects of landscape, such as the networks of kin residing in different communities, and the productive landscape of fields and fruit trees. Most important, perhaps, in the context of the broadly phenomenological approach to landscapes taken here, it is not actually the material record which structures landscapes on Methana. The isolated churches, settlements, cemeteries, roads and tracks, as well as fields, etc. within the landscape are clearly identifiable physical features. Yet as most anthropologists would be quick to point out, such tangible elements are only the outward and visible signs of the real principles for the organisation of knowledge of the landscape, which are inside people’s heads. Methanites’ religious landscape has therefore been an active factor in their lives throughout the 19th and 20th centuries. While the Orthodox faith may be unchanging, the religious sites, such as churches and cemeteries, have significantly affected the way in which change has occurred on the peninsula. Yet at the same time, historical, affective and productive aspects of the landscape have in turn influenced elements in the religious landscape. Above all, these are landscapes which are complex and dynamic, with their various aspects constantly interacting with each other to inform and influence Methanites’ lives.

Bibliography Arora, Vibha (2006): “The Forest of Symbols Embodied in the Thulong Sacred Landscape of North Sikkim, India”, Conservation and Society 4 (1) 2006, 55 – 83. Bender, Barbara / Hamilton, Sue / Tilley, Christopher (2008): Stone Worlds: Narrative and Reflexivity in Landscape Archaeology Walnut Creek CA: Left Coast Press, 2008. Bernstein, Anya (2008): “Remapping Sacred Landscapes: Shamanic Tourism and Cultural Production on the Olkhon Island”, Sibirica 7 (2) 2008, 23 – 46. Clark, Mari H. (1988): The Transformation of Households in Methana, Greece, 1931 – 1987, PhD dissertation in Anthropology, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, Ann Arbor, Michigan, 1988. Daniels, Stephen / Cosgrove, Daniel 1988: “Introduction: Iconography and Landscape”, in: Daniel Cosgrove / Stephen Daniels (eds.), The Iconography of Landscape: Essays on the Symbolic Representation, Design and Use of Past Environments, Cambridge, 1988, 1 – 10. Forbes, Hamish (1982): Strategies and Soils: Technology, Production and Environment in the Peninsula of Methana, Greece, PhD Dissertation in Anthropology, University of Pennsylvania, Ann Arbor, Michigan, 1982. Forbes, Hamish (1997): “Turkish and Modern Methana”, in: Mee, Christopher / Forbes, Hamish (eds.) 1997, 101 – 117. Forbes, Hamish (2007): Meaning and Identity in a Greek Landscape: an Archaeological Ethnography, Cambridge, 2007.

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Koukoulis, Theodore (1997a): “Medieval Methana”, in: Mee, Christopher / Forbes, Hamish (eds.) 1997, 92 – 100. Koukoulis, Theodore (1997b): “Catalogue of churches”, in: Mee, Christopher / Forbes, Hamish (eds.) 1997, 211 – 256. Lehr, John C (1989): “The Ukrainian Sacred Landscape: a Metaphor of Survival and Acculturation”, in: Material History Bulletin 29, 1989, 3 – 11. Mee, Christopher / Forbes, Hamish (eds.) (1997): A Rough and Rocky Place: The Landscape and Settlement History of the Methana Peninsula, Greece, Liverpool, 1997. Nixon, Lucia (2006): Making a Landscape Sacred: Outlying Churches and Icon Stands in Sphakia, Southwestern Crete, Oxford, 2006. O’Brien, Caimin (2006): Stories from a Sacred Landscape: Croghan Hill to Clonmacnoise, Cork, 2006. Robinson, Cathy / Baker, Richard / Liddle, Lynette (2003): “Journeys Through an Australian Sacred Landscape”, Museum 55 (2) 2003, 74 – 77. Taçon, Paul (1999): “Identifying ancient sacred landscapes in Australia: from physical to social”, in: Wendy Ashmore / Bernard Knapp (eds.) Archaeologies of Landscape: Contemporary Perspectives, Oxford, 1999, 33 – 57. Tilley, Christopher (2004): The Materiality of Stone: Explorations in Landscape Phenomenology, Oxford, 2004.

Michael Teichmann

The Role of Archaeological Museums in Greece for Contemporary Societies – Approaches and Perspectives Graduate School “Human Development in Landscapes” Kiel University

Introduction While numerous contributions of this conference are concerned with the analysis of primary evidence for the construction and perception of sacred landscapes in Greek antiquity, it is the aim of this paper to bridge the gap between past, present and future by discussing the role of ancient culture for contemporary societies, regarding its presentation in archaeological museums. Based on original results the next, important task consists in the communication of new insights to the wider public. At least in the “Western world” the major share of all funding for archaeology is provided by governments in a direct or indirect manner. Therefore, research has at least a moral obligation to make a contribution to society and not only to address a scientific community of experts. Personal experience of readers of this paper will differ in this respect: Public outreach and community involvement are implemented more often to a higher degree in the Anglo-American tradition than regarding European continental archaeology1. Observing the European continental situation, one finds numerous institutions struggling with the task of communicating successfully with the wider public. This phenomenon is quite complex and not easily explained. Three relevant facets may be: 1. Financial support by the government had been taken for granted for a long time as the study of ancient cultures was perceived in the tradition of humanistic principles as an aim in its own right. Archaeologists were not used to justifying what they were doing or how and why they were doing it. 2. Archaeologists tend to a high degree of specialization as their discipline is concerned with all aspects of ancient (material) culture. They focus for example on a particular group of pottery, which appears in one particular area at 1 Compare: Swain (2007) 195 ff.

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a given time. However it is important to keep track of general developments and of the larger picture. 3. Scientific results are often communicated in a highly specialized language in an overwhelming number of specialized journals. The ever increasing pressure of evaluating not primarily the qualitative, but the quantitative scientific output and as a consequence the fragmented presentation of coherent scientific results in smallest publishable units has even deteriorated the situation. In our days archaeology has to justify its existence and its role for society, which is the reason why much attention has to be paid to issues of communication. Museums are par excellence the place, where archaeologists address the wider public. Despite this circumstance museology plays a minor, much neglected role in many Archaeology University curricula and is hardly regarded as a subdiscipline of archaeological research in its own right, at least in European continental archaeology. This observation served as starting point for a graduate thesis, submitted in 2007 at the University of Vienna, which aimed at the analysis of the role of archaeological museums for contemporary societies2. This paper is mainly based on observations reaching back to that time, being only partly updated.

Approaching the problem: Archaeology and the public – Ways of communication Major questions to be addressed within the project comprised: How can archaeological results be communicated to the wider public? Which means can be applied to reach the audience – and anyway, whom in particular do archaeologists wish to address? Does the image of archaeology and antiquity, which is predominant in modern popular culture, match the image that scholars of the respective discipline have? Do archaeologists tell people about antiquity, what these would like to know and are interested in? If a discrepancy between the scholar’s and the public’s perception of antiquity existed, what would be the reason and what could be done about it?

2 An updated version of the thesis is in preparation for publication in the British Archaeological Reports International Series. Working title: M. Teichmann – Wege archäologischer Museologie und Kulturvermittlung zu Beginn des 21. Jahrhunderts. Überlegungen zur gesellschaftlichen Rolle des archäologischen Museums der Gegenwart.

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While this aspect addresses in particular the relation of archaeology to the public itself, the next level of observation should evaluate what archaeological museums are expected to, and actually can contribute to society. The research strategy consisted of a theoretical and historical discussion of archaeological museology and relevant didactics on the one hand and the observation and evaluation of existing archaeological museums on the other hand. Sometimes the point might be made that certain aspects of ancient civilization could not be presented in a particular museum as the collection would not have included objects suitable to illustrate the respective theme: A museum holding an amazing collection is not necessarily a good museum! It is not too difficult to impress people with extraordinary exhibits, but it matters how the objects are presented and what they are supposed to communicate. The museological landscapes of Athens and Rome were in the focus of attention of the project as it is difficult to argue that a lack of available objects (and therefore potential exhibits) was the reason responsible for a particular didactic approach. The museums of these two centers of the ancient world have a distinct impact on the public as visitor numbers are particularly high. The museums were assessed in respect to the national and international museological background. In addition to visits of the museums, notes in their guestbooks were studied to assess the museums’ perception by the audience. Questionnaires were sent to the National Museums of Athens and Rome to learn about the self-perception of the exhibition concepts. It has to be stated from the beginning that the results are not representative, in the sense of an unbiased quantitative sample. They are nevertheless qualitative as they highlight different viewpoints. Furthermore, one has to take into account that the author, as a foreigner, might not have understood all culture inherent connotations and might be biased due to his own personal and cultural background. In comparing museums, the problem occurs that they can differ in their function; for example, museums dedicated to a particular site versus centralized regional or national museums, their seize, relative importance, budget and as a particularly important point: the date when the exposition was created. Despite these limitations the following results will hopefully raise the awareness. It is not possible to mitigate these differences fully. Therefore, it is important to include old and new, large and small museums. In the course of rearrangements made for the Olympic games held at Athens in 2004, some funds were spent either for the establishment of new museums or for the refurbishment of flagship museums. These preparations could probably have been used for conception changes, and the absence of rearrangements can sometimes be a deliberate choice.

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Case studies The National Archaeological Museum at Athens is without a doubt one of the most prominent archaeological museums in Greece, visited by a great number of visitors and therefore one of the most prominent places of contact with ancient culture3. The permanent exhibition follows a chronological narrative and most prominent objects of Greek art are exhibited, comprising mainly sculptures, reliefs and pottery. It seems that the visitor is expected to approach the objects primarily as pieces of ancient art. Only limited effort is made to promote an understanding of ancient Greek cultural history, society and everyday life. For example it is not explained to the visitor how steps for the creation of a complex society were taken, what factors have been decisive for the choice of settlement locations, how landscape may have been perceived or how the concept of power, social relations and gender changed in the course of time. While short information about the sites of provenience is generally provided in a brief form, an accurate account of the archaeological context is lacking in the majority of cases, so that it is impossible for the visitor to understand the original cultural micro-context, though the context is what really matters for the proper comprehension of an artifact. It should be mentioned nevertheless that the context of a number of pieces, found in older excavations, is not entirely clear. Text is the main means of communication provided for the visitor to acquire additional meta-information. The language of the texts is sometimes very specific. The description of one relief (Inventory-numbers: 89, 2823, 2826) states for example that “Hermes Psychopompos” is depicted4, without stating who this mysterious “Hermes Psychopompos” is or what his function had been5. This way, the depicted scene can only be understood by the “informed visitor”, who has the 3 National Archaeological Museum Athens http://www.namuseum.gr/wellcome-en.html; Karouzou (1980). 4 The relief slabs are described for example by Kaltsas (2002) 76, number 117. 5 In the questionnaire sent to the National Museum this problem was specifically addressed and the following question asked: “Do you think the additional information on selected issues and information explaining the finds is sufficient to understand and interpret their deeper meaning without having any knowledge of ancient Greece or do you expect a basic knowledge of ancient Greek culture by the visitor? For example I saw the label “Hermes Psychopompos” without any explanation who he is – so I wandered if the museum expects the normal visitor to posses this information?” The question was kindly answered by Dr. Rosa Proskynitopoulou (Deputy Director of the National Archaeological Museum) und Despina Kalesopoulou on behalf of the museum: “Basic knowledge of ancient greek culture is expected. Effort has been made not to include too many specific terms, but excemptions can be found. Your specific example about Ermis is wrong, as explanation is provided.” (e-mail correspondence). Despite this response I was not able to find the respective information, mentioned, nor were museum employees in the exhibition, which I approached with this question.

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necessary background knowledge to understand and decipher the code of ancient visual communication. Descriptions like the above-mentioned may be based on the assumption that objects are able to “speak for themselves”. Since a long time, it is clear that this is not the case: Visual communication is based on symbols, a scheme that is inherent to a particular cultural and chronological background6. If this knowledge is lacking, it is impossible to understand most artifacts and to perceive them as they were intended to be perceived. The goddess Victoria for example, is not a Christian angel, although both are depicted as winged female figures. The role of the museum would arguably be to teach the visitor the visual communication code of ancient cultures. Those, who do not have the required background knowledge are rejected and excluded. An interpretation in the line of thought of P. Bourdieu discussing the social role of a museum, would perceive it as a so-called “temple of the muses”, as an institution formed by and important to the elite of society7. The history of museums all over Europe proves this point, as many early museums, in particular collections of antiquities, were linked with the nobility or the bourgeoisie elite8. Museums of democratic societies should try to bridge this social gap, instead of separating groups of society. The exhibition of the National Museum itself therefore shows traces of a problem inherent to “traditional” archaeology outlined in the beginning of this paper: The National Museum at Athens was established (already in the 19th century) following concepts of chronology and typology, arranging exhibits by object classes. The exhibition seems not to be driven by the desire to re-animate and contextualize ancient culture. The recipient of the cultural communication was supposed to be a person with the background knowledge to understand the content by himself. The exhibition focuses on pieces of art, while objects of daily life play only a minor role. Didactic media as audio-installations, digital reconstructions and even photos or reconstructions are widely lacking in the exhibition. Scale models in the Prehistoric Collection and some photographs in the Thera exhibition should be mentioned. Following the definition of K. Pomian, people are fascinated by objects as they are semiophors, which means, objects that possess a particular meaning9. Therefore artifacts that have been trash millennia ago are musealised by us. They 6 Compare for example: Bordieu (1974) or more specifically for the museum context: Antinucci (2007) 13 – 17. 7 Compare: Bourdieu (1974) 161 ff.; as examples for the discussion in Germany: Hense (1990); Noelke (2001) 7 ff.; Flashar (2001) 23 ff.. 8 Compare for example: Boschung / von Hesberg (2000); Fliedl (1996); Giuliani (2000), 77 ff.; Pomian (1998); Grasskamp (1981). 9 Pomian (1998).

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are meaningful only because we attribute meaning to them. Numerous “humble” objects of daily life had primarily a practical use in antiquity and were originally not indented to make a conscious statement, while other objects have already been produced as semiophors in the past. Therefore it is correct that objects, often described as pieces of art today, had a pronounced role in the system of cultural communication. Nevertheless semiophors are only suitable to highlight certain aspects of ancient culture and daily life. The discipline of archaeology itself and the applied methods are not presented within the National Museum’s exhibition, implying that the science leading to the discovery and interpretation of the presented artifacts does not matter or is not worth presenting and discussing in its own right. Results depend on the applied methods, and contemporary archaeology comprises much more than digging a hole and dragging out artifacts. In the perception of popular culture, the archaeologist is often perceived either as the adventurer and excavator or as the hard-working scientist, enclosed in the Ivory tower. Research by C. Holtorf was dedicated to analyzing the archaeologist’s perception in popular culture10. People do not take Indiana Jones for real, but nevertheless he is the most prominent representative of archaeology. Field archaeology is generally perceived as an exciting activity as it comprises the adventure of discovering. Including a section on archaeology itself in the National Museum could therefore have promoted a positive perception of the discipline and could have confronted stereotypes in public culture while entertaining for the visitor. As a positive case study for promoting interest in field archaeology, an archaeological exhibition on show for children in the age of 6 to 12 years at the ZOOM Kindermuseum at Vienna can be mentioned. This allowed children a hands-on approach to archaeology. The temporary exhibition was shown between 2004 and 2005 and 60.000 entrances were recorded11. An example for a permanent museum exhibition, comprising a didactic section on archaeological methods, such as aerial prospection, excavation and find processing is given by the permanent exhibition of the Laténium in Neuchâtel12. A convincing concept of a children-oriented didactic approach to antiquity in Greece has been realized in a pedagogic exhibition at Athens, which offers thematically changing programs for pupils in different ages as for example on ancient Greek theatre. 10 Holtorf (2007). 11 For further information on the exhibition see: Accompanying material for the exhibition: C. Thenius, ZOOM Kindermuseum Knochengräber – Zeitenjäger. Eine Ausstellung zum Thema Archäologie für Kinder von 6 bis 12 Jahren, 29. September 2004 bis 20. Februar 2005 Begleitmaterialien und Anregungen für die Vor- und Nachbereitung; http://www.mqw.at/de/ programm/detail/?event_id=1069&page=19 Homepage of the Museums Quartier Wien. 12 Official homepage Laténium in Neuchâtel http://www.latenium.ch/.

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A socially integrative approach to promote archaeology for the wider public is formed by the archaeological exhibitions integrated in several subway stations at Athens (fig. 1) 13. As institutionalized museums may be perceived as culturalethnocentric and therefore exclusive “elite institutions”, the installation of small archaeological exhibits transgresses these invisible boundaries and may be suitable to reach all kinds of people, who are passing by the showcases in their daily routine. A further advantage is that the subway exhibitions are relatively close to the original findspots and have therefore a spatial relation to the modern city. Their contents concern everyday issues of ancient life. A special case is the Akropolis subway station, dominated by plaster casts of sculpture from the Akropolis, which is primarily intended for preparing the visitor heading for the archaeological sites on or around the Akropolis. The numismatic museum at Athens can be seen as good example for a more thematic and cultural historyoriented approach to ancient coins and economy14.

Fig. 1. Photo of the archaeological exhibition in a Metro station in Athens Syntagma. An archaeological excavation profile is represented containg a 4th century BC. tomb. Photo by author: courtesy of the Third Ephorate of Prehistoric and Classical Antiquities, Athens.

13 Metro Athens (official homepage) http://www.ametro.gr/page/default.asp?id=2375&la=2. 14 Numismatic Museum Athens http://www.nma.gr/.

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The Archaeological Museum of Thessaloniki may be compared to to some extent to the Archaeological National Museum at Athens in respect to its importance and role15, though not as prominent. Due to the nature of the predominant archaeological evidence in the region, other chronological periods are emphasized in the archaeological exhibition: Prehistory, the Roman and Late Classic/ Hellenistic period. The exhibition follows primarily a thematic order. A wider range of communication means is employed, comprising digital media, photographs, audio-visual means, reconstructions and models. The aim is to familiarize the visitor with aspects of ancient society and culture. Archaeology itself is although a theme of the presentation. Due to its historical relevance, state of preservation and unique natural setting, Delphi is among the most prominent sites in Greece, and the museum is among the large and well-known ones (fig. 2)16. The museum was enlarged, refurbished and inaugurated in 2004, shortly before the Olympic Games at Athens as the fourth museum at the site after those inaugurated in 1903, 1952 and 1961. Visited by approximately 300.000 visitors a year, this museum is among the most important ones of Greece17. Votive offerings are among the predominant object types on show alongside architectural members, sculpture and some pottery. Topographic relations serve as main “structuring element” presenting primarily finds related to particular buildings and monuments in a chronological order. Additional information characterizes the buildings that the exhibits derived from. Meta-data concern primarily their art historical context and indicate the dating and function of the former building. The content of mythological depictions is described, but significant background knowledge is expected on the side of the visitor as explanations are brief. The exhibition concept is overall a traditional one with focus on objects in a traditional manner. Processes of cultural change are briefly discussed, particularly in respect to the Roman conquest. Background information on oracles in ancient Greece, the pronounced role of Delphi among them, the nature of the prophecies and the role of the site as a panHellenic sanctuary is scarce. Delphi’s socio-cultural and natural context is not discussed in detail nor is the ancient settlement of Delphi, once surrounding the sanctuary. While the museum facilitates a better understanding of the site and its archaeological remains in a traditional way, focusing on objects and monuments, it allows only to some extent a deeper comprehension of the overall significance and cultural context of the sanctuary.

15 Archaeological Museum of Thessaloniki http://www.amth.gr/. 16 Archaeological Museum Delphi http://odysseus.culture.gr/h/1/eh151.jsp?obj_id=3404. 17 Psalti 2013.

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Fig. 2. The Naxian Sphinx from Delphi Archaeological Museum (ca. 570 BC.– 560 BC.). Inv. N.: 380, 1050. Photo by author: courtesy of the Tenth Ephorate of Prehistoric and Classical Antiquities, Delphi.

The museum architecture tries to maximize the use of natural light for the illumination of monumental sculpture18. Examining smaller museums, we find for example the quite recently set up museum of Marathon, using a generally more traditional approach, besides museums like the one at Amfissa, which makes an excellent effort to explain the cultural history of the region of Phocis in a diachronic perspective19. The museum

18 Psalti 2013. 19 Archaeological Museum of Amfissa http://odysseus.culture.gr/h/1/eh151.jsp?obj_id=3417.

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at Amfissa discusses numerous issues such as settlements, routes of communication, commerce and coinage. A further aspect, which should be mentioned briefly, is the tension of site museums versus centralized museums: Pros and cons exist for both concepts: Centralized National Museums allow presenting a selection of extraordinary pieces and should therefore, possess the potential to inform visitors comprehensibly, if an appropriate exhibition concept is chosen. Having precious original objects on show is more important, if these are perceived as masterpieces of art in their own right and they are however regarded as less important, if they are perceived as a means to explain cultural history. It is often argued that objects should be on display in their country of origin as “their landscape” of origin is part of their true perception. This argument was already used by critics when Napoleon had ancient art transferred from Italy to Paris. Morally it is still an important claim made by national governments that archaeological artifacts should remain in the country as they were part of the national cultural heritage. Illicit traffic of archaeological artifacts is said to be a prosperous branch of organized crime20. If this argumentation is pursued, the question arises, if objects are actually less de-contextualized, when they are presented in a central museum, remote from their original findspot. One issue justifying this relocation might be that the means for protection and conservation are superior in a centralized museum. The raid of the archaeological museum at Corinth in the 1990s can be mentioned as a sad example. Many sites did not possess their own museums in former times, but in the meantime numerous site museums have been founded. Nevertheless, in the perspective of an “external observer”, central museums sometimes hesitate to transfer their most valuable objects back to the original sites. While the main decisions on an archaeological exhibition concern the contents of what should be communicated, the means of communication are crucial for achieving this goal. Only a few thoughts on this issue will be presented: Visitors come to a museum primarily to see and to experience; otherwise, if they wanted to inform themselves by reading, they would probably have turned to a book instead21. The time span of attention paid to an object, before visitors decide whether they would like to engage more in detail is very brief.

20 For the critique on Napoleon see: Quatremère de Quincy, Antoine Chrysostôme, Lettres à Miranda sur le déplacement des monuments de l’art de l’Italie (1796) – passages quoted in Pommier (1996), 7 ff.; for the recent discussion on the ownership compare for a critical view: J. Cuno, Who owns Antiquity? Museums and the battle over our ancient heritage (2008); Bernbeck / Lamprichs (1992), 109 ff.; Also compare the conference proceedings of the ‘Archaeogy in Conflict’ conference, www.farch.net , Forum Archaeologiae 55, VI, 2010. 21 Compare regarding texts in museums: Dawid / Schlesinger (2002).

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Therefore the spatial organization of the exhibition and visual guidance of the visitor are crucial. Elements of this guidance comprise the arrangement of objects, the creation of view axes, the use of colors, illustrations and virtual reality models. The latter offer numerous advantages and are spreading rapidly in museums within recent years22. Advantages comprise the possibility to re-contextualize artifacts virtually, providing a lot of information about the former context, they further allow the viewer to be engaged to a greater extent and therefore to experience the setting. They are relatively cheap in their creation and can be updated easily to be adapted to the actual state of research. They may further be particular suitable to attract younger visitors, which are used to video games and digital media. Texts should be written in an easily comprehensible way and different levels of core and meta-information should be provided, leaving the choice to the visitor to which extent, he would like to inform himself. Several quite recently established Greek site-museums follow quite interesting exhibition concepts, among them the museums of Mycenae, Sikyon or at the royal tombs of Vergina (Aigai) are to mention23. Besides the direct forms of museum communication with individual visitors, structured didactic programs as guided tours should be mentioned, which have not been in the focus of the presented research. Museums like the National Archaeological Museum at Athens and the Museum at Delphi offer a range of educational programs, comprising tours for students, adults, individuals with disabilities and tours for vision-impaired.

Conclusion Studying minor and prominent examples of archaeological museums in Greece, it could be observed that different didactic concepts are pursued. Simplified they can be summed up under the main categories of museum of ancient art or museum of ancient social and cultural history, any museum could be placed at some point between those two conceptual ideas. The majority of contemporary archaeologists would probably agree that archaeology is not all about material culture itself, but about using material culture to gain a better understanding of former cultures and societies. Therefore one of the best contributions archaeology has the potential to make, consists of “raising the awareness of diversity and the possibility to make choices” for our modern society. Archaeology should stimulate critical reflection on society and possesses the potential to show that not everything has to be as it is, only because we are used to it. There are choices 22 For further references see for example: Teichmann (2009) 105 ff.; Antinucci (2007). 23 Museum Vergina (Aigai) http://odysseus.culture.gr/h/1/eh151.jsp?obj_id=3297.

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to make. Starting by the kind of vessels we use and ending by reflecting issues of society, power, justice or gender. In addition to this – let’s say educational contribution – archaeology is particularly suitable to entertain people. Archaeologists are perceived in a quite positive way by the general public and in popular culture. Field archaeology is a science quite down to earth and people are excited about it. Funds are limited in these days and archaeological heritage is under permanent thread of conscious or unconscious destruction. So, to make the step from the present to the future, as promised by the title of this paper: Archaeologists should intensify considerations about their engagement with the wider public and community, in the interest of the future of their own subject as well as in the best interest of the preservation of cultural heritage. While the claim for this community engagement is valid, it has to be kept in mind that “the public” consists of a wide range of heterogeneous groups, which would have to be addressed with a variety of approaches. Comparing museums of different role and size, we see that traditional and more innovative museums exist side by side. Reasons why museums are set up one way or the other depend more on deliberate choices of curators than by other constrains. One aspect that cannot be discussed to full extent in this paper is that archaeological museums created in the past express the attitude towards and perception of archaeology of the respective period of their creation. Besides learning about the remote past, we can see them as a means to understand our recent cultural history. Rearranging an exhibition can threaten the historicity of the exhibition, which has to be considered. If archaeological museums try to make statements and are used to engage actively in issues of society, they can be subject to open ideological bias24. Many of those ideological inclined museums can be found around the globe, for example several archaeological museums erected under the fascist rule25 can serve as historical examples. Other museums chose the strategy to retreat to primarily descriptive ground to survive paradigmatic political changes26. The future of archaeology is closely related to the public perception of the scientific discipline, therefore it should be the interest of archaeologists to engage actively in the future of archaeological museums. This task will have to be faced in intense interdisciplinary collaboration. While this paper could touch on numerous important aspects of archaeological museology only very briefly, the

24 Compare for example: Schmidt / Wolfram (1996), 36 ff.; Biel (1996), 44. 25 Compare Kievelitz (1999) for an analysis of an important exhibition on ancient Rome and Augustus in Fascist Italy. 26 For example: Bernbeck, 2000, 98 ff.

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author hopes that it is perceived as a stimulus in the discussion on the role of archaeological museums for contemporary societies.

Acknowledgements The author would like to thank V. Pothou and L. Käppel for the kind invitation to present this paper at the ‘Human development in sacred landscapes’ conference in May 2011 at Delphi. R. Colunge, B. Schulz-Paulsson, V. Pothou and H. Teichmann are to be thanked for their comments on earlier drafts of this paper. The Graduate School “Human Development in Landscapes” provided funding during the elaboration of this paper, while the original research that the contribution is based on was kindly supervised by K. Krierer and advised by H. Szemethy. The Austrian Archaeological Institute at Athens hosted the author during a three month research stay in Greece to conduct the research. Numerous colleagues and archaeologists employed in museums provided information and advice on practical issues.

Addendum After the submission and finalization of this text, the National Archaeological Museum at Athens and the archaeological museum at Delphi were revisited in July 2013. The overall impression of the permanent exhibition of the National Archaeological Museum at Athens on the periods between the Geometric and Roman period is still as outlined above, while some changes should be reported briefly: The Prehistoric Antiquities of the National Museum have been rearranged in recent years following a thematic concept. The new arrangement introduces a range of aspects of daily life and organization of the state, besides history of research. Information is primarily communicated via text, which is accompanied by numerous photographs. In respect to the communication of cultural history, the rearrangement of exhibition may be regarded as a major improvement. Compared to 2007, the Stathatos Collection and the Egyptian and Near Eastern Collection have been reopened in the meantime. The text panels follow a quite modern exhibition concept as well. As the Statathos Collection consists of a quite heterogeneous corpus of minor objects of different periods, it is impossible to present them under thematic aspects. The temporary exhibition on the Antikythera shipwreck was on show in summer 2013. The exhibition covered different directions of research related to

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the ancient shipwreck as technology, trade and daily life on board. A wide range of museological means were employed for the communication of content, comprising 3D films and holographic 3D projection as state of the art communication means. The re-arrangement of the Prehistoric Collection of the National Museum at Athens as well as the temporary exhibition may indicate a turn in the concept towards a stronger emphasis on the communication of cultural history, so that one can hope for further improvements in the permanent exhibition. Besides new content, new means of communication are implemented to a larger extent. While the permanent exhibition of the museum at Delphi is unchanged, an additional section was established which provides information on the necropoleis in the vicinity of Delphi with a strong topographical compound.

Bibliography Antinucci, F. (2007): Musei Virtuali. Come non fare innovazione tecnologica, Bari. Bernbeck, R. (2000), “The exhibition of architecture and the architecture of an exhibition. The changing face of the Pergamon Museum”, Archaeological Dialogues 2000, 98 ff. Bernbeck, R. / Lamprichs, R. (1992), “Museen, Besitz und Macht: Wohin mit den Altertümern?”, Das Altertum, 38, 109 ff. Biel, J. (1996): Kommentar zu M. Schmidt und S. Wolfram “Westdeutsche Museen – objektiv und belanglos”, in: S. Wolfram – U. Sommer (eds.), Macht der Vergangenheit – Wer macht Vergangenheit. Archäologie und Politik, Beiträge zur Ur- und Frühgeschichte Mitteleuropas 3, 44, Weissbach: Beier und Meran. Bourdieu, P. (1974): Zur Soziologie der symbolischen Formen, Frankfurt am Main. Boschung, D./ von Hesberg, H. (2000): “Aristokratische Skulpturensammlungen des 18. Jhs. als Ausdruck einer europäischen Identität: Einleitung, 5”, in: D. Boschung – H. von Hesberg (eds.), Antikensammlungen des europäischen Adels im 18. Jahrhundert als Ausdruck der europäischen Identität (Internationales Kolloquium in Düsseldorf vom 7. 2. – 10. 2. 1996), Mainz am Rhein. Cuno, J. (2008): Who owns Antiquity? Museums and the battle over our ancient heritage, Princeton. Dawid, E. / Schlesinger, R. (Eds.) (2002): Texte in Museen und Ausstellungen. Ein Praxisleitfaden, Bielefeld. Flashar, M. (2001): “Archäologie und Öffentlichkeit – Ein seltsam widersprüchliches Spannungsverhältnis”, in: P. Noelke (ed.), Archäologische Museen und Stätten der römischen Antike. Auf dem Wege vom Schatzhaus zum Erlebnispark und virtuellen Informationszentrum? Referate des 2. Internationalen Colloquiums zur Vermittlungsarbeit in Museen, Köln, 3. – 6. Mai 1999 (2001), Bonn, 23 ff. Fliedl, G. (ed.) (1996): Die Erfindung des Museums. Anfänge der bürgerlichen Museumsidee in der Französischen Revolution, Wien.

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Giuliani, L. (2000): “Antiken-Museen: Vergangenheit und Perspektiven einer Institution”, in: A. H. Borbein – T. Hölscher – P. Zanker (eds.), Klassische Archäologie. Eine Einführung, Darmstadt, 77 – 90. Grasskamp, W. (1981): Museumsgründer und Museumsstürmer. Zur Sozialgeschichte des Kunstmuseums, München. Hense, H. (1990): Das Museum als gesellschaftlicher Lernort. Aspekte einer pädagogischen Neubestimmung, Frankfurt am Main. Holtorf, C. J. (2007): Archaeology is a Brand! The Meaning of Archaeology in Contemporary Popular Culture, Oxford. Kaltsas, N. (2002): Sculpture in the National Archaeological Museum Athens, Los Angeles. Karouzou, S. (1980): Nationalmuseum. Illustrierter Führer durch das Museum, Athens. Kivelitz, Ch. (1999): Die Propagandaausstellung in europäischen Diktaturen. Konfrontation und Vergleich: Nationalsozialismus in Deutschland, Faschismus in Italien und die UdSSR der Stalinzeit, Europa in der Geschichte. Schriften zur Entwicklung des modernen Europa 2, Bochum. Noelke, P. (2001): “Zur Einführung”, in: P. Noelke (ed.), Archäologische Museen und Stätten der römischen Antike. Auf dem Wege vom Schatzhaus zum Erlebnispark und virtuellen Informationszentrum? Referate des 2. Internationalen Colloquiums zur Vermittlungsarbeit in Museen, Köln, 3. – 6. Mai 1999 (2001), Bonn, 7 ff. Pomian, K. (1998), Der Ursprung des Museums. Vom Sammeln, Berlin. Pommier, E. (1996): “Der Louvre als Ruhestätte der Kunst”, in G. Fliedl (ed.), Die Erfindung des Museums. Anfänge der bürgerlichen Museumsidee in der Französischen Revolution (1996), Wien, 7 ff. Psalti, A. (2013): The Archaeological Museum of Delphi (museum leaflet), Ministry of Education and Religious Affairs, Culture and Sports – General Secretariat for Culture Archaeological Receipts Fund. Schmidt, M. / Wolfram, S. (1996): “Westdeutsche Museen – objektiv und belanglos”, in: S. Wolfram – U. Sommer (eds.), Macht der Vergangenheit – Wer macht Vergangenheit. Archäologie und Politik, Beiträge zur Ur- und Frühgeschichte Mitteleuropas 3 (1996), Weissbach: Beier und Meran, 36 ff. Swain, H. (2007): An Introduction to Museum Archaeology, Cambridge et. al. Teichmann, M. (2009): “Visualisation in Archaeology: an assessment of modelling archaeological landscapes using scientific and gaming software”, International Journal of Humanities and Arts Computing 3 (1 – 2), 2009, 105 ff.

All internet pages mentioned were accessed and valid in June 2011.

List of Contributors

Bettina Schulz Paulsson from the Graduate School Human Development in Landscapes (Kiel) studied in Berlin and defended her doctoral thesis “Time and Stone: the emergence and development of megaliths and megalithic societies in the Neolithic and the Copper age in Europe” in 2013 in Kiel. Her research interests are: origins and development of monuments and megaliths in the Neolithic worldwide, rock art studies, memory culture and oral tradition, theories on social movements, cognitive archaeology. Oliver Rackham (1939–2015), botanist, historical ecologist and linguist, was a leading researcher on ancient woodlands of Mediterranean Landscapes, especially in Crete. He was Professor at the University of Cambridge and fellow of the British Academy (2002). With the American archaeologist Jennifer Moody, Oliver presented a remarkable combination of ecology and archaeology in The Making of the Cretan Landscape (1996). His massive work, called simply Woodlands (2006) covered all his many interests in the subject, including the use of timber in building houses, temples, churches and barns. He was a passionate Latinist and an elegant dresser in his own way. All Delphi was impressed with his red socks. Oliver was rare and irreplaceable. Sit tibi terra levis. Lukas Thommen teaches Ancient history at the universities of Basel and Zurich. His field of research includes Sparta, the Roman Republic, Body history and Environmental history, the result of which is the book Umweltgeschichte der Antike (2009), published in English under the title An Environmental History of Ancient Greece and Rome (2012). Further books are Das Volkstribunat der späten römischen Republik (1989), Lakedaimonion politeia (1996), Sparta (2003) and Antike Körpergeschichte (2007). Susan Guettel Cole is Professor Emerita in the Department of Classics at the University of Buffalo. She is the author of Landscapes, Gender, and Ritual Space: The Ancient Greek Experience (2004), Theoi Megaloi: The Cult of the Great Gods

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at Samothrace (1984), and numerous book chapters and articles. She has contributed articles to A Companion to Greek Religion (2007); Ancient Religions (Cambridge University Press 2007); and Practitioners of the Divine (Center for Hellenic Studies 2008). Efrosyni Boutsikas is Lecturer of Classical Archaeology at the University of Kent. Her research focuses on ancient Greek religious experience of landscapes and the role of myth, time, space in ritual performance. She has written and co-authored papers on the role of astronomy and catasterism myths in shaping ancient religious festival experience and the orientation of Greek temples. Dr. Sarah Hitch is the Associate Director of the Corpus Christi Centre for the Study of Greek and Roman Antiquity at Corpus Christi College, Oxford. She has published widely on Greek religion, including a monograph King of Sacrifice. Ritual and Royal Authority in the Iliad (CHS 2009) and co-editor of forthcoming volume of essays Animal Sacrifice in the Greek World (CUP). She wishes to thank the Leverhulme Trust for their support. Jeremy McInerney is Davidson Kennedy Professor of Classical Studies at the University of Pennsylvania. He is the author, most recently, of The Cattle of the Sun (Princeton, 2010) as well as editor of Blackwell’s Companion to Ethnicity in the Ancient Mediterranean (2014). He is currently at work on the subject of hybridity in the thought and culture of the Greeks. Mercedes Aguirre lectures in the Department of Greek Philology in the Universidad Complutense in Madrid. Her research areas are Greek literature, Greek mythology and its reception in the contemporary world. She has published articles on these subjects and has participated in many conferences. Among her scholarly articles are those on Scylla, on female characters in the Odyssey, on the Erinyes, on Greek ghosts and on several myths and their reception in art. Richard Buxton is Emeritus Professor of Greek Language and Literature at the University of Bristol. His numerous publications centre on Greek literature, especially tragedy, and Greek myth. Among his books are ‘Imaginary Greece’ (C.U.P., 1994), ‘Forms of Astonishment: Greek Myths of Metamorphosis’ (O.U. P., 2009), and ‘Myths and Tragedies in their Ancient Greek Contexts’ (O.U.P., 2013). From 2006–2012 he was President of the Foundation for the ‘Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae’. Lutz Käppel is Professor of Ancient Greek Literature at Kiel University and Cocoordinator of the Kiel Graduate School Human Development in Landscapes.

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Publications include Paian (1992), Das Theater von Epidauros (1989), Die Konstruktion der Handlung in der Orestie des Aischylos (1998). He is currently the editor of the section Greek and Roman mythology in Der Neue Pauly / Brill’s New Pauly and of Friedrich Schleiermacher, Kritische Gesamtausgabe. After studies in Edinburgh and Cambridge James Roy taught in the University of Sheffield, and later, until retirement in 2004, in the University of Nottingham, where he continues to be an associate of the Department of Classics. The main focus of his research is the history of Elis and of Arkadia, and recent contributions to journals and collective volumes have been mainly on these regions, though also on Greek citizens reduced to slavery, the shepherd as a marginal figure, and autochthony in ancient Greece. Vassiliki Pothou is Lecturer of Classics and she has worked at the Universities of Kiel and Regensburg. The essential focus of her research is Greek historiography. She is the author of some books and articles on Thucydides and related issues. She is currently revising her manuscript on intertextuality between Thucydides and Flavius Josephus. Recently her research interests in Kiel include problems of water supply and techniques of recycling of raw materials in ancient historiography. Hamish Forbes’s research integrates ethnographic and archaeological approaches, particularly in Greece, mainly focusing on social issues, and environmental concerns relating to agriculture and pastoralism. Recent publications include ‘Archaeology and the making of improper citizens in modern Greece’ Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology 27.1, (2014) 79–100, and ‘Off-site scatters and the manuring hypothesis in Greek survey archaeology: an ethnographic approach’, Hesperia 82 (2013) 551–94. Michael Teichmann studied Classical Archaeology and Landscape Archaeology at Vienna, Rome, Birmingham and Kiel. He is currently a PhD student within the interdisciplinary Graduate School Human Development in Landscapes at the Christian-Albrechts-University at Kiel. Since 2012 he is employed at the German Archaeological Institute, Rome department. Primary research interests cover Landscape Archaeology, Museum Archaeology, Archaeological Prospection as well as Archaeological Theory.

Index locorum

Anthologia Palatina 6. 171 197 note 32 Apollodorus The Library – 1.4.1 91 – 2.2.1 147 note 2 – 2. 34 – 39 159 – 3.5.3 62 note 4 Apollonios Rhodios Argonautica 4.57 – 58 193 note 20 Bacchylides 11.77 – 79

147 note 2

Clement of Alexandria, The Stromata 848 P 127 Demosthenes On the crown 18.141 78 Dio Chrysostom Or. 1.52 – 54 177 Diodorus Siculus – 4.25.4 62 note 4 – 14.17.8 182 note 67 Diog. Laert.8.1.13 (cf. Timaeus FGH 566 seq. 147) 127 Euripides – Bacchae 13 – 27 61 – Bacchae 98 68 – Ion 283 – 285 78, 86 – Electra 784 – 843 121 – Cyclops, passim 147, 152 – 153 – Her. 15, 944 147 note 2 – IA 265, 1500 – 1501 147 note 2 Exodus 19:12 seq. 36 Hekataios of Miletos (F 305)

192

Herodotus – I 24 79 – II 156. 2 192 note 15 – IV 33 91 – IV 34 – 35.2 91 – IV 148 173, 182 note 67 – IV.148.4 181 – VI 57.2 – 3 78 – VIII 138 137 Hesiod – Works and Days 393, 415 – 416, 430 148 – Op. 109 – 20 125 – 576 124 – Theogony – 270 seq. 160 – 278 – 9 137 note 9, 140 note 24 – 409 91 – 538 – 41 124 – 720 – 725 61 – 940 – 943 61 Homer Iliad – I 66 124 – 1. 312 124 – I 438 seq. 131 – 1. 449 121 – 2. 303 – 308 121 – 2. 410 121 – 3. 243 129 – 4. 49 124 – 6. 142 129 – 8. 13 – 16 61 – 8. 240 124 – 8. 548 – 552 124 – 9. 500 124

238 – 9. 568 129 – 11. 696 – 702 181 note 60 – 14. 346 – 9 140 note 25 – 21. 465 129 – 24. 70 124 – 24. 784 124 Homer Odyssey – 3.5 – 11 135 – 3.69 – 70 131 – 3.91 – 94 130 – 3.445 seq. 135 – 5.63 – 74 136 – 5.75 143 note 37 – 5.101 – 102 137 – 5.196 – 7 140 note 26 – 5.476 – 485 142 note 32 – 6.8 131 – 6.18 – 9 141 – 6.85 141 – 6.94 – 8 141 – 6.123 seq. 141 – 6.149 141 – 6.150 – 2 141 – 6.162 – 7 141 – 6.203 – 4 142 – 6.291 – 3 142 – 7.108 – 130 126 – 7. 112 – 132 142 – 7.129 – 131 129 – 7.132 126 – 7.133 – 4 143 – 7.191 141 – 7.201 – 6 126 – 7.236 – 44 131 – 9.116 – 141 126 – 9.218 – 225 131 – 9.248 – 249 131 – 9.252 – 263 130 – 9.287 – 298 131 – 9.551 – 33 131 – IX passim 149 – 152 – 10.101 129 – 10.197 139 – 10. 210 139 – 10. 330 139 note 21

Index locorum

– 11. 20 – 36 131 – 11. 23 seq. 135 – 12. 340 – 419 130 – 13. 181 – 2 141 – 14.105 124 – 14. 428 124 – 14. 435 – 6 124 – 15.405 – 11 125 – 16.390 123 – 17.241 123 – 17.294 124 – 17.379 123 – 20.213 123 – 22.198 123 – 24. 341 – 4 143 note 36 Homeric Hymn to Apollo – 25 – 30 105 – 31 – 44 106 – 45 – 46 105 – 51 – 60 123 – 71 – 74 104 – 115 – 132 123 – 135 – 7 127 – 146 – 7 123 – 146 – 150 104 – 208 – 214 109 – 214 – 45 128 – 220 – 221 112 – 247 – 249 128 – 303 130 – 304 129 – 363 – 369 115 – 365 – 367 129 – 375 – 387 129 – 390 – 401 78 – 410 130 – 436 – 446 78 – 452 – 5 130 – 459 – 62 131 – 462 – 519 131 – 469 – 473 130 – 491 – 502 78 – 514 – 524 78 – 526 – 39 129 – 533 – 538 132

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Index locorum

– 536 – 538 117–118 – 538 – 46 132 Homeric Hymn to Demeter 7 137 Homeric Hymn to Hermes 6 – 7 138, 140 Homeric Hymn 26 to Dionysos 71 – 72 (note 33) Hygginos – Fabulae LIII 91 note 38 Iamblichus De vita pythagorica 25

127

Kallimachos – Hymn to Apollo 60 91 – Hymn to Delos – 36 – 40 91 – 191 91 – 312 91 Kallixeinos in Athenaeus 5. 200 b – d 72 note 34 Konon FGrHist 26, »Ἀπόλλων Αἰγλήτης« 49 191 Lucian Macrobii 3.6.2

127

Menander Rhetor 444.15 – 16

126

Nonnos Dionysiaka 24. 35 – 38 163 Nonnos Dionysiaka 40. 224 – 233 163 Oppian Cynegetica 4. 244 – 353 Pausanias Graeciae Descriptio – 1.20.3 64 – I 38.8 64 – 1.43.5 64 – 2.7.5 64 – 2 16.5 147 note 2 – 2 25.6 147 note 2 – 2 25.8 147 note 2 – 2.23.1 64, 65 – 2.23.7 64 – 2.31.2 65 – 2.35.1 65 – 2.36.7 64 – 2.36.8 48 note 4

73

– 2.37.5 64 – 2.37.5 – 6 64 – 3.10.6 47 (Fig. 12), 48 note 5 – 3.13.7 – 8 65 – 3.20.3 65 – 3.20.4 65 – 3.24.4 – 5 65 – 3.24.8 65 – 4.31.4 65 – 4.34.6 65 – 5.5.5 – 6 178 note 45 – 5.5.11 178 note 44 – 5.6.1 – 3 178 note 42, 180 note 56 – 5.6.5 178 note 40 – 5.6.7 176 – 5.7.1 – 6.21.3 176 note 22 – 5.13.10 176 note 22 – 5.14.4 – 10 176 note 22 – 5.17.5 – 5.19.10 67 – 6.21.3 – 22.3 177 – 6.21.4 177 – 6.21.6 178 note 41 – 6.22.1 177 – 6.22.7 178 note 36 – 6.22.8 – 10 178 note 38 – 6.22.8 – 11 180 note 57 – 6.23.3 176 note 25 – 6.23.3 – 26.3 176 – 6.23.7 175 note 17 – 6.25.1 176 – 6.25.2 – 3 180 note 58 – 6.25.5 – 6 180 note 56 – 6.25.6 178 note 42 – 6.26.1 176 note 25 – 6.26.1 – 2 65 – 6.26.3 176 – 6.26.5 178 note 35 – 6.26.1 177, 183 – 7.21.3 64 – 8.38.6 148 – 10.7.4 162 Pherecydes of Athens fr. 10 – 12 Jacoby 159 Philochoros FGrH IIIB 328 F 7 62 note 2 Philodamos strophe XI 68

240 Philostratos Heroikos 21.5 – 7 91 note 36 Pindar – Olympian 7, 54 – 64 194 note 24 – Olympian 7, 69 – 71 194 note 25 – Olympian 11.17 78 – Olympian 14 163 seq. – Pythian 8, 95 seq. 165 – Pythian 12 155 – 160, 162 – 167 – Pythian 10 161 seq. – Paean 6.58 – 73 = D6 Rutherford 126 – Pindar fr. 169a, 7 Maehler 147 note 2 Plato Phaedo 58a – b 99 Plato Republic 427b – c 78 Plutarch – De Sollertia Animalium 984a – b 79 – De Iside et Osiride 361 seq. 79 – Numa 9.5 – 6 91 note 36 – Quaestiones Graecae 12 88 – Theseus 18.1 89 – 21.2 91 – Antony 75.3 – 4 73 – De sera numinis vindicta 565 seq. – 566a 68 note 24 – De sera numinis vindicta 27.566a 62 note 4 – Moralia 399 c – d 195 notes 27, 29 – Moralia 399 c 195 note 29, 196 note 31 – Moralia 399 d 196 note 30 – Quaestiones Graecae 12.293c – d 62 note 4 – Quaestiones Romanae 5.264a – f 67 note 21 – Quaestiones Romanae 5.264f – 265b 67 note 22 – Septem sapientium convivium 158 127 – De Pythiae oraculis 402a 127 Polemon fr.36 Preller = Athen.9.372a 126 Polybius – 4.73.5 – 8 183 – 4.79.9 181 Porphyrios – De abstinentia – 2.19 91 – 2.28 127 (Ps.-)Plutarch De musica 7 162

Index locorum

Servius Aeneid 3.85 127 Sappho 98 Diehl, 218 Page 194 note 23 SEG 1965.541 62 note 3 SEG 1995.554 65 note 18 Shepherd of Hermas 78: 4 – 10 48 note 3 Socrates of Rhodes in Athenaeus 4.148b-c 73 note 35 Sophocles Antigone 1131 – 1136 62 Stephanus s.v. Styllagion 181 Strabo – 1.3.10 c54 189 note 1 – 6.2.11 196 – 8.3.1 – 33 177 – 8.3.4 178 note 35 – 8.3.12 177, 178 note 38, 180, 182 – 8.3.13 178 note 42 – 8.3.14 178 note 43, 180 note 56, note 58 – 8.3.15 178 note 43, 180 note 58 – 8.3.19 178 note 44 – 8.3.30 176 note 23, 181 – 8.3.32 178 note 36 – 8.372 – 373 147 note 2 – 9.2.11 86 Tacitus Histories 4.83 – 84 79 Theokritos Idyll 3. 49 – 50 193 Theokritos Idyll 11 passim 153 Thucydides – II 102.3 – 4 190 – II 102.5 191 note 10 – II 102.5 – 6 190 – V 31.1 – 5 174 – V 31.2 174 note 7, 182 note 67 – V 34.1 182 – VI 3.1 79 Tabula Heraclea 48 Vitruvius De architectura 3.2.8 66 note 20 Xenophon Anabasis – 5.3.7 – 13 178 note 40 Xenophon Hellenica – 3.2.25 182 note 67 – 3.2.29 176 – 7.4.16 and 26 178 note 37

Index rerum et nominum

Academy 53 – 56, 233 Accorinti, Domenico 148 Achaia 173, 177, 183 Acheloos 70, 190 Achilles 138, 176 Acropolis 71, 99, 138, 147 Aegina (or Aigina) 106, 147 aetiology 158, 163, 167 Agora (Athens) 53, 56, 74 Aiaia 17, 141 Akrisios 159 Akroreia 174, 176, 178, 182 Alcinoos or Alcinous 52 seq., 126, 129, 142 seq. Alexandria 57, 72 seq., 79 alignment 19 – 21 Alion 178 Alpheios (River) 17, 173 seq., 176 – 180, 182 altar 19, 22, 51, 55, 57, 63, 66, 78, 81, 91, 94, 97, 114, 121, 127 – 129, 131, 141, 151 altar-formed stone 20 altar-like features 22 Amfissa, Archaeological Museum 225 seq. Amphidolia 174 Amphiktyony 116, 175 Anaphe 191, 196 anarchy 193 ancient cultures 24, 30, 217, 221 Andalucia 31 Anigri(a)des 178 Anilio 179 Antequera 20 seq. anthropomorphic rock formation 20

anthropomorphically formed natural rocks 21 anthropomorphically formed stones 20 antique cultures 29 seq. Antisthenes 53 Aphrodite Ourania 176 Aphrodite 54, 113, 153, 176 seq. Apollo Aigletes 191 Apollo Amyklaios 77 Apollo Archegetes 78 seq., 81 Apollo Daphnephoros 16, 106, 112 – 114 Apollo Delian 16, 77, 82 Apollo Delphinios 16, 77 – 79, 81 seq., 88 – 90, 94 seq., 97, 99, 106 seq., 132 Apollo Didymaios 77 Apollo Gryneus 107 Apollo Hekatombaios 128 Apollo Hyakinthios 77 Apollo Ismenian 113 seq. Apollo Karneios 80, 94 Apollo Killaios 107 Apollo Koropaios 107 Apollo Lykeios 94 Apollo Maloeis 107 Apollo Patroos 106 Apollo Phanaios 107 Apollo Pythian (or Apollo Pythios) 78 seq., 81, 86 Apollo Smintheus 107 Apollo Triopian 108 Apollo 9, 13 seq., 16 seq., 52 seq., 63, 70 seq., 77 – 79, 81–83, 85, 88 – 92, 94 seq., 97, 99, 103 – 118, 121 – 133, 141 seq., 151, 161 – 163, 191 – 193

242

Index rerum et nominum

Apollo, oracle of 78, 190 Arákhova (Karyes) 47 seq. architectonic principle 24 architectural concept 22 architectural heritage 30 Argos 48, 64 seq., 79 seq., 94, 124 Arkadia, Arkas 48, 109 – 111, 173 seq., 235 Armatova 178 Armida 137 Arora, Vibha 199 Artemis Alpheiaia 180 Artemis Alpheionia 180 Artemis Alpheiousa 180 Artemis Elaphiaia 180 Artemis Ephesia 178 Artemis Kordax 177 Artemis Limnatis 179 Artemis Orthia 99 Artemis 47 seq., 57, 63, 68, 70 seq., 109, 125 seq., 141, 177 seq., 180, 192 seq. Arzachena 20 Asklepios 109 seq., 177 Asteria 91 astronomical centers 24 asylum 190 Atalanta 140 Athena Kydonia 178 Athena 17, 52 seq., 74, 130, 135, 142, 156 – 163, 166 seq., 176, 179 Athene 142, 148, 150, 152 Athens 9, 15 seq., 18, 48, 53, 55, 57, 63 seq., 71, 73 seq., 77 seq., 86, 88 – 90, 92, 95 seq., 99, 106, 111, 128, 156, 159, 205, 208 seq., 219 – 224, 227, 229 seq. Athens, National Archaeological Museum 220, 227, 229 Athens, Numismatic Museum 223 Athens, subway exhibition 223 Athos, Mt. 15, 41 – 44, 106 Atlas 138 Augeias 181 Autochthony 235 Azan, Azania 109 Babes

179, 181

Bacchos; see also Dionysos 152 badlands 37, 48 Barnhouse 24 barrenness 128 seq. Beauty and the Beast 139 Bedrock 22 Bender, Barbara et al. 199 Bernstein, Anya 199 blessing rituals 28 blessing way 28 bloodless sacrifice (or offerings) 122, 127 seq., 131 seq. Boccaccio, Decameron 137 Boiotia 16, 113 seq., 116 Borg in-Nadur 23 Branchidai 108 Brittany 24 Bugibba 22 building material 19 seq. buildings 22 seq., 48, 64, 178, 181, 224 burials 22, 212 calendar / timekeeping 82, 86, 92, 94 Calypso 16, 135 – 142, 144 Campoussy 20 Cartledge, Paul 148 Catalogue of Ships 109, 114 Catalogue of Women 111 cave(s) 15 – 17, 62, 64 – 74, 130, 135, 138, 140, 150 – 154 Cemetery/cemeteries 18, 182, 201, 206, 209 seq., 212 – 215 central communal places 22 Central Mediterranean 31 centralization 24, 31 chant-ways 28 Charites 157, 163 – 165 cheese 130 seq., 150, 153 Chemmis island 192 Chios 106 seq. Christian, Christianity (see also under Orthodox) 13 seq., 18, 36, 41, 48, 51, 199, 208, 212, 221, 235 Chrysippus of Soli 56 Church(es) 9, 12, 18, 36, 200 – 215, 233

Index rerum et nominum

Cimon 53 Circe 17, 135, 138 – 142, 144, 151 Clark, Mari H. 214 coasts 23, 62 Coins (Elean) 175 coins 79, 81, 94, 223 collective legacy 30 collective memory 28 seq. Colonos 54 common effort 24 communicative memory 24, 30 community members 28 corridor 22 Corsica 14, 24, 31 Cosgrove, Daniel 201 cover stone 22 Crete 36 – 40, 81, 94 – 96, 106, 138, 190, 233 cultural institution 29 cultural memory 28, 30 Cyclades 108 seq. Cyclops, Cyclopes; see also Polyphemos 17, 126, 130 seq., 147, 149 – 153 Cynics 53 Cynosarges 53 Cyrus 57 Danae 156 Daniels, Stephen 201 Death 36, 55 seq., 61, 67, 72 seq., 79, 115, 125 seq., 152, 159 – 162, 166, 168, 177, 212 seq. Delos 16, 48, 63, 77, 89, 91 – 97, 99, 103 – 105, 107 – 109, 114, 116 seq., 121 – 125, 127 – 131, 133, 141 seq., 192 seq. Delphi 9 – 18, 30 seq., 48, 61 – 63, 68, 71, 77 – 82, 84 – 91, 94 – 97, 99, 103, 108 – 117, 121 seq., 126, 128, 130 seq., 133, 155 seq., 158, 162, 224 seq., 227, 229 seq., 233 Delphi, Archaeological Museum 14, 224 seq., 227, 229 Demainetos 177 Demeter Chamyne 177 Demeter 64, 70, 103, 116, 137, 148, 177 seq., 181 seq.

243 Derdieba 23 Despoina 110 Detienne, Marcel 63, 103 seq., 117, 122, 127 – 132, 148 didactic memory 25 Didyma 13, 108 Diktys 159 seq. Dionysos Dasyllios 64 Dionysos Kolonatas 65 Dionysos Melanaigidos 65 Dionysos Nyktelios 64 Dionysos 14 – 16, 48, 61 – 74, 152 seq., 176 Dodona 15, 49 Dolmen de Menga 20 door constructions 22 Dorian hexapolis 108, 110 Dreros 16, 77 seq., 94, 97 seq., 106 early temple phase 23 East Malta 23 Echidna 138 Echinades 190 Elatos, Elateia 109 seq. Eleia 14, 17, 173 – 182, 184 Eleusis 62 seq., 144 Eliade, Mircea 147 seq. Elis 17 seq., 65, 173 – 183, 235 Elysium 137, 144 emergence 18, 20, 24, 31, 52 seq., 104, 116, 189 seq., 194 seq., 233 England 12, 24, 36 entrance area 22 entrances 22, 91, 93, 222 Ents 139 environment, built 12, 35, 37, 55, 73, 136 – 140, 147, 194, 204, 212 Epicurus 56 Epidauros 64, 110, 235 episodic memory 25, 27, 29 Erato 110 Eretria 16, 68 seq., 106, 112 – 114, 116, 130 Erymanthos, Mt. 176 Etna, Mt 17, 152 seq. Euboia 16, 62, 106, 112 Eumaios 124 – 126

244 Eumelos 111 seq. Eupagion 178 Europe 14, 19 seq., 24, 48, 221, 233 Ewa (Eua) 175 seq. Fabvier, Charles 201 Faith 149, 204, 206, 213, 215 Fangorn 139 feasts 28 seq., 63 Festival(s) (see also panêgyri) 16, 57, 63, 65, 72, 77, 86 – 92, 95 – 97, 99, 117, 122, 128, 132, 180, 207, 214, 234 – Apollonia/Delia 16, 92, 95 – 97, 99, 122 – 124 – Daphnephoria 16, 87 – 90, 96 seq., 99 – Delphinia 89 seq., 95, 99 – Pythia 78, 82, 86 seq., 89 seq., 95, 97, 109, 112, 156, 162, 163 – Thargelia 89 seq., 96, 99 fireplaces 22 flashbulb memories 29 floating gap 24 floating island 18, 189, 192 seq. flower(s) 53, 67, 88, 128, 136 seq., 140 Forbes, Hamish 14, 18, 199 – 202, 204, 206 seq., 210 seq., 214, 235 forecourt 22 front courts 22 Fulani 117 Galatea 153 garden(s) 10, 15 seq., 35, 44, 51 – 58, 65, 136 – 140, 142 – 144, 207 Gartsiko 178 Gavdos 190 generations 27, 183, 204, 206, 211 Ggantija 22, 23 Ggantija-horizon 23 Ghajsielem 23 Gilgamesh, Epic of 136 goat 22, 42, 64, 72, 79, 91, 94, 150 Gorgons 156 seq., 159 – 163, 166 seq. Gozo 22 seq. Graces 141 Graiae 160

Index rerum et nominum

granite 19 seq. grave architecture 20 grave monuments 30 grave structures 23 graves 20, 22 – 25, 91 Greeks 13, 44, 52, 73, 85, 103, 137, 141, 144, 148, 150 – 152, 154, 165, 175, 192, 206, 234 Grooved Ware 23 grove(s) (alsos) 15, 44 seq., 51 – 54, 57 seq., 64, 112, 114, 136, 142, 147, 151, 180 gullies 22, 37 Hades 62, 64, 177 seq., 180 Hagar Qim 23 Hal Resqun 23 Halikarnassos 108 Hansel and Gretel 139 Hawthorne, Nathaniel 136 hearths 22, 89 Hephaistos 62, 152 Hera 62 seq., 68, 73, 140, 175, 179, 181, 192 Heraia (Arkadia) 177 Heraion (Olympia) 179 Herakleia 63, 178, 182 seq., 193 Hermes Psychopompos 220 Hermes 68, 70 – 72, 74, 103, 109, 111 – 113, 116, 124, 136, 138 – 140, 178 Herodotos 78 seq., 91, 113 seq. Hesiod 61 seq., 85, 91, 112, 124 seq., 137, 140, 148, 160 Hesperides 136 Hieron II of Syracuse 57 Hippomenes 140 Holy Spirit 204 Homer; see also Odyssey 14, 37, 52 seq., 61, 107, 111 seq., 114, 121, 124, 129, 131, 136 seq., 143, 147, 152 seq., 181 hunt 20, 51, 57 hydrological 22 Hypana 178, 180 Hyperboreans 82, 91, 97, 116, 161 seq., 167 Hypnos 152 hypogea 20

Index rerum et nominum

Iasos 182 Iberian Peninsula 14, 19 Iceland 195 iconic representations 27 iconography 29 Ida 106 seq., 113 identity 17, 19, 27 – 29, 31, 131, 180, 182 seq., 193 initiation rites 29, 77, 81 inner court 22 Inscriptions (Elean) 173, 175 Inscriptions (Elean) 64, 67, 73, 86, 173, 175, 179, 207 intrusive, ingenious rocks 19 Ion(i)ades 178 Isbister 23 Islands of the Blessed 137, 144 islands 14 seq., 18, 20, 22 – 24, 27, 31, 103, 106, 112, 137, 141, 144, 189 – 192, 194 – 197, 208 Ithaca 53, 135 seq., 138 seq., 141, 144, 151 Itineraries, journeys 61, 103 – 105, 117, 122 Japan

15, 44 – 46

Kalypso 151 ‘King’ (= Hades?) 177 Klaros 106 Knap of Howar 23 Knise 123 seq. Knowledge 12, 27 seq., 35, 94, 176, 212, 215, 220 seq., 224 Kombothekra 179 Kordin III 23 Kordin 23 Koronis 109 – 111 Koukoulis, Theodore 200, 205 seq. Kourayos, Yannos 192 Kuncizzjoni 23 Kyllene 109, 177, 182 seq. labour effort 24 Laertes 53, 143 Lakonia 48, 65

245 landscape(s) 9 – 15, 17 – 20, 31, 35 – 38, 41, 44, 48, 52, 62, 73, 99, 121, 129, 135, 137, 139 – 141, 144, 147, 149, 154 seq., 167, 189, 199 – 201, 204, 208, 211 seq., 215, 217, 219, 229, 233 – 235 – divine landscape 137, 142 – human landscape 139, 142 – landscape (in ancient Greece) 38 – natural landscape 19, 41, 147 Lapithas, Mt. 176 Lasion 174 Lassithi, plain of 147 Lateiner, Donald 190, 192 later temple phase 23 laurel 10, 16, 88 seq., 113, 161 Lehr, John C. 199 Lelantine Plain 112 seq., 129 Lepreon 173 seq., 178 seq., 181 seq. Lerna 48, 64 Lesbos 106 seq., 194 Leto 16, 91, 103 – 105, 107 seq., 111, 123 – 125, 127 – 133, 192 Letrinoi 174, 178–180 Li Muri necropolis 20 lieu de mémoire 15, 29, 116 Lipari (Sicily) 196 literate societies 24 Liturgy (Christian) 204 seq., 208 seq., 211 Local cults 14, 104, 111 Loch of Steness 24 locus amoenus 136, 152 seq. longterm memory 29 Lygdamis 108 Lykaion, Mt 148 macro-social 22 magic of music 155 Maia 138, 140 Mainland Orkney 24, 28 Makistos (Makiston) 179 Malta 15, 20, 22–24, 26 Maltese Archipelago 20, 22, 25, 31 manifestation 30, 111, 143, 214 maquis 38 Marathon, Archaeological Museum 225

246 Marganeis 174 marginality 153 seq. maritime activity 23 Mary, the Mother of God; Virgin Mary 10, 41, 204, 208 Marzena 23 Mazi 179 meadow(s) 52, 57, 136 seq., 142, 144, 153 seq. – flowery meadow(s) 140 Mediterranean region 14, 19, 31 Mediterranean 20, 38, 41 seq., 233 – 235 Medusa 137, 140, 156 seq., 159 – 162, 166 seq. Mee, Christopher 200 meeting places 20, 24 megalith builders 31 megalithic buildings 22 seq. megalithic graves 20, 27 megalithic island 31 megalithic landscape 19 seq., 31 megalithic region 19 seq., 23 megalithic ritual structures 20 megalithic societies 24, 31, 233 megalithic structures 22 megalithic temples 23, 25 megaliths 14, 19 seq., 22 – 24, 29, 31, 233 Melanion 140 memory of posterity 30 memoryscape 16, 115 Messenia 65, 147, 173 seq. Methana 14, 18, 199 – 202, 204 – 206, 208 – 212, 215 Metroon (Olympia) 179 Midas (King) 17, 137, 156 – 158, 162 – 167 Midas of Akragas 156 Middle Neolithic 20 Miletos 82, 106 – 108, 192 milk 72, 130, 150, 153 Minoan 138 Minthe, Mt. 176, 178 – 180 Mnajdra South 26 Mnajdra 22 seq. Mnajdra/Hagar Qim 23 Montaña del Indio 20

Index rerum et nominum

monumentality 19, 29 seq. monuments 12, 14 seq., 19 seq., 24, 29 – 31, 36, 64, 181, 199, 224, 226, 233 mountains; see also under names of individual mountains 15, 37, 41, 48, 57, 61 seq., 64, 73, 94, 97, 106, 148, 176 Mycenae, Archaeological Museum 227 Mykale 106 seq. myth(s) 17, 28, 61, 64, 72 seq., 77, 79, 81, 89, 91, 94, 99, 105, 107, 109 – 112, 117, 135, 149, 153 seq., 157 – 163, 166 seq., 191, 234 Mytilene 79 seq., 107, 182 narrative 17, 29, 105, 111, 115, 132, 149 – 151, 153 – 155, 158 – 161, 191, 220 natural anthropomorphically formed rocks 20 natural ritual landscapes 20, 31 natural sacred landscape 30 Nausicaa 17, 53, 135, 140 – 142, 144 Navaho Indians 28 Naxos 78 seq., 106, 108, 147 Neda (River) 173 seq. Nemea 15, 44, 49 Neolithic 19 seq., 36 seq., 233 – Neolithic societies 22 seq. Ness of Brodgar 24 Nestor 130 seq., 135, 181 Networks 111, 213, 215 Neuchâtel, Laténium 222 New Guinea 195 newborn islands 189, 192, 196 Nicander 107 night chant 28 Nile 192 Nixon, Lucia 36, 199 non-literate societies 15, 19, 24, 28 seq., 31 North and Northwest France 19 North East Malta 22 North West Malta 22 Noudion 181 Nymphs 47 seq., 52, 65 seq., 70 – 72, 124, 135, 138 seq., 141, 150, 177 seq.

Index rerum et nominum

O’Brien, Caimin 199 obsidian blades 22 Odysseus 17, 52 seq., 123, 126, 130, 135 – 144, 149 – 153 Odyssey; see also Homer 17, 123, 125 – 127, 130 seq., 133, 135, 138 seq., 144, 149, 152, 234 Ogygia 16, 135 seq., 138, 141 Oiniadai 190 seq. olive 15, 35, 37, 48, 141, 143, 147, 150, 233 Olympia 15, 17 seq., 48, 57, 63, 67, 71, 78, 103 seq., 111, 116 seq., 121, 123, 153 seq., 163, 173 – 183, 194 Olympian gods 103 seq., 115, 117 Olympic Games 173 – 176, 180, 219, 224 Olympic victors 182 Olympos, Mt 62 seq., 74, 111, 154 Opous 178 Orchomenos 163 seq. orientation 12, 23, 58, 91, 97, 99, 234 Orkney Islands 15, 23 seq., 27, 31 Orkney 20, 23 seq. Orkney-Cromarty-type 23 Orthodox (Christianity, Church, faith) 9, 204 seq., 208, 212 seq., 215 outer wall 22 Pakhyá Ammos (Crete) 38 Pakistan 195 Pan 68, 70 seq., 110, 112, 138 Panhellenic cults 104, 107 Paradise 137 Parnassos, Mt 113 seq., 147 Párnon, Mt. 47 Paros 106, 108 pastoral 117, 150, 152 – 154 Path 64, 112, 213 Patmos 192 – 194 Pausanias 47 – 49, 54, 62, 64 seq., 67, 109 seq., 113 seq., 148, 162, 175 – 178, 180, 183 Peisistratids 53, 108 Pelion 106 seq. Peloponnese 18, 37, 109, 179, 199, 211 Peloponnesian War 173, 182

247 Peña de las Enamoradas 20 seq. Peneios (River) 173, 182 perforation 22 Pericles 53, 56 Persephone 52, 137, 156, 158, 162, 167 Perseus 17, 156 seq., 159 – 162, 166 seq. Phaeacia 143, 151 Phaeacians 17, 52, 127, 131, 141 – 144 Pheia 178, 182 Pheidias 176 Phlegyas, Phlegyans 110 seq. Phokaia 106 seq. Phokis 109 seq. Phorbas 109 – 111, 115 Phorkos 156, 160 Phrixa 178, 181 Picnic 209 Pieria 16, 63, 111 seq., 116 pillars 30 Piraeus 199, 205, 208 seq. Pirates, piracy 204 Pisatis 173 pits 22 Plain of Cauria 19 plant(s) 35, 37, 41, 48, 57, 80, 136 seq., 139 seq., 143 Platiana 179, 181 Plato 54 seq., 78, 99, 124 pollard trees 44 Polykrates 89 Polyphemos; see also Cyclops, Cyclopes 17, 149 – 153 Poseidon 52, 114, 130 seq., 135, 137, 140 seq., 150 seq., 178, 180 Posseidonios of Apameia 196 Prasidaki 178 seq. prayer 124, 132, 150 seq., 153 prehistoric communities 24 prehistoric societies 15, 19 seq., 22, 24, 29 pre-megalithic settlement 23 Prepesinthos (modern Despotiko) 192 seq. Prinias 106 procession 62 seq., 72, 77, 88 seq., 99, 121, 132

248

Index rerum et nominum

Prometheus 124 prophecy 151, 196 public memoria 30 Pylos (Elean) 178 Pylos (Triphylian) 181 Pyrenees 14, 20, 31 Pyrgos (Triphylian) 179 Pythian Games 82, 109, 156, 162 seq. Quanterness-Quoyness-type

24

rebellion 18, 195 redistribution 18, 194 Renaghju 20 seq. residential places 22 Rheneia 106, 108 Rhodes 73, 108, 110, 115, 194 seq., 197 rhythm 28 seq., 116 Ring of Brodgar 24, 28 Rinyo Pool 24 rites 12, 28 seq., 64, 73, 77, 88, 97, 99, 122, 178 ritual space 14, 20, 22 – 24, 30 seq., 233 Road(s) 103, 142, 177, 183, 209–215 Robinson, Cathy et al. 199 Roc Cornut 20 rock formations 19 seq. rock-cut tombs 20, 23 Saami culture 20 sacred groves 15, 44, 51 seq., 58 sacred landscapes 11, 14 seq., 31, 41, 44, 48, 199, 217, 229 sacred/profane, distinction between 41 sacrifice(s) 16, 57, 62 seq., 65, 77, 88 – 91, 95 seq., 99, 111, 121 – 133, 135, 137 – 139, 141, 149, 151 seq., 164, 176, 196, 234 sacrificial animals 22, 131 Saint, saints (general) 199, 204 seq., 207 seq., 213 Saints Peter and Paul 207 Salisbury Plain 36 Samikon 178, 180 seq. Samos 63, 106 – 108 Samothrace 107, 234

Sankt-Pauls-Bay 23 Sardinia 14, 20, 31 savanna 38, 42 – 44, 48 Scheria 17, 127, 140 – 143 Scillus 57 Scotland 15, 24, 31 Scottish Orkney Islands 20, 23 scripture 24, 27, 31 sea, sea-shore 14, 16, 23, 37, 61, 74, 94, 97, 104 – 106, 131, 136, 141 seq., 152 – 154, 156, 159, 189 – 197, 201, 206 – 208 seafaring 80, 82 segments 22, 51, 182 Selene 193 self-determination 18, 191, 195 semantic memory 25, 28 seq. settlement pattern 183, 200 seq., 206 Settlement, settlements 22 – 25, 27, 36, 130, 173, 177 – 179, 181 seq., 194, 201 – 204, 206, 209, 212 seq., 215, 220, 224, 226 sheep 22, 42, 72, 118, 123, 125, 130, 132, 156, 158, 211 Sicily 17, 20, 54, 152, 158, 196 side stones 22 signs 29, 38, 125, 130, 215 Sikyon, Archaeological Museum 64, 227 Silenos 152 Sinai, Mt. 36 Skara Brae 24 skeletal material 22 Skilloundia 179 Skillous 175, 178 – 180 Skopas 176 Skorba 22 seq. Skorba/Ta Hagrat 22 Skotitas 48 Skyros 106 seq. social space 12, 19 seq., 30 seq. Socrates 54, 73 South East Malta 23 Southeast Malta 26 Southern Spain 20 Southwest Corsica 19, 21 Soúyia (Crete) 40 spacial clusters 22

249

Index rerum et nominum

spacial distribution 22 Sparta 78, 94, 99, 174, 182, 233 St. Anthony 207 seq. St. Epiphanios 211 St. George 209 Stoa/Stoics 56 stone circles 19, 24, 27 Stones of Steness 24 Strophades 190 Stylangion 181 Supernaturals 29 symbol 15, 25, 27, 29, 79, 81, 129, 157, 165, 175, 213, 221 Taçon, Paul 199 seq. Tal Quadi 22 seq. Tarxien horizon 23 Tarxien 22 seq. Tarxien/Kordin 23 Tas Silg 23 Tasso, Jerusalem Delivered 137 Telemachus 130 Telemos 151 Telphousa 114, 128 seq. temple 12, 16, 19 seq., 22 seq., 25, 30, 43 seq., 51 seq., 57, 63 – 66, 81 – 85, 91 – 94, 97 – 99, 106 – 108, 112 – 114, 123 seq., 128 – 130, 132 seq., 140, 147, 151 seq., 176 – 183, 192 seq., 221, 233 seq. Tenedos 107 Teniers, David 137 terra nullius 191 territorial markers 24 The Lord of the Rings 139 Thebes 60 – 62, 88 – 90, 96, 99, 113 – 116, 130 Theokritos 14, 17, 147, 153 seq. Theophrastus 55 Thera and Therasia 94, 195 Thermopylæ 37 Thessaloniki, Archaeological Musuem 18, 224 Thessaly 63, 65, 110 Thraistos 178 Tilley, Christopher 199

time horizon of remembrance 25, 27 Titus Quinctius Flamininus 196 Tokyo 195 Track(s) 176, 212 seq., 215, 218 trade 23, 28, 36, 230 tradition 14, 27, 29, 41, 57, 109, 111, 113, 115, 124 seq., 147 – 149, 193, 207 seq., 217, 233 tree(s) 35, 37 – 45, 47 seq., 51, 53, 57, 67, 88, 123, 125, 136 seq., 139, 141 – 143, 153, 212 – 215 – ancient 33, 37, 42, 48 – golden apple trees 136 – olive tree 39, 48, 53, 88, 142 – palm tree 141 seq. – sacred tree 142 Triops 109 – 111 Triphylia 17, 173 seq., 176 – 182 triumph arcs 30 Typaneai 178, 180 Unstan

23

Valletta 22 Vergina (Aigai), Archaeological Museum 227 Vidal-Naquet, Pierre 137, 139, 141, 143 seq., 149, 151 Vienna, ZOOM Kindermuseum 18, 218, 222, 235 Village(s) 18, 181, 183, 201, 203, 205 – 210, 212 – 214 vines 66 seq., 73 seq., 149, 151, 153 War of Independence, Greek 201 seq., 206 watch towers 23 Waterhouse, John William 137 wine 63, 65, 67, 72 seq., 125, 151 – 153, 207 wreath 156, 158, 165 Xemxija 23 Xenophon 15, 57 seq., 176, 178, 182 Xrobb l-Ghagin 23

250 Zeno 56 Zeus 48, 62 seq., 68 – 71, 74, 91, 112 – 114, 124, 138, 140 seq., 148 – 153, 159, 166, 175 seq., 178 seq., 192 – 194

Index rerum et nominum

Zeus Leukaios 178 Zeus’ temple at Olympia 179 Zoúrva, Kydhonía (Crete) 40

Index verborum graecorum potiorum

alsos 51 seq., 57, 151 apsidae 22 ataraxia 56 aulos 17, 156, 162 – 165 bakcheia 63 Bouleuterion 175 chorion 57 colonos 54 Δελφíνος 79 demos 124, 130, 133 Δῆλος – Ἄδηλος 127, 192 ethnos 111 eudaimonia 56 “Euoi” 65 seq. gala 153 galene 153 Genetôr 127 geras 124 gymnasion/gymnasia

53 seq., 56

hedonê 56 Hekatombaion 87, 90, 95, 128 Helios 130, 194 Hellanodikai 175 hexapoleis 108 hieron 51, 53, 55 hieros choros 57 hylê 51 ὑπαίθριον/ὑπαίθριος 66

Iakchos 63 idios kêpos 55 kallikantzari 214 kêpos 51 – 56, 58 Keraton 91 kerykeion 68 Kore 64, 177 seq. krater 71 leimones malakoi 137 lekythos 68 seq., 71 lithos 19 logos 54, 57 Lyceum 53, 55 seq. mania and orgia 64 mantis 151 mégas 19 moly (τό μῶλυ) 139 seq. mukaomai 113 Muses 54 seq., 63, 221 mystikon 73 naos 64, 121 necropolis 20 nomos 17, 52, 54, 56, 162 – 164, 167 nomos physikos/physeôs 56 nomos polykephalos 17, 162 – 164, 167 nomos pythikos 162 nous 55 oikos 66, 91 omphalos 116

252 orchatos

Index verborum graecorum potiorum

53

panêgyri 205, 208 seq., 211 seq. paradeisos 51, 57 parapegma/parapegmata 83, 85, 89, 92, 94, 99 Perioikoi 174 Peripatos 55 phyllas 54 physis 52, 54, 56 πλωταί 190 polis 15, 17, 51, 53, 56, 58, 63, 81, 173 – 175, 179, 181 – 183 polypharmakos 139 Prytaneion 175 Pythaistai 16, 86, 88 – 90, 95, 99 stoa Poikile

56

technê 54 teletai 73 temenos 51 seq., 55, 63, 148, 151, 154 thambos 143 thauma 143 thaumazein 143 thearoi 175 theios 137 theôria / theoria 92, 95, 99, 107, 111, 113, 117 Theoxenia 132 thiasoi 51 thusia 62 thyrsos 65 moly (τό μῶλυ) xoanon

63 seq.

139 seq.